Bamboo People (9 page)

Besides teaching Tai and Bindu, the only part of the day that gives me pleasure is the stolen time with the two dear photos in my pocket.

One night Tai falls asleep early, and I move closer to the kerosene lamp. Bindu’s on guard, and he always lets me blow the light out myself. Lei’s photo looks especially alluring in the flickering light. Somehow, in the glow of the cozy circle the lamp throws, it’s easier to imagine that she and I are alone.

“She’s pretty,” says Tai’s voice.

Hastily I tuck the picture into my pocket, fasten the button, and blow out the lamp.

“Do you like her, Chiko?” he asks.

Settling back down on my blanket, I don’t answer.

I can hear Tai stretching out on his blanket beside me.

“Aha! Well, I hope I’m there for the wedding day. I’ll get a good meal for once and stuff this empty tummy….” He starts humming a love song that every Burmese teenager knows.

I snort. “What do you know about it, anyway?”

“You learn fast on the streets,” Tai says, his voice getting serious.

“Oh.” I try to change the subject. “What’s it like, anyway, living on the streets?”

“Not so bad. People take care of us here and there, and Sawati …” His voice trails off. “I have to watch Sawati like a hawk because she’s so pretty. Just like the girl in your photo, Chiko. Some older boys were eyeing Sawati for a while….
Hoy!
I have to get to her!” His voice breaks suddenly.

I can hardly believe it. Tai is crying. A boy our age doesn’t do that unless someone dies, and this tough kid isn’t just any boy our age.

I don’t know what to say. Suddenly the only thing I can think of is Mother’s face. “I’m sure Sawati is in my house right now. Safe and alive.”

I try to make my voice full of conviction. It might be true, after all. We can hope for the best, can’t we?

I can tell he’s trying to pull himself together. “Are you s-sure, Chiko?” he asks, but his voice is still shaky.

“I know my mother,” I say. “By now she’ll have taught Sawati how to make my favorite hot-and-sour soup.”

Tai wipes his face with his shirt. “Ha! I can’t picture my sister in a kitchen. She’d much rather learn how to kickbox than cook.”

“So she’s strong, Tai? See, you’ve taught her how to take care of herself. She won’t forget that. She’ll be all right.”

He takes a deep breath. “I never had a brother,” he says. “Who knew I’d find one here, of all places?”

A brother. Lei’s the only one who guessed how much I wanted one when I was little. “Who knew?” I echo.

“My brother may not be much of a fighter, but he’s a decent teacher. Or maybe it’s that I’m such a great student.”

I flick him lightly on the skull. “You still have to learn to write. It’s not enough just to read.”

“I will, Ko,” Tai promises. I catch my breath—he’s called me “older brother” for the first time.

After a while I hear even, sleeping breaths in the darkness. I stay awake, planning out another writing lesson like it’s the most important job in the world.

On his next visit the captain focuses on a soldier who lied to the army about his mother’s side of the family. The boy claimed that his grandparents were Burmese when they were really members of the Shan tribe.

Before administering the punishment, the captain dismisses all his loyal “sons” except three. Those that he sent away head into the gym for the extra refreshment he’s brought with him—bottles of Indian cola from the black market.

The rest of us are ordered to stay and watch.

The captain hands his bamboo stick to the three elite soldiers, and they get to work.

I stand back, trying not to focus on the victim’s face. Tai tells me later that the beating ended when the captain spat on the body of the “half breed” and climbed back into his jeep.

The boys who carried out the punishment swagger off, leaving the battered figure sprawled unconscious on the dirt. He’s alive, but barely. A couple of his friends carry him away to take care of his wounds.

The captain’s jeep disappears into the jungle.

“I hate that man,” Tai says.

“Me, too,” I say, but my voice is distracted—the captain brought letters to camp. I’m hoping desperately for an answer from U-Tha-Din’s friend.

Later, when the sergeant hands me the stack of letters, I rifle through them quickly. The reply from his childhood friend is there! After reading the others, I open it, trying not to show U-Tha-Din my eagerness. I read the whole letter aloud, except for the last lines. I read those to myself, hardly believing what they say.
That prisoner is alive and well. We have found him to be an excellent medic and are using his skills when officers are injured in battle.

