The Mountains Sing

  My uncle clenched his fists. I held onto the Sơn ca.

  After a while Uncle Đạt spoke again. “As we moved away, thunder exploded above our heads. Lightning ripped open the black sky. The rain punished me with its cold lashes. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to cry, because the rain could hide my sorrow. With the exploding thunder, I was able to beat my fists against my chest and scream. I hated myself for not pulling Thành along as I escaped the common shelter. I could have saved him.”

  I wanted to tell my uncle not to blame himself but feared I’d interrupt his thoughts. Perhaps he had to untangle his feelings on his own, by talking out loud, so that he could understand how it was to be alive, and to be dead at the same time.

  “I’ve been thinking about Thành’s family now that I’m back here in Hà Nội, Hương. . . . I must visit them. I want to tell them what a unique person he was, but I fear they’ll ask me where his body is buried.

  “I can’t fucking remember . . . The bamboo forest was enormous, and we’d made no headstone. There were no nametags on the Northern soldiers I’d seen rotting in forests, on roads, dirt paths, floating in creeks and rivers.

  “I could’ve become one of those unknown bodies easily, I swear. Once, I wrote my name, date of birth, and our address onto a piece of paper, stuffing it into the tiny glass bottle of my penicillin antibiotics, and kept it in my pants’ pocket. I was determined not to become another unknown body, you know, but when I crossed a river, the strong current took the bottle away.

  “The Sơn ca bird stayed in my breast pocket, though. It brought me incredible luck. Until, on one of the last days of the war, I stepped on a land mine. The whole world became blank.

  “I woke up in a medical clinic. When I looked down and saw the stumps of my legs, I wished I’d died. What use is a man without his legs? What use is a man who has to rely on others to feed him?”

  Uncle Đạt picked up the liquor and finished it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, banging the empty bottle onto the table.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m so sorry.”

  Uncle Đạt turned to me, his face wet with tears.

  “I’m sorry, too, Hương. I don’t know what happened to your father, but I do know that wherever he is, he loves you, very, very much.”

  The Walk

  Nghệ An-Thanh Hóa, 1955

  Guava, I need you to understand why I didn’t tell you about your grandpa, your great uncle Công, and your uncle Minh until now. In your schoolbooks, you won’t find anything about the Land Reform nor about the internal fighting of the Việt Minh. A part of our country’s history has been erased, together with the lives of countless people. We’re forbidden to talk about events that relate to past mistakes or the wrongdoing of those in power, for they give themselves the right to rewrite history. But you’re old enough to know that history will write itself in people’s memories, and as long as those memories live on, we can have faith that we can do better.

  So, what happened that day, after we ran away from the village of our ancestors? . . .

  A cold droplet splattered onto my forehead. I opened my eyes to find myself slumped on dew-soaked grass. My five children lay around me, snuggled against each other. Watching their innocent faces, my stomach clenched. My brother was dead. Those who killed him wanted to uproot and erase our family. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to continue carrying the torch of my brother’s life forward, and seek justice for his death one day.

  I studied our surroundings, yearning for a glimpse of Minh, but nothing. Young rice plants rolled out their green carpets. Clumps of trees and faraway villages dotted the horizon. Nearby, a stream gushed.

  It didn’t look right. Farmers of my region were known to be industrious, always arriving at their fields before sunrise. That morning, though the sun was up, the fields were empty. It must have been the Land Reform that had forced people to abandon their work.

  The previous night, we’d run for our lives. We’d heard shouts and cries bursting out of the villages we passed. Torches and flames that lit up the skyline looked like tongues of demons. We ran, stumbled, got up and kept going, until our legs gave way and we collapsed on this patch of grass.

  Now hunger pulled me toward the sound of water. I knelt, put my face into the stream, and drank. The pain from my feet throbbed. I’d been pulled away so suddenly and had no shoes on. Thorns had burrowed deep into my soles. Thankfully, all the children, except for Sáng, had sandals.

  A wild banana plant stood on the stream’s bank, but it bore no fruit. I searched, but there was no sweet potato, cassava, or other vegetable nearby. I remembered from the Great Famine that the banana plant could keep us alive, though: Peeling away outer layers, I found its white core. Food for my children.

