The Mountains Sing

  Now, I am in this shack, hoping to get better, longing to see you and tell you how much I’ve yearned for you.

  So, I have tried to explain the reasons I couldn’t contact you any earlier. There’s another question that must be burning in your minds: How did Thuận’s letter come into my possession?

  It was a miracle.

  It happened in 1972, after a bombing raid. My unit was searching a forest where the enemy had been hiding. Near a bomb crater, I found the body of a soldier whose uniform and hat bore the Communist stars. I searched his knapsack. Among the usual things were a bunch of handwritten letters.

  I was supposed to give the letters to my commanding officer but couldn’t resist going through the addresses on the envelopes. Addresses of villages, districts, towns, cities. Addresses of mothers, fathers, sisters, grandparents. I studied them quickly.

  Suddenly my heart jumped. “Gửi Mẹ Trần Diệu Lan, 173 Phố Khâm Thiên, Hà Nội.” The letter was addressed to you, Mama, and the sender was Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận—my brother. I quickly hid the letter and, once I was alone, opened it, devouring each word. Tears wet my face. For the next years, the letter stayed inside my breast pocket. It gave me hope for another miracle, that I would be united with my family.

  I’d wanted to see you in better circumstances, when I had a job, when I was surrounded by my loving wife and children. But once again, fate has reduced me to a loser, a sick man. A man who has nothing to give, except for his burden of pain and sorrow.

  Mama, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, Hạnh, and Sáng, if you meet me before I die, please find the strength inside of you to look past my pitiful appearance and see a fire inside of me. It burns for you, for our ancestors, and for our village. It burns, asking for your forgiveness. Please forgive me, for I haven’t been there for you. Please forgive me, for I have fought in the war. But I didn’t fight against you, I fought for my right to freedom.

  Always and always,

  Minh

  I put down the letter, exhausted. I couldn’t believe Uncle Minh had decided to become a soldier despite the chance to escape the draft. On the other hand, he’d suffered injustices. And he, like Uncle Đạt, hated the war.

  Grandma pushed herself up, wobbling like a shadow toward the bed.

  “Perhaps he lied.” Auntie Hạnh eyed Uncle Minh, who now wept in Grandma’s arms. “Maybe he killed Brother Thuận. That’s how he got the letter. That’s why he didn’t dare contact Mama.”

  “Thuận said that he was sending his letter with a comrade who was traveling North,” said Uncle Đạt. “That matched with what Brother Minh wrote. Our eldest brother, I know, would never lie to us.”

  My mother’s eyes welled up with tears. “But he did fight alongside the blood-thirsty American imperialists and alongside those monsters. . . .”

  “Sister, it was the stupid war,” said Uncle Đạt. “Remember the Southern soldier who rescued you? And the door gunner who spared my life? Not all those who fought on the other side were bad.”

  My mother bit her lip.

  “Sisters,” my uncle continued, “don’t forget how wonderful Brother Minh was to us. He was the one who defended us from bullies. Remember the guy who used to throw rocks at us on the way to school? And how Brother Minh faced him for us?”

  “He built rafts and rowed us out on the village pond,” whispered my mother. “Once I wanted a gạo flower high up on the tree, he climbed to pick it for me. The branch broke, he fell . . . he fell down so hard. I ran to him, to find him laughing. He said he got a good massage on his bum. He gave me the flower, perfectly intact.” She cried harder.

  “That’s Eldest Brother Minh,” said Uncle Đạt, “He’s our brother. Don’t let anything change that.”

  “Those childhood memories mean nothing.” Auntie Hạnh shook her head. “Even if he didn’t kill Thuận himself, his comrades did.” She looked at her watch. “I can’t stay. The last train is leaving for Sài Gòn in half an hour.”

  “But we just got here,” my mother and Uncle Đạt exclaimed in one voice.

  “I can’t carry the burden of this family a minute longer,” said Auntie Hạnh. “For years I’ve tried to do the best for everyone, but no one cares what I’ve gone through. If Brother Minh is so great, tell him to fight the bullies at my children’s school. The bullies who’ve been calling my kids Bắc Kỳ ngu—“stupid Northerners.” The bullies who’ve been saying that we invaded the South, taking away their parents’ jobs.”

