For the Sake of All Living Things (35 page)

Teck glanced at Vathana. She had grasped the Buddha statuette at her neck and was whispering a prayer. “Father, you’re always welcome here,” Teck said to the older man’s back, “but it’s not good to speak such things before your grandson. He’s vulnerable to ill will.”

Mister Pech turned, looked beyond his son to Vathana and to Sophan with the listless infant tightly wrapped in a yellow blanket. “Someone’s here, eh!?”

Teck’s jaw tightened. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled beneath his breath.

“You’re too young to understand when a man must stand,” Mister Pech said. Still he did not look at his son. “Right action,” he said sharply. “All holy Buddhists are anti-Communists.”

“You wish me to die before yuon rifles?! That it, eh!?” Teck ground his teeth. “Or maybe under those damned American bombs?”

“I came with an amulet for Vathana and a toy for the baby,” Mister Pech said, dismissing Teck.

“How much do you know about the American bombings, eh, Father? You know the generals. Do you encourage them? Do you tell them to urge the Prince to formally sanction them? That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? It’s the bombings that are forcing the Viets onto us. It’s the bombings that deepen the crisis. Should we exchange the NVA presence along the border for an American invasion?”

Mister Pech turned, faced Teck squarely. “Who’s talking invasion?” he snapped. “For centuries Khmers have been warriors. For our safety”—Pech Lim Song pointed to himself and then to Vathana—“we must defend ourselves. For our dignity we must repel the Viet Namese. As a Khmer, you’re a disgrace.”

“Humph!” Teck snorted. Though their argument had been continuous for a year, Teck was uncomfortable arguing with his father. “Shouldn’t we clean our own house first?” He tried to control his tone. “The Prince hasn’t stopped influence peddling. He hasn’t stopped corruption. His wife engages in illicit trade with the Communists...”

“You want me to get you a commission, eh?!”

“...the yuons, the Chinese pay her to keep him in line. And her brother, Oum Mannorine, secretary of state for surface defense. Ha! He collaborates in rice smuggling. You want me to support
them
? General Sosthenes Fernandez—you know him, eh? Mother does—national security secretary! He takes bribes from the arms shippers. My friends at the dance hall know. Street peddlers know. But you, you refuse to know.”

“I don’t refuse to know,” Mister Pech said sternly. “I recognize it for what it is—an appendage of the Viet Minh conspiracy, a force we can’t cope with because the young men are all in dance halls!” Mister Pech turned from his son. To Vathana, in a pleasant voice, he said, “I’m very busy today. I came only to see my grandson and to give you this.” From his pocket he pulled a bracelet with a Buddhist prayer carved onto an ebony charm. “I don’t have leisure time to waste on anti-Khmer talk.” He smiled broadly. “I am a patriot. I would expect that of my son, but he...what does he call himself?—Epicurean. He cares not for the nation. I blame myself. Let this little one hear you talk, see you do business. Don’t swaddle him like his grandmother did to...did until he’s a twenty-two-year-old infant.”

“Damn it! That’s not true. Your cronies have power. They use it to bleed people.”

Mister Pech s eyes shifted momentarily toward his son then back to Vathana. “Have you heard from your mother and father?” he asked sweetly.

“It’s been a month,” Vathana said. “There’s no communication with the Northeast.”

For three days the winds increased until finally blowing so violently huge palm fronds littered the streets of Phnom Penh and all Cambodia’s cities, towns and villages. Then the monsoons burst upon the land, a mid-March—instead of April or even May—deluge. Dust-dry roads turned to ribbons of red muck stretching through paddies not yet green and jungles still covered with sand and grit. Dormant rills trickled, babbled, gushed as the saturated land attempted to shed the torrents. Streams became rivers, rivers escaped their banks and became mile-wide puddles. The Mekong, not yet inundated by Himalayan snowmelt, like a huge drain sucking the torrents from the land, seemingly searched for new ways to divert the deluge, new trenches, chasms, gorges, valleys into which to dump the excess wet. The whole country became precariously saturated and the heaviest rains were yet expected. And in every corner of the country, inside every political and military faction, in every household, and internationally, Cambodia was facing a precarious watershed. The once placid kingdom roiled in frantic power-grab waves.