  Something moved. A mud crab half the size of my palm. It climbed onto a rock, sunbathing. Quiet as a cat, I inched forward, caught it, and broke it into parts.

  As Sáng nursed hungrily, I opened the cloth bag Mrs. Tú had given us. A bunch of bananas, three ripe na fruit, and a handful of sesame seed candies. Their perfume flowered, like her love for us. We had to survive to come back to her.

  I nudged the children. Thuận and Hạnh turned away. Ngọc and Đạt sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. I led them to the stream. “Wash and have a drink first.”

  Back on the patch of grass, I offered them the banana stalk.

  “But that’s pig’s food,” said Đạt.

  “If pigs can eat it, so can we.” I smiled and bit into the stalk. Juicy and crunchy, it relieved me of thirst.

  Ngọc took a bite and nodded. “Delicious.”

  Đạt shook his head but gave in, biting down. His face softened as he ate.

  I picked up a crab leg, popping it into my mouth. “Try,” I told the children, who shuddered. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

  “Where’re we going, Mama?” Đạt asked.

  “To Hà Nội.” I’d thought hard and long about this. In the capital city, I’d look for my childhood teacher. Master Thịnh and his family would surely help us. Maybe I could find a job.

  “But that’s far away,” said Ngọc.

  “Yes, three hundred kilometers.” I crunched the crab between my teeth, grinding it hard, forgetting to swallow.

  “How are we going to get there?” Đạt stopped chewing.

  “We’ll follow the national highway.”

  “But how exactly?” Đạt’s eyebrows had become two question marks.

  “We’ll walk.” It’d be too risky to hitchhike, and I had no money with me. All of it was gone, stolen by the mob. I’d watched them desperately as they carried my money trunk away. They were like wolves, fighting for it.

  “Walk? Three hundred kilometers?” both children cried out in unison.

  “Shhh. Let’s get further away, and we’ll see.”

  “Will we find Brother Minh soon, Mama? What will happen if those evil people catch him?” Đạt looked at me with tears in his eyes. He was so close to Minh. They’d shared the same bed, climbed the same trees, chased the same soccer ball.

  “We’ll see him again, Son. He’s fast. Nobody can catch him.”

  Ngọc gave me a wrinkled piece of paper. “Mr. Hải’s note. We found it next to our open window, wrapped around a small rock. I read it for Mrs. Tú.”

  My fingers trembled.

  Urgent! Diệu Lan, take the children, run away. Công was killed before my eyes. Minh escaped. You must go fast, don’t wait for him. They have a quota of how many people to execute. Please go. Hurry!

  My tears fell onto the hurried words, smudging them. What had we ever done wrong? Why was I under a death sentence?

  The sounds of distant drums and shouts startled us. The Land Reform was waking up from its night’s sleep.

  Thuận and Hạnh sat right up when another round of drumbeats boomed. Holding on to each other, we scurried away.

  At midday, we stopped under a tree, collapsing under its shade. It looked s
afe to take a break here. Behind us was a row of thick bushes that lined the bank of another stream.

  Sáng lifted my blouse, looking for milk. Ngọc shared the rest of the banana stalk with Đạt. Thuận and Hạnh fought for a bigger na fruit. We were hungry, yet more than half of the food was gone.

  I explained to the children that we needed to flee far away, that we couldn’t go to our relatives because our villagers knew all of them well. Ngọc nodded, studying the black spots in my soles. Using a long thorn, she managed to take out the smaller thorns that had burrowed into my feet.

  “Sister Ngọc will make a good doctor,” Hạnh and Thuận cheered.

  “Wait, Mama.” Đạt took the remaining food out of the cloth bag, then tore the bag into long pieces and wrapped them around my feet. Now I had shoes, made out of love.

  Looking at the children, the desire not just to live, but to thrive, surged into my heart. If those evil people wanted me to surrender, they couldn’t be more wrong. As long as I was a mother, I would never, ever give up.

