For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Children can be very courageous.” Nang’s eyes were soft. These children, he knew, would never be sent to advanced Communist training schools. They were not destined to become cadre; there would be no School of the Cruel, no ideological indoctrination. For them there would be only the underground school, the fetid back-alley shack, the brief afternoon classes in hate, the first all-night patrol, the first act of terrorism, and then death—death in the meat grinder of war, death to the naive, pushed knowingly into the funnel by ideologically secure cadres who not only would feed that grinder, but had justified in their minds their duty to feed it the most expendable, until the grinder itself ran down and the cadres could control it unilaterally. Nang continued. “Children can turn the tide of battle,” he said. “They can win wars. You know imperialists are trying to take the country from the people, eh? If you are a coward you will live your life in shame in a country owned by others. It’s better to die with courage than to live with shame.”

  Nang paused. He lowered his head, closed his eyes. In the steaming motionless silence the little girl in the front and the boy in back leaned imperceptibly forward. Even Phan strained his ears to hear Nang’s next utterance though Phan had sat through the show four times with four cells and would listen fourteen more times with perfect attention. “Once,” Nang whispered, his eyes shut in pain, “we were caught in the crossfire of two American tanks. Met Peou snuck from his hiding place. He was so small. Only six years old. He didn’t wear any pants. He ran forward crying as the tanks came toward us. Under his shirt he had dynamite. When he reached the first tank it stopped. The enemy stopped firing and one soldier came out. Met Peou pulled the cord under his shirt and killed the long-nose. Peou stopped the tanks long enough for us to capture them and kill the crews. He was my little brother. His life is better than mine. He had more courage and he has no shame.”

  Two girls wept. Nang let tears come to his eyes. He was pleased by the children’s reaction. It deepened his belief in the cause, the just cause of the Khmer Krahom, his cause. And...the tears were not entirely fake. In his mind he saw his own little brother and he saw him explode. Nineteen times in Stung Treng, a hundred times in the Northeast, he saw that image and it grew to be true and he hated it and a hundred times he chased away the intrusive thought and asked himself why—why had Sar sent him back so close to home?

  Then came the government announcement; then Nang’s recall.

  Vathana opened her eyes. Teck’s head was curled down upon his chest. From behind him she could see only the skinny shoulder of a headless form protruding above the coverlet. Between them lay the two-month-old infant, Samnang, asleep, angelic, snoring a high thin infant snore. Vathana cupped the baby to her side. She looked up. The canopy of sheer white mosquito netting fell in graceful folds about them like a protective cocoon. Teck snorted, rolled to his back, arched, melted back into the mattress like a deflating balloon. “Sophan,” Vathana called softly.

  In the first weeks after Vathana’s trauma and the birth of his son, Teck had been more attentive than at any time since their wedding. Grudgingly he’d stumbled through the intricacies of river-barge management, on one occasion actually talking to the captain on the wharf. During those weeks he neither went dancing nor smoked heroin, and to him Cambodia seemed to open itself, denude itself, stand before him in raunch corrupt ugliness without the filter of his mother or the firm control of his father. He cowered. He wanted to hide, to run. But he held together and for that his mother rewarded him. One evening, she brought him to Phnom Penh to a most fashionable party; a party where wines flowed and young women chatted softly in French with handsome military men; a party where the undercurrent of conversation amongst the uniformed officers was of the Prince, the war, the rumor of the fabled white crocodile foreshadowing change, though on the surface no deep concern was expressed.

  The dazzle of the party, of his mother’s growing association with the haut monde, captivated Teck. Capriciously he resolved to have his father purchase for him a commission into the Royal forces. Then he returned to Neak Luong, saw his weary wife up, about, able if still frail, and his resolve dissipated. Slowly he slipped into former habits.

  The infant wheezed. Vathana hugged him, kissed him, then slipped her arm from around him to tug the mosquito net from its tuck beneath the mattress. “Sophan,” she called again. She rose.

  A stout woman came and bowed. “Yes’m.” Sophan bowed again. She was one of the hundreds of women Vathana had rescued, had taken into her expanding refugee center after their homes near the border had been destroyed. Vathana had not particularly noticed Sophan amid the border people, but Sophan had chosen her, had attached herself to Vathana because she no longer had a family. Whenever Teck had left Vathana unattended in the hospital, it had been Sophan who had cared for her.

  “Take the baby and nurse him. Then swaddle him in the sunflower blanket with the emerald-green bunting. His grandfather’s coming.”

  Pech Lim Song burst upon the apartment like sun rays breaking through sluggish clouds. Teck was still in bed. Half the morning had passed. “Let me hold my grandson,” Mister Pech said. His speech was light, his movements quick, gentle, his face radiant as he cooed to the infant and praised his daughter-in-law. Then Teck emerged. The clouds thickened.

  “Crocodiles consume the countryside...” Mister Pech said sarcastically. He stood before Vathana’s work desk eyeing the elegantly framed photo of Prince Sihanouk. “...while the nation’s young men sleep.”

  “How is your health, Father?” Teck bowed though Mister Pech remained with his back to his son.

  “They’re closing in,” Mister Pech said. “I quote the Prince. North Viet Namese armed penetration into Cambodia coupled with ‘an energetic subversion campaign aimed at my peasants, workers, Buddhist monks...attempting to organize a “Khmer popular uprising” against the monarchy whom they accuse of selling out to French colonialism.’ Yes! French! Those were his words! Nineteen fifty-three! ‘Anti-Sihanouk propaganda...terrorism...assassination of Khmer loyalists, officials and civil servants...’ Their objectives haven’t changed but their ability has blossomed a hundredfold.”

  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 pedd
ling. 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 countr
y’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.”