The Mountains Sing

  So now you know how precious my prayer bell is, Guava. It’s a sacred token of compassion between strangers.

  I wish I could visit Nun Hiền with you now. A few years ago, I went back to her pagoda and stood in front of nothingness. Bombs had leveled the entire building. Villagers there told me they’d found Nun Hiền under the rubble, bodies of the children in her arms. The bombs had burned them beyond recognition.

  I pray for Nun Hiền often. Not only did she save my life, and Thuận’s life, but she also rescued my soul. Inspired by her, I became a Buddhist. I’ve been practicing Nhẫn, the principle of patience, which teaches me how to love other human beings. Only through love can we drive away the darkness of evil from this earth.

  Next, leaving the car outside the village where streams of fast currents weaved through rice fields, Ngọc, Thuận, and I traveled by foot, Sáng in my arms. Here it was, Mrs. Thảo’s home. The door was shut. The pond’s surface twinkled with the floating petals of yellow mướp flowers.

  I tapped at the gate. “Anyone home?”

  “Hạnh, Hạnh ơi!” Ngọc called for her sister.

  The door slid open. A face poked out. Hạnh. Guava, your Auntie Hạnh. We all called her name. All of us.

  Hạnh ran, her long hair bobbing behind her, tears gleaming on her face. I was astonished by how tall she’d grown.

  “Mama!” She rushed into my arms. My baby. My beautiful princess.

  The house was cool and as welcoming as it’d been. It looked happier now, with colorful paintings adorning the walls.

  “Is anyone else home, Darling?” I asked.

  “Mama Thảo and Papa Tiến are at work.” Hạnh talked about them as naturally as a child would refer to her own parents. Then she beamed, pointing at the drawings. “They’re all mine. Mama Thảo helped me make them.”

  The paintings were gorgeous; they were about joyful families, flowers, birds, and animals. I knew Hạnh was talented at drawing but must admit that Mrs. Thảo had brought the best out of her. Hạnh seemed to be content and well cared for here. Would she want to come with us?

  “Hạnh ơi,” a voice called. I looked out to the gate. A smile was on Mrs. Thảo’s face as she reached her arm through a gap, opening the latch.

  “Mẹ Thảo.” Hạnh dashed toward her new mother, who bent down, lifting her up, twirling her around.

  Hạnh leaned forward and whispered something into the ear of her new mama, who turned back to the house. As her eyes met mine, she pulled Hạnh closer.

  I walked out to the yard. “I’m sorry . . .”

  Mrs. Thảo gripped Hạnh’s hand and walked past me. Inside, she stood under her family altar, turned away from us, Hạnh beside her.

  “My name is Diệu Lan,” I said. “I’m sorry for leaving my daughter with you. I’ve managed to set up a new home and would like Hạnh to join us.”

  Silence. Hạnh edged closer to the kindergarten teacher. “Mama, Mama Thảo.”

  “Oh, my precious sweetheart.” Mrs. Thảo knelt, gathering Hạnh into her arms. When she stood up, anger rose in her voice. “I don’t know what to think! When you didn’t come back, I was so sure you didn’t want your daughter anymore. It’s been so long.”

  “Sorry, Sister. I wish I could’ve explained my circumstances.”

  “Explain them now!”

  The children were watching me with their big eyes. I couldn’t lie anymore, but would that put us in danger? After all, Mrs. Thảo’s husband was a government official. But I could see that she truly loved Hạnh.

  “I was a hard-working farmer with six children,” I explained. “When the Land Reform hit our village, I was wrongly accused of exploiting others. My only brother was killed and my eldest son taken away. To stay alive, I had to escape with my kids.”

  “They are all yours?” Mrs. Thảo gestured at Ngọc, Sáng, and Thuận.

  I nodded. “We still have to find my son Đạt. As for my eldest son Minh, I don’t know where he is.”

  Mrs. Thảo bent her head. “The Land Reform went too far. Too many people have suffered injustice. I asked Hạnh about your family. It was selfish of me, but I was hoping . . .”

  She held Hạnh for a long while, then kissed her forehead. “I’ll always love you, my baby. Now go and be a good daughter to your brave mother.” She turned to me. “Take Hạnh now. Leave quickly or else my husband will stop you.”

