There was no conversation, no friendly chatter in the fields, no eye contact, lest it be seen by the guards who watched them from the shade of the trees. The only sound was the scraping of countless hoes in the dry earth, and the idle talk of the guards as they smoked or ate from hampers of fruit and meat and rice. Serey could not remember the last time she had eaten fresh meat. She had eaten grubs, worms, all manner of insects, anything she knew would provide her with at least some protein. And there had been the berries she picked in the jungle, the tubers she dug from the earth. The three meagre portions of rice they were provided with each day would never have sustained her. But still she had the sores on her arms and legs and face that came from vitamin and protein deficiencies.
Ten metres away an old man buckled at the knees and fell face first into the earth. The nearest of the guards shouted at him to get up. He did not stir. The guard approached and kicked him in the ribs and struck him several times across the back with a bamboo staff. The faintest groan escaped the old man’s lips. At a signal from the first, a second guard came across and they dragged him away. Another sacrifice to Angkar. There was not the faintest flicker of acknowledgement among those left hoeing. Not a head turned. The rhythm of the hoes continued unbroken. In the early days Serey had heard stories of guards dragging people into the woods, using bayonets to cut open their stomachs. It was said they removed the livers of their still-living victims and ate them raw. She had found it hard to believe. Now she believed anything, and nothing.
Her back ached, her whole being ached, but she no longer felt the pain. Many times she had wished they would come and take her to Angkar. It would, perhaps, have been easier. But she’d had to stay strong for Ny, even though she could no longer acknowledge her as her daughter. Nor Ny her as her mother. Families divided loyalties. They owed loyalty only to Angkar.
It was a miracle that she and Ny were still together after the frequent moves from commune to commune. Somehow they had always contrived to be aboard the same truck. Here they even shared the same hut – with a dozen others. But their only contact was the occasional exchange of glances, a brushing of hands as they passed. Hau, she knew, was in a commune across the river. She had seen him once, sitting in the back of a truckful of guards as it rumbled through their village. He had an automatic rifle slung across his shoulder, and wore a kramar – the red, chequered headscarf of the Khmer Rouge. Twelve years old and they had made him one of them. He had seen her, too, she was sure. But he had turned his face away. She wondered if he, like some of the other children, had been made to pick out those whose faces he did not like, and watch as plastic bags were pulled over their heads to suffocate them.
It was almost dark as the siren sounded and they shuffled from the field back to the village and their respective huts. The women in Serey’s hut ate their rice in silence, slowly, without passion. Serey glanced at Ny and felt her eyes fill with tears. She had more flesh on her bones than the others, fewer sores, a lustre to her hair and a burning hatred in her eyes. Seventeen and beautiful – or should have been. So many things she should have been. So much that life should have offered.
Ny was aware of her mother looking at her, but kept her eyes down, ashamed to meet her mother’s gaze. She was consumed by shame, and hatred for the young cadre who would come for her before very much longer.
Most of the women were asleep, curled up on the hard wooden floor, when she heard the creak of his step on the ladder. Then he appeared in the open doorway and nodded curtly. Silently, she arose and followed him down the steps. He smiled at her. ‘How are you tonight?’
‘Well,’ she said.
He took her arm and led her quickly between the stilts of the huts, beyond the perimeter of the village and into the woods to the place he always took her.
‘Undress,’ he said. She did so, without a word, as he slipped out of his black pyjamas. She lay down without being told. She knew the routine well. First he kissed her, his lips wet, his tongue probing her mouth. She had to fight to keep down the bile. His hands slipped easily over her breasts, pinching, squeezing. She felt the pressure of his erection against her stomach and clenched her teeth as he entered her, digging her nails into his back in what he always mistook for passion. He was quickly spent, grunting as he came inside her, then sighing, breathless, allowing his full weight to press down on her. He lay for a short while until he softened and then withdrew, kissing her lightly on the lips and brushing her long hair back from her eyes. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said.
He got up and dressed quickly. She shivered, though the night was warm, wishing she could wash it all away. From her body