I feel like leaping and shouting with joy. Father is alive! And he’s using his wits and talents to stay that way. If only I could let Mother know!

“Why are you smiling like that?” U-Tha-Din asks. “My friend can’t loan me the money. That’s not good news.”

“Oh, you’ll find a loan, Sergeant. Should we start writing your answers?”

In the gym that night, I tell Tai the good news.

“Your father’s smart, Ko,” Tai says. “Just like his son.”

“Now I have to find out where he is. And maybe we can use a letter to get some news about Sawati.”

“How? Who keeps track of street kids?” He looks around. “Is there enough light to do some more writing practice?”

The only time Tai stops fretting about his sister is during our lessons. He keeps pressing for more writing time, more instruction, more practice.

“You studied for two hours today already, Tai,” I say. “Your mind needs a rest. I need a rest.”

He grabs my arm. “Can’t you see? I’m doing this for her.”

I twist out of his grip. “Okay, okay! There’s enough light. Here—use the back of this envelope.”

Tai studies so hard over the next few weeks that I decide it’s time for a quiz. I lead him to an isolated corner of the field. Bindu follows, as usual. Monsoon rains have started, cooling the fields and making steam rise in the jungle, so we cluster under the sheltering leaves of a mango tree.

“Exam time,” I announce, handing Tai one of the letters that U-Tha-Din asked me to throw away. “Part one: read this aloud.”

Bindu draws closer, an eager expression on his face. Tai gulps and frowns at the typewritten words. “Dear Sar … Sir …,” he begins hesitantly.

I shake my head. “Sarj …”

“Dear Sergeant,” he reads. “The cost of ma … materials for new uniforms is more than we can afford.” He’s reading faster, growing more confident with every word. “You must keep to your bud …”

“Budget,” I say.

“Budget to operate the camp.” There. He’s done, and he looks up with a huge grin.

“Good work,” I tell him. “You pass the reading section. But the exam’s not over yet.” I turn the paper over and hand him the pencil stub. “Part two: write a short letter of resignation from the army. We’ll have to burn it later in the cooking fire, but it’s good practice to write something you believe.”

Tai clutches the stub, his tongue sticking out of a corner of his mouth. Bindu and I peer over his shoulders, watching him form large, careful letters. “Dear Captain Evil,” I read out loud. “I quit. This army is bad. You are worse. Ko and I are taking your jeep. Tai.”

My heart leaps—he’s learned even faster than Lei.

“Excellent!” I tell him. There were a few spelling errors, but I could read and understand everything he wrote. “You pass with flying colors.”

“Thanks to you, Teacher,” Tai says simply. The title is the same one the captain uses, but it sounds different. Coming from Tai, it’s a badge of honor.

U-Tha-Din bursts into the gym. “Get up! Get up!” he bellows, trampling across the floor of blanketed boys. “The soldiers are gone!”

We wake, stumbling over each other in the semi-darkness. Rain is pelting the tin roof of the gym, and the clatter adds to our confusion.

“What?”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know how they vanished from the barracks without waking me,” U-Tha-Din says, panting heavily. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Tai and I exchange looks. The sergeant sleeps like a boulder and snores like an elephant. But how did two-thirds of the platoon leave the camp without waking the rest of us? Why hadn’t we heard the roar of the jeep?

The monsoon must have muffled their departure; I can barely hear U-Tha-Din’s voice over the din on the roof even though he’s shouting. And maybe the captain parked the jeep at a distance. He wanted to empty the majority of the camp in secret. But why?

Tai answers my unspoken question. “Wanted to shock us,” he mutters by my ear. “To remind us who’s in charge.”

I remember the letter about the soldiers being called out early. So it hadn’t been a mistake after all! What would happen to Bindu on the front lines? I try to convince myself that he’ll do well as a fighter, but he’s so slow to understand. Just yesterday he grinned toothily as he recognized the word “mother” that Tai was writing. Now he’s gone, his reading lessons finished, probably forever. I hope the few words and letters I’ve given him keep him safe somehow.

“You recruits will take over the camp duties,” U-Tha-Din is saying. “You’re promoted to full-fledged soldiers now.”

