by Kien Nguyen
One morning, as usual, before the classes began, the entire school stood at attention in the schoolyard. I stood at the rear of the assembly, paying close attention. The moment the national anthem began to play over a loudspeaker, it would be my cue to march down the long center aisle, past the principal's podium to the flagpole. Hearing the opening strains of “Hey, Vietnam citizens, our country has been liberated…” I strode forward with my head high, my eyes forward, and my back straight. In my arms was the country's new flag, with its red background and yellow star in the middle.
After everyone recited the salute to the flag, the dean took the podium. His features, always severe, had turned darker with foul temper. The wrinkles on his face sagged and his mouth, thin as a pencil line, hid beneath a faint mustache. Glaring at his audience, he switched off the radio that was playing the last notes of the national anthem. His abrupt gesture sent a screeching noise through the speakers to pierce our ears. Then, holding the microphone in one hand, he waved us to silence with the other.
“Listen up, people.” His voice rose impatiently into the fog that was settling from under the trees. “I know that there have been rumors around the school, especially about Miss San, teacher of class 5C. You all are curious about her absence. My advice to you is: don't be!” He scanned the crowd with his birdlike eyes. “Why not, you might ask? Well, here is my answer: it's none of your business. It is an act of opposition for anyone to continue probing this matter. And if you are caught breaking this rule, don't expect any mercy. You will be expelled immediately. Now, before you all return to your classrooms, I would like to shift my attention to another matter.” Looking straight at me, the dean resumed his usual calm manner.
“The school board has decided to vote for a new parade marshal,” he said. “To earn the honor of opening the parade, one needs to be more than just an outstanding academic achiever. He also has to develop strong relationships with all of his classmates and teachers. He has to participate in many extracurricular activities and be a positive symbol of our school. Kien Nguyen is a good student but by no means the best candidate to represent our school. There are many other students who have exceeded him in all aspects. Therefore, we will reassign his position to a new parade marshal who will lead the march with much more success.” He strode over to where I stood. Abruptly, he snatched the flag from my hands and handed it over to the vice president of my class.
Turning back to the assembly, he said, “This is the end of my speech. You can now return to your first-period classroom.” He dropped the microphone on top of the podium with a loud thud and stepped back from the stage, his hands folded together in front of his chest.
As we dispersed from the schoolyard, my face burned with shame. Wordlessly, I slipped away from the crowd and disappeared from sight.
THAT SUMMER OF 1978 marked three years under the Communists' rule. Even though the new government had successfully taken over the south of Vietnam, many of its citizens still hoped for the Americans' return, and they listened in secret to the forbidden BBC news report every Monday night. As life grew increasingly harder, hope became the only luxury that the Communists had not yet snatched away. Sadly, for many, hope became a destructive force that held their lives in a prolonged limbo of futile expectancy. Instead of relishing life, people merely existed. Such was the case with my family.
My mother had accomplished nothing in three years except for waiting. She had waited for the Communists' collapse, from either inflation or the government's weakness. She had waited for a possible revolution or war to overturn the new regime, since tension between the people and the officials was always strong. But the waiting had dragged on for too long; the fire in all of us had been extinguished. Shame was no longer the primary issue in my mother's mind. Piece by piece, the stash of jewelry in my pocket had been sold for the family's survival. Finally, she was flat broke and at a dead end.
Tired of waiting in vain, my mother rented space in the city's largest market, five kilometers from my home. Her shop was a small compartment of one hundred square feet wedged between a stickyrice vendor and a sandwich store. The market, composed of hundreds of small businesses like my mother's, was divided into sections that specialized in seafood, livestock, vegetables, fabric, electrical appliances, pharmacy items, and, at the farthest border, farm produce. Beyond this was the city dump, supermarket of the homeless.
My mother sold mainly rice, plus a few other agricultural products, such as potatoes and beans. The Communists, however, took a dim view of businesses like my mother's, believing they drove up prices and disrupted the economy. In a sweeping proclamation, the government prohibited the middle class from carrying out their trading activities and sent troops to confiscate their supplies. They promised to help my mother find new employment if she gave up her business, but despite the agreement, her applications for employment were repeatedly denied.
My mother's shop was forced to close after being open for only a few months. In the last minutes before the raid, she managed to distribute some of her goods among her friends. More sophisticated searches by the government soon followed, thorough and without warning.
At the market, most businessmen were less fortunate than my mother. The authorities, through the legions of youth volunteer squads, raided many shops at night, seizing their inventories. The next day, they required the owners to show a bill of sale to prove their right to the impounded goods. Since most of the supplies had been traded through black-market channels, the owners had no receipts. Forfeiting their stocks, the merchants were wiped out.
The day the youth squad closed my mother's shop, their anger and frustration at finding nothing of value left a trail of destruction behind. One of the squad members, a fourteen-year-old girl in a blue uniform, spat in my mother's face. “Don't you dare reopen this counterrevolutionary shop! We'll come back to make sure that you don't.”
Long after they had gone, my mother remained sitting on the floor with her head bowed, calm yet unmoving. From outside, a figure ventured into her shop, stopping at the threshold to stare at her. All that my mother could see was the guest's dirty feet, clad in cheap sandals.
