The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers

by Anton Piatigorsky

  “If you touch a Kakwa again,” he tells the trapped Acholi, his voice loud enough for all to hear, “I will rip this little thing off you and shove it down your throat.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” whispers the now-submissive Acholi, a response that garners laughter from the crowd.

  The ancillary skirmishes break down and split apart; the wounded cluster in tribal groups. Although not everyone has witnessed it, the fighting soldiers have all sensed Idi’s intervention and have silently and unanimously agreed to respect its result. There’s no need for the approaching British officers to fire any shots into the air. Major Mitchell, commander of the Fourth Battalion, trots awkwardly onto the field, leading four junior officers. The askaris stand at attention. Some wobble in place, threatening to fall over, far too drunk to keep steady.

  “Would someone care to tell me what you think you’re doing?” says the major, so drunk himself that he’s almost slurring his words. No one dares answer. “Fighting again, are you?” The major sighs and shakes his head like a weary parent, not offended himself but determined to show some disappointment as a means of bettering his children. His eyelids are heavy and he smells of whisky; he too has been enjoying his night off. “My goodness,” he continues, “what are we going to do with you men? Are we not all Ugandans, here? Are we not all servants of His Majesty the King? This is preposterous. Askaris, I tell you once: you are all equal and the same in service to the King’s African Rifles. Sergeant, corporal, private—it doesn’t matter. I will have no more of this foolishness of Kakwa versus Acholi, or Iteso versus Madi. It’s entirely ridiculous! Do I have to take away your beer and pombe? Must I forbid you leisure time? Do we need to pay you on Monday mornings and then not let you off for a whole week? Have we indeed come to that? Listen to me, men: no more fighting amongst yourselves! Everyone understand?”

  “Yes, Bwana,” say the askaris in unison.

  The pacing major halts before the wounded Kakwa. Despite his broken nose, the blood dripping off his chin onto his chest and into his stained pants, he stands at attention. The pain he must feel does not alter a muscle on his stoic face. The major snorts, swallows hard, and peers into the askari’s eyes for some sign of his fear or agony, but finds only the blank stare of a soldier’s abnegation.

  “Private, who did this to you?” asks the major.

  The soldier is silent.

  “Tell me, private. That’s an order.”

  “The dupi did it, Bwana.”

  “The what? The dupi?”

  “Yes, sir,” says the soldier.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  The major swivels and searches the crowd until he finds the one big man who wears long trousers and a cook’s white shirt. He raises his brow in surprise at the size of this particular dupi. Idi is standing at attention like all the other soldiers. The major swaggers towards him and stops, regarding the man with his hands on his hips.

  “What is your name?”

  “Idi son of Amin, Bwana.”

  “Did you break this man’s nose, Idi son of Amin?”

  “Yes, Bwana, I did.”

  “Why?” asks the major, as he leans closer to Idi and blows his whisky-tinted breath up at him.

  “He was fighting with the other askari and I was trying to stop them.”

  “So you broke his nose?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Idi.

  “Do you know that it’s a serious crime for you to strike an enlisted man?”

  “Yes, Bwana, I know.”

  “Are you aware that this man fought bravely for the Crown with C Company in Burma?”

  “Yes, Bwana.”

  “And that didn’t bother you any?” presses the major. “It didn’t stop you from attacking him?”

  “No, Bwana,” answers Idi, his calm voice unwavering.

  The major regards the three narrow, parallel lines scarred into either side of Idi’s temples. “Triple ones,” he says, pointing. “You’re Kakwa.”

  “Yes, Bwana,” says Idi, touching the lines with pride. “I am Kakwa.”

  “But that man whose nose you broke is Kakwa as well.”

  “Yes.”

  The major, whose dour brow and crossed arms have made him seem until now nothing but grave and solemn, lets his mouth relax into a smile. “I see you hold yourself above this sectarian nonsense, then,” he says.

  “Yes, Bwana. We are all Ugandan in this barrack.”

  “Indeed, Amin, we are. I was thinking the very same thing.”

  “I did not think they should be fighting,” says Idi, now gaining a bit of confidence.

  “You’re quite right about that.”

  “Yes, Bwana.”

  “And I see you’re not afraid of battle, either,” continues the major, as his drunken eyelids droop for a moment and he seems to stumble ever so slightly on his feet.

  “No, sir. I am not afraid. I am a man.”

  “A rather big man at that.”

  “Yes.” Idi beams. “A very big man.”

  “Part rhinoceros, I would even say.”

  Idi chuckles his jolly, shoulder-shaking laugh. “Except, Bwana,” he says, “I think it’s not very smart for you to say that to my face. I am known to break noses.”

  The nearby askaris can’t help but chuckle at Idi’s audacity.

  The major raises his brow in surprise. “Why, you’re quite right,” he says. “I think I shall retract it.”

  “That is very wise of you, Bwana.”

  The major laughs in staccato, an innocent chuckle of real joy, a release he usually only allows himself with close friends and family. He shakes his head, obviously surprised by his own candour with this African underling.

  “You’re a funny chap, Amin,” he says. “And you have very big hands.”

  “Good for fighting.”

