Children of the River

CHAPTER 1

April 17, 1975

For a brief time, it seemed the New Year had brought good fortune to the household of Tep Naro in the Cambodian village of Ream: a fat-cheeked new daughter born to his wife, Soka.

The birth itself had not been an easy one, however, and Naro and Soka were glad their young niece Sundara had come down from Phnom Penh to help.

On the day after the birth Sundara sat rocking the new baby in the wooden swing on the front porch. The afternoon air was soft and warm; a pleasant breeze wafted up from the gulf. Nuzzling the baby, she breathed in the sweet newborn smell. Such a nice plump little body. Such a thick thatch of black hair.

In the hammock, Sundara’s six-year-old cousin, Ravy, lay nibbling leftover sticky rice cakes and entertaining his little brother Pon with a boat he’d made of knotted straw.

A sad love song played on the radio and Sundara kept time, lazily dangling her rubber thong from her toe, thinking of Chamroeun, the boy she’d left back in the city two weeks ago.

I want to go fight the Communists, he’d told her that last night in Phnom Penh, the night before her father had spirited her through the teeming, refugee-choked boulevards to the airport. Hearing these words as the shells from the Communist guns screamed at the city’s edge had terrified her. But now it seemed only a bad dream. Here, safe in her relatives’ fishing village, lulled by the rustling of the coconut palms, she could almost imagine this as simply another vacation. The war that had dominated their lives seemed so far away, so unreal …

When the baby fussed, Sundara jiggled her, clicking her tongue as she’d seen the other women do. This seemed to calm the little one. Sundara smiled. She was beginning to feel quite capable, much older than thirteen. Don’t worry, she whispered to the baby, whom she had already grown to love, I’ll take care of you.

Suddenly the radio music stopped for an announcement … something about a new government. Then a terse exchange, a brief commotion. Then, nothing. Sundara shifted the baby to one arm and turned the dial.

That’s odd, she murmured to Ravy. It’s gone dead.

A moment later two men hurried past the house. Then, a panicky family.

Sundara rose. What’s happening? she called. Where’s everyone going?

Get out! Get away! The Communists! The Khmer Rouge! They’ve taken Phnom Penh and they’re coming here!

The Communists! Hot fear burned her chest. She whirled and ran into the main room.

Grandmother! Younger Aunt! Wake up! The Khmer Rouge are coming! Everyone’s running away!

Soka moaned, more in pain than alarm. What does Naro say?

Naro’s not here! He’s still at work.

Soka shifted on her wooden bed. "I can’t go anyway. Not now."

Grandmother peered out the window. Just wait for Naro, child. My son is the head of this family. I’m sure he’ll tell us this is nothing.

Clutching the baby, Sundara paced the house. The servant girl had fled down the back steps, leaving supper to burn. How much time did the rest of them have?

The trickle of people in the street became a stream.

Watching them, Grandmother sniffed. I, for one, don’t plan to leave my home just because the government might change hands once again. What has that to do with an old woman like me?

Brave words, Sundara thought, but Grandmother had not seen the billboards all over Phnom Penh, the hideous picture that warned what the Khmer Rouge would do if they came to power: A woman stabbed with a dagger, her sarong torn away, her legs—

Don’t just stand there, you foolish women Naro jumped off his roaring motorcycle, let it fall in the dusty yard. Haven’t you heard? He hauled the two-wheeled cart from under the house. Throw our things in this. Now!

Sundara dashed into the house. Laying the baby on a mat, she tossed clothes into a satchel. We’re leaving, Younger Aunt.

But I can’t Soka protested. It’s impossible!

Naro ran in. Up, Soka! Hurry He flung open the teakwood chest, rummaged for a packet at the bottom.

Are you crazy, Husband? Have you forgotten? I just had a baby! I’m still bleeding. If you make me go now, I will die!

Sweat beaded his forehead. "If we stay, we will all die. Everyone who worked for the United States must get out now!" He turned on Sundara and Grandmother. You two, grab that basket of dried fish, the small gas stove … He scooped Soka from her bed and bore her down the steps.

The baby fussed frantically at the commotion. Sundara snatched up her checkered krama and lashed the red-faced bundle to her breast, then rushed through the house grabbing dishes, food, mats. Just one thing more. The parasol. Her chest clutched tight. Phnom Penh! Oh, God, what about her family, what about Chamroeun— No. No time for that now …

You’re killing me Soka was screaming down in the yard. We haven’t even had the childbirth ceremonies yet. We cannot leave without purifying the house!