She looked up to see the familiar face of Mrs. Dang, who was staring back at her. Three years under the yoke of Communism had turned her boisterous friend into a repressed, aged woman. However, Mrs. Dang's laughter still was contagious, ringing like crystal the moment she recognized my mother's face.
“God and Buddha!” she exclaimed. “Is that you, Khuon? Oh, heaven, what has happened to you, darling?”
My mother gazed vacantly into space past Mrs. Dang's face. Bursting with excitement from the unexpected reunion, Mrs. Dang fell to the floor among the broken pottery containers and pressed her face against my mother's neck. My mother, however, did not return the embrace. Her mind was somewhere beyond the pungent stench of the market, shocked from the loss of her property.
For several days my mother stayed in bed, refusing to eat with the family. She talked to Jimmy and me about abandoning us to go live somewhere else. Sometimes, her elaborate plans to escape life's troubles focused on the mass suicide of our family, excluding my grandparents. Frightened by her depression, Jimmy and I avoided her bedroom as if it were a lepers' colony.
Fortunately, with the help of Mrs. Dang, who became a frequent visitor, my mother decided to pick up the pieces of her life and plunge back into the trading markets. Although she understood business from her experience at the bank, the idea of competing with other traders to purchase a line of goods and then sell them at a higher price was unpleasant to her. Still, she knew she had to find some way to put food on the table.
THAT SAME SUMMER Loan returned from the Young Volunteers. After three years of running through the jungles in a unit of over two hundred young women proving her dedication to the government, her service time was up.
The day the dean dismissed me from the parade, on the way home I spotted Loan on the street among her comrades. Even though she wore the standard oversized b
lue uniform made of thick khaki that concealed any remotely feminine curves, I saw her lovely face at once. Years of hard work under the direct sun had turned her skin brown. A large military backpack containing all of her possessions weighed like a rock on her slim body. She smiled when she saw me running toward her, screaming her name. We held each other tearfully in a long embrace before we could break apart to examine one another, laughing at the changes we saw.
“Why didn't you write to me? Didn't you get any of my letters?” she asked me.
“No,” I replied. “We've never gotten any. And we couldn't write to you because we didn't know where you were. How many letters did you send us?”
“I don't know.” She looked confused. “A lot. At first, it was almost one letter a week. I even asked for personal delivery from a friend. It's strange that you didn't receive any.” She mused for a moment. “I can't believe that they all got lost. It is too bad, but you know how it is, living in such conditions. But it doesn't matter now because most importantly, we are together at last, right? Let's go home.”
We were stopped at the door by Jimmy's dog, wagging its tail happily and licking our faces with its rough tongue. No longer a puppy, it had grown to almost the size of a well-developed German shepherd, and its weight almost knocked Loan over. It barked and Loan hid behind me to watch it in disbelief.
“That can't be Lulu, can it?” she asked, then answered the question herself. “Of course it isn't. This dog doesn't have a crippled paw.”
“Lulu is gone,” I said, scratching my brother's mutt behind its ears. “This is a boy. And his name is Lou.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
That night, as my family gathered in my grandparents' bedroom after dinner, Loan told us about her recent experiences. Despite the fact that the Young Volunteers' assault squads were not a branch of the military, Loan had learned combat skills, such as how to operate a gun, how to use various fighting tactics, and even how to kill if necessary. However, her job was to purge the country from negative elements, fight capitalism, and discipline anyone who refused to cooperate with the new social order.
After three years of service, Loan had seen enough chaos. When her contract was up for renewal, she declined to reenlist. The time she had spent serving the government was already enough to ensure her a comfortable position.
“Are you going to stay with us?” I asked Loan after she finished telling us her story.
“No, Kien. I came to bid farewell to you all,” she said ruefully.
No one seemed surprised at this news. With her improved “revolutionary” status, associating with members of the “reactionary” class like my family would just weigh her down.
“Where are you going from here?” my grandfather asked her.
Loan let out a heavy sigh. “I am getting married, Uncle Oai.”
She avoided looking at my grandfather's face. “The wedding is next week.”
“I am happy that you can finally settle down,” my grandfather exclaimed. “Congratulations. Who is the lucky guy? Was it someone you met in the volunteer corps?”
“No, sir,” Loan muttered. Her breast heaved under the faded khaki fabric of her blouse. “He is someone you know, sir. He used to be your gardener.”
The smile vanished from my grandfather's face as he blinked his eyes in disbelief. “Mr. Tran?”
“Yes, sir.”
My grandfather turned away and buried the lower half of his face in his hands. Loan attempted to finish her news.
“He is forty and has never been married,” she said, “but by the standards of today's society, he is quite a good catch. In the last few years, he has been taking good care of me. While I was in the volunteer unit, far from home, he came to visit me often, keeping track of every place I'd been to. He kept me company through my toughest times. And most importantly, he has promised not to trouble any of you anymore. I feel like I owe him my life, sir.”
“Please don't do this because of us! He can't hurt us anymore,” my grandfather whispered.
