When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [86]
Staring at the flat green water, I’m scared again. “How are we going to cross the river? I can’t swim.” I study the cool, moving current. I know the answer but don’t want to hear it.
Ra plods into the water, her feet making a sloshing sound. I stand watching her, my feet rooted to the solid ground. I can’t swim, I remind myself.
“Athy, come on. It’s not deep. See?” her head nods at the water that laps just above her knees. She gives an encouraging look, waiting for me. But I can’t seem to think beyond the image of being swept away, knowing how weak I am.
Ra returns, and I make a suggestion. “Go ahead and ask for food, and I’ll be waiting for you here. I’ll be okay.”
If I stay by the river, she warns me, I’ll be spotted by chhlops from Zone 3. I will be fine, she says. She doesn’t know how to swim either.
I squat down, drawing my knees under me in a tight ball, so Ra can’t pull me into the water.
“You won’t fall!” Ra scolds. “I’ll cross beside you and you can hold my hand.”
I shake my head. My fear mounts as Ra urges me forward, her hand waving, her feet planted on rocks exposed in the shallow water. Finally she points to a long stick on the bank. I won’t fall, she assures me, since I’ll be using the stick to help me cross and she’ll be holding my hand. With the security of having something to hang on to with both hands, I agree to try.
The water is cool. When it reaches my chest, the coldness of it makes me inhale, taking deep breaths. It’s okay, Ra assures me. I glance at her and she’s not scared. In time, it is as if the water washes my fears downstream. I feel my feet slipping on rocks, my body floating. But the water has only reached my shoulders, and we’ve already crossed the center of the river. The slapping sound of our wet pants is magnified in the midst of the tranquillity of the river and woods. My eyes follow the riverbank, this time a wall of soil and rock thatched with vines and shrubs.
Ra climbs the bank, clutching at vegetation like a ladder, and I follow her. I cling to the wild ivy and the sturdy buried rocks anchored in the earth. The only things I hear are the birds chirping and the dancing leaves.
“Athy, hurry,” Ra hisses.
As we push through thick underbrush, we emerge near a large wooden building. It resembles a warehouse surrounded by tall shaded trees. The wooden walls seems new, the color of freshly painted brick. This is where Ra says we are to meet a man she and her coworkers call Pok (father), someone who has given them food before.
Already I imagine food: rice, marinated broiled fish, and soup with fresh vegetables and fish. Ra whispers to me to wait while she goes into the warehouse looking for Pok. My mind summons up more images of food: beef curry noodles, banana-tapioca pudding, juicy, sweet pineapples, and my favorite pâté sandwiches on crisp French bread. My appetite grows and so does my impatience.
I lean against the wall and pray that Ra and I will return safely to our zone. My stomach grows tighter, more nervous. I can’t escape the anxiety growing inside. With or without food, I ask Preah to bring Ra back to me.
“Athy, Athy,” a whisper interrupts the prayer.
Ra waves for me to come. She wraps her arm around me as we enter the warehouse, its concrete floor covered with piles of bricks and decorative concrete blocks stacked neatly along the walls. I study this warehouse, making a mental note of how tidy and clean this place is. How strange to find a building full of bricks planted in the middle of nowhere.
“Pretty soon Pok will come. He went to get us food,” Ra says softly.
I hear her, but I pay little attention. I’m fascinated by this place. How different it is than the forced labor camp. It is modern, like places back in Phnom Penh or Takeo.
Though I haven’t met him, I envy Pok. I wonder how he fits in with the ideology the Khmer Rouge have long preached to us. There are no rich and poor. There will be equality.