  For hours we walked, soaked by the rain of a sudden storm, roasted by a blazing sun, hungry, tired, the children whimpering, until Đạt said, “Look, Mama.”

  A man. Standing in the paddy next to our path, he was bending, his face hidden under a nón lá, his body shielded by an áo tơi—a coat woven from dry tơi leaves and bamboo strings.

  I stopped walking, as did the children.

  “Should we hide?” whispered Ngọc.

  The farmer straightened his back, tossing a chunk of weeds into the stream. As he swung his arm, I realized “he” was a woman.

  Her eyes met mine.

  “Stay quiet, children. Let Mama do the talking.” I struggled forward. “Hello, Sister.”

  The woman nodded, tipping her hat backward. “Where did you come from?” She studied our clothes.

  “We . . . we just paid a visit to our relatives over there.” I pointed in the direction of a village to our far right.

  “Thiên Sơn Village? I live there. Who did you visit?”

  “Who? Oh . . . my uncle. He’s getting old and weak.”

  “Is your uncle Mr. Trương or Mr. Thảo?”

  How stupid of me to pick the closest village. Now the woman would find out that we were running away.

  I stayed rooted as she climbed onto our path, advancing toward us.

  “It’s not a good time to be wandering around.” She took off her stiff coat, laying it down onto the grass. She proceeded to peel off her brown, long-sleeved outer shirt. I had always worn the same type of shirt in the fields, to protect myself from the sun.

  “Your clothes and your children’s clothes . . .” The woman shook her head. “They look too expensive for you to be safe.” She glanced around us.

  I dropped my gaze to my green blouse. Despite some small tears and splatters of mud, the silk sparkled. The woman was right, I didn’t look like a poor farmer.

  “Wear this. It’s a crazy time.” The woman gave me her outer shirt and helped me put it on. “Make your kids look poor, too.” She sank her hands into a mud pocket and wiped them onto the children.

  Thuận and Hạnh jerked back, but Đạt and Ngọc calmed them.

  “Go to a big city. Find somewhere to hide,” the woman whispered. “I wish you luck.”

  “Sister . . . how do we get to the national highway?”

  She pointed ahead. “But don’t go near the village over there. There’re lots of vicious dogs.”

  Ngọc and Đạt bowed their thanks to the woman, who cupped their faces with her palms. “Take care of yourselves.” She pushed them away and stood there, watching us. When we had gone a short distance, I looked back and saw her standing in the same spot, her nón lá a gleaming white flower in a vast green.

  “Mama, I’m scared.” Hạnh clutched my hand as we curled up onto a patch of grass. Above our heads, clusters of stars and an orange wedge of a moon lit up the sky. But Heaven’s light was too far away to reach us. Where we lay, darkness trapped us in its cocoon.

  “Don’t be, my love. I’m here.” I kissed Hạnh’s wet cheeks.

  “I’m hungry, Mama,” Thuận said.

  “We’ll find something to eat tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.” We’d been running for three days. There was no more food. I’d found some mud crabs and snails but couldn’t give them raw to the children anymore. Đạt and Hạnh had been hit by bouts of diarrhea. Ngọc had some kind of fever.

  “Your tummy hurts?” I reached for Đạt.

  “It’s better now, Mama.” His voice was as tired as an old man’s. He curled like a shrimp, Sáng between us. My baby had cried for a long time before falling asleep. I could no longer produce enough milk for him.

  It pained me to think about the long way ahead. We’d found the national highway and been walking on a path parallel to it, but hunger and exhaustion were slowing us down.

  “Mama, I’m hungry.” Again Thuận’s voice rose into the dark.

  “Shut up, I’m trying to sleep,” Hạnh scolded him.

  “Shhh. Let me sing. Let me sing you a lullaby. . . .”

  “The one about the crane, Mama.”

  “À à ơi . . . con cò mà đi ăn đêm, đậu phải cành mềm lộn cổ xuống ao. . . .” Oh ah, the crane seeking food at night, it perches on too weak of a branch and plunges headfirst into the pond. . . .

  You know this song, too? Yes, of course. Your mother used to sing it to you.

