Read Online In the Shadow of the Banyan by Vaddey Ratner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vaddey Ratner
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they’ll tell us to leave again.”
“But where do we go?”
“I don’t know.”
The singing stopped, and a voice bellowed, “Today is the day we liberated the Cambodian people! April seventeenth will be remembered, etched forever in the memories of every Cambodian! Long live the Kampuchean Socialist Revolution! Long live the Organization! Long live Democratic Kampuchea!”
“I expected them to be more our age,” Papa murmured, “or even older, and not so coarse with their manner and speech.”
“Ayuravann”—Big Uncle adopted a tone that sounded like he was reprimanding his elder brother—“they’re not the same men you studied philosophy and history and literature with in France.” He looked at Papa until Papa returned his gaze. “Nor are they people whose daily struggles and aspirations you’ve tried to capture and convey in your poetry. They are children who’ve been given guns—power beyond their years.”
“Can one not be sympathetic to their cause?” Papa said, his voice tentative. “To the ideals they’re fighting for?”
“And what’s their cause? We don’t know, do we? And I’m quite certain neither do these children. As for ideals, I don’t think they even know what the word means.”
Papa made no response.
• • •
The next morning I woke with a start, my heart hammering in my chest. Old Boy was dead. I had dreamt it. He was shot in the head and his blood was the color of the early dawn sky.
six
S everal days passed in relative calm at Mango Corner. Then one morning I heard the loud thud of feet running up the steps. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” the caretaker shouted, breathless with fear. “The Khmer Rouge soldiers are coming!” Before Papa could ask anything else, the caretaker raced away to warn others in the neighborhood.
We rushed about packing—grabbing whatever we could. It was the same madness all over again. There was no time to think, no time to argue. Suddenly shots rang through the air, and before we could take cover, three Khmer Rouge soldiers burst into the house, waving their guns and shouting, “GET OUT! GET OUT!” Radana bawled, the twins grabbed hold of Auntie India’s legs, Grandmother Queen started chanting Buddhist prayers for the dead, and Tata couldn’t stop whimpering, “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” Big Uncle yelled out something, and one of the soldiers turned to him. “YOU!” He pushed his gun hard into Big Uncle’s rib cage. “MOVE!” Big Uncle took short, tentative steps, his arms in the air, his chest rising and falling. The soldier kept shouting, “OUT! OUT!” Papa took my hand in his and squeezed it tight. We followed Big Uncle out the door, the other soldiers pushing us from behind.
Outside, the ground in front of our property had been cleared of the refugees we’d allowed to camp there. Two of the soldiers tromped off, heading for the neighbors’ houses. Only the youngest remained. Helooked at us, then at Big Uncle. He ordered Big Uncle to kneel. Big Uncle lowered himself to the ground, slowly, cautiously.
The boy, his gun now aimed at Big Uncle’s head, shifted left and right on his feet, eyes darting from face to face. Then his eyes caught the glint of Big Uncle’s watch flashing in the sunlight. An Omega Constellation, I remembered. Identical to Papa’s. Both gifts from Grandmother Queen to her sons. My eyes went to Papa’s left wrist. No watch there. He must have taken it off and put it somewhere.
“OFF!” the boy shouted. Big Uncle made no move. “TAKE IT OFF!” the boy thundered. Finally Big Uncle lowered his arms, took the watch off his wrist, and handed it to him. Nervous, the boy dropped the Omega on the ground, and when he bent down to pick it up, a Mercedes emblem—round and shiny—slipped through his open shirt collar, dangling in the air from a string around his neck. It gleamed—a secret treasure. He quickly shoved it back inside his shirt, pocketed the Omega, and looked up
“But where do we go?”
“I don’t know.”
The singing stopped, and a voice bellowed, “Today is the day we liberated the Cambodian people! April seventeenth will be remembered, etched forever in the memories of every Cambodian! Long live the Kampuchean Socialist Revolution! Long live the Organization! Long live Democratic Kampuchea!”
“I expected them to be more our age,” Papa murmured, “or even older, and not so coarse with their manner and speech.”
“Ayuravann”—Big Uncle adopted a tone that sounded like he was reprimanding his elder brother—“they’re not the same men you studied philosophy and history and literature with in France.” He looked at Papa until Papa returned his gaze. “Nor are they people whose daily struggles and aspirations you’ve tried to capture and convey in your poetry. They are children who’ve been given guns—power beyond their years.”
“Can one not be sympathetic to their cause?” Papa said, his voice tentative. “To the ideals they’re fighting for?”
“And what’s their cause? We don’t know, do we? And I’m quite certain neither do these children. As for ideals, I don’t think they even know what the word means.”
Papa made no response.
• • •
The next morning I woke with a start, my heart hammering in my chest. Old Boy was dead. I had dreamt it. He was shot in the head and his blood was the color of the early dawn sky.
six
S everal days passed in relative calm at Mango Corner. Then one morning I heard the loud thud of feet running up the steps. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” the caretaker shouted, breathless with fear. “The Khmer Rouge soldiers are coming!” Before Papa could ask anything else, the caretaker raced away to warn others in the neighborhood.
We rushed about packing—grabbing whatever we could. It was the same madness all over again. There was no time to think, no time to argue. Suddenly shots rang through the air, and before we could take cover, three Khmer Rouge soldiers burst into the house, waving their guns and shouting, “GET OUT! GET OUT!” Radana bawled, the twins grabbed hold of Auntie India’s legs, Grandmother Queen started chanting Buddhist prayers for the dead, and Tata couldn’t stop whimpering, “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” Big Uncle yelled out something, and one of the soldiers turned to him. “YOU!” He pushed his gun hard into Big Uncle’s rib cage. “MOVE!” Big Uncle took short, tentative steps, his arms in the air, his chest rising and falling. The soldier kept shouting, “OUT! OUT!” Papa took my hand in his and squeezed it tight. We followed Big Uncle out the door, the other soldiers pushing us from behind.
Outside, the ground in front of our property had been cleared of the refugees we’d allowed to camp there. Two of the soldiers tromped off, heading for the neighbors’ houses. Only the youngest remained. Helooked at us, then at Big Uncle. He ordered Big Uncle to kneel. Big Uncle lowered himself to the ground, slowly, cautiously.
The boy, his gun now aimed at Big Uncle’s head, shifted left and right on his feet, eyes darting from face to face. Then his eyes caught the glint of Big Uncle’s watch flashing in the sunlight. An Omega Constellation, I remembered. Identical to Papa’s. Both gifts from Grandmother Queen to her sons. My eyes went to Papa’s left wrist. No watch there. He must have taken it off and put it somewhere.
“OFF!” the boy shouted. Big Uncle made no move. “TAKE IT OFF!” the boy thundered. Finally Big Uncle lowered his arms, took the watch off his wrist, and handed it to him. Nervous, the boy dropped the Omega on the ground, and when he bent down to pick it up, a Mercedes emblem—round and shiny—slipped through his open shirt collar, dangling in the air from a string around his neck. It gleamed—a secret treasure. He quickly shoved it back inside his shirt, pocketed the Omega, and looked up
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