When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [110]
Another weapon is fired from a distance, sending a loud noise into the night. By now I know what kind of a weapon this is—a bazooka with a cylindrical rocket. In seconds it strikes a branch on the very tree under which we had settled, setting the leaves briefly on fire. Suddenly a loud boom erupts from the Vietnamese soldiers’ side, sending us screaming for cover. “About time. I thought they were all dead!” a man says in relief.
The firing from the Khmer Rouge stops. Then it starts up again, but stops after two consecutive firings from the Vietnamese’s artillery. After the third one, the night becomes quiet. I’m relieved, thankful that the Vietnamese soldiers are here tonight to oppose the Khmer Rouge.
In the morning I’m awakened by voices. A short, thin Vietnamese soldier in a dark lemon-green uniform and helmet is striding along the road with a briefcaselike bag in his hand. With him are two girls, perhaps ages eight and ten. They come over and squat among us. The girls stand beside him; the younger one surveys our group. As the soldier speaks in Vietnamese, the older girl looks at him, listening. Then she translates for us. “He wants to take a look at everyone to see if you are hurt.”
The soldier removes tiny fragments of shrapnel embedded in our backs, faces, and arms. Tonight a silver-haired man whom Than has befriended offers to let us stay under his wooden house as long as we want. It’s safer to be here, he says. We address him respectfully as om, great-uncle. If the Khmer Rouge attack again, the trees and the road will shield us from a direct hit. The house is built on stilts with a spacious balcony all around. In the front there are stairs made of cement and wooden steps and a platform. We are relieved to have this place to stay in.
Two soldiers come to visit us the next evening. These soldiers could be brothers; they are the same height, about five feet five, with thick black hair and tan, refined skin. They look healthy, strong, and cute, especially when they smile. Their eyes briefly study Ra when she gets up to sit in the cooking area. At twenty, hardship hasn’t robbed Ra of her beauty. Her slender figure, light complexion, and chin-length hair make her attractive, prettier than any woman I’ve seen. Of all of us, she’s the healthiest one.
One of the soldiers picks up a metal container and asks me in broken Cambodian, “What is this called?”
I slowly tell him the one-syllable word for container. He tries to say it, but he doesn’t say it right. Grinning, he repeats the word. I shake my head. He tries it again. Still, he gets it wrong. When I say the word faster, I hear the wrong echo coming back at me. It’s like saying the word “cow” and hearing the word “cook” echoed back.
Tranh is his name. He speaks less Cambodian than the other one, Minh, who constantly steals glances at Ra. After learning a little Cambodian, Minh and Tranh tell us about Vietnam, about their lives there. About dancing. About music. Suddenly Tranh dashes away, disappearing on the road.
He’ll be back, Minh tells us, smiling.
Soon Tranh appears with another soldier, grinning sheepishly. Minh gets up from his squatting position, hands the metal bucket to the soldier, then says something to him in Vietnamese. Standing face-to-face, less than a feet apart, Minh and Tranh beam, then nod at the soldier.
On cue, the soldier begins to drum on the sides of the bucket, creating a soft, chiming upbeat sound. His mouth moves, followed by pretty lyrics in Vietnamese. Before I know it, Minh’s and Tranh’s bodies sway gracefully, arching forward and backward like two bamboo rods swaying in unison to the rhythm of the wind. Their hands dance, swinging in circular motions. They smile, laughing. I’m amused.
An endless line of people marches on the road snaking in front of om’s house. Standing on the shoulders of the road, we watch men, women, and elderly people walking barefoot. Some clutch babies in their arms. Most transport