by Leslie Gould
She cried sometimes at night, relieved that her father had come home, that he hadn’t had to stay forever in the psychiatric ward. “God, please don’t let anything happen to him,” she begged. Sometimes it made her nervous to pray. God hadn’t kept Mom safe. Could she trust God with Dad?
Still she prayed, for her father and for her mother’s friend Kim. Often she held the figurine of the Vietnamese girl while she prayed. It wasn’t true, not entirely, that she wished she had never heard of Vietnam.
Chapter 4
Patriotic music blared over the loudspeaker nailed to the dead tree outside the shack. Lan rolled away from the static racket. After the first song, a metallic voice shouted, “Exercise! Four, three, two, one.” Mother curled on the mat beside Lan and slept through the commotion. It had been three years since Mother and Lan had left the rubber tree plantation, since they had walked six days until they reached the city of Vung Tau on the South China Sea.
When the light filled the shack and music replaced the exercise program, Lan gently shook Mother. “Time to wake,” she said softly. Three mornings a week Mother reported to a reeducation program led by their cell leader, the man in their neighborhood who reported to the Communists. It meant Mother had two fewer hours on those days to sell fruit in the market. This was one of those days.
Mother had hocked her jade bracelets and pearl earrings for rent money and bought a large bag of rice with the change when they first arrived in Vung Tau. She sold the rice, even though it was illegal, and then bought more rice. Now she bought fruit, drinks, and snacks from the vendors and loaded them in the baskets attached to her yoke to sell away from the market at a higher price.
Lan went to school during the day. She longed to quit. She was eleven—she should help Mother, not waste her time in school.
“Go start the rice.” Mother sat up, stretching her arms. The dirt floor felt cool beneath Lan’s sleeping mat. Rain pelted the tin roof, pounding out a vicious rhythm. Three feet away, her father’s eyes stared at her from his photograph atop the wooden fruit box turned on its side and used as the family altar. He wore a serious and proud expression beneath his captain’s hat. Lan thought it brave of Mother to display the photo. Second Brother, eternally young, smiled in his photo. Lan smiled back. “No one knows what each day brings,” Mother often said.
Lan stopped smiling.
Lan listened to the teacher lecture the children. “The state is most important.” She walked to the other side of the classroom and rapped her ruler on the knuckles of the boy sitting by the door. He’d been biting his fingernails. “The state is more important than family, play, religion, and traditions. The state is even more important than work and school.” She walked back to the front of the class and pointed at the only picture in the room, a photo of Ho Chi Minh. “Uncle Ho loved the people of Vietnam. The people of the North went hungry to free the corrupt South from America and the puppet regime.”
Lan stifled a yawn. The cement-block building trapped the heat. Three shifts of students took turns throughout the day; her class met in the afternoon. They all sat on wooden benches with no backs. Lan glanced down at her thin white shirt that, years ago, Mother would have used as a rag. She tugged at the hem of her blue skirt; it was too short, and teacher would surely notice.
“Sing with me.” Teacher clapped her hands. The song was “Who Loves Children More Than Uncle Ho?”
“Last night I dreamed of Uncle Ho …” Lan sang, and then she yawned again.
Teacher abruptly stopped singing. “Are you bored, Comrade Lan?” The rest of the class stared at the floor.
“No, Teacher.” She bowed her head.
“Then sing.”
“His beard was long, his hair was gray. I kissed him tenderly on both cheeks …” Lan mouthed the words. Who loves children more than Uncle Ho? she asked herself. Well, he’s dead. And Mother loves me most anyway. And Father loved me more too. But did he? He went off and fought for the South and got himself killed. Did Older Brother love her more? Last they heard he was the leader of a collective farm not far from their grove of rubber trees, but he hadn’t tried to find them. If he did come to see them, Mother would probably spit in his face again anyway.
Lan swallowed her next yawn. “Character!” The teacher glared at Lan. “Character is what makes a person strong; moral integrity is what you must learn.” I’ve learned nothing in the time I’ve been in this school. I should be helping Mother. The boy sitting next to the door bit his fingernails.
