Over the Rainbow: Pol Pot, the Cambodian Barbarian

By Donald J. Przebowski

This is the story of Father John James Cummings who is assigned to a parish in Cambodia and encounters Pol Pot, the Cambodian barbarian.

John is forced into a philosophical battle against the Cambodian barbarian, surrounded by the physical violence of a communist revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 17, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462839803

Donald J. Przebowski

My first novel, Aryan, The Last Prussian was concerned with man and society. This novel focuses on man and religion. I offer my gratitude to Bryant Cramer, Ms. M. Hoffman, Ms. Michelle Louie, and Kolap Vanny for their intellectual contributions.

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PROLOGUE

The humiliation, torture and mass murder inflicted on the Cambodian people by Pol Pot and his baby-faced barbarians beggars the imagination. No one expected another Hitler or Stalin to appear in a land with eighty-five percent peasants. Pol Pot executed a policy of genocide, on Cambodian citizens, that would dwarf the shattering memories of any national leader in history.

This novel focuses on the life and values of a priest, John James Cummings. John is assigned to a parish in Cambodia, and encounters Pol Pot, the Cambodian barbarian. He is forced to face the Cambodian barbarian surrounded by the violence of a communist revolution.

Karl D. Jackson’s historical account of Cambodia has been invaluable in the creation of this work of historical fiction. Various events and dates from "Cambodia," by Karl D. Jackson, are used in this novel. Of course, as in all historical fiction, it is essential that certain events and dates be modified. I have created a personality for Pol Pot, one of the most malevolent men in history, and created personalities for the few men who would have been closest to him, or closest to any tyrant.

I have attempted to assign credit to any references to other authors. In this spirit, I must praise the poem "I Remember, I Remember, by Thomas Hood, which serves as the inspiration for the first chapter. It is unfortunate that such a talented, romantic poet as Thomas Hood is seldom read by the world. I firmly believe that he has never received the credit he deserves. I also offer my praise to the literary genius of Fydor Dostoyevsky, for his unique scene in The Brothers Karamazov’ in which Ivan meets the devil. I have used that concept, and of course, modernized that scene and dialogue.

In addition, I humbly bow to Alfred, Lord Tennyson, for his poem, " Ulysses. A part of his poem Ulysses" evolves into one of the themes within this novel:

. . . Come, my friends ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

. .. my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars until I die. It may be that gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now the strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Ulysses

Alfred Lord Tennyson

 -1-

MY CHILDHOOD

I remember the songs of my youth, and the yearning for friendship and truth. I can recall the foolish fears and fantasies that I had in my youth. It seems silly now, after all these years that I was certain that thunder was God’s anger, and that the rapid rain was God weeping for the sins of mankind. I can remember standing beneath the lush, deep green, pine trees, with my youthful eyes focused on their lofty tops, and convinced that they touched heaven. I was inspired by the orderly arrangement of the heavens, and I can recall, on clear nights, admiring the miracle of the bright stars, and the mystery of the sparkling, crystal constellations. Every child dreams. Some childhood dreams come true; others seem to sadly drift away from us. I would be fortunate that God would extend his warm, omniscient hand to me.

I was fortunate to be raised on the north shore of Long Island, New York in the 1950s, when most of Long Island was beautifully and naturally adorned with the wondrous beauty of the wild woods. St. James, New York was a serene, little village in which everyone seemed to know everyone else, but privacy was respected. The St. James Grammar School had eight classrooms, one classroom for each grade, and my graduating class numbered fourteen. The teachers knew each student’s parents, which was awkward at times, but created an atmosphere in which the teachers were considered an extension of one’s family. Indeed, the teachers didn’t ask who was responsible for raising us, they just assumed that their influence was significant, and considered themselves responsible for teaching us the meaning of virtue as well as intellectual pursuits. Even today,

I can think of no greater gift than learning about the magnificent music of the masters, which was a rare curriculum for a grammar school during those years. We were fortunate to have a marvelous, music teacher who was blessed with brilliant, black eyes. She possessed lovely, long, coal-colored hair that gently caressed her firm shoulders. She opened, like a chest of timeless treasure, the exciting and sophisticated world of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and many others to our young ears. At the beginning of each day we would recite the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. In my homeroom at the closing of each day, a Mr. Vandemulin would reach into his desk drawer, remove one his favorite books, and read to the entire class. It was the best part of day, and my favorite short story was by O’ Henry, The Gift of the Magi.

