Temple of Gold

by A. J. Stewart

  “And the students?”

  “Freethinkers are nothing but trouble, in Pol Pot’s mind. They have been manipulated for him and they can be manipulated against him. You don’t need an educated elite if you are all farmers. All you need is a strong back and a quiet mouth. So, during and after the exodus, Khmer Rouge start systematically killing anyone who doesn’t fit their ideology. Former government bureaucrats are first. Intellectuals are second. Brother Tan led the evacuation from the university. Those student and staff who are not already with their families are taken away separately. They are told they are needed by Angkar—the organization, or the State—for their special skills. But they are never heard from again. Reports have come out—since the Vietnamese invaded in ’79—of mass graves, and stories that the dead were forced to dig their own graves, in which they were buried alive.”

  Lenny sat in silence for a moment. He looked at his teacup, wafting steam that the air absorbed.

  “How did you get out?”

  For the first time Ung’s face changed from contemplative to sad. He looked down at his teacup as if it held everything—and everyone—he had left behind.

  “Do you know Operation Eagle Pull?”

  “No,” said Lenny.

  “Do you know Operation Frequent Wind?”

  “Yes. The evacuation of US and allied personnel just before the fall of Saigon.”

  “That is correct. Your government knew they had lost to Viet Cong as surely as the government in Cambodia will lose to Khmer Rouge. It is just a matter of which capital would fall first. As it turn out, it is Phnom Penh. Your government had a plan to get your people out of Phnom Penh just as they did for Saigon. In many way, the Cambodian operation—called Operation Eagle Pull—is dress rehearsal for your military to undertake the much larger evacuation in Saigon. But I have worked with academics from the Smithsonian and from Yale University on my study of the temples of Cambodia. One such man is Professor Leo Anderson. He is in Phnom Penh at the end. He is holed up in hotel near the US Embassy. He come to the university to offer a group of us passage out before Khmer Rouge invade. They are already on the outskirts of the city.”

  “So you all left with the US officials?”

  “Some of us. Many refuse. Some of the top government people call the American evacuation a betrayal and refuse to go. Some of my colleague decide to stay, believing Khmer Rouge will not be any different than the current government.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Professor Ung shrugged. “All the government people are taken to the tennis club and are tortured and killed.”

  “And your colleagues?”

  “I hear some are killed on campus when they refuse to go into countryside. Beaten with clubs and shovels. Others are killed later.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lenny.

  “Sorrow does one no good, Mr. Cox. I flee, I live, and my country fall. Friends and colleagues and family are murdered, and for what? One regime rise, another fall, and men who believe they are just and right commit evil acts while other men who also believe they are just and right do nothing to stop it.”

  “Why didn’t the others leave with you?”

  “We debated that, beforehand, my colleague and I. We shared an office. Professor Rangsay and I. We debate what the fall of Phnom Penh will do, what might happen when Khmer Rouge get power and when North Vietnamese win against your people. Professor Rangsay believe that little would change. We have regime change before. The pieces move but the players remain the same. He figure he is not important, that he will just continue his work as the world moves on around him.”

  “You didn’t agree, clearly.”

  “I am born in northwest of the country. The town I come from has fallen under Khmer Rouge control many month before. I have receive word that the town has been emptied, people have been forced into the fields, and their homes burn so they have nothing to return to. I have no idea of what is to come, Mr. Cox, but I know it will not be good. I hear my cousin—a teacher—is killed simply because of his profession. Professor Rangsay believe my cousin has annoyed someone holding a gun.”

  Professor Ung left some aluminum coins on the table and stood. Lenny shook out his damp shirt and followed Ung back onto the street. The sun was high and baking everything below. People on the streets shuffled from awning to awning, while others walked up the middle of the street, dodging bicycles and small cars. The scent of grilled meat hung on the still air.

  “What do you see?” asked the professor, looking around the street.

  “The future,” said Lenny.

  “Of course, but what future?”

  “I don’t know, Professor, I’m no clairvoyant.”

  “But you see. Discourse, ideas, debate. You see it. It is a people defining their own future.”

  Lenny nodded. “Is there such a place in Cambodia now?”

  The professor shook his head. “No. All the universities are closed. Khmer Rouge believe that education is a dangerous asset. They kill most of the teachers and academics, and many, many students. They kill educated people—doctors and such, and they ban modern medicine and end the use of currency. The regime fall four years ago, but the government of today is no sunshine ray. It is a tool of the Vietnamese regime. Much of the killing has stopped, but the free exchange of ideas does not return. When children are taught to spy on their parents and parents are killed for what their children report back, ideas become something you hide, not something you offer freely.”

  “Do you think we were wrong? The United States? Do you blame us?”

  Professor Ung stopped in the street, the sun beating down so hard he had to squint.

  “There are no winners in this story, Mr. Cox. Only losers. The people of Cambodia are pawns in a bigger game. Vietnam War is a political exercise more than a war, and Cambodia is casualty. Could your people do more to stop it? Certainly, of course. Are they to blame? Even today, your government supports a coalition in exile that contain many former Khmer Rouge leader, over the Vietnamese-backed government that is in place. Mr. Reagan and Mr. Andropov use angry word in place of diplomacy. But are they wrong? In the end, Cambodian turn on Cambodian for extra ration of rice. I flee my country and leave others to die. So who is right, and who is wrong?”