  That night, I sang softly until the children’s breathing became regular. It was quiet, perhaps Heaven could hear me. Bringing my hands to my chest, I prayed for Minh to be safe, for Công’s soul to reach Heaven, for Auntie Tú to suffer no harm, for Mr. Hải and his family to face no risk. I prayed for the woman we’d met on the road; her shirt was warm against my skin, giving me comfort and strength.

  I wondered if I could ever find Minh. In his message, Mr. Hải didn’t say where Minh was heading or how to find him. I wished I could go back to our village and ask.

  Ngọc’s fever hadn’t gone down. Her body was burning like a hot coal. I fumbled my way to the ditch between our path and the rice paddies. It was filled with rainwater, water that I drew into my mouth and fed Ngọc, water that I used to cool her body.

  Later, Đạt’s sobs woke me.

  I kissed his face, tasting the saltiness of his sorrow.

  “I dreamed about Brother Minh, Mama, that they caught him.”

  “Your brother is as quick as a cat. He’s fine, trust me.”

  “I miss him, Mama.”

  “We’ll find him, I promise.”

  “I miss Uncle Công and Papa.” Đạt’s tears burnt my face. “Why does bad stuff keep happening to our family?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re not the only ones who’ve suffered. Trời có mắt—Heaven has eyes, Darling. Heaven will punish people who do bad things.”

  “Are you sure we’ll be safe in Hà Nội, Mama?”

  “I hope so.” I caressed Đạt’s hair. “Remember when you and Minh found a bird nest in the eave of our house? Together you watched the eggs hatch.”

  “We fed the baby birds with insects, until they were big enough to fly away.”

  “One day we’ll be back to our home, Son. We’ll be back and birds from all over the world can come and nest with us. . . .”

  After Đạt had fallen back to sleep, I tossed and turned. Darkness was thinning, the shadows of villages that bordered the horizon looked like women whose backs were bent with the burdens of life. My mother had had to bear hers, and it was now my turn.

  As the sky became a rosy glow, I washed my face by the ditch. The water only made my stomach feel emptier. I searched but found nothing to eat. Squatting down next to a paddy field, I ran my hands over the rice plants, hoping to find a rice flower. But the plants here were much too young.

  It was my father who’d carried me out to the rice field when I was a child. He’d picked a thick rice stalk, peeled it, and given me a milky rice
flower. I remembered the fragrant sweetness in my mouth, and how long I’d laughed as he carried me on his back, galloping like a horse on the rice field’s bank.

  I cast my eyes at the national highway. On this road my father had been beheaded, his blood trampled on by people and animals, rolled over by vehicles, washed away by storms and rain. He had been the one who let me drive the buffalo cart, as a way of telling me that women could be in charge. He had believed in me so that I had faith: I could save myself as well as my children. I heard his voice urging me on.

  I leaned over and uprooted a couple of rice plants. Stripping away their roots and leaves, I stuffed the skinny stems into my mouth. It didn’t taste as bad as I thought. My hands worked furiously.

  When I woke the children, giving them the stems, Ngọc refused to eat. Her fever had gone up even higher. Her eyes were swollen, her face bright red.

  “We need help.” I eyed the village closest to us. We couldn’t run away from humans anymore.

  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Đạt glanced toward the clusters of trees where shouts and drumrolls were rising into the first sunrays.

  “We need food and clean water, Son.”

  “There’ll be angry people.” Ngọc’s lips quivered.

  “They’ll tie you up again,” Hạnh said.

  “They’ll shout at us.” Thuận’s face twisted.

  “We’ll be careful.” I studied our clothes, which looked like rags since we’d ripped them. Under my brown outer shirt, though, my silk blouse was still intact. I needed to hold on to my brother’s gift—my last memory of him.

  “I have an idea,” said Đạt. “Why don’t you all wait here? Let me go alone. It’s safer. I can—”

  “No! I can’t let another child out of my sight.”

  “I’ll be careful, Mama.”

  I shook my head. “Let’s stay together. We’re a team.”

  We made our way toward the village, like a group of beaten animals. My legs weakened at the sounds of violent shouts and drumrolls that rang louder as we approached.