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Pa sighs deeply, his face pale. He continues, “They caught Lon Non* and his relatives. I don’t think they will let these people live. They have no mercy for civilians. They threaten people who still hide in bomb shelters. They shout a few times for them to come out. They don’t give those scared people a chance to get out. Then they throw hand grenades into those bomb shelters. No one can survive that, not even an ant.”

“Why didn’t you come home last night?” asks Mak. “I thought something terrible had happened to you. Our children were frightened and kept asking for you.”

“I wanted to come home as soon as our bureau realized the Khmer Rouge were just across the river from Phnom Penh, but we were not allowed to leave. The Khmer Rouge shelled everywhere in the city. We were absolutely forbidden to leave.” He jerks back to the moment. “Did we put a white flag in front of the house?”

“Not yet, Pa,” Chea replies. “I ran out to see you and didn’t get to finish making the flag.” She looks apologetic—a strange expression for my bold big sister. But the bad news tames everyone.

“It doesn’t have to be nice, koon. Get a white pillowcase, hang it up somewhere where it can be seen. Hurry! It’s important to show the Khmer Rouge our cooperation.”

Pa gets up from the couch, and so does everyone else, almost in unison. He turns to Mak. “I’ll go see if our neighbors have put up their flags. If we don’t help each other out, the Khmer Rouge will think we don’t want to surrender. They’ll harm us all. I’ll be back.”

I run behind my father. I call out, “Pa, I want to go, too.” I reach out and cling to his right hand.

He stops and says, “Athy, stay home with your mother! I’ll be back.”

“But I want to go with you!” I look at the ground.

“All right, come!” He holds on to my hand.

I’m relieved, feeling secure simply by being in his presence. Pa and I stop at houses that post no flag. He stresses its importance. I feel proud that my father takes the initiative to care for strangers as if they’re family.

The next morning I leave my home right after breakfast. Now that Pa is all right, school has been on my mind. I run to my friend Thavy’s house, about seven houses down. I’m anxious to find out if our school was destroyed since the Khmer Rouge bombed around it several times.

Thavy brings her six-year-old brother along as if we’re going to the grocery store to buy candy or gum. As we walk, each of us holds her brother’s hands. We share frightening experiences of the bombing night. It’s like telling ghost stories. Before we know it, we’re on the sidewalk of our school, or what is left of it.

We freeze. Like small statues, we go chalky in shock. Our eyes are drawn to the raw, gaping crater formed by one of the bombs, where the left side of the fence had been. We slowly begin to walk through the torn fence. Pieces of broken fence and tree branches are littered in crazy disarray. A breeze fans my face, and with it comes a potent, reeky smell. “Something stinks,” I announce.

The destruction of something so familiar draws us closer. We dash toward the crumbled buildings, and the stench grows stronger. On the ground along the way, we see a soldier’s camouflage hat and burnt pieces of wood from the classrooms. As we move even closer, the smell gets stronger and buzzing flies swarm.

Before our eyes lie piles of dead soldiers in destroyed bomb shelters that had been constructed in rectangular spaces where flower beds used to bloom, between the steps to each classroom. Big flies with greenish heads and eyes swarm the gaping wounds in the soldiers’ decaying bodies. One blown-away leg lies beside the step to the first classroom, lonely and morbidly out of place. One soldier’s crooked body lies on top of other soldiers’, his mouth frozen open in excruciating pain.

I am nine years old.

Never have I seen so much death. For a moment I am hypnotized, spellbound by the ways these soldiers have been killed. I’m oblivious to Thavy or her brother’s hand, which is still caught in my ever-tightening grip. I cover my