“Of course not, Uncle. I chose to marry him for my future. I am just looking out for my security and peace. Your safety was an added bonus. You, of all people, should understand that.”
My grandfather nodded. “You're right. I understand, and I think you made a good decision. I am happy for you, Loan. I'll give you my blessing, if that is what you've come here for.” He continued, “But if there is nothing more you wish to share with us, I would like to excuse myself, since I am getting a little tired in my old age.”
“Actually, Uncle,” Loan said with hesitation, “there is something else. This matter concerns Miss Khuon. After the wedding, I will be moving to the Nguyen mansion with Tran. It was his idea to keep the house in his name, and the only way is to get married and build his own family. I hope you someday can understand and forgive me. You now know where I live, and if you ever need anything, anything at all, come look for me. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” She turned to me. “Especially you, Kien. Please come visit me sometime.”
My mother finally spoke up. “What happened between you and Mr. Tran is not shocking news. I saw the way he looked at you years ago. I knew that it was just a matter of time before you belonged to him.”
Loan got up and let herself out of the house. From the window I could see her blue fatigues as she hoisted the heavy backpack to her shoulders and turned down the street.
FEW DAYS LATER, my grandmother discovered a small cut on the side of her right heel. She had no idea what had caused it. My mother insisted that the wound was caused by the sharp edge of the flip-flops that my grandmother habitually wore around the house. The cut did not heal; instead, it got worse every day.
One morning, I woke up to the sound of my grandmother's cry. She lay in her bed, surrounded by my grandfather and my mother and some of my cousins. All were examining her foot, which had flared up to the size of a barbecued piglet and looked just as oily. The skin that covered her leg was stretched to its limit, shining with an angry red tint, threatening to burst. My mother punctured it with a knife, hoping to drain out the purulence. Instead of pus, a mixture of dark blood and decayed flesh trickled out of my grandmother's leg and dripped into the metal container below her bed. A putrid smell permeated the air.
We took her to the big hospital in Nhatrang, where the doctors kept her immobile on a gurney while they ran tests. After a few days, because we could not afford the bill and the doctors could not agree on the cause of her condition, she was discharged with a diagnosis of cancer.
At home, my mother sought help from a respected herbalist in town. After a few treatments, my grandmother's fever slowly diminished, even though the swelling in her foot did not go down.
MEANWHILE, it got harder for my mother to trade goods. The Communists' latest tactic to destroy private commerce in the south was to issue licenses to trade, but only to certain chosen groups. Those who had not yet received their permits were encouraged to abandon trading “by voluntary means.” To enforce this policy, each day at the market the police would search everyone for a license. Anyone caught trading without a permit would be declared an illegal marketer and sentenced to a few weeks in a work camp.
One day, just after the herbalist had left and my mother was changing the dressing on my grandmother's wound, Mrs. Dang stormed in. Like my mother, she had been subjected to the most stringent restrictions due to her regressive background. Except for a few articles of clothing, a small rented room facing the market, and the memories of her glorious past, Mrs. Dang had nothing. The overwhelming odor of infection didn't seem to affect her as she rushed to my mother's side.
“I want you to listen to this for a second, Khuon,” she said. “I have found a way for both of us to make a living.”
“I am listening,” my mother said.
“Okay, here goes. You know that we can't keep trading goods without a license. Sooner or later, the police will catch us. I know a few people who have licenses. They need someone to bring them fabrics
and other merchandise from Saigon.”
“Meaning?” My mother stopped in the middle of wrapping the bandage around my grandmother's ankle.
“We are going to Saigon to get the goods.”
“You are joking.” My mother turned away from her.
“We can do it, Khuon. There is no law that stops us from traveling. We have our own identification. It is no longer required to carry the Proof of Existence everywhere we go.” Mrs. Dang paused for her words to sink in, then continued, “So, what do you say? Go to Saigon with me?”
My mother shook her head.
“Please, Khuon. What do you think about my plan?”
“I don't know, it sounds complicated. Besides, I can't leave my mother in this condition, not to mention my children. What if my community leader won't allow me to leave town?”
Mrs. Dang seized my mother's wrist. “What alternative do you have? If we don't do this deal, are you going to risk selling goods without a license in the market? Or would you rather stay home and starve with your family?”
My mother knew she was losing the argument. “How long is the trip?” she asked. “And how much money do we need to start?”
“If my calculations are correct, we need about two thousand dong for a five-day trip. Minus all of the expenses, we each could make at least a few hundred dong.”
“A thousand dong per person to start?” My mother let out a small cry. “I don't have that much. Where am I going to get a thousand dong?”
“Sell your furniture,” Mrs. Dang said coldly. “That's how I raised my money. We can leave the day after tomorrow. However, I need your word that you are with me in this.”
In the other room, my little sister woke up from her nap and started to cry. At the age of two and a half, she was still physically and mentally a one-year-old child, trapped in a frail and wrinkled body that had always been covered with painful ulcers, mostly on her head and neck. She had learned to walk and talk with great difficulty. Mainly, she preferred to crawl on the floor instead of walking; cry instead of asking for food. Her face was like that of an old woman, and her voice was tiny, like the mew of a newborn kitten.