When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [89]
Waiting to be captured, I notice that the voices are still in the distance. They’re not approaching me. Now curiosity kicks in. I crawl to the next bush. From here, I see three men wearing black uniforms with scarves wrapped around their heads. One sits in a boothlike hut with the butt of a rifle leaning against his shoulder. The other two are outside the booth, facing him.
I pad quietly to Pok’s warehouse. When I stick my head inside, Pok’s, Sun’s, and another man’s stares await me. Pok strides toward me, his face pale with indignation.
“Who else is coming?” Pok demands nervously.
“Only me,” I answer softly, lowering my gaze to the floor, then look at Sun and the other man for their reaction. Their faces are masks of apprehension.
“God, you’re daring!” Pok cries out. He stares at me in disbelief. “How did you get here?”
“Crossed the bridge.”
Pok shakes his head, his right hand on his hip. “Aren’t you scared of the cadres by the bridge? They will torture you when they catch you! Don’t you know? They’ll ask me why you are here. They can kill us. Do you understand?” The tone of his voice strikes me.
“Don’t ever come back. Don’t ever cross the bridge again. Today high-level Khmer Rouge are coming here. It’s very dangerous, understand?”
After he calms down, he tells Sun and the other man to take me to a hut. There, we are to be quiet while we eat. No talking, absolutely no sound.
The hut is small, built on stilts with a ladderlike stair in front. Around it are tall trees, casting their shade over the hut. The warehouse is close by, and Sun goes to get food with the other man. Dim light is faintly visible between the slits of the bamboo slabs. I keep looking at it as if my survival depends on it.
Suddenly I detect footsteps climbing the stairs. My head turns toward the door, which softly cracks open. Shadows of hands holding a pot and a large bowl appear. Then another shadow follows. I take a deep breath, relieved to know it’s only Sun and the other man.
On the floor before me are silhouettes of a pot of rice and a bowl of soup with dark shadows of vegetables and white chunks of something, perhaps fish. Then a pungent aroma startles me: the tangy, sour smell of steamed-pickled fish combined with freshly sliced cucumbers. My mouth waters, my stomach growls, my fear flees.
In the dark we sit in a circle. Each of us gently spoons up the food and places it in our mouths. I hear only my swallowing. The routine of this secret eating now feeds on fear.
Suddenly Pok’s voice erupts. “How are you, comrades?”
“We’re so-so,” a man replies stoically. “Is the production better?”
My mouth freezes. The shadows of Sun’s and the other man’s heads turn toward me. But their gazes retreat, turning to the food on the floor. I imagine the cadres storming into the hut, dragging me away, and tying me up. Only after Pok’s and the Khmer Rouge’s voices trail away do I dare swallow the last bite. Now I understand why the men were distressed to see me. Understanding how my being here can bring trouble to these men, I get up abruptly to go.
“Take some rice with you,” Sun urges. He too gets up.
“Wait a moment,” the other man says, his voice calm. “Here, we’ll wrap up some food.”
The men leave to find out when it’ll be safe for me to return to my zone. Again, they warn me to be quiet. To wait for them. Alone in the hut, I cry silently. I don’t know whether I’m moved by these men’s kindness or if I’m simply scared.
Shortly, rapid footsteps shake the hut. I half stand, half squat.