I was blessed with Irish parents. Religion was important in my childhood. My mother was, and is, very religious and convinced me to become an altar boy. My mother has eyes the color of grand, green emeralds and hair the color of ripe, red strawberries. I can still visualize her standing over the wood-burning stove whispering Irish wisdom to my older sister, Karla, and I, while my father rolled his eyes. I think I can still smell the scent of corn beef and cabbage we had on Sundays. My father is a massive man with large, rough hands, but his real strength is his character. I can’t remember a time when my father could not decide right from wrong. His discipline was often verbal, but on deserving occasions I would be disagreeably surprised with a sturdy switch striking my bottom, which left me with the indelible impression that one must be responsible for one’s actions. My father was, and is, a design engineer, and employed by Republic Aviation in Farmingdale, New York. I remember that he had an uncompromising dedication to a daily bumper of Irish whiskey. My mother tolerated this, but never permitted an additional bumper, even on Sundays, for she knew that my father would burst into a chorus of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. I learned to appreciate such vociferous dedication to being Irish, despite the fact that his voice may best be described as the whaling of a newborn child.

My older sister, Karla, inherited my mother’s lovely, long, sparking, strawberry hair and her grand, green eyes. From the time when we were children, it has always been obvious to everyone and I that she is intellectually superior to me, but envy has never reared its silly head for either of us. The true test of friendship is the absence of envy. There is no envy between fine friends, or fine relatives, and if there is, the sacred bond of friendship will wither like a weak leaf from the first, unkind test of a winter wind. She wanted to become a doctor, and I was certain that nothing could stop her from being a success. I was proud of her for selecting such a noble profession.

I remember the quaint, little house where I was born and the little, bedroom window where the sun announced the morn’. Our first house was not a castle by any standards one could use. When my sister and I were young, we shared a bedroom. This arrangement may have disturbed the two neighbors on our block if they had known. Even in a little village there are always people dedicated to whispering about their neighbors. Idle gossip is as important to empty minds, as quack medicine is to hypochondriacs. I firmly believe, although the reader my find such a sleeping arrangement awkward or even unethical, that it was a blessed experience. Karla was an optimistic child, and found delight in activities I deemed to have no value at all. One such activity was reading, or rather devouring novels. One wall in our living room was dedicated to bookshelves, and on these shelves sat various tributes to wisdom including Plato, Aristotle, Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, and Ancient Greece. By the time Karla was twelve she had devoured all the books we possessed at home, including some of my father’s technical books. If anyone had asked my mother where Karla was, she would wink and proudly say: You’ll find her in the library.

Karla had her rightful share of Irish courage, and the young ruffians in our school would undoubtedly bear witness to this, for on many occasions one of them would feel the force of her fist. Obviously, she would tolerate no nonsense from me. I was forced to respect an imaginary chalk line, which divided our bedroom in half. Despite the limited space of our tiny bedroom, Karla was dedicated to neatness, which was a most horrible situation completely incompatible with what I considered the right of irresponsibility awarded to boys my age. My friends enjoyed a challenging life in bedrooms of disorder! The limited space between our beds was just enough to accommodate a tiny, night table, and sitting quite comfortably on this tiny, night table was, what we considered, one of the wonders of the world: a small radio. It was this wonder of technology that enhanced our simple lives. It magically brought us all the excitement, imagination and wonders of The Lone Ranger, Gangbusters, The Shadow, with its inimitable opening of Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of man, and Inner Sanctum with its ominous screeching door.

