As anger filled my chest, tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know the woman in front of me anymore. Perhaps she did send my father to war. Perhaps she did kill babies in the battlefields.
I headed for the door, then whirled around. “I hope Papa comes back, because if he doesn’t, I’m never going to forgive you. Never, ever!”
At home, I asked Grandma whether my mother had truly convinced my father to join the Army.
“No man could escape, Hương,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know why your mother is blaming herself. It’s true some people cut off their fingers or went into hiding, but everyone I knew who did that suffered severe punishment. They all had to become soldiers in the end. Would I have let your uncles go if there had been a chance for them to escape?”
“But she must have told Papa to go, that’s why she feels guilty.”
“It was a very different time when your father left.” Grandma sighed. “Innocent souls had died because of the bombings. Hà Nội was boiling with anger. There were waves of people volunteering to fight. Like many others, your mother was patriotic.”
I thought about the young boys at my school who had lied about their age, to be able to enter the Army. Yet it wasn’t easy to accept that my mother had helped push my father into the furnace of war.
I went outside, gazing up at the starless sky. “Come home, Papa. Come home and make things right between Mama and me.”
I buried myself in books, trying to forget my longings and anger. I had to focus on my studies. Grandma was doing everything she could to give me a chance for a good education, and I had to grab that chance. In three years, I would finish high school and face the university entrance exam.
In August, five months after my mother’s return, I was selected to attend one of Hà Nội’s top schools, Chu Văn An.
This school had luckily survived the bombings. Its ancient buildings proudly stood, looking out over West Lake. From my classroom, I could see fishermen rowing their bamboo boats with their feet, their hands gathering shimmering nets. I could watch women lowering themselves into the water, disappearing completely under rippling circles as they searched for snails.
My new school was much further away from home, so Grandma bought me a bike. Among fifty-four classmates, I was one of the only two who had bicycles. The rest had to walk, regardless of how far away they lived.
My classmates knew Grandma was a trader and didn’t want to be seen with me outside class. No one would come to my house.
I didn’t care. My heart wasn’t at school. It was at home where I could read those so-called anticommunist books that had been banned, but that Grandma still purchased for me. Home was a place of calmness: practicing self-defense techniques with Grandma and playing with our animals. I’d begged Grandma not to sell Black Dots and Pink Nose and she’d found a way: they became mother pigs, giving birth to twenty-two piglets during their first season. We sold fifteen piglets, making a handsome profit. Grandma converted the third bedroom into a pigsty, after moving Uncle Đạt’s bed to my parents’ room. “We’ll figure things out when your uncle returns,” she said.
Autumn arrived. I hoped that Grandma would help bring my mother home, but something else was on her mind. One day, she returned from work, excited.
“Hương, guess what? I’m getting another grandchild. Your Auntie Hoa is pregnant. Oh, I can’t believe it.”
“That’s great news, Grandma, but how did you find out?” Neither Uncle Sáng nor Auntie Hoa had contacted us. They’d only seen my mother once.
Grandma winked. “A friend of mine has been visiting your uncle on my behalf.”
She started cooking, happy songs returning to her lips.
I was doing my homework when her voice boomed through the door. “Hương, help me bring some food to your Auntie Hoa.”
I went out to see her piling boxes of sticky rice, charcoal-grilled fish, and stir-fried vegetables into a bag. “These will give Hoa plenty of milk.”
“I don’t want to see her, Grandma. Besides, I have a test tomorrow.” I headed back to my desk.
“It’s a quick trip.” Grandma’s voice followed me. “Please . . . I’ll bring you there with my bike.”
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t understand how Grandma could be so forgiving about Uncle Sáng. She should be helping my mother, instead of him.
I was in bed, reading Xuân Quỳnh’s poetry, when Grandma came to me.
“It looks like someone is done with preparing for the test.” She smiled.
I flipped another page, feeling bad that I’d lied about the test. But it was boiling hot outside and Uncle Sáng’s preaching stank.
“Hương. The baby is your cousin . . .”
“If you want to give them food, do it yourself.”
