Bamboo People (8 page)

Behind us the sergeant is getting more and more flustered over the projector’s wires and knobs.

“Hurry, U-Tha-Din! We’re running out of time!” the captain barks. The change in his tone shatters the spell of his words—at least for me. Quickly he catches himself and calms his voice again. “Do any of our brave new soldiers have a plan to stop our enemies?”

Tai raises his hand.

I can’t believe it. I want to dig my elbow into his side. Does he want to draw the captain’s attention? Maybe he
likes
spending time in solitary and getting kicked. The other boys are as surprised as I am, and whispers travel around the room.

But the captain stays in propaganda mode. “The street boy has a desire to serve Burma,” he says. “I noticed his leadership potential from the start. That’s why I’ve been hardest on him during this training. Do you have an idea about how to stop the traitors, my son?”

“No, sir,” says Tai, standing up.

“Then what do you want?”

U-Tha-Din has stopped fumbling with the projector and is staring at Tai.

“I want to watch the film you’ve brought us, sir,” Tai says. Keeping his hands behind his back so that the captain can’t seen them, Tai slaps the side of one fist into the other open palm.

“I do, too.” The captain flicks a look of impatience at the sergeant.

Sheepishly, while everybody’s still watching, U-Tha-Din responds to Tai’s clue, picks up the power cord, and plugs the projector into the generator. A square of light flashes onto the screen. Everybody cheers.

Tai sits down. “Stupid buffalo,” he mutters so that only I can hear. “I was trying to save him. He could have waited to plug it in when nobody was looking.”

“Not everybody is as smart as you are,” I whisper back. In fact, hardly anybody is. I think of Daw Widow—it’s uncanny how much Tai reminds me of her.

“Nice work,” the captain tells the sergeant in a mocking tone. “Start the movie.”

Scenes of the Burmese countryside glow on the white sheet. Our national anthem plays. A woman’s lilting voice describes how the “Kayah” and other tribes are “determined to destroy our foundation of stability and the hope for progress.” Photos of brave Burmese soldiers flash on the sheet, cutting a path through the jungle, marching proudly over a bridge, standing at attention with rifles tilted at the same angle.

I almost—but not quite—manage to forget the captain’s presence. When the movie is over, he gives another flowery speech, repeating how proud he and the leaders of our country are of us.

Soldiers and recruits alike begin to cheer. Tai claps his hands loudly and slowly. I don’t join in at all. I can tell by his narrowed eyes that the captain has noticed both Tai’s fake zeal and my lack of it, but this time, he lets it go.

I have to make myself indispensable to U-Tha-Din to get information about Father. At first I write replies exactly as he dictates them. I obey so diligently that he heaps me with praises.

But after transcribing dozens of letters word for word, I pick a reply that’s addressed to a childhood friend of the sergeant’s—a friend stationed at army headquarters in Yangon. After dictating the letter, U-Tha-Din starts reminiscing about this buddy and their family connections. He doesn’t notice me adding a postscript to the letter:
Can you find out where this prisoner is located?
I pencil in Father’s full name, fold the letter, and seal it in the envelope while the sergeant is still talking.

I can hardly wait to get an answer about Father. Knowing he’s alive will give me the courage to endure anything that’s ahead.

Later that day I flex my biceps in front of Tai’s face. “Take a look,” I tell him, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. Is this the same spindly arm that waved good-bye to Lei in Yangon?

Tai takes a huge bite out of a juicy slice of papaya. “You’ll be ready to take on Captain Evil in no time.”

I shake my head. How can Tai talk lightly about a man like that? I never feel ready to face the captain; every day that passes without a visit from him is a gift. And Win Min and his cronies don’t bother us much when the captain’s not around.

“I hope a truck comes soon,” Tai continues. “It’s still the only way I’m going to get out of here.” He pushes his face deep into the papaya rind to savor every last piece of the sweet, orange flesh.

“There has to be another way, Tai,” I say. “Now that I’m scribing for the buffalo, let me see what I can find out.”

“I promised Sawati, Chiko,” Tai says, tossing the limp rind of the papaya aside. He digs into his bowl of rice and beans. “I’ve even got some money now. Several paychecks’ worth.”