  “It sounds like everyone is wrong.”

  “Such is the human condition, Mr. Cox.”

  “And General Tan? Is he wrong?”

  “Brother Tan. Yes, he is wrong. You see, as an anthropologist I study societies. Their rise, their fall. As a species we are social animals. When we work together, we thrive. When we care for one another, we thrive. Whenever a small number is allowed to suppress the need of the many, this is the hallmark of a civilization’s demise. We are not sharks; we are not solitary beings. We do not function at our best when it is every man for himself. No society that has taken this route has ever lasted. These are conditions for rebellion.”

  “So you’re saying communism is the right way? That sounds hard to believe, Professor. The Russians are no angels.”

  “Mr. Cox, communism is not a living, breathing thing. It is a structure. The idea that all of us are equal and should work together as one is not inherently evil. Quite the opposite. But this model is also flawed. Marx and Lenin and Mao and Andropov are all flawed because they are human. Look at animal kingdom. Even in social hierarchies, there is always leader. An alpha. So it is with man. We are all equal, but some are more equal than others. Some skills are valued more than others. Some people will work harder and some will produce more of what others want, and some will simply be luckier. Even in monkey kingdom there are haves and have-nots. Humans are same. But when we forgo the need of the many, when we suppress them so much that they see no light, then even the powerful cannot survive. Society breaks down. Man versus man is the end of civilization, not the beginning.”

  “So what about Brother Tan?”

  “He can be guaranteed to do what is best for Brother Tan. I hear that when the capital fall
that he go to campus and kill many staff and students who refuse to leave. It seem he has bought into the idea of the Angkar—this faceless state. But I have heard him speak before. He is no believer. He has not the education nor the drive to succeed. But he is cunning. He see the tide turn and he hitch his wagon to the right train, if you will excuse my mixed-metaphor.”

  “So why is he still out there?”

  “Because of who he is. He believed the myths.”

  “What myths?”

  “The tales of the temple of gold.”

  “The what?”

  Professor Ung gave a grin and began walking again. “The temple of gold, Mr. Cox. I’m sure you hear of it, in one version or another. Sometimes it is in South America, or in Persia, or in this case the jungles of Southeast Asia. In Khmer, Meas Wat—the temple of gold.”

  “You think Tan is out in the jungle four years after the Khmer Rouge were driven into hiding, looking for a golden temple?”

  Ung shrugged. “I have no idea, but I will tell you that he is fascinated by it. It is how I come to know of him.”

  “He learned about it from you?”

  “No, no. From my colleague, Professor Rangsay. He is anthropologist like me, but his specialty is in physical archeology. Not so much the societies that were, but the structures they leave behind. He is fascinated by the idea of this temple of gold. He even spend time in the field, searching for it.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “Just rocks. He is also a geologist, so he know about such things. He say they are markers, but to me they look like rocks.”

  “And Tan?”

  “Tan love the stories that Professor Rangsay tell, of a lost ancient civilization that built a temple of gold. It was—what do you call it?—a ‘Boy’s Own’ adventure.”

  “But why would Tan be looking for this place, after all this time?”

  “For the same reason men have always lusted after such a myth: fortune, Mr. Cox. You see, Pol Pot speak of an agrarian society of equals. As I say before, he even discontinue use of currency. But there are always some things you cannot produce, and a leader cannot ride an ox from place to place. He need a car. A nice car. And that car need petrol to run. But Cambodia produce no gasoline. He must buy such things—the finer things. So, of course, the notion of an insular society is nothing more than talk. Fine for the people, but not so fine for the leaders. But with no currency, how do you get this gasoline?”

  “Gold.”

  “The universal currency, Mr. Cox.”

  “So they found it?”

  “I do not believe so. The country has gold reserves, but beyond those—and stealing what belong to the people—trade with the outside world dry up. It is part of the reason the Vietnamese are able to take over so swiftly in ’79. Cambodian resources are severely depleted.”

  “Okay, but why still be out there, looking for this mythical place?”

  “When men get ideas in their heads, Mr. Cox, they can be hard to displace. Even in the face of irrefutable evidence. I don’t know if Brother Tan is still out there, or if ever was, but if he is, then he still believes the myth, and greed is his driver.”

  They continued back to Professor Ung’s building and stopped just outside. Lenny shook the professor’s hand.

  “Thank you for your time,” Lenny said.

  “Please pass my best wishes to Miss Brooks.”

  “I will.” Lenny moved to turn away to the street but hesitated. “Professor, what happened to your colleague, Professor Rangsay?”

  Ung shook his head solemnly. “He should have gone. He is an intellectual. There are no intellectuals left in Cambodia.”