“I can’t. That’s why I need your help.”
“Why can’t you? Oh I remember.” I cleared my throat, imitating Uncle’s Sáng’s voice. “I’ve become a Party member. My mother can’t be a con buôn.”
Grandma grimaced. “I don’t ask a lot from you, but this is the one duty you’re going to help me with.”
“I’m no longer a baby buffalo for you to lead me by my nose.” I returned to my book, wishing I could disappear into its pages.
“Hương! I didn’t bring you up to talk like that. You need to be respectful.”
“Respectful?” I sat up. “Perhaps respect no longer exists in this family.” I thought about how Uncle Sáng, his wife, and my mother had behaved.
Grandma’s face darkened. I was sure she’d slap me or shout at me, but she quietly retreated from my room.
I lay down, humming, thinking I’d won Grandma over for once, but she appeared, the nón lá on her head, the food bag in her arm.
“You’ll understand why I do this once you become a mother.” She pulled me up. I wanted to resist, but the look in her eyes silenced me.
When we arrived at the concrete building where my aunt and uncle lived, Grandma sent me upstairs alone, hiding her face under her nón lá. “Meet me on Tràng Tiền Street when you’re done,” she said.
I watched her pedal away, her shadow tiny against approaching darkness.
I bit my lip to stop myself from screaming as I entered the gloomy, filthy staircase. I wanted to rip the bag open, devouring the food myself. I was tired of my duty: to Grandma, to my mother, to my relatives.
I knocked on the apartment door. No answer. I waited. “Uncle Sáng,” I called.
Silence.
“It’s good you’re not home,” I said, turned, and was about to walk away when a whisper raced past my ears. “Hương, is that you?”
The door had creaked open. Auntie Hoa was poking out her face, scanning left and right. In a flash, she reached for my hand, pulling me inside. The door shut quietly behind us.
“Did anyone see you come up?” She frowned, her stomach bulging under her mismatched pajamas.
“Don’t think so. Why?” I didn’t address her with a respectful title, yet she didn’t even notice; her eyes were on the food bag.
“Come. We’re just having dinner.” She pulled me further into her apartment. We passed a room where piles of books sat on the floor. Theories of Marxism-Leninism, the cover of one book said. Capitalism Is Shuddering before Its Death was the title of another one. The American Empire Is Only a Paper Tiger was a book with the name of its publisher printed in a large font: the Truth Publishing House.
To my right was the empty kitchen. To my left were a bathroom and another room, barely furnished. Grandma had told me Uncle Sáng had given away his beautiful furniture, to show that he belonged to the working class. There was plenty of space to raise chickens and pigs, but there were no animal sounds.
We stepped into a big room.
My uncle was sitting on a reed mat. In his undershirt and shorts, he looked shockingly thin. In front of him were two plates of food: manioc and boiled water spinach. People who worked for the government were paid in food coupons, but the coupons weren’t enough. Uncle Sá
ng should raise animals like us, instead of reading those propaganda books.
“Chào chú.” I greeted him.
“Hương. You here alone? Where’s Grandma?”
“Down there on the street.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief.
“She sent you some food.” The bag felt much heavier now; it contained many hours of Grandma’s labor and her love for her youngest son.
Uncle Sáng and Auntie Hoa exchanged glances. A moment passed. My uncle cleared his throat. “Just put it down. Lean it against the wall. Yes, yes. It’s fine there.”
I dropped the bag.
“Hương,” my uncle said. “Tell Grandma it’s good she’s careful, that she sent you instead of coming herself.”
I didn’t answer. I just needed to get out of there.
• • •
A week later, I arrived home from school and was unlocking the front door when a bell clanged behind my back. I turned to see a man in a yellow hat who was perched on a bicycle, a bag slung over his shoulder, an envelope in his hand. A postman.
“Eh, is this the house of Mrs. . . . Mrs. Trần Diệu Lan?”
“Yes, Uncle, she’s my grandma,” I said.
“A letter for her. From Sài Gòn.”
I leaned my bike against the door. “Sài Gòn?”
The man nodded, handing me the envelope.