I remember when I was a barefoot boy, and raced with flying feet through the green fields with joy. My spirit, neither untouched by sorrow, nor spoiled by sin, floated like a feather in the wind. I wore the cherished crown of curiosity. I anxiously anticipated each new, warm, summer day, for I was certain that I would encounter something exciting such as the mask of a raccoon, or the soothing song of a mocking bird. One bright, summer day, while roaming around the wild woods, I found what was to be the envy of all my friends. I raced home, informed Karla of my superb discovery, and with paper bags in our hands we flew with flying feet to the wild woods. I shall never forget the expression on Karla’s face when she saw what seemed to be an endless row of bushes decorated with brilliant, bright blueberries. Of course we ate more than we brought home! There were three, majestic apple trees in the vacant lot behind our house, which bore bright white blossoms in the spring and bright red, juicy apples during the summer. My mother made apple pie, and we were allowed to devour it only a few minutes after she removed it from the oven. There’s something inimitable about the taste of a hot apple pie. It didn’t take us long to create a baseball field in that vacant lot, and declare that the apple trees were really the bleaches of Yankee Stadium, and a ball that was hit into their lush branches was a home run.

Our house, like many others in our modest neighborhood, was heated with a wood-burning furnace. Our furnace was located in the cellar, and the heat rose through a centrally located, iron grating in the main hallway of the house. To me, it resembled some kind of a fire monster or a fire god from a fairy tale. After all, we worshipped it on cold winter nights. Usually, during the middle of the night, my father was forced to rise from his warm bed, go down into the cellar and stoke and feed the fire monster. During his journey to the cellar, strange sounds emerged from his lips, which I will not communicate to the reader. On many a freezing night—the winters were colder in the 1950s—my father would brave the freezing temperature and the wild, winter wind, fetch old, oak logs and sturdy stumps to feed the monster, and hope that such a sacrifice would endure for the entire night. Unfortunately, despite my father’s noble intentions and boundless courage, the heat from the cellar furnace hovered in the hallway, and never floated to the extremities of the house, especially the bedrooms. On ice-cold, wintry nights, when a northeasterly wind whistled through the non-insulated walls and rudely invaded our bedroom, we would gather around the fireplace in the living room. Oh, how we praised Prometheus as we worshipped the roaring flames, and listened to the sparks snapping.

I remember one wintry day, in 1947, when the heavens turned angry and gray. The soft snow began to silently fall about noon, and despite the wisdom of the weatherman, by nightfall it was nearly a foot deep. When the heavenly lamps of the night were lighted, Karla and I, with the luxury of worn boots, wandered into the woods to watch the natural wonder of the falling flakes as they were collecting on the brave branches of the pine trees. The woods were blessed with a full moon that night, and the snow that sat on the green branches glistened from the moonlight. By morning, the snow was four feet deep around our house, and had created an undesirable barricade against the kitchen door. My father, whispering the words of Satan, was forced to climb out the kitchen window, wade through the waist-high snow to clear the snow from the doorway. That afternoon, Karla and I went sleigh riding on the splendid slopes of a high hill not far from our home, and I can remember how my teeth chattered on the way home from the experience.

Most winter mornings we would race into the kitchen where my mother, in her infinite wisdom, had cleverly tacked a blanket surrounding the kitchen door to capture the heat that rose from the wood-burning stove. Our water came from a well, and needless to say, there was a iron pump with a long, iron handle near the kitchen sink that made strange gulping sounds when one pumped the water into the house. It was an invigorating experience to rise on a winter morning, and wash with ice-cold water, providing the water pipes weren’t frozen. It was quite a challenge to wash my face with only two drops of freezing water.