After class Lan and the neighbor girl, Thi, rushed out of school. Lan’s feet spread over the edges of her flip-flops and slapped against the dirt road. Calluses covered her heels. Thi was also a refugee. Her father had been sent to a reeducation camp two years before. Her mother, with three of her eight children, had made her way to Vung Tau from the highlands. Most of their other classmates were from the North and had been resettled in Vung Tau by the government. Their fathers fought for the Viet Cong and now worked on the oil rigs out in the South China Sea. “We had no electricity in the North,” one girl had bragged. “Now we have a television.” Lan often thought of the girl’s TV. Sometimes she and the other market kids stared through the window of the electronics shop downtown until the owner shooed them away, saying they were bad for business.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to hike up to the Giant Jesus?” Thi smiled at Lan.
Lan shook her head. “Too far.” The nuns back home had told her about the Giant Jesus on the south end of Vung Tau. It had been built two years before the end of the war. It was a giant statue with arms spread wide that looked over the sea. The nuns had told her that Jesus would protect her. Mother had no interest in ever seeing the Giant Jesus. Lan was too tired to think of walking that far.
“Doesn’t a bowl of beef noodle soup sound good?” Thi asked as she skipped two steps and then swatted at a mosquito on her arm. She crouched on the road to pick up a rock that suddenly caught her attention.
Lan’s stomach growled. This was a better idea than hiking to see Jesus in the heat. “With sweetened mung beans for dessert?” she said.
Thi fell several steps behind Lan. “Look at the butterfly!” she called out. Thi annoyed Lan as she jumped from subject to subject. Thi turned off the dirt road into an overgrown garden.
“Come back!” Lan called out. Mother had told Lan never to leave the road. “Get out of the garden!” Lan shouted. The girl turned toward the road. The explosion knocked Lan to the ground. She felt the shrapnel sear her back; she heard her own faraway scream and felt the warmth of the blood against her skin.
Thi was silent.
Lan slipped into darkness, her face pressed into the powdery dirt of the roadway.
“My son is a collective leader,” Mother said. “Find him. Tell him his sister must go to the hospital.”
“You are the wife of an enemy of the state,” the cell leader answered. “Besides, there is no room in the hospital.”
“What did you fight for if there is no room in the hospital? Isn’t that the least the state can offer us?” Mother hissed. “Find my son. I will not lose another child.”
Mother wrapped her arms around Lan, pulling her head and torso upward off the roadway. It started to rain; the afternoon deluge broke from the sky in sheets of water. The water mixed with the dirt and blood. Lan struggled to pull air into her lungs.
“Mother,” she whispered. “Where are you?” No one answered. People stood in line in a dark corridor. Where was Mother? Que ton règne vienne. Thy kingdom come. She thought of the nuns, of her father, of Second Brother, of the ancestors. Does Mother have a photo of me to put on the altar?
The next time she awoke she was in a room. Mud caked her arms, a skinny tube ran into a vein, and a towel was draped over her chest. She heard Older Brother’s voice. “Her lung was punctured; she’ll need to stay for a few days. Do what the doctor says.”
“I have no money for medicine.” Mother’s voice was low.
“I’ll settle that tonight, but I’
m leaving for Hanoi tomorrow.” So Mother had begged Older Brother to help them. She hadn’t spit in his face.
“What about medicine? For after she’s out of the hospital?”
“I cannot give you what I do not have,” Quan said.
Lan turned her head toward her handsome brother. He wore a faded green camouflage uniform and stood straight and tall with his hands behind his back. His jet black hair framed his square face.
“We need your help.” Mother squinted at him. Long, loose strands of hair hung from the bun at the nape of her neck. “We are all alone with no protection, no opportunities, no choices.”
“You already made your choice,” Quan said. “You chose to support the United States and the South Vietnamese Army. Now you pay for that choice.”
“I chose to support your father.”
Quan glanced away from Mother with a cold, distant expression. “You were foolish to do so.” He squared his shoulders.