Will we be ordered to go into the city to round up new recruits? Tai and I can plan our escape, and … no. That won’t happen. I remember that day clearly, although it seems like a lifetime ago. Only the captain’s most trusted soldiers went with him. There’s no way Tai or I would qualify for a trip to Yangon. Our section includes a few boys who are intensely loyal to the captain; they’ll be the ones entrusted with any trip into the city.

“Chiko, stay here,” the sergeant orders. “The rest of you go outside at once. Start making breakfast.”

Once everybody is gone, he takes a letter from his pocket. “This is from headquarters.
He
must have left it on my cot. Read it, boy. I’m all shaken up.” He mops his forehead with a handkerchief and hands me a sealed envelope marked
URGENT!

“Why doesn’t he read the letters before giving them to you?” I ask. Especially a sealed envelope marked
URGENT!
The captain is much too power hungry to let important letters like this one go unopened.

U-Tha-Din grunts. “Can’t read. Rice farmers, both of us. Grew up together. He was a bully even then.” The gym is still dark, so he lights one of the kerosene lamps. “Go on now. Read it.” I put on my glasses and read the two lines typed on the page.
We need an office clerk immediately. Next week a truck will come for the boy who has been writing the letters.

The note is signed by a major.
The boy writing the letters?
My heart begins to patter like the rain on the roof. That description could fit only one person in the camp—me!

U-Tha-Din is scowling at the kerosene flame. “Great,” he says, blowing it out with a big puff. “I wonder who told him about you.”

I’m going to Yangon! I’ll be able to see Mother and Lei! I might even be able to find and visit Father.

U-Tha-Din keeps grumbling as we head for the door. “Now you’ll leave, and who will read for me?”

A sudden thought squelches my joy.
What about Tai? But wait—

“Sergeant,” I say, “I’ve taught Tai. He can read for you.”

“Can he read and write as well as you?” U-Tha-Din sounds suspicious. “He’s smart, I’ll admit, but he is a street boy, after all.”

“He’s not quite as good as I am,” I answer truthfully. “But he could make sense of most of the letters you’ve been getting from Yangon. And answer them, too. Besides, he’ll get better with practice.”

“All right, all right,” U-Tha-Din says, still sounding grumpy. “I’ll try him out later. Now get out there and take your place with the others.”

I give him back the letter.

“Chiko,” the sergeant calls after me, “don’t say anything yet about your leaving. I don’t want any jealousy or fighting in camp.”

I walk to the cooking area in a daze, picturing Mother’s expression when she sees me standing on the doorstep, her happy tears when she hears the news about Father, Daw Widow’s shout of welcome, Lei’s shy smile.

The other recruits are under the tarp where the soldiers used to gather. I join them, avoiding Tai’s searching glance. How can I tell him
I’m
getting what
he
wants most in the entire world—a trip back to Yangon? I try to reassure myself—I’ll promise to find Sawati and send word back to him. Mother and I will take care of her. Tai is bound to be happy for me; he’s that kind of a friend, I’m sure of it.

After the shock of the soldiers’ departure wears off, a festive mood fills the camp. Most of the recruits are excited that now we’re the ones to sleep in the barracks on real cots, not on the gym floor, and that some of us might get to start practicing with newer assault rifles soon. Best of all, there’s a lot more food for each of us.

The sergeant divides up the previous soldiers’ tasks—cooking, cleaning, patrolling, drilling. He orders Tai and me to organize the afternoon training sessions. “I don’t want the boys to lose the strength and muscle they’ve gained,” he warns. “Make the practices as tough as the ones you’ve been having.”

Tai and a couple of others run off in the rain to gather milk and eggs from the farmer, supplies that will seem abundant now that two-thirds of the camp has left. Another boy begins rummaging through the box of pots and pans and pulling out bowls. U-Tha-Din tells me to light the cooking fire, but the only box of matches I can find is wet. I strike match after match, with no success.

Tai and the others return with the food. Tai ducks under the tarp and shakes himself until water is no longer streaming from his clothes. Then he comes to stand beside me. “What did the buffalo want with you in the gym?” he asks.

The rain is slanting under the canopy and wetting the wood. I try to light another soggy match and groan in frustration. “He got a letter. I read it for him. I told him you could read, too, by the way.”

“Why? He didn’t need to know that.”

“He asked,” I say. “Besides, you should be proud. A boy who can read is getting rare in Burma these days.”