When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [96]
At work the following day I worry about losing Chea. I imagine her being taken away to be reformed by the chhlops for possessing books, evidence of being educated. At the hut Map is alone, crying. I can see him clearly, sitting, waiting for me to return. His face distressed, heartbroken, just like it was when Mak was taken away from him to the Choup hospital.
Returning from work, I brace myself for the worst news. When I arrive at the hut, a bald, gaunt person is squatting in front of the hut with his back facing me.
Chea? No! Tears spill out of my eyes. Chea has shaved her head. She looks so unlike herself, my once-beautiful sister. Her scalp sallow, bony. Her neck thin, dark. From the back, she looks like an old, old person; I can’t tell whether she’s a woman or a man.
When Chea turns, her eyes meet mine. She looks resolved, gets up and walks over to me. Calmly she says, “Athy, if bang looks crazy and ugly enough, the Khmer Rouge might not harm bang.”
We go through our family pictures, which I’ve hidden in the roof. To erase Pa’s ties to the previous government, I cut out parts of his wallet-sized picture in which he is wearing military police uniforms. What remains is his head, from the neck up. If we should be interrogated, Pa never worked for the previous government, Chea says. His former job was in a medical field, and he liked to help people.
The next evening the air is cool. Since it’s still light out, Chea and I weed our front yard, where we’d grown corn the previous year. We have two tools, one a knife, the other a small rusty shovel. Suddenly a stern voice behind us shouts “Comrade!”
We turn. It’s Srouch, the leader of the informants. Chea rises, facing him.
“Angka found books in your hut. What level of education did you have?” he demands.
Chea walks toward him, clutching the knife in her hand. Casually Chea says, “I found those books on a road during the evacuation from Phnom Penh. I didn’t get to study much because of the fighting. I know how to read a little. Why? Does comrade want those books? You may have them. I just keep them for wiping myself after I poop.” Chea drops the knife on the ground as if her hand has lost its grip. As she slowly moves toward Srouch, she scratches her body—her arms, chest, neck, her bald head—causing Srouch to walk backward.
“That’s enough,” he says, his brow furrowed. “I only wanted to know if comrade had a lot of education or held any position before.”
As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, he flees, disappearing as fast as he appeared. Chea grins at me, and I grin back.
A few weeks later, in the evening, while I weed in the front yard, Chea waters the vegetables in the back of the hut. I can hear voices of girls chatting, laughing, approaching a path behind our hut. They sound carefree. Strange, I think. Normally the “new people” would not dare to display this much happiness. When their faces appear out of the woods, I can see why they sound untroubled—they are the “old people.” They have it better than us, so they have good reason to be happy. When they near our hut, Chea looks at them, her hands holding the water bucket. “Did comrades just come from working in the woods?” Chea asks nicely. It’s her way of greeting some people.
The girls stop talking. One of them, perhaps thirteen years old, studies Chea. Her eyes narrow with contempt, then she shouts, “Crazy old man!” She