I remember sitting on the tan, sandy shore, of the Long Island Sound as a storm was approaching, and listening for the ocean’s roar. The sea of the north shore of Long Island, unlike the sea of the south shore where wild waves often successfully engulf a swimmer and send a wave of fear through him, should only be described as a sea of shiny glass. The absence of wild waves is a swimmer’s delight, and we all became expert swimmers. On rare occasions, the rain would begin near the northwest corner of the Long Island Sound, and then our eyes would follow the falling rain as it was racing towards us. There seemed to be an endless supply of fresh fish in the Long Island Sound, and there were numerous days when we were fortunate and proud to catch fresh fish. My sister and I spent endless hours searching for pirate’s treasure, and one day we found nature’s greatest treasure which was located about a hundred yards from the sandy shore: a natural spring. The refreshing, ice-cold water collected in a pool surrounded by ancient rocks. How sweet it was, on sweltering days, to sink our faces into the pool of freezing water, and sip the purest, sweetest water that nature could ever yield.

One special, summer day, I couldn’t have more than eight years old, will always be a marvelous memory. Karla and I were casually strolling along the sandy shore searching for stone weapons. I remember becoming extremely excited when I found a pink and white seashell. I held it close to my ear to hear the roar of the ocean. It was like I captured a small sea in the shell, and the shell surrounded and protected its little sea from the outside world. It was foolish, but I fantasized that if I could crawl into the shell, then I, too, would be protected from the evil forces of the outside world. We continued to walk along the shore, and Karla thought that she has seen a stone weapon. It happened suddenly. One second we were kneeling down to see more clearly, and the next second as we were rising it appeared out of nowhere. Across the horizon was a bold, brilliant rainbow adorned with all the wondrous colors of the universe! A grand, heavenly archway dazzled before my young eyes. To me, it was like a mysterious archway that was the entrance to a land far, far away. I can remember starting to run towards it, and Karla laughing at me. She told me that it only appeared like it was real, it was a mixture of air, the sun and temperature. It would slowly disappear. I turned towards her, insisted that it was real, and I told her that I was going to race towards it, touch it. I insisted that it was a magical gateway to an ancient land far away, and I wanted to go there! She laughed again. I turned once more towards the rainbow, and sadly, it began to slowly fade away. I still remember as we walked home that wonderful day how I insisted that one day I would strive, seek and find a treasure at the end of the rainbow.

 -2-

MYYOUTH

My childhood had been like a fairy tale. I began my journey through my teenage years like a noble knight would have on a Holy Quest for the meaning of existence. Unlike the unfortunate souls who began their journey with undeveloped, moral standards and bewildering values, when I entered high school, I was armed with firm values and virtue. I didn’t realize until my senior year that the events that would occur would one day have a significant impact on my life.

In the best of circumstances, each generation inherits a sense of fundamental decencies from their parents. On a grander scale, these fundamental decencies are the common values that society depends on for a decent and civilized culture. My generation inherited such values as respect for our teachers, parents and country. After all, we were the descendants of the brave men who fought, and unfortunate, courageous men who perished, to free the world from barbarism.

World War II had, of course, interrupted the pursuit of domestic technology. Little was accomplished to improve our way of life at home. However, after World War II, technology became a significant force in the country, and few families would be unaffected. One day I watched an extension being erected on our house, which evolved into three large bedrooms, and after the old walls were removed, a grand kitchen, and an enormous living room. Our wood-burning stove was replaced with an electric one, and an oil burner replaced the fire monster in the cellar. One day when I came home from school and raced for a glass of water, I noticed that the old, iron pump that had been near the kitchen sink was gone. A while later my mother told me that we no longer had to depend on the old well; now the water came from the pipes in the streets. I missed the strange gulp, gulp sounds from the old iron pump. I must admit that for a long time, on cold winter mornings, I would still run my fingers down the bedroom window to assure myself that no ice had collected on it before I rose from my warm bed to dress.