  I hummed my songs to Hạnh. She cried as hard as the rain when the car sped us away.

  Over the years, Guava, I’ve taken your auntie back to Mrs. Thảo’s home several times. The kindergarten teacher remains Hạnh’s second mother, her love is still a fertile soil enriching Hạnh’s life.

  My heartbeat quickened that day as I saw the bamboo grove and the mossy brick towers again. On the winding dirt road, the children held my hands, pulling me into the village market. It was late in the afternoon, and we were surrounded by people.

  My heart rejoiced at the sight of the phở shop, packed with customers.

  Some people were standing, waiting for a table. Passing them, I saw a boy carrying bowls of steaming phở. He was skinny and dark. He was your Uncle Đạt, Guava. Your Uncle Đạt.

  “Đạt!” I called.

  “Anh Đạt, anh Đạt!” Ngọc, Thuận, and Hạnh jumped up and down.

  Đạt lifted his face. For a moment, he stood frozen. The phở bowls slipped from his hands, shattering onto the floor.

  I wept when he shuddered and took off, running for us. Everything around me blurred. It sharpened again when I held your uncle, my face buried in his thick hair, my lungs filled with his laughter.

  “What’s going on?” someone shouted.

  The phở seller had arrived. She glared at Đạt. “Get back to work, you idiot!”

  “No,” I said. “He’s coming with us.”

  “What do you think my shop is?” the woman roared. “A place for you to dump your son when you don’t need him?”

  “Please, lower your voice.” I pushed a handful of banknotes into her palm. “This should cover the broken bowls and help you hire another person.”

  The woman squinted, counting the money. “Give me twice as much. This idiot has broken many more dishes.”

  “No way,” said Đạt. “I haven’t broken anything else, and you’ve made me work extra hours without pay.”

  “Don’t ever come back here,” the woman barked. “Don’t ever—”

  But we were already out of earshot.

  In the car, the children laughed and cried as they talked about how they’d missed each other and how scared they’d been. Watching them, joy filled my every cell. I was a tree trunk growing new branches, a bird regaining some feathers on its wings. It seemed the lucky star was shining in my favor, and I was sure I’d soon be united with Minh, Mrs. Tú, and Mr. Hải.

  Darkness was as thick as ink when we arrived in Nghệ An, my hometown. At a guesthouse tucked away behind a cluster of rustling bamboo, I stepped out onto the balcony after the children had fallen asleep.

  The home of my heart was so near, yet so far away. I longed to rest my forehead on the walls built by my ancestors, stand in front of our family altar and inhale the presence of my parents, husband, brother, and sister-in-law. So many storms had ravaged our home, but the Trần family would continue to stand. I felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders, and I carried it with pride.

  The sun was yet to rise when the car drove away, the driver bringing my letters to Mr. Hải and Mrs. Tú.

  Time moved forward as slowly as a snail. The morning passed, and it was noon. As the afternoon advanced, I became feverish. Why was it taking the driver so long? Had he run into some kind of trouble?

  A knock at the door. Mr. Hải! I rushed into his arms—the arms of a farmer who labored all his life in the field, the same arms who provided shelter for sufferers of injustice.

  “It’s so good to see you, Diệu Lan,” he told me. Out on the balcony, he eyed the children,
who sat on the bed, sharing the candies I’d brought from Hà Nội.

  “Uncle, have you heard from Minh? Where’s Auntie Tú?”

  “Minh . . . I was hoping you’d have news about him.”

  His words hit my ears like a clap of thunder.

  “Don’t worry, child. The good news is that he hasn’t been caught. . . . Minh is smart and brave. I’m sure you’ll find him soon.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Tú, Uncle? Why didn’t she come?”

  “Let me tell you what happened.”

  After we ran away, he said, the village was thrown into chaos. The officials sent people out to look for us, confident that they’d catch us and bring us back.

  Mrs. Tú fiercely defended our family by telling others we didn’t exploit our workers. She tried to protect our home, but the mob beat her and threw her out. They took away her savings, saying that she’d stolen from us. They destroyed our family altar and looted the house of everything of value. Seven families, including the butcher-woman, were given permission to move in. They fought each other and put up walls inside the rooms. They argued about the division of the yard and garden.