“Viet Namese are snatching the country!” Met Sar on Mount Aural, was livid, was crazy with rage. “Viet Namese this...Viet Namese that!” He had been shouting continuously for an hour. Nang’s friend from Pong Pay Mountain, Met Eng, trembled before the verbal storm. Nang had never heard Sar rant so, fume so. He stood beside Eng in rank with thirty top
yotheas
and cadremen, stood listening with the bastardized perfect attention the Krahom had transfigured from Buddhist culture.

“They roll through the countryside one hundred thousand strong. More! Two hundred thousand. Everywhere! Lon Nol, that lackey puppet, has declared the figures before the National Assembly. Viet Namese are preparing to take the capital. They steal the revolution from Angkar Leou.” Met Sar banged his fists on a table; paced back and forth, looked not at his field leaders and agents but first up at the roof then down at the floor. “They outnumber Royal soldiers by at least three to one—outnumber the Royals in combat strength ten to one. They’re better equipped, led, trained. They’re more experienced! Sihanouk, that idiot!
Aekarcach-mochasker
,” Met Sar shouted. “Independence and sovereignty. Without them, Kampuchea will wither like an orchid snatched from the earth.”

Met Sar paused. No one moved. From Nang’s position behind a comrade he could see the older man had gained weight in the two months since Nang had been sent to the Northeast, could see that Met Sar’s jowls hung just like those of Norodom Sihanouk, could see that the leader’s face was sweat-drenched and mottled, that he was suffering from the increased weight he carried, not just physically but mentally, politically.

“There is no détente with the Viet Namese. None with Khmer puppets. We must have rapid improvement of our position! Take control! Organize the people! Order! Order! Order!” Again Sar banged his fists. “Angka will control!” he boomed. “Angka will order! Angka will lead! Sihanouk wants anti-Viet Namese demonstrations. We shall lead!”

“We are isolated,” Hang Tung shouted from the steps of the pagoda. “We need voluntary contributions to keep armies out.” Chhuon stood beside him. Behind them were five of the seven elders who had assembled earlier in Chhuon’s central room. Before them were a dozen armed guards, the core of Phum Sath Din’s new militia. Beyond the guards the entire village population spilled back toward the river and down the street. From Tung’s shrill call newcomers recoiled. To his words old families traded glances of resentment.

“My brothers and sisters,” Chhuon addressed the village in a firm yet anguished voice, “our village is isolated...from our country. My nephew wishes to sell self-determination bonds to raise the money necessary to equip and maintain a guard.”

From the audience came a lone call, “They’re already equipped. Who are they?” Then an entire chorus, “Ssshh! Mr. Cahuom can be trusted.”

“These men are here to raise money for a militia.” Chhuon’s voice was softened by the damp air. “We are isolated,” he emphasized. “Viet Namese are to the north, east and maybe south. Crazed provincial troops are to the west. The village of Phum Sath Nan has been destroyed. Survivors have come to us for safety. Some say American soldiers are invading the country. We must defend ourselves. Against all armies. We are the best of Cambodia. When this crisis has passed we will regain our position in the country and all will return home. But now we must act. Each family head must register. All the land which has been abandoned will be redistributed to newcomers. Every family must contribute to the self-determination fund. It will be used to expand and maintain the militia.”

From the middle of the crowd a man shouted, “How much must we contribute?”

Chhuon looked at the man. He looked remarkably like Hang Tung, but Chhuon did not recognize him.

“Brother,” Tung shouted, “the tax will be small. Today you will receive land. We’ll tell you then what is your contribution. Now that the village is liberated everyone will be better off.”

Late that afternoon the land distribution commenced with all paddies, those abandoned and those still worked by long-time residents, divided amongst not families but new village quadrant committees for further distribution to village quadrant production teams. To many the assignments seemed just, approximately the same as the old system. A few old-timers grumbled. Others reminded them there
was
a crisis and the distribution was to be temporary. Others saw it as unenforceable. Most felt, with an abundance of land, there was no need to be concerned.

What did annoy almost everyone, however, was the announcement of the “voluntary contribution for self-determination bonds.” Half of all existing rice stores were to be brought to the pagoda. One third of all new rice would be collected for the militia and for the village’s “contribution to the effort against the imperialist aggressors.” Each family was further required to write out a list of all personal property, “for their own protection,” and as a basis for determining the monetary tax.

The dozen militiamen in the village grew to a platoon of forty green-clad uniformed soldiers plus four cadremen to organize the new village quadrant administrations. Within three days Chhuon found he was answering to new masters, issuing their orders to the village in his name, under threat to the villagers themselves if he, Cahuom Chhuon, did not receive full cooperation.