The captain was telling the truth about one thing, at least—the army
is
paying us a salary. Tai is taking his payments in cash, and I can only hope that my earnings are being sent to Mother, as I asked. I relish the thought of her using them to pay back our landlord or to buy fish at the market. Without me around to eat everything in sight, she’ll be able to make my earnings go far and send some for Father, too.

My longing to see them is growing more intense as the weeks go by. And Lei’s picture is an addiction. I’ve started carrying the photos in my pocket under my uniform; the button keeps them safe. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Tai’s still concentrating on his rice bowl. Carefully I slide Lei’s picture out of my pocket and cup it in my palm, holding it at a distance because I don’t have my glasses.

“Why do you always stare at that?” Tai asks suddenly, from right behind me.

I put Lei’s photo away as fast as I can.

“Who is she? Your cousin?”

“A neighbor,” I tell him, turning to my own rice bowl.

Tai and I are friends now, but it’s too soon to show him how beautiful Lei is, or to reveal my hopes for the future. Do I even have a future? When this group of soldiers heads out to battle, we recruits will become soldiers in their place. Some will help U-Tha-Din run the camp. Others will join the captain to round up and train a new group of recruits. And then it will be our turn to run through the jungles with rifles, fighting tribal people.

“You look at another photo, too,” Tai says. “Who is that?”

I take out the photo of Father. This one I can share.

Tai studies it for a while. “I don’t remember my father at all,” he says, handing it back. “He left just after Sawati was born. I like to believe he’s a good man, like yours.”

“I hope you meet him someday. And my mother.”

“I hope Sawati is with her, Chiko.”

“That does it,” I say, making my tone sound irritated. “Do you
really
want to help your sister?”

Tai looks at me, surprised, and nods. Papaya juice is smeared around his mouth. In the fading twilight, his face looks younger than it usually does.

“You
have
to learn to read and write,” I say. “I can teach you quite a bit, even in a short time. You’ll get a better job in the city if you can read and write—you said so yourself.”

Tai is silent. Then he says, “Can you start teaching me to read? We usually have some free time after training. And maybe more time after dinner, if I eat fast.”

“You? Eat fast? Now
that’s
going to be hard.”

He grins as I pass him the last bit of rice in my bowl. I keep my slice of papaya—watching him relish his has made me hungry for mine. Once the rainy season ends, fruit will become scarce. Closing my eyes, I take a bite, letting the sweet juice fill every part of my mouth.

I filch bits of paper from the sergeant’s clipboard for Tai’s reading lessons. I still have the pencil stub I found in the gym, and for our first lesson I print the alphabet carefully on the back of an envelope. We’re resting during the break after dinner, and not everybody around is safe. I can’t risk wearing my glasses, but I know the shapes of the letters by heart.

As I write, a small group of boys gather around us. At first they’re joking and laughing, but soon they’re watching my fingers as intently as Tai. I notice Bindu gazing awestruck at the letters I form, his mouth open.

Tai’s a quick learner, just as I hoped. By his third session, he’s reviewing the first twenty characters. The novelty wears off, and the group around us dwindles to just one other boy—Bindu. This means the three of us can move to a quiet part of the field and I can slip on my glasses. Bindu and Tai take turns practicing, but Tai is learning at least twice as fast as Bindu. Bindu doesn’t seem to care, though, and is happy each time he masters a new letter.

While we study, the recruits play cards, swap stories, or sing songs. One evening we hear the sound I’ve been dreading—the roar of a jeep careening through the jungle, growing louder by the minute.

“Captain Evil’s back,” Tai mutters.

I tuck my glasses away. We hide the scraps of paper and pencil and join the others in formation.

The jeep stops, and the captain climbs out. He’s smiling, his arms wide open as though he wants to embrace all of us. As he walks up and down the rows, he pats his loyal recruits and soldiers on the shoulder. “You’re dismissed, my son,” he says, and the boy heads off to the gym or the barracks for the night.

Now the only ones left in formation are the rest of us. The boys the captain has given up on. His father act hasn’t fooled us, and he knows it.

We lower our heads and salute as he passes through our ranks. Tai does it smartly; I can almost see him clicking his heels together. I, too, manage a salute, but I can’t keep my hand from shaking.