  “I’m sorry, Hạnh,” my mother said. “Why did you never tell us about such things?”

  “You’ve been so lost in your own problems, Sister. And what could you do to help, huh? Everyone thinks I have a perfect life, but life is never perfect. Do you know that because of my past, my husband has to prove his loyalty to the Party time and time again? He’s under watchful eyes. If they find out my brother is a Ngụy, there’ll be serious implications.”

  “Hạnh,” said Uncle Đạt. “I understand how you feel. But một giọt máu đào hơn ao nước lã—One drop of familial blood outranks a pond of water. It’s our brother we’re talking about, and he’s dying.”

  Auntie Hạnh’s shoulders slumped. “As I’ve told you, Tuấn asked me to leave if Brother Minh is a Ngụy. I promised him I would. And I can’t break that promise.”

  Lying on the mat, I hugged Grandma’s back. She’d cried until exhaustion overtook her. I put my face against her shirt. The trembling of her body made my throat dry. She’d tried so hard to reunite our family, only for it to be torn apart again.

  Auntie Hạnh must be on the train. Was she still crying as hard as she’d been when she left us? For years I’d both envied her and wished to be like her, but now I knew I wouldn’t want to be in her position: torn in her loyalty between her family and her husband.

  Uncle Minh’s chest was rising and falling rhythmically. What had run through his mind as Auntie Hạnh said good-bye? I’d expected him to beg her to stay, but he just clutched her hands, smiled, and thanked her. He must have guessed the real reasons for her departure, but didn’t ask.

  I’d feared that Uncle Minh fought for the Southern Army, so his letter wasn’t such a big shock to me. Still, I wondered if he’d faced my father in the battlefield, and if he’d set up those land mines that blew up Uncle Đạt’s legs.

  I wished Tâm were here to tell me everything would be all right. If I could lean on his strong shoulder, even for the briefest moment, I wouldn’t feel so shaken.

  Tâm had always been there for me. He’d unfailingly been the first to read my poems, and he persuaded me to learn English. Under the light of our oil lamp, he’d sat by my side, translating with me the last page of Little House in the Big Woods. And with the book whole again, I could hear Laura’s father sing; somehow her father resembled my own.

  “Tâm.” I said his name and woke up. Uncle Minh and Grandma were still fast asleep. It was late in the afternoon, yet the air was bursting with heat.

  My mother and Uncle Đạt had gone out and now they returned. At the back of the shack, they showed me all the food they’d bought. My mother unpacked a paper bag filled with Western medicine. They’d been to the local hospital, trying to persuade the doctors there to readmit Uncle Minh, but no bed was available.

  Uncle Minh woke up and vomited blood. My mother listened to his lungs and gave him the pills. Grandma fed him porridge. He pinched his nose and drank another bowl of herbal medicine. Grandma stayed by his side, her voice rising.

  “À à ơi, làng tôi có lũy tre xanh, có sông Tô Lịch uốn quanh xóm làng. . . . À à ơi . . .”

  Childhood lullabies. She’d sung them to me.

  Uncle Đạt sat down on the bed. “Brother, what can I do?”

  Uncle Minh touched the wooden legs. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

  “I’m sorry, too, Brother. I should have run after Uncle Công and you. Maybe I could have helped you when you were alone by the river.”

  Uncle Minh shook his
head. He grabbed Uncle Đạt’s hand, putting it on his heart.

  The next day, Uncle Minh was particularly alert. He insisted on talking. There was no word of anguish on his lips, just joyful memories about his childhood, being Grandma’s son and the brother of his siblings. And happy memories of his own family in the South. He insisted that all of us sit next to him, hold his hands, and tell us as much as we could about life in the North.

  When he showed us the pictures of his wife and children, I wept. I gazed at a photo where my uncle had one arm wrapped around my Auntie Linh, who was laughing, and the other arm around my beautiful cousins, Thiện and Nhân. Thiện Nhân meant “good person.” My uncle had tried all his life to retain the goodness he was born with, and I hoped his family succeeded in carrying his hopes and dreams across the ocean and in planting them in the garden of their new home.