  “Yes.” The major smiles. “It seems you’re good at that.”

  “I enjoy it.”

  “Well, then, given your considerable skill in combat, why have you remained a mere dupi?”

  “I do not know, Bwana.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be a soldier in the King’s African Rifles?”

  “Oh yes,” says Idi, smiling. “I would like that, Bwana, very much.”

  “Then come with me to my office and we’ll enlist you anon,” says the major, waving his arm towards his office and residence. “How does that sound?”

  “That is my dream, Bwana. Exactly my dream.”

  “Good. So come.”

  “Yours is the office with all the butterflies on the wall stuck with pins?” asks Idi, still standing at attention.

  “You know it?”

  “I brought you tea and mandazi.”

  “You did?” The major squints and looks away, searching his memory. “Oh, yes, of course. Last week. I remember. It’s true, Amin, I have many specimens on my walls. I am quite partial to the butterflies in this part of the world. Especially the extraordinary variety of the Charaxes genus. Splendid creatures. I’m a bit of the amateur lepidopterist, I would say.”

  “Yes,” says Idi, still smiling.

  “That means a man who studies butterflies.”

  “Yes,” agrees Idi.

  “Do you like butterflies, Amin?”

  “I will eat anything, Bwana.”

  The major, roaring with laughter, slaps his thigh and steps back. “Then I will have to be sure to command the new dupi to cook you some, Private Amin.”

  “Private?” asks Idi, his eyes widening like a child’s.

  “Correct. But listen, man, you do not have permission to eat the butterflies on my wall, understand?”

  “Don’t worry, Bwana,” says Idi, as he reaches out and grabs the major’s shoulder with his mammoth hand, another act of pure audacity that he somehow gets away with. “I already had my dinner.”

  “If you so much as try to eat my butterflies, I’ll have you court-martialled!” laughs the major. “Even if you break my nose!”


  “I would not do that, Bwana,” says Idi, wisely removing his hand. “I love the King’s African Rifles.”

  “Yes, I can see that you do. All right. Come on, then.”

  The major turns too sharply, trips over his foot, and nearly tumbles to the ground. He catches himself and stands tall, smoothing his shirt, pretending his slip never happened and that he’s had nothing to drink all night. He waves Idi on. The excited young dupi breaks his attentive stance and moves beside the major. The silent askaris remain at attention, since the company’s lesser officers continue to linger in the field, but they watch in astonishment as Major Mitchell and the brazen dupi march back to the commander’s office, side by side, as if they were equals, as if there weren’t an entire military hierarchy and colonial history separating one from the other.

  Idi has never walked taller, never felt stronger or braver or more worthwhile than he does right now. He’s approaching the timber frame of the major’s office—that oak desk, the butterflies. Idi’s fingerprint will stain the KAR’s official enlistment paper and he will be one of them. In five minutes, he’ll be an askari, a soldier, a comrade. Mama, he thinks, where are you? The kamiojo herb from the Yakan water is pulsing through his veins—his Kakwa veins, his Lugbara veins, his distinctly Ugandan veins—strengthening him and making him feel invincible. Or maybe it’s just the adrenalin and the thrill of his unprecedented success. Mother, look at me, he thinks as he moves swiftly through the murram dust next to the grinning major—an actual commander of an entire KAR battalion. I am a big man now. Yes, a genuine big man, a ’ba wara of more value and worth than that one who called him a thing back in his mother’s miserable West Nile village. He is a big man who can break the nose of a real askari with a single punch, who can reduce an Acholi brute to a whimpering woman by grasping his balls and spitting a sharp phrase in his face. Has there ever been a more innate soldier in the history of the entire world? Idi knows that not only can he join these men in their barrack, sit with them at company mess, drink their tea with his legs crossed like a European while they tell their tales of Burma, but he can also participate in their next conflict, wherever it might be, and with a little luck could someday pace before them in the field as they stand at attention as their superior, their Effendi. Someday he will lecture these askaris on what it means to be a soldier, on how they’re supposed to do it, on how to punch, how to shoot, and how to kill. Why not? Doesn’t he know the facts as well as anyone? Is he not walking beside the major like the Englishman’s equal? Can’t he lead inspection and parades and tell them what’s right and wrong and good? They will call him Bwana Amin. Yes, he will be an Effendi. Dreams do not lie. His mother does not lie. And could he rise higher, even to unprecedented heights? Could he someday be a major? Idi suppresses a smile as he opens the commander’s door and lets him proceed before him. And if these damn askaris don’t like a Kakwa-Lugbara for their supreme commander, Idi will find some thick white cream to spread on his face and hands, and then they’ll know he’s to be taken seriously, that smart people do not mess around with Idi son of Amin. Idi decides that’s exactly what he’ll do, as he steps into the major’s office to seal his fate. He will coat himself in leadership. If they make a black cream for officers, then somewhere back in England they must also make a white one for that same purpose.

  The city, stuffed with greenery, gently steams. If wrapped in bamboo leaves, these buildings would soften like gluten and stick to each other. Saloth Sâr has no idea that someday he will devour them.