“We must realize optimum production,” a cadreman told Chhuon. “We are now on a war footing and every effort must be made during our country’s most difficult period.”

Chhuon understood. There was no room for questions.

“Plant every plot,” the cadre said. “Plant early rice, late rice, ten-month rice. In their yards have them plant yams. Along the trails and roads they’ll plant maize. An agronomist’s dream, eh?”

Chhuon understood. Yet he did not fully understand. He had become an instrument in the takeover. Indeed, he, like most of the villagers, did not fully understand there had been a takeover. In the confusion Chhuon simply went along with what was ordered. There seemed to be no other course.

Thus did the Khmer Viet Minh, backed unseen by the North Viet Namese Army, almost bloodlessly take over the administration of Phum Sath Din. It had come not with a bang, barely with a whisper. Royal forces retreated from their thin, heavily perforated line in the Northeast, allowing the Communists to add all of Stung Treng Province east of the Mekong, with the exception of Stung Treng City, to their control, along with Ratanakiri, Mondolkiri, eastern Kratie and Kompong Cham provinces.

“Where do you think they’ll send us now?” Eng asked Nang as they scurried through the tunnel to the planning room.

“I don’t know, Met Eng,” Nang said pleasantly. He was pleased to be with his old friend, to be assigned a mission with him, to see that Eng, like he himself, had advanced to be included in such an elite group. And he was pleased to be back from the Northeast.

“One small group,” Met Ary, a staff officer of the Center, addressed the team, “ ‘with no resources at all, can free itself from the yoke of oppression’ ”—he paused for emphasis—“ ‘if it wants to badly enough.’ ”

“Chairman Mao,” Eng said.

“Yes,” Ary said. “We must want our independence and sovereignty badly enough to sacrifice whatever need be sacrificed in order to be free.”

“We are the sacrifice,” Met Ty responded. Nang did not comment. He’d often taught the same lesson and Met Ary’s remedial tutoring irritated him.

“Yes, we are the sacrifice,” Met Ary said. “But we must now be more. We must now be the guides. We must be willing to unite with whoever can help us without allowing them to change our course.”

“Who would you have join us?” Nang asked.

“You are all young,” Ary said. “You’ll pass as orphans.”

“Where?” Nang prodded.

“Though we’ve been united with the North Viet Namese in our struggle to oust Sihanouk, we now must unite with Sihanouk to oust the NVA and VC. But keep your lips sealed. Lead the people to terrorize our enemies. Then transform the people, step-by-step.”

“Met Ary,” Nang’s voice sliced out. “Where? Who? When?”

“Phnom Penh. Tomorrow.”

“How?”

“Riots. Government agents are right now baiting the students with tales of NVA barbarity and with documents proving their treacherous advance.”

Nang smiled. “What should we do?”

Ary paused. “Rendezvous with the students,” he said. “Once they have crossed the line, there will be no turning back.”

“There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?” Vathana whispered to Sophan in French.

“He’s a good nurser,” the wet nurse answered. “A very good nurser, Angel. He’s a very beautiful boy.”

“But...” Vathana sat beside the squat woman nursing her baby. She reached for the boy’s chubby hand, hesitated, then gently seized it with thumb and forefinger. The infant’s hand was a cool stiff fist hanging from a listless arm. Vathana pried the tiny fingers back. They opened and reclosed about her foreknuckle without significant pressure as if the tendons were lifeless elastic bands keeping constant tension on mechanical levers instead of spirited tiny muscles instinctively clamping, clinging to life.

“I’ll work his hands,” Sophan said. “You’ll see, Angel. He’ll come along fine.”

Vathana groaned. She grasped the statuette at her throat, squeezed her eyes in prayer. “Why?” she lamented quietly. A bit louder she said, “There
is
something wrong with him.”

“What?!” Teck had been lying in bed wondering what he would do this day, lying, wishing not to arise but vaguely wishing also for a reason to get up. “What did I hear you say?” He rolled his knees over, dropped his feet to the floor. Neither Vathana nor Sophan answered. He stood, his Parisian silk pajamas hanging loose at his skinny hips. “There’s nothing wrong with that child,” he all but shouted. “He’s a sleepy baby. That’s all.” It felt good to assert himself in his own home.