When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [55]
“Can I have some fish heads?”
“Athy, stop talking to me. The chhlops will see us,” Cheng hisses softly.
Now I draw a chhlop’s attention. He turns, surveying the food line, and I quickly look away, pretending I haven’t said a word. As the line moves a step forward, I take a step, acting like everyone else. When we get our food, I sit down to eat by the other children, not beside Cheng. But as soon as that chhlop goes off, I move next to her.
I whisper, “Cheng!”
I wait. There’s no answer, then, finally, “Here!” Cheng’s hand slides out, touching me. I grab the fistful of fish heads, no bigger than a thumb. The little fish heads taste good, ashy but substantial, and I want more.
The next day during the rice ration, again I don’t see Cheng in the lineup. I look around and see only one chhlop helping the cooks with the rations. I sneak out to the stream, looking for a place where the cooks might dispose of their garbage—including anything left from fish cleaning, guts, fins, heads. There, I hope to find Cheng, but I’m nervous about being spotted by my mekorg or her “pets.” I discover Cheng and two other girls scavenging through the garbage by a clump of trees. They tear through the cold, slimy garbage even faster when they realize that I’m coming toward them. Clawing at the bits of flesh, we’re like four vultures circling ravenously over a corpse. When Cheng’s hands are full, she turns away from the garbage and us, then stuffs her fish heads in her scarf. I grab two heads with the guts still attached to them.
“You took my fish heads! Give them back!” a girl insists, grabbing at me.
I ignore her demands. Instead, my eyes search as rapidly as my hands, scanning for even the smallest scrap of dead prey. Soon the girl stops demanding. By now she has learned that the fish heads are not hers. She turns her attention to the garbage. I wish I could just give them to her, but I’m starving, too. We’re worse than beggars.
Before returning to the lineup for the rice ration, we look for a fire in which to cook our fish heads. Among a few cooking holes near the stream, there are slumbering embers covered by flakes of ashes. Into the hot holes we throw our fish heads, and go back to the lineup.
The next day Cheng and I sneak out early, perhaps two hours before lunch ration. Upon our arrival near the cooking area, we spot a few female cooks preparing our meal. One cook is alone, away from the others. We approach her, slowly like a turtle, testing to see if our intrusion is permitted. She looks over her shoulder at us, and speaks to us with motherly concern. A peasant, her voice lacks the typical sting of the Khmer Rouge leaders.
“Why aren’t you at work? You’ll get in trouble when they catch you.”
Her gentle tone invites me in. For the first time, I have the urge to tell a Khmer Rouge about my hunger.
“I’m so hungry. I want fish heads. Aunt, don’t throw them away,” I plead, addressing her as “aunt” instead of “comrade.” I trust her, feeling at ease as she reports to us what the food ration for today will be. Lunch will be rice and fish soup. But for dinner there will also be a vegetable, green mustard-like leaves.
“They woke us up to work very early this morning,” says Cheng softly as the cook scoops the cleaned fish into a basket. “Every day I’m very tired. Hungry.”
Suddenly the cook scrapes fish heads and guts toward us with the knife. Without repulsion, we grab the heads, trailing slimy guts from the tree stump. Then, making a makeshift pouch with our shirttails, we stuff them inside. To my great surprise, the cook hands us each two fish, which she has beheaded.
“Here. Go before they catch you. Before they punish us. Go now.” She motions her head nervously at Cheng and me, shooing us off.
As we’re leaving, more “vultures” emerge. A group of kids scurry from the trees toward the cook, sending her to her feet. She