  Ung nodded to himself and walked into his building, and Lenny watched him go. Then Lenny turned onto the hot street, looking for a fresh shirt and a cold beer.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday afternoon traffic was as light as it ever got in Bangkok, so it was easy going as Lenny drove the Ambassador and the rest of the US delegation out of the city. The vehicle was more of a minivan than a bus, but the AC worked, which was a blessing. An enclosed trailer was attached, holding more luggage than Lenny thought necessary for a day and a half in the sticks, but official functions required changes of clothes, especially in the heat and humidity, which only seemed to rise as they left the capital.

  Lenny piloted the van along the highway, and the scenery moved from inner-urban to urban and then on to some version of suburban, but not like anything he ever saw in California. Everything was low and cinderblock, the colors washed out. Then these buildings gave way to fields, and a couple hours after setting out, they entered the town of Kanchanaburi, and Alice directed Lenny to the hotel where the diplomats from the embassy would be staying.

  It looked like a pretty village, the river running through giving it a bucolic feel that belied its history. The diplomats all found their rooms and then adjourned to the hotel bar, but the mood was reflective and quiet, and everyone took to their billets early.

  The memorial service was at dawn the next day. An Australian Embassy official had explained its origins to Lenny: A First World War battle in Turkey, where, on April 25, 1915, Commonwealth forces had attempted to capture positions on a strategic channel of water called the Dardanelles. Australian and New Zealand forces had deployed by boat onto the Gallipoli Peninsula, suffering heavy losses at the hands of the waiting Turks. The fight for the desolate peninsula had gone on for almost a year, but the peninsula was never captured, and forces retreated the following January.

  The battle was the first great loss of life for newly independent Australia, a former colony, as well as for the joint forces of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps—known as the ANZACs. The day had become a national holiday in both countries.

  They woke hours before sunrise, took coffee, and then silently boarded the van. A local man guided Lenny to the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery. Like Gallipoli before it, this had been the site of great horror and loss of ANZAC lives. The town’s bucolic river was the Khwae Yai, known in English as the River Kwai, and the bridge over the River Kwai was part of the Burma Railway, a project undertaken by Japanese occupying forces in World War II, at the cost of thousands of allied soldiers’ lives.

  The diplomats disembarked at the cemetery’s entrance and Lenny went and parked the van. The darkened cemetery was lit only by the ushers’ flashlights, guiding the dignitaries to seats arranged in front of a lectern. Beside this, the Australian and New Zealand flags flew at half-mast, lit by small spotlights. Alongside them were the Union Jack, and to Lenny’s surprise, the flags of the Netherlands and the United States. The Thailand flag was at the end.

  Ambassador Jeffries made his way toward the front, shaking hands with the congregation, which was larger than Lenny had anticipated—a good two hundred or more people. Lenny took a position among other military members, mostly Australian, standing toward the rear. Around him, he also noted a number of people in T-shirts and tank tops—backpackers, up early to pay their respects. There was a quiet murmur, but most of the soldiers around Lenny stood in silence.

  Eventually, a man took to the lectern and began the ceremony. He called on the catafalque party, and Lenny heard the soft rattle of a drum, and a small party made up of armed members of various defense services marched from behind the gathered crowd until they reached the flags at the front. They presented arms and stood to attention.

  The man at the lectern called forward a brigadier from the Australian Army to offer a call to remembrance, after which he called on the Australian Ambassador to give a commemorative address. The Ambassador spoke of the origin of the dawn service, and the sacrifices made by so many men in the Gallipoli Campaign, as well as those whose lives had been lost in the Second World War on the very ground where they now stood. He spoke for about six or seven minutes, on themes that Lenny knew all too well.

  After the Ambassador, a Thai soldier was called forward to offer a tribute in Thai, which was then offered again in English.

 
All were then called to stand, and those sitting at the front did just that. Then a small choir of children began singing and the congregation joined in to sing “Amazing Grace.”

  The emcee asked people to be seated again.

  “I would if I had one,” said someone about four or five bodies along from where Lenny stood. He glanced down the line and noted he wasn’t the only one looking.

  “I heard there was going to be rum at this thing,” said the same voice. It belonged to a young man, maybe early twenties, but his T-shirt and long hair suggested he wasn’t military. But Lenny knew what he was.

  He was an American.

  “I mean, seriously,” the guy continued. “How long are these guys going to ramble on?”

  Lenny let out a breath and felt his shoulders slump. He wasn’t hardcore about people respecting the uniform or the flag. His view on it was simple: He fought to defend a way of life that he believed in, and part of that way of life was the right to free speech, up to and including not honoring the military. Lenny wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked it—he definitely didn’t—but he saw the irony in soldiers who claimed to fight for freedom and then decried those people who exercised that freedom in a way the soldiers hadn’t intended.

  But this was different. When someone made the effort to attend a service honoring the fallen, and then made that kind of talk? That was disrespectful. That was just plain rude.

  Several people nearby shot the guy dirty looks. Lenny recognized one of the faces. In the row just ahead stood the Australian soldier Lenny had seen at the British Embassy, the one the British Council attaché, Miss Abernathy, had gotten a beer. The soldier looked none too impressed with the commentary, but the loudmouth was oblivious. Lenny dropped back a step, and then edged along behind the row of servicemen.

  The emcee was calling on the New Zealand Ambassador to offer the second commemorative address when Lenny stopped beside the loudmouth.