She shook her head. “I didn’t care about the North or the South, the Americans or the Viet Cong. I only wanted your father to come home. I only wanted to have my family together, to live on the land. I just wanted the war to be over.”
“Foolishness,” Older Brother said.
“No, not foolishness. Wisdom. The wisdom of a mother, of a wife. The rest of you were fools.” Mother stepped backward. “What about the Socialist Republic of Vietnam?” Her voice held a hint of sarcasm. “Why can’t it help us?”
“Because it doesn’t have the means right now either. Haven’t you heard? We’re at war with Cambodia. Are you still so foolish? Only thinking about your child, your family, instead of the country?”
“You may think me foolish, but I’m still the woman who bore you.”
“Mother,” Lan whispered. Please stop. Mother must not insult Older Brother, must not show her anger at him, must not cause him to lose face. They needed his help.
Mother raised her chin.
“Take us with you.” Lan coughed as she spoke. She tried to raise her head, but it fell back on the cot.
Quan drew a blank face and glanced away. Older Brother used to share his food and carry her on his back. “Help us,” she said.
“I will try.”
Lan knew he couldn’t say no; he would lose face. But she was sure that was what he meant. He turned to go and then looked back. Take us with you. Don’t leave us again.
“You were lucky,” he said. “Your friend is dead. Now, be more careful.”
Chapter 5
I have to go home and fix dinner.” Gen hugged her social studies book to her chest. In just over two months she would be done with eighth grade.
Angie cocked her head. “So you can’t ride the bus downtown with us?”
Her father would never allow her to ride the bus downtown.
“You have to go cook dinner? My mom does that,” Stacy said and then giggled. Angie elbowed her. Gen shrugged and peered beyond the playground and over the roof of the red brick school. Dark rain clouds filled the March sky
Two fifth-grade boys and a fourth grader played monkey-in-the-middle on the playground. The younger boy laughed as he ran from side to side, chasing the football.
“See you tomorrow.” Gen walked away.
“No fair!” the boy in the middle yelled. The older boys laughed. The younger one kept running from side to side, frantically waving his arms. Gen left the playground and walked the six blocks home. She washed the breakfast dishes and put away the box of Cheerios that she had left on the counter. The phone rang.
“Genevieve,” Aunt Marie said, “Easter is coming up.”
“I know.”
Aunt Marie paused. “Of course you know. Did you know that I need your help with the Sunday school Easter egg hunt on that Saturday?”
“I assumed so.” Gen wiped the dishcloth over the counter as she talked.
“Getting awfully smart, aren’t you?” Aunt Marie asked.
Gen stayed silent.
“I’ll pick you up at nine that Saturday. And I’ll expect you and your father for dinner on Easter Sunday.”
“Thank you, Aunt Marie.” They went to Aunt Maries for every holiday dinner.
“How is your father?”
“Fine.” Gen rinsed the cloth under the faucet.
“Well, we’re coming up on the anniversary,” Aunt Marie said.
“I know.” The anniversary of Moms death.
Aunt Marie changed the subject back to Easter and the supplies that she needed to buy for the egg hunt. Gen pulled a can of spaghetti sauce from the cupboard. After a few minutes she said, as politely as possible, “I need to go, Aunt Marie. I want to have dinner ready by the time Dad gets home.”
Gen hung up the phone and walked upstairs to her room where she pulled a newspaper out from under her bed. The headline read FORMER MISSIONARY TO VIETNAM TO SPEAK. She scanned the article again. Paul Wilcox, who worked in a mission in Vietnam from 1959 to 1975, was speaking at the Missionary Alliance Church in Northeast Portland that evening. She wanted to go, but she couldn’t decide if she should.
If she went and her father found out, he would be hurt. Gen didn’t want that. Her aunt would be furious. Gen didn’t care as much about that.
What would her mother want her to do? Mom. Aunt Marie made it sound like Mom had gotten herself killed on purpose. People at church acted that way too.