I attended Smithtown High School that was located a few miles from St. James. I entered in the year 1951, and graduated in the year 1955. My graduating class had only one hundred and three students. When I consider those years now, I am firmly convinced that there was no student who didn’t have a sense of fundamental decencies. Our parents demanded that we have a set of social rules or manners. Simple gestures such as opening the door for a young lady, and arranging a chair for a young lady were considered mandatory behavior. I must admit that I found sports far more important than academics. Karla was dedicated to her studies more than any other student in the school, and received all sorts of honors, and I can recall how proud I was of her.

I suffered from that ancient disease, which should be referred to as teenage psychological confusion that seems to afflict every teenager. The search for one’s future is never easy, and the search for the truth is even harder. I suppose that each teenager dreamed of accomplishing great deeds for mankind. I considered many dreams including becoming a great basketball player, but as I was lying in bed before I fell asleep each night, I knew that there was something within me that had not been revealed, and at times, I feared that it never would. It mattered little what I was involved with. I always felt a kind of loneliness and yearning. For what, I had no idea. Something seemed to be missing from my life.

Don’t misunderstand. I indulged in all the socially acceptable activities as other young men. I was on the baseball team, the football team, and I was a star of the basketball team. I dated as all the young men did. However, while other young men seemed to be incapable of controlling their passions, I was not. For some reason, beyond my understanding at the time, I never attempted to seduce a young lady. All I knew for certain was that I didn’t think I had the right to destroy a young lady’s purity. The thought of deflowering of a young lady disturbed me, and I considered it to be unworthy of my character to commit such a mindless act of passion. That is not to say that I didn’t fall in love numerous times; I did. My mother called it, puppy love, an obvious cliché. It was always surprising to me that I was the most popular young man in my high school, and never had any difficulty in finding a date. All the young ladies competed for my company, which made me often feel like a proud peacock flaunting my fine feathers to the rest of the young men. It became quite clear that by my senior year that I was considered a big brother by all the young ladies, for they would come to me with all their problems. I felt extremely proud!

Unfortunately, I was harshly made aware that I probably had flaunted my fine feathers once too often. I suffered the vicious verbal slings and arrows of my youthful friends. Since I was popular, I assumed that my friends suffered from history’s oldest disease: envy. One day, a few classmates began teasing me concerning my relationships with young ladies. The label big brother had found a home. The verbal assault endured for the next few days. Needless to say, I was terribly upset. One night while I was lying in bed fighting to fall asleep, I searched my soul for an answer to my unadulterated feelings toward young ladies. The psychological inquiry left me with no logical conclusion. I knew that I was different from other young men. I knew that I possessed something unique: a rare sensitivity of the promises on life, but this awareness led me to no conclusion. I finally realized that my sadness was not the result of the personnel abuse, but rather, it was the result of my inability to understand myself.

In the night’s silence, I would often stare at the dark ceiling for what seemed like an eternity. I kept asking myself why was I different? There had to be a reason. I knew that when I sang during Sunday Mass that I felt a kind of serenity, like I was within a mystical shell protected from evil by a shield of compassion and hope. Then came that fateful, clear night. I remember rising from the bed and walking over to the bedroom window. My eyes searched the heavens. The sparkling stars were especially bright that night, and I can remember thinking that such natural beauty must hold the promises of life. It was at that moment that I suddenly realized that I was in love with every young lady I had ever dated, but it wasn’t an ordinary love; it was a pure love far above the mundane feelings of ordinary life. It was the same unadulterated love that I felt for Karla. I was relieved when everything seemed to fall into its proper place, like the disconnected pieces of a complex, jigsaw puzzle fitting into place in one brief moment. I was one of the unfortunate or fortunate souls who believed in Utopia! I was not a realist; I was an idealist! I wanted to become a priest! I questioned my thoughts over and over again. Was this what I wanted? Why am I worthy? Am I special? Why am I better than everyone else? I struggled with the idea for hours, but I couldn’t find any reason to deny my sudden enlightenment. I decided that I