  Uncle Minh grew tired. His priest came and prayed for him. “Your son has helped shoulder Christ’s cross through the stations of life, and now he’s free to join Him in Heaven,” he told Grandma.

  I woke up next morning to the sound of Grandma’s sobs. Uncle Minh lay silent in front of her, his body limp.

  I knelt with Uncle Đạt and my mother next to the bed, our hands in front of our chests. Grandma closed her eyes, the stick in her hand knocking rhythmically against her prayer bell. “Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật, Nam Mô Quan Thế m Bồ Tát.” We joined her in the prayer.

  A noise. I turned. The tin sheets rattled as the front door opened, letting in a torrent of light. I squinted at a tall, thin shadow.

  In an instant, I was on my feet. “Uncle Sáng, you’ve come!”

  Grandma enfolded him in her arms.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” said Uncle Sáng, but she pulled him toward the bed.

  I looked out to the road, hoping to see Auntie Hạnh, but only emptiness met my gaze.

  Standing behind Uncle Sáng, I noticed his white hair for the first time. I wondered which strands had turned white grieving for his dead daughter, which ones lost their youth due to his marriage’s breakdown, and which ones changed color due to his fear of the Agent Orange Devil. I hadn’t cared before, but now I wanted to know. And it was time I got to know the undercurrents of Auntie Hạnh’s life, the undercurrents that threatened to pull her away from us.

  When Uncle Minh died, I took my notebook to the back of the house. Squatting on the ground, I wrote for an uncle I’d been robbed of, who was a leaf pushed away from its tree, but at its last moment still struggled to fall back to its roots. I wrote for Grandma, who’d hoped for the fire of war to be extinguished, only for its embers to keep burning her. I wrote for my uncles, my aunt, and my parents, who were helpless in the fight of brother against brother, and whose war went on, regardless of whether they were alive, or dead.

  Facing the Enemy

  Nghệ An, 1980

  I sank into the softness of dry rice straws, the rice straws of Vĩnh Phúc Village. They unfurled around me. I inhaled their faint fragrance and understood why Grandma, when she’d told me her life story, called it the perfume of her sleep.

  Grandma, my mother, and I had arrived in the village of my ancestors earlier this evening. Mr. Hải, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren were having dinner when our buffalo cart pulled up at their gate. They rejoiced and made us join their simple meal. As Mr. Hải scooped rice into my bowl, I was overcome. How could I ever thank him enough for rescuing Grandma from the hands of Wicked Ghost and for saving her life from angry villagers?

  We talked late into the night. Grandma told Mr. Hải about our trip to Nha Trang and about Uncle Minh.

  “I’m sorry.” Mr. Hải’s voice trembled. “I should’ve done more . . . so that Minh could have met up with you somewhere along the way when you escaped.”

  I bit my lip. The turbulent events of our history had not just ripped people apart, they’d imprinted on them a sense of guilt about things over which they had no control.

  “Uncle, you did your best,” said Grandma. “You saved our lives. One day, Minh’s wife and children will return. They’ll come here to thank you.”

  We hadn’t heard any news about Auntie Linh, Thiện, and Nhân, but Grandma believed they’d survived their rough trip at sea, that they would try to find us. I hadn’t told Grandma yet, but Tâm and I were looking into ways to search for them, using their pictures. I wanted to be like Grandma: Never give up hope.

  Grandma had hoped Uncle Sáng would change, and he didn’t disappoint her. Now, he visited our home from time to time. He joined Grandma, my mother, and me in visiting Auntie Hạnh in Sài Gòn. During the last Mid-Autumn Festival, he taught me how to make a star lantern for the Light Parade.

  I held up the Sơn ca, listening to its silent songs. I wished my father could be here right now, to join us in visiting Tâm’s family tomorrow. Wherever my father was, I knew he loved Tâm, too.

  From the living room, the murmurs of Grandma, my mother, and Mr. Hải flowed toward me. “Tâm’s uncle visited me a few weeks ago,” said Grandma. “He told me Tâm would like to marry Hương next spring.”