I glanced at the neat writing on its front. “From my Auntie Hạnh. Do you . . . do you have another letter for us?”
“Don’t think so, but let me check.” The postman pulled a stack of envelopes out from his bag, going through them. “Nothing else.”
I watched until he and his bike disappeared from our lane, hoping he’d turn back to tell me that he was wrong, that there was another letter for Grandma and me.
The pigs, piglets, and chickens greeted me with hungry complaints as soon as I swung the door open. I peered at the letter. Perhaps Auntie Hạnh had gone to Sài Gòn to look for my father and Uncle Đạt. Perhaps she’d met them there.
I wanted to know what my aunt had written, but feared the news. I had to find Grandma.
I hurried to feed the animals, then raced toward the Old Quarter on my bike. Around me, autumn was ripening. Golden light poured from the deep, blue sky. Red and yellow leaves swayed, drifting down from tree branches, covering pavements, rustling under people’s feet.
In the Old Quarter I rode from Silk Street to Silver Street, from Cotton Street to Onion Street. I returned to Traditional Medicine Street, biked along Coffin Street and ended up on Bamboo Street. There were thirty-six streets here, and Grandma could be on any of them. She could be any of the people I saw, scurrying by, their faces hidden under their nón lá.
My heart jumped as I caught sight of two guards, their armbands bright red. I pressed the brake, gripping the handle, about to turn around when one of the guards pointed at me. “You! Come here.”
I got down from my bike, leading it toward him. “Hello, Uncle.” I held my breath, hoping my face wasn’t red with fright.
“Papers,” the guard shouted, towering above me.
I opened my bag, giving him the bike’s ownership paper and my ID.
The other guard, short and chubby, edged closer and had a look. “So you’re rich, eh, Younger Sister, having this bike in your name.”
“Where did you get it?” demanded the tall guard, looking me up and down.
“My grandma brought it for me, Uncle.”
The chubby guard winked at me. “Call us Brother.” He eyed my chest.
The tall guard frowned. “Your grandma, huh? How the hell could she afford this?” He kicked the bike. It shook and rattled. I gripped the handle, hanging on, feeling like he’d kicked me in the stomach.
“She’s a teacher, Uncle. She works hard.” I was polite, yet the Kick-Poke-Chop moves flashed through my mind.
“Look.” The chubby guard elbowed the tall guard, gesturing toward a middle-aged woman who was struggling on her bicycle. “Take that bike if it’s not in her name. I’ll handle this one.”
As the tall guard jumped out on to the road, shouting at the woman, the chubby one studied my papers. He caressed my picture on the ID, his fingernails black with dirt. “Pretty, but prettier in real life.”
“Uncle, can I please go now? I’m late for class.”
“Ah, I see, 173 Khâm Thiên Street,” he read my address aloud and looked me straight in the eyes. “Be home tonight. I’ll come by for a visit.”
“Visit? Why, Uncle?”
“I said call me Brother,” he hissed, then lowered his voice. “Let’s just say I’m doing you a favor. You’ll be safe, going out with me.”
I avoided his eyes while putting the papers back into my bag. Calm your mind, I told myself, repeating Grandma’s words as I cycled away. Build your inner strength.
Finding a lane, I turned into it. My legs wobbled as if they were mud. I parked the bike near an older woman who was squatting on the pavement, a bamboo basket in front of her.
“Green tea, green tea. Would you like some green tea?” she called out to me.
“Yes, please, but not too strong, Grandma.” I studied the bike. Luckily, the kick didn’t do much damage. I unbent the chain’s metal cover.
“Better lock it.” The lady lifted the cloth that covered her basket, pouring steaming tea into a cup. “Thieves lurk around every corner these days.”
She gave me a low stool, handing me the cup. The softness in her eyes told me that she was kind, and could be trusted. Leaning over to her, I whispered, “I’m Hương, I’m looking for my grandmother. She trades around here.”
“What’s her name?” the lady whispered back, then asked in a loud voice, “Should I add water to your tea? It’s strong.”