  In the five months I’d been gone, we lost our home and all our land. The Agricultural Reform Tribunal had divided our fields among landless farmers, who then battled each other for their share. Greed grew like a weed in our village.

  My poor Auntie Tú. Alone, she moved to her plot of land. Mr. Hải and his son helped build a hut for her. She survived on the fruits that grew in her garden. She planted vegetables and sold them. She was determined to keep going.

  Mr. Hải reached for my shoulder. “Diệu Lan, around two months after your escape, a farmer saw Mrs. Tú on his way to work. . . . Her body was hanging from a branch.”

  I stared at him. “Tell me I heard it wrong, Uncle. Tell me Auntie Tú is waiting for me to come back!”

  “Shh.” He put a finger to his lips, glancing around us. “There was a suicide note in her hut. It said she couldn’t go on anymore.”

  “Auntie Tú was illiterate, Uncle.”

  “She was murdered, I know.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help her. Terrible things have happened in our village, and not just to your family, Diệu Lan. Please . . . stay away for now. Those evil people are still looking for you. I’ll send news as soon as I hear from Minh.”

  Back in Hà Nội, I set up an altar with an additional incense bowl for Mrs. Tú. I’ll never forget her love and her generosity, Guava. Without her, I wouldn’t be alive today, I’m sure of it, and you wouldn’t be here either.

  Till this day, if you happen to listen to my heartbeat, you might hear the singing voice of my Auntie Tú. She nurtured my soul with songs so that I can sing on.

  And those songs helped Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, and Hạnh, who were traumatized by what they’d gone through. During their first week at our new home, they begged me not to leave their side. When I had to go out to get food, I brought all of them along. We slept in the same room, huddled on the same bed, yet they were still shaken awake by nightmares.

  We talked about what had happened and tried to help each other. I paid Master Văn so that he came to our house once a week and ran a class just for us. His meditation exercises calmed the children. The self-defense practice enabled them to gain back their confidence.

  Have you heard this saying, Guava? Lửa thử vàng, gian nan thử sức—Fire proves gold, adversity proves men. The challenges they’d faced made your mother, uncles, and auntie value life. They went back to school and excelled in their studies. They worked hard: cleaning people’s homes, sweeping streets, selling newspapers. We saved every single cent and spent the minimum on food and clothes.

  As the fire of war was kindled between North and South Việt Nam, inside our North, the socialist revolution was in full swing. Those who lived in cities now faced a government campaign called Cải tạo tư sản—Reform of Capitalists. In Hà Nội, homes and property were taken away, families shattered. The assets of my former employers—Mr. Toàn and Mrs. Châu—were confiscated. They had to travel to the mountains up north to undergo a reeducation program, which lasted more than a year.

  I wished I could help them, but I bent my head in silence, and worked; anyone who questioned the government could go to jail. My job, as a fruit seller at Long Biên Market, didn’t pay much, but I was determined not to let my children starve again. Once Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, and Hạnh had settled down at their school, I attended evening classes, learning to be a teacher. We cared for each other, our love turning our hut into a cozy nest. Many years later, we sold that nest and bought our current house on Khâm Thiên Street.

  In 1957, nearly two years after my arrival in Hà Nội, the government announced that there had been much wrongdoing during the Land Reform. They acknowledged that the idea to redistribute wealth was correct, but its implementation spiraled out of control. They said many things but did almost nothing to undo these mistakes.

  At last, though, I was free to travel to my village. Mr. Hải took me to Nam Đàn Forest. He’d buried my brother Công and my auntie Tú next to my mother’s grave. Standing before them, I shed bitter tears. I heard them whisper to me, on the wind that sang among the green canopies of leaves.

  I tried to get back our house and our fields, but Guava, I was banging my head against a brick wall. We no longer have our ancestral home, nor the land our ancestors passed down to us.

  We weren’t the only ones who suffered great losses. Many innocent people had been beaten and humiliated in public. Some had been executed; some killed themselves. Others went crazy after they’d lost everything. Two years after the Land Reform, the woman who had accused her father of raping her 159 times committed suicide. She hanged herself from a tree that had grown tall next to her father’s grave.