“Call that a salute, Teacher?” the captain snarls. “Show some respect.”

I do it again, trying to steady my hand.

“Not good enough,” he says. “Maybe a few days to yourself would help. Unless your friend here would like to take them for you again. What about it, street boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Tai answers, as calmly as though he’s being offered an extra helping of rice.

“No!” I say. “Don’t send him there again. Sir.”

The captain lifts a corner of his lip. “Why not? Should I send you, then?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’ll never survive in that small space—I’ll die or go mad.

“I’ll give you a choice, Teacher,” the captain tells me, holding out the bamboo stick. “Give your street friend a beating or he goes back into the cell.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” I ask. Have I heard him right?

“Take the stick!” he says. “Take it and hit him. Hard.”

I back away. “I … I can’t.”

“Then send him to solitary. It’s your choice.”

I throw a desperate look at Tai, who’s moved slightly so he’s behind the captain’s back. He’s trying to tell me something, and I glimpse his expression of total pain followed by a quick smile.

Suddenly I know what he’s planning to do. I only hope I can play my part.

“I’ll beat him, then,” I say, taking the stick from the captain, who seems surprised.

I walk toward my friend, lifting the bamboo high, grateful for the remaining boys who circle us and block the captain’s view. Even the sergeant adds his bulk to the game.

Swinging the stick through the air as hard as I can, I let the bamboo strike Tai’s back—pulling back sharply just as I make contact. Tai slaps his own thigh hard with an open hand to add to the sound of impact. He shouts in pain, and his body recoils so convincingly that I’m worried I hit him too hard. But then I catch sight of his face and realize that my blow hasn’t hurt a bit.

Don’t let the captain see it land,
I pray, and hit him again just as Bindu steps between the captain and me. It’s not much more than a nudge, but the sound of Tai’s slap and yell are as loud as if I’ve slammed him with all my might. The next blow comes with U-Tha-Din offering his round body as a shield between the captain and me.

Four times I wield the bamboo against my friend, easing the force of the blow just as the stick lands. The boys around us shout, hold their arms akimbo, and dart this way and that so the captain can’t get a clear view. Each time I make contact, Tai slaps the side of his leg with a loud thwack, shrieks, falls, and writhes in agony. Each time he slowly, agonizingly, gets up again. Finally he falls to the ground facedown and is still.

“I think he’s unconscious,” I tell the captain, holding the stick aloft and pretending to be out of breath. “I must have hit him on the head by accident.”

The captain yanks the stick out of my hand.

U-Tha-Din bends over Tai’s body. “I’m sure the major will be interested to know that you’ve put the life of one of my smartest boys in danger. Recruits! Take your comrade to the river. I’ll tend to him.” Three boys lift Tai’s limp body and carry him away.

The captain glares first at the sergeant and then at me. But there’s nothing he can say. He stalks to his jeep and leaps in, and the car storms away.

At the river several of us inspect Tai’s back. There’s no sign of the beating, not even a bruise. Nobody in the captain’s loyal cadre is nearby, so as soon as the jeep is gone, Tai starts leaping around in the shallows, splashing us, and laughing, and we join in.

The hot April days begin to blur into each other. We spend the mornings repainting the outside of the barracks before the rains come. Sometimes a few of us are assigned to wash all the uniforms in the river; other days we’re sent to pick mango-steen or jackfruit along the edges of the jungle. Despite the heat, the afternoon running, climbing, and kickboxing gets easier as my body grows stronger. When I manage to land a kick or two on Win Min’s jaw or skull, I’m taken aback by my own satisfaction.
Careful, Chiko,
I warn myself.
You might start to like this.

During the daily break, Tai progresses from reading letters to recognizing short words to deciphering brief sentences. Bindu moves at a slower rate, but he’s learning, too.

“The cow gives milk!” Tai reads triumphantly.

“Dog and spoon?” Bindu asks, when it’s his turn.

“Dog and cat,” Tai corrects him, and once again I savor the satisfaction of teaching somebody to read.

My system seems to be teaching the mechanics of reading, but I want to get our hands on a book. There’s nothing like the sound of rustling pages as your eyes speed across the words. But there’s no such luxury in camp.