“Yes, please,” I said aloud, then lowered my voice. “Her name is Diệu Lan.”
She studied my face and looked away. “Green tea, green tea,” she called out to a passer-by.
I took a sip. The tea scalded my mouth. “If you know where she is, please tell me. It’s urgent,” I begged.
“Green tea, green tea,” she called louder, then lifted her nón lá, pretending to fan herself so she could hide her mouth. “How do I know you’re her granddaughter?”
I reached into my school bag. “Here . . . a letter from my aunt.”
She sneaked a look. “Wait here.” Picking up her basket, she hoisted it against her waist, disappearing around the corner. After I’d finished my cup, she came back, gathering her stool. Without being told, I pushed my bike, following her. Salt Street was quiet when we got there. The tea seller chose a corner. I sat down opposite her.
“Guava, you all right?”
I turned to see Grandma’s face and wrinkled forehead.
I stood up. “Auntie Hạnh sent you a letter.”
Grandma sat down, tearing the envelope open. She scanned the pages, a sigh of relief escaping her.
“What does it say, Grandma?”
“Why don’t you read it aloud? I’m sure Mrs. Uyên here wants to hear it.”
“Read here?” I glanced around. A few people were walking nearby. A man sat a few houses away, smoking a bamboo pipe; streaks of whiteness untangling themselves above his head, before vanishing into the air.
“Why not? Go ahead.” Grandma stretched her legs, sipping her tea.
I cleared my voice.
Dear Mama, Sister Ngọc, and Hương,
Sorry I didn’t have the chance to tell you about our moving to Sài Gòn. Tuấn returned from the war and was sent back to the South again, this time to manage a factory. He asked us to join him, and I had to quickly sell our land and house and pack as much as I could. With Thanh and Châu and my parents-in-law, I boarded the train, traveling for three days. I had to pinch myself when we arrived at the city once called Pearl of the Far East.
I had expected Sài Gòn to be rich, but oh my, it was beyond my imagination. Avenues as big as rice fields, buildings taller than the tallest trees I’d ever se
en in my life. The people here, their fashionable clothes and southern accents make me feel such a country bumpkin.
Do you know that Sài Gòn’s name has just been changed to Hồ Chí Minh City? We’re told to use this new name. I’m putting down both Sài Gòn and HCM City as my address, though, just in case.
Anyhow, Tuấn said there’s much to be done. People who worked for the Americans or for the Southern government are being sent to reeducation camps. When our army was about to take over the city in April 1975, a lot of them tried to escape overseas by planes and ships. Many abandoned their houses, just like that. As we’re linked to the army, we got to stay in one of those houses. It’s a two-story home, as big as a mansion.
I looked up at Grandma. The next two paragraphs were black. It seemed somebody had dipped a thick brush into an ink bottle and hurriedly painted over them.
“Go on, ignore the censored part,” Grandma urged me.
“Censored?”
“You think Hạnh smeared ink on her letter in such a way? She’s always taken great care of her handwriting.” She brought her mouth to my ear. “The higher ones spy on our letters. The parts they don’t like are blackened out.”
“Oh.” I studied the censored paragraphs, unable to make out a word.
I started my teaching job at a school close to our house, where Thanh and Châu are studying. Many teachers here have been sent from the North, and we’re using textbooks published in Hà Nội. Our task is to erase remnants of the old regime.
Mama, I hope Brother Đạt and Brother Hoàng are back. Please let me know immediately if there’s any news. And please, write me right away if you hear anything about Brother Minh. I pray for their safe returns. I’ll try to look for them here.
I bit my lip. There was no good news.
Sister Ngọc, I hope you’re feeling better. I’m sorry for not being able to stay longer when I visited last time. But I want to be back soon, to talk to you, like we used to. Please let me know if there is something I can do.
Mama, when you see Thanh and Châu again, you’ll be surprised by how adept they are at Kick-Poke-Chop self-defense. I’ve been teaching them, and am reminded of those wonderful days we had with Master Văn. Mama, I hope you’re taking good care, and that you aren’t working too hard.
The Mountains Sing Page 11