  The boy’s entire body pulses with desire. He is standing on the street corner before the École Miche, savouring the wet heat trapped inside his thin shirt. The back of his neck is sticky. A slow-moving rickshaw rounds the bend, drawn by a half-naked Vietnamese driver and carrying a mustachioed gentleman in a cream-coloured suit, obviously in no hurry to reach his destination. The gentleman stares at the pink-cheeked and newly virile Sâr, whose wide face has flowered into a smile. A photograph of the smooth-skinned fourteen-year-old boy could grace the cover of any travel brochure for Indochina. The gentleman sucks his cigarette and tips his hat in greeting, but Sâr doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he watches the rickshaw bump north towards the colonial villas in Wat Phnom. Arrogant Frenchmen are of no concern.

  School has ended for the day. His friends, like vapour, have reabsorbed into the humid air. Sâr has declined their persistent invitations to visit the market en masse, where the giddy teenagers will play at boldness, trying to hide their Cambodian features and pass for Chinese, snacking on fried crickets and unripe bananas, goading each other into haggling with the Vietnamese merchants. On most days the central market is Sâr’s favourite destination, still a novelty with its art deco dome, peculiar chevron-shaped windows, and four corridors extending outward at slight angles like a heron’s foot. He loves the diesel fumes, the scent of coriander and lemony rice-paddy herbs, the magical wristwatches on display between bits of junk on the pavement, and the overheard phrases of incomprehensible Mandarin spoken by the foreign merchants. Still, he can’t go today. The heat is too intense, too distracting.

  He is picturing Chanlina, a palace dancer, one of the King’s lesser wives. He sees her full-moon face, popping lips, and dark, coy eyes. He can’t stop thinking about her, although he’s only met her once, when there were other people around. Sâr’s sister Roeung, who works in the palace, introduced him to the dancers. She told Sâr that he could visit any time, but he’s not sure if he should take her at her word. Roeung never specified if those visits had to be with her. He wonders if the dancers would mind him dropping by, just a friendly visit to say hello.

  As he starts towards the palace, Sâr realizes that he’s made his decision, and his stomach tenses. The combination of heat and anxiety makes his legs feel weak. Sâr walks on, taking cover from the sun beneath the inconsequential shade of high palm trees and the thicker foliage of the odd teak or rosewood. Even so, the heat is too much to bear. The sky is blue and nearly cloudless, as it’s been for months. When the New Year arrives next week, greeted with festivities at the palace, and familial gatherings and games in the park at Wat Phnom, it will usher in the seasonal procession of cooling monsoon clouds. Such relief seems improbable today.

  It’s a stupid plan, destined for failure. He’ll never get to see them. The guard will never let him venture into the compound without Roeung, which is for the best, Sâr thinks, as he passes the surging naga heads and French balustrades on the National Museum. He has no business among King Monivong’s lesser wives, distracting them from their sacred duties. The guard will save him great embarrassment if he refuses to let him pass.

  He passes coolies repairing the sidewalk and weaves through a group of monks dressed in saffron robes with white parasols. He steps over a pile of fish bones and fruit rinds someone has dumped in the street. Chanlina and her roommates will be grumpy and exhausted from practising the particular hand gestures needed for the upcoming New Year’s dances. Sâr dodges an ox cart laden with orange flowers, green mangoes, and rotting jackfruit. He reaches out and scrapes his fingers along the plaster-grit of the mustard-coloured wall surrounding the royal compound, doubting that the dancers will want to see him even if the guard lets him into their compound. He wishes he could will himself to turn around.

  But now it’s too late, Sâr knows, as he stands before the sentry box beneath the gate’s white spires and ornate festoons, a rucksack over his shoulder, one of his wooden clogs tapping the concrete in anticipation. He watches a lacquered black Renault with curtains over its windows roll down the wide avenue. At last a Khmer guard emerges from the sentry box, wearing a hard white helmet and epaulettes reminiscent of the French Foreign Legion. The guard recognizes Sâr and smiles at him. Sâr presses his hands together before his lips and bows the respectful greeting appropriate for his elders.

  “Is Roeung expecting you?” asks the guard.

  “Yes,” answers the lad, his voice a near whisper.

  It’s a good-en
ough answer for the guard, who slides open the copper gate and, with a short nod, lets the boy enter the forbidden palace compound without the accompaniment of his powerful sister. Sâr grows dizzy as he passes through the gate, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his neck.

  He skims along a path beside the low wall enclosing the Silver Pagoda. He quickens his gait into a trot as he crosses the manicured garden and lengthy driveway before the Throne Hall. He’s quietly whispering a sutra he learned during his year-long immersion at the Theravada monastery, five years earlier. In the past, the memorized chants soothed him when he’d grown too excited or impassioned, but today he can’t find a rhythm strong enough to relax him. Sâr needs a plan, he realizes, as he tucks his shirt into his baggy pants. He should say hello and then leave, appreciating the dancers’ responsibilities and not imposing himself. Yes, he will be brief and polite, and the dancers will see that he’s kind, and be happy that he hasn’t overstayed his welcome. Still, his cheeks redden, as if the four serene faces of Brahma were judging him from their mounts on the Throne Hall’s tallest spire.