When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [51]
“Cheng, can you take the thorn out for me? It hurts when I walk.”
She reaches for the package wrapped in her scarf, then unclasps a big safety pin from it. Cheng licks her finger and wipes away the mud from my foot. Gently, she fishes for the buried thorn with the sharp point of the safety pin and carefully plucks at it with her thumb and forefinger.
Cheng seems at ease. “We’ll help each other find the way.”
“So we’ll walk together? Will you wait for me if my foot hurts?”
“You wait for me, too, when I’m tired.” Cheng looks up and I nod.
Cheng and I start off again, walking past groves of trees, then into thick, tall, golden grass, taller than either of us. The tightly packed stalks scratch at me. No sooner do we beat back a wall of it than we confront another.
“Cheng, this grass is too tall and we can’t see where we are going.” Around me, I listen for footsteps, voices, clues that we’re on the right path. All we can hear is the constant whisper of parting grass.
Cheng looks tired as her arms—as thin as classroom rulers—push the mighty grass away and her tiny body moves along next to mine. I too am exhausted. Eventually the thick forest of grass ends, and ahead of us are broken lines of children. I’m relieved, almost grateful to be here.
As we trudge closer to a group of trees, we’re shocked by what we see. There are hundreds of adults, bent and slaving in a field. Side by side, they dig into the earth, leaving a long excavated ditch flanked by a huge elevated road with sloping sides. Some workers attack with hoes, loosening dirt and scooping it into baskets for those behind them. Others hold their carrying sticks, waiting for the baskets to be filled with dirt. Then there are those who have just dumped the soil at the rising, elongated road, returning for more. The first thought that comes to me is of Chea and Ra.
“Cheng,” I say softly, “my older sisters might be here. I want to look for them.” My hope floats and hovers above the field.
I scan the busy crowd, but it’s hard to see faces. Most are covered by scarves, shielding them from the sun. They either stare down as they work the ground or look away as they carry the baskets. I study each filthy, skinny face, hoping to find Chea and Ra. Motionless, I stand beside Cheng searching, searching for my sisters.
“Athy, Athy!” A weak, hoarse voice calls out. I turn, but find no faces that I recognize.
“Athy!” a scrawny, malnourished person standing among a group of workers shouts, waving eagerly at me.
I move closer, and I’m stunned. It’s Aunt Rin, Mak’s baby sister. A once-youthful, beautiful woman. Now she hides in the cloak of an old peach scarf and a once-black uniform, now faded a dull gray. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, and her gentle, birdlike grace are my only clues to the person I knew, now a shadow of her former self.
Gingerly and eagerly, she reports, “Athy, your older sisters Chea and Ra also work in this labor camp, but they’re over there.” She motions away, toward distant tall trees and shelters.
“Athy, who else is coming with you? Only yourself?” Aunt Rin inquires.
“Only me….” I break down as I think about the parting from Mak.
“Athy, stop crying. I’ll tell your sisters to look for you tonight. Stop crying.”
Tears flood Aunt Rin’s eyes as she gazes into mine. I feel Cheng’s hand touch my arm—she’s crying, too. Her ragged sobs and Aunt Rin’s make me cry harder.
Suddenly I hurt for Mak. She wanted to believe what they promised her. Maybe in her desperate hope she had to believe it. And now this.
“They lied to us, promised that the work camp was close to the village,” Cheng sniffs, wiping her tears away with her scarf.
“They told us,” I cry, “that there’s a lot of food here.”
Aunt Rin knows. “They lie, they lied so you’d come. There isn’t a lot of food. They give everyone rice rations just like in the village. They work you to death. I’m terribly tired and just want to rest.” Her