  I continued to look for Minh. Master Văn told me perhaps he had gone south.

  Every day, I pray for the fire of war to be extinguished. Then, your eldest uncle will step over the ashes of our losses and come home. I’m sure he will.

  My Uncle Minh

  Nha Trang, June 1979

  I held Grandma’s hand as we turned into a narrow lane. For a moment, all I could hear were Grandma’s hurrying footsteps. The footsteps of twenty-four years of longing.

  Grandma, my mother, Uncle Đạt, and I had boarded a squeaky train and rattled about for two days and three nights to get here to Nha Trang, a Southern province hundreds of kilometers away from Hà Nội. Auntie Hạnh had arrived a short while after and met us at the station. Our years apart had transformed her into a Sài Gòn person: her hair cut above her shoulders and permed, her skin smoothed by face powder, her lips painted a rosy color. She smelled of luxury, of a dream I was afraid I’d never be able to reach.

  I looked for the number I’d learned by heart: seventy-two. It could be written on any of the battered shacks bordering the two open gutters along our path. An intense stink swelled into the thick, hot air. A woman sat on the steps of her home, beating her palms against soapy clothes that filled a bucket. She shouted at some kids who were following us. They scattered like birds.

  A group of men sat by one gutter, small cups of clear liquid, probably rice liquor, between them. Their Southern accents floated lazily on the heat. They stopped talking as we went by. Lifting their faces, they followed us with sleepy eyes.

  We hurried past a noodle seller whose gigantic black pot and red-coaled stove bulged into the lane. Droplets of sweat streamed down Grandma’s neck. Her hair had more white strands than black. She held up a telegram, which contained the address we were looking for. Arriving at our home three days earlier, the telegram’s two simple lines had caused Grandma to faint. When she came to, she insisted that we leave Hà Nội immediately.

  My mother walked in front, carrying a knapsack swollen with dried medicinal plants. Four years after her return, she was still so thin, I feared a strong wind could lift her up and blow her away. The search for my father continued, and her nightm
ares continued. At least we’d just heard from Uncle Minh, but the news might not be good.

  Grandma broke away from me, rushing toward a shack. Rusted tin sheets made up its roof and walls. Scrawled across its rickety door was the number seventy-two.

  We joined her in tapping on the door, calling out for Uncle Minh.

  No sound came back, just the tin sheets crackling under the intense heat.

  “He’s home. Just let yourselves in,” the noodle seller called, standing in the middle of the lane, the children around her, like baby chicks crowding close to a mother hen.

  Uncle Đạt pushed against the door. It collapsed to one side as if about to fall apart, then creaked open. Light gushed into a room, barren of furniture except for a tattered bamboo bed. On its straw mat lay what looked like the skeleton of a man.

  He was on his side, facing away from us. His head was bald and wrinkled. Yellowish skin clung to the bones of his naked back.

  “Minh con ơi!” howled Grandma.

  The man struggled and turned to face us. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken sockets, his chapped lips swollen with sores.

  “Mẹ,” he said. His bony hands reached out. “Mama. You’re here.”

  Grandma stumbled toward him. She sobbed into his trembling shoulder.

  “Brother, oh, Brother,” said Uncle Đạt, embracing Uncle Minh across his chest.

  My mother knelt beside the bed. Uncle Minh’s telegram had told us he was sick, but this sick? He looked twice his forty-one years. The towel beside him was smeared with blood.

  Tears rolled down his haggard face. “Mama, Ngọc, Hạnh, Đạt. I’ve missed you—” His voice was broken by an intense cough. Violent movements ripped through his body.

  We sat him up. My mother patted his back. He shook uncontrollably. Blood oozed from his mouth.

  Grandma dabbed his face with her handkerchief. She caressed him with tender words until the coughing eased. As Uncle Đạt leaned Uncle Minh against the pile of pillows and blankets we’d made for him, Auntie Hạnh stepped back. She turned to hide her face, but I saw her nose wrinkling. I didn’t blame her for forgetting how poverty and sickness smelled; I was only used to it since I’d visited my mother often at her hospital.