When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [60]
The Khmer Rouge have never given me medicine. Now they simply glance at me—I’m not worth their breath. But as harsh as their indifference is, it’s better than being beaten to death, I reason, recalling their warnings about what happens to those who attempt to run away. As much as I want to see Mak, I fear this more. But the odds are grim. I face the chance of dying here in camp of an illness I can’t control, or risk the punishment of death if I’m caught escaping. Back and forth I work the choices in my mind, but nothing becomes clear. How odd to be wrestling with the question of how I might die.
“I must escape. If I stay here, I’ll die. I might not die if I escape,” Cheng states. I’ll help you tomorrow if you want to go with me, but, Athy, I won’t stay here.” She looks sad but determined.
“But I don’t have the energy to walk. I can’t walk fast enough, Cheng. And so they will see us. They’ll see us walking across the open field. There aren’t enough trees to block us.” I imagine us running away. My mind is willing to go with her, but I don’t know if I can trust my legs to carry me, to keep up.
“I’ll help you walk. I’ll come and get you, and we’ll escape tomorrow while they’re eating lunch. I have to go back to work.” Cheng hurries out, returning to work as the shrill voice of a chhlop rings out in the distance.
Our day to escape comes. I get ready for Cheng, readying both my mind and my body. Sitting in the shelter, I rehearse our escape in my mind, visualizing Cheng and me running, or rather walking, for I can’t run. The cool morning turns into another warm day. Without watches, we must observe the sky. When the sun is bright above the shelter, Cheng comes looking anxious. She frowns, squinting from the harsh sunlight.
“Athy, are you ready? They are lining up for food. We must go now.”
“Ready,” I quickly answer. Inside I’m scared, trembling. I want to tell Cheng, but something holds my words back. I must not tell her now, not now.
Cheng whispers, asking me for my plate. Together with her own, she slips my plate under her jacket, securing a drawstring at the bottom. I watch her with wonder. Why take plates when we must run? Shouldn’t we travel light? But Cheng has thought this through. We carry out her plan. Silently, Cheng motions her head, signaling to me to crawl out of the shelter. She holds my right hand and we walk slowly, cautious as we pass other children’s shelters. Cheng slips an arm around my shoulders, helping to steady me as I struggle to walk on my weakened legs. On her own shoulder Cheng carries a hoe, making it appear as if she is helping me to go defecate in the open field. In the distance, about a mile away, is a row of trees—our first goal. We hope to make it at least that far, a natural screen to cloak our escape. At any moment I expect to feel a hand on my shoulder, or hear the shuffle of another pair of feet behind us in the grassy field. We try not to look behind, only ahead. With every step, the trees seem further away. I imagine the chhlops or our mekorg chasing after us, almost expect it. This time, I think, I’ll never survive any kind of physical punishment, being as ill as I am. The more I think about it, the more fear moves me—a rush of energy surges through my body, propelling me forward with a force I didn’t know I had.
Now we are too far from the shelters for anyone to believe that we’re going to defecate. If the chhlops see us now, surely they’ll know. I walk even faster. Cheng grips my hand tighter. We walk, then we run—an awkward, hobbled hopping, but in my mind I want to move the trees closer to us. As soon as we reach them, Cheng drops the hoe to the ground and commands: “Athy, walk faster. We must walk faster.” She begins to run, pulling me forward.
Cheng drags me, and I let her. I drift behind her like an anchor as the pull of her hand tows my frail body. Through the fear, I somehow feel free. I no longer