Grandmother tugged at Naro’s sleeve. She’s right, my son. The spirits won’t like it if—

Shut up! Both of you! Now hurry!

Pon burst out crying.

Sundara threw everything into the cart and plopped the toddler on a sack of rice. She seized a cart handle and Grandmother, in a daze, did the same. Together they shoved the heavy contraption after Naro, who staggered ahead toward the wharf under Soka’s sobbing weight. Behind them, Ravy struggled to keep up, bravely lugging the pot of supper they’d yanked from the fire as an afterthought.

Where are we going? he kept calling.

No one answered.

People crowded on the pier with their squalling children and hastily gathered possessions, stumbling in panic up the gangplank to a large freighter. A few men rolled motorcycles on board; one family pushed a refrigerator. All was shouting and confusion. Where were they going and for how long? Who should be let on? Who must be left behind? Somehow Naro knew the right people: his family would be allowed to board.

Night was coming on fast. The wind whipped Sundara’s hair about her face as she gripped the baby in her krama with one arm, balanced Pon on her opposite hip and, swept by the mass of people, began the long, sloping climb up the gangplank to the ship.

For hours, it seemed, she had been picking her way among the people crammed together on the hot metal deck, trying to shield the baby from the blazing sun with her bleached-out parasol. Three weeks they’d been on the sea, and Soka was ill. Sundara had been left to care for the little one alone.

She scanned the crowd. Surely there was one nursing mother among these hundreds of people, a woman who could help her. Ah! Over there, sitting by the motorcycle …

Sundara bowed awkwardly before the young mother and her child. Excuse me, please. My aunt is very sick and her milk has dried up. Now her little one grows weak too. She pulled back the blue-checkered krama. See how strange and dried out her skin is? Look. Even her soft spot sinks in.

The woman winced, then averted her eyes. She held her own baby a little closer.

Sundara licked the salt from her cracked lips. I was wondering … could you … ?

I’m sorry, the woman whispered, I would, but … Oh, this is all so terrible. I’m not getting enough to drink myself. Soon I’m afraid I won’t have milk for my own.

Sundara nodded, swallowing hard. Everyone had the same story. Their own families had to come first. She covered the baby and moved on. Heaven protect her, the baby grew lighter by the moment, her life running out in diarrhea that stained Sundara’s cotton sarong in reeking brown streaks. How limp she was, and so silent….

Oh God, what to do?

She went down to the hold where they guarded the donated supplies and found it crowded with people pleading for extra shares. She pushed into the weary crush. Breathless with the heat, she finally squeezed through to one of the men in charge.

Our baby is so sick. Can you give me something for her?

Everyone’s sick, he replied impatiently, showing bad teeth. His breath stank. Everyone wants something extra. There’s not enough extra for all seven hundred!

Sundara shut her eyes, faint with disappointment and lack of air.

For the love of heaven, said a woman. Can’t you even give her an extra packet of milk? Her voice softened. Poor child. No grown-ups to help you?

They all have the seasickness, Sundara whispered.

The man’s mouth twisted. Well, here then. Grudgingly, he shoved a packet at her.

Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes.

"Now what’s the matter?" he demanded.

Thank you. I’m grateful, but … I think that’s partly what made her sick, because before I had to mix milk in water without boiling it first. She took a deep breath, gathering courage. I need medicine.

Medicine! Do you think this is a hospital? Do I look like a doctor? I wouldn’t know what to give you if I had it. He glanced around. That Thai ship donated these. Sugar water or something. He held up a glass bottle of clear liquid. Although I don’t know what they expect us to do with them since this is for putting in the veins and we don’t have any needles.

I’ll take it, Sundara said quickly. It was liquid; it looked clean. She had to try something.

All right. But one thing—we don’t need any more diseases than we’ve got. If that baby dies, throw it overboard right away.

What! Throw the baby—Horrible man. She snatched the bottle and struggled out through the press of people, holding the little bundle tighter than ever. This baby couldn’t die. She wouldn’t let her. She would do anything. She would find a way to feed her. She would pray to God, promise to shave off all her long hair in gratitude if only the child would live….

Nothing had changed back at their tiny section of the deck. Ravy huddled dejectedly with Pon, whose eyes were taking on the same sunken look as his baby sister’s. The three grown-ups sprawled against the sack of rice, oblivious to the beating sun. Sundara squinted upward, hand shading her eyes. The tarp the ship people tried to rig had been ripped away by the hot wind. No shade, and nothing she could do about it. Well, she could at least try to clean up their patch of deck. She pulled a sarong from their satchel and swabbed at the new vomit. Hurry. Mustn’t let it bake on the hot metal. Oh, no! Now little Pon had diarrhea too.