“Should I go?” Gen whispered the words. What held her back? Aunt Marie’s criticism? Her father’s pain? The memory of her mom? How many almost fourteen-year-olds had mothers who had died in Vietnam? It was absurd. One boy at school had a father who had died during the war. Gen overheard two teachers talking about it, but they both stopped and then blushed when they realized she was close enough to hear.
Her father’s car pulled into the driveway. Gen glanced at the newspaper. The service started at 7:00 p.m. She pushed the newspaper back under the bed and hurried down the staircase as her father opened the front door.
“Hi, Dad. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.” He smiled a faraway smile. Another week until the anniversary. She would go hear Paul Wilcox. It would make no difference to her father—as long as he never knew.
“Dinner’s good.” Her father spoke as he cut his spaghetti with his knife. He hadn’t taken a bite yet. He usually complimented Gen on dinner before he started eating. Gen wondered if he was afraid he would get distracted by chewing and forget his manners.
“Thank you,” Gen said.
“How was school?” It was nearly the same script every night.
“I have a report to do on the Incas.”
Her father smiled. His thick hair was entirely gray, and his sideburns were white.
“I need to go to the library this evening.”
“I have an elders’ meeting tonight.” He concentrated on buttering a slice of white bread. Gen had counted on the meeting.
“Could you drop me off on your way?”
Her father smiled. “You’ll be okay? For those two hours at the library?”
She wound the spaghetti around her fork. “Sure.” She swallowed the lie with her food. It was easier this way; the library was right next to the church.
“How was school?” He blushed as he realized that he’d already asked that question. “I mean, what did you do today?” She knew he was proud of how well she did in her studies.
“I got an A on my English test.” She passed her father the green beans. She didn’t tell him about the new student in art, a Vietnamese girl, a boat person who didn’t speak English. Gen guessed that she lived in Halsey Square, the apartment complex down the hill on the other side of the golf course, where most of the other Vietnamese kids who went to her school lived. The girl wore her long hair in a single braid. Her name was Hoa. The other kids laughed when she was introduced.
Gen sat in the back of the church auditorium. Paul Wilcox wore a traditional Vietnamese outfit, a mans ao dai made from emerald green silk with a gold dragon embroidered on it. He played music on a
single-stringed instrument, haunting music that made tears well in Gen’s eyes. She pulled her puffy ski jacket tight and crossed her arms.
Mr. Wilcox stepped to the podium and leaned forward, his expression filled with passion. He spoke of the last days before South Vietnam fell to the Communists. He told of his escape from Saigon and how the Christians he left behind feared for their lives. Since the end of the war, he had worked in a refugee camp in Thailand, helping to care for boat people who escaped Vietnam and were picked up by ships or were fortunate enough to make it to Thailand.
“Many have been lost at sea,” he said, “or killed by pirates. Those who made it lost everything—their homes, their extended families, sometimes their children, sometimes their parents. Many are sick. There is never enough food or medicine. Most of the refugees stay at least two years before being placed, but some have been in the refugee camp nearly five years, and there are no schools for the children.
“Many who escaped tell of church buildings in South Vietnam that have been turned into government buildings and even discos. Others say the church has gone underground and is gaining strength.”
Mr. Wilcox continued, saying that he was traveling around the U.S. to seek help for the refugees, searching for people who could give financially, people who could sponsor a family, and people who would be willing to travel to Thailand and help in the camps.
Tears pooled in Gen’s eyes. She wanted to go. Would they still need help after she graduated from high school? She felt God’s touch. Was this what people meant when they said they felt God’s calling?
Mr. Wilcox talked about how people could help. The sleeves of his ao dai moved with the motions of his arm. His voice filled with emotion. “Pray. Pray for a particular person.” Gen thought of her mother’s friend Kim. “Let God lead you to pray for a person, maybe around your age, close to your station in life.” A thirteen-year-old Vietnamese girl What would her life be like? Tears filled Gen’s eyes again, and a startling wave of fear swept over her. Why did she feel afraid?