When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [95]
“Chea? Chea?”
The head rises, eyes wet. I embrace her soaking back. She weeps, shuddering. I wail, letting out the pain of helplessness, the loneliness, and the frustration that have been building in me. There is so much suffering to bear that I can’t hide it.
“Athy, bang is sick and they dragged bang out of the hut. I’m very sick. I’m cold; I cannot work, p’yoon srey bang.…”
Oh, Chea…God have mercy. Looking up at the cloudy sky, I’m so overwhelmed by Chea’s suffering, and my own. I want to alleviate my sister’s suffering, but I’m so utterly helpless it hurts. Who are they to drag off my sister? How brutal! The question stirs up a burning anger that I haven’t felt for so long. I close my eyes, and I want so much to scream.
“Athy, Athy. Go, p’yoon srey. The chhlops are coming—” Chea mutters.
Glancing at Chea, I get up and trot away. After a few feet, she is out of sight, blocked by the moving line and the sheet of rain. The rains die down. The water in the flooded rice fields recedes. Chea has regained her health after two weeks of rest. Her fever is gone. Already she’s herself, resilient, friendly like she was back in Phnom Penh.
Our neighbor, a woman, comes to our hut. Chea’s face glows as if she is happy to see her. “Good morning. How are you, aunt?” Chea greets her cheerfully in English as if she has been yearning to speak it. I’m surprised, yet delighted to hear Chea talk in English.
The woman recoils, baffled. Chea’s lips widen into a grin, “Or, comment ça va, Madame? Trés bien? Oui?”
“You talk like that, I can’t understand you,” the woman mildly complains, her brow furrowing. “I’ve brought you some rice. Here.” She unties the knot on her scarf, producing a few pounds of processed rice.
“Merci beaucoup, Madame.” Chea gently bows, amused.
The woman looks sheepish, gazing at Chea.
Chea explains, translating what she’s said. Then she asks the woman how she is doing in Cambodian.
“Well or not, it’s so-so nowadays,” the woman speaks dismally. “Life is like hell.” She whispers. “These days you can’t trust anyone, Achea, not even your own children. My children, they’re now Angka’s kids. They’ve been turned against me. They don’t listen to me, but to Angka. You should be careful. Don’t speak those languages.”
I smile, observing Chea and the woman. I’m proud of Chea, elated by her sparkling greeting. Amused by the baffled look on the woman’s face when she first heard Chea speak English. She is a small woman, one of the “new people” who is friendly and seemingly timid.
The next morning the informant who wakes us suddenly appears in front of our hut. His piercing, sinister eyes look accusing. “Angka needs to look for books,” he declares, inviting himself into our hut. I’m baffled, disbelieving.
Chea waves at me and Map to get out of the hut as the informant ransacks our clothes and blankets. He hops onto the part of the open floor where we cook our food. I hear the sounds of pots and pans colliding. Then he begins digging. Chea looks at me and I at her. Map looks at us searchingly.
The informant leaves; his dirty footprints remain on the slabs of the floor. His wicked eyes glare at us as he carries away a package, our once-hidden past, Chea’s personal belongings wrapped in a damp turquoise plastic. In it are a leather briefcase and a handbag. They were Pa and Mak’s gifts to her for her academic success. The briefcase contains memories of her school years: a spiral math notebook; two Cambodian novels, Pka Srapone (Wilted Flower) and Snaeha Muy (One Love), written by Chea’s friend in college. Primly secured in their slots opposite the books are fancy pens and pencils, souvenirs from her friends. Their pictures, and pictures of her with them, are in a picture album. Beside each wallet-sized photo is a brief friendship note to Chea, decorated with roses, hibiscus, or ivy with blossoms. In the handbag