Help me, Ravy. She propped Pon against the suitcase and handed Ravy the baby. She unpeeled the bottle’s silver seal and yanked out the stopper, dividing the liquid between a cup and the baby bottle she’d begged from another family. She handed Ravy the cup for Pon, quickly looking away, unable to bear those big, questioning six-year-old eyes.

Now, you must drink, she coaxed, cradling the baby again. "Please, please drink. But the tiny head fell back from the bottle. Oh, Little One, can’t you swallow? No, no, don’t let it dribble away …"

CHAPTER 2

September 7, 1979

The third-floor classroom window was open, allowing a wispy thistle seed to float in on a breath of late summer air. Sundara clenched her hands on her desk and watched the spinning puff drift by. When you saw one of these, you could make a wish. An American girl who worked beside her in the strawberry fields had told her that. Sundara closed her eyes. How I wish I bad not written that poem.

Every muscle in her body was tense. She never dreamed Mrs. Cathcart would read these first English papers aloud.

In conclusion, the teacher read from a student’s paper, let us choose our own lunch menus. A lot less food would end up in the garbage if we did.

Yay, came one listless voice. This was the sixth paper on cafeteria food, and only one—the blond boy’s—had been truly funny. The students were sinking ever lower in their hard wooden chairs, nothing much having caught their attention since one girl’s daring essay on why kids were entitled to birth control counseling without their parents’ permission. How Sundara’s face had flamed at that! She could just hear her aunt Soka: These American girls, going to bed with men before they’re married…. Why, if they were mine, I’d throw them out so fast …

And now I’d like to share a very special piece of work by Sundara Sovann. Mrs. Cathcart smiled at Sundara. If she doesn’t object.

I do object! Sundara longed to cry. But of course she couldn’t. Deny a teacher’s request? Impossible. She glanced behind her. Thirty pairs of eyes bored into her, waiting. True, one girl had written about her cat dying, but the rest of these eyes belonged to a puzzling group of people who had chosen video games, school dress codes, and football team conduct rules as topics that concerned them most deeply. Sundara sighed. Even now, four years after leaving Cambodia, she could not seem to understand the Americans.

Lowering her eyes, focusing once more on her scratched, damp-palmed hands, she finally nodded.

"We are the lost, we are the lonely

So far from our beloved land

We are the children of the Mekong

Who will not see that mighty river again

O Kampuchea

The blood of our people

Has stained you

The bones of our people

Lie in unmarked graves

But the love of the ancient Khmers

Will live in our hearts

We will not forget you

Even from this new place

On the far side

Of the earth."

Silence. Endless silence. She did not look tip as the teacher slipped the offending paper into her view. Very good, Mrs. Cathcart had written in red pencil, but the praise was small compensation for this embarrassment. Why hadn’t she written about something safe, like the others?

She couldn’t wait to get away when the bell rang, away from all those staring eyes. Threading through the crowds, she hurried down the two flights of stairs to the girls’ locker room to dress for PE, her last class of the day.

Sundara, what’s wrong? It was Kelly, her chemistry lab partner, peering at her. Kelly’s glasses made her eyes look huge.

Not’ing, Sundara said. She could never master the t-h sound.

Come on. You’re acting like somebody’s after you.

Sundara forced herself to smile calmly as she gathered her long black hair into her fist and snapped a clip around it. Not’ing is wrong. She and Kelly had been friendly since the seventh grade, when they’d met at the church that sponsored Sundara’s family. Even so, Sundara had never spoken of her homesickness to Kelly. Not to anyone. When they’d first come to Oregon, she had been too busy learning to live in America, and the kind ones, like Kelly, had been too busy trying to teach her.

Perhaps because of her faltering English, no one had tried, at first, to coax out her story, no one except that boy with pimply red skin. How many people did you see get killed? he’d asked her, eyes glittering. She shuddered, glad he was at her old high school. She would have hated to have him hear her poem.

So how’s it going? Kelly asked. Finding your way around okay?

Sundara nodded. She hadn’t been happy when she learned that moving to a new house would mean enrolling at the other high school. She was just getting to know people at Kennedy. But it would be all right. Changing schools was nothing compared to changing countries.

Out on the field, she kicked the soccer ball with the others, but she couldn’t concentrate. Now, because of her putting those words on paper, far