  Heat rose to my face. We were young, Tâm and I. We still had to finish our education but didn’t want to wait. In Tâm, I knew I’d found the love of my life.

  “That’s excellent news,” said Mr. Hải.

  “I haven’t said yes since we must know more about his family,” Grandma whispered.

  “I have no worries though,” said my mother. “He’s a nice boy, so he must come from a good family.”

  Like my mother, I had no doubt. I could hardly wait to meet Tâm’s parents and sister. I felt anxious about his grandfather, though. I hoped he would come out of his room to meet me and that he’d approve of me.

  “How can he not like you? Everyone does.” Tâm had raised his eyebrows when I told him my concern. “Besides, if he has a problem, he’ll have to live with it. He’s a stranger to me anyway.” Tâm pulled me close, his lips on my ear. “I love you, and you’ll soon be my wife.”

  Closing my eyes, I saw myself drifting down a river on a sampan boat, Tâm beside me. The boat rocked and swayed against the fast current. There were rocks and whirlpools ahead of us, but I felt safe. I knew whatever perils awaited us, we would face them, together.

  A rooster’s crow pierced the earthen walls, pulling me away from the last flicker of my dream. I opened my eyes. I had fallen asleep on the straw nest, but now I was on a bamboo bed, empty but for two sunken pillows. Grandma and my mother must have carried me up here, but where were they?

  Lifting the mosquito netting, I crawled out, changed my clothes, and hurried outside. The night had faded into gray. The air, cold and fresh, glided against my skin.

  A layer of mist lingered in the front yard. On tree branches, birds gossiped back and forth.

  My mother, Grandma, and Mr. Hải were sitting on a straw mat on the floor of the veranda, steaming cups of tea in their hands.

  “What were you doing, Hương? You slept in the straw nest,” Grandma said.

  “I was searching for the perfume of your sleep,” I said, smiling, receiving a cup from Mr. Hải. The tea tasted as fresh as the country air.

  “Perfume of my sleep?” Grandma laughed. “Found it?”

  “Bet the mosquitoes found her first.” My mother studied the many red dots on my legs. She fetched another cup of tea, blew it to cool, and rubbed the liquid on my mosquito bites. The itching eased. I leaned against her, becoming a child again in the warmth of her body.

  The sun rose from a curtain of cloud, painting the sky with a rosy hue, scattering soft rays onto the yard.

  “Everything has changed so much,” said Grandma. “I’m afraid I’ll feel like a stranger out there.”

  My mother finished her cup. She took Grandma’s elbow, helping her stand up. Mr. Hải and I hurried to put our sandals on.

  My feet felt light on the village road I knew so well from Grandma’s story. We passed the pagoda with its roofs curving like the fingers of an exquis
ite dancer, the clanging of its bell rippling in the cool air. The ponds stretched out in front of us, their surfaces as calm as silk sheets. Thick canopies of green bamboo swayed, giving shade to the low houses that lined our path.

  Several villagers greeted Mr. Hải. An elderly lady froze in her path. “Diệu Lan, is that you?” she asked. The wrinkles on her face deepened when Grandma nodded.

  The lady put her baskets down. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about the things that happened.”

  “It’s good to see you, Sister,” said Grandma. “Let bygones be bygones. I wish you all the best.”

  We watched the lady stagger away, her bamboo pole braced across her bony shoulders.

  “She was shouting those ugly slogans and pumping her fists,” said my mother. “I’ll never forget her bitchy face.”

  “Try to forgive and forget, Ngọc,” said Grandma. “If you bear grudges, you’re the one who’ll have to bear the burden of sorrow.”

  Mr. Hải shook his head. “It was appalling, though. Your parents saved her during the Great Hunger. Then she turned her fists on you.”

  We arrived at a dirt road, pocked with holes. “The path to our home,” gasped my mother.

  “Our home, our home,” said Grandma tenderly. Following her gaze, I saw a thick fence guarding a large estate.

  We arrived in front of a gate. I peered inside, expecting to see an impressive năm gian house with five wooden sections surrounded by lush gardens. Instead, my heart sank at the sight of neglect and abandonment.

  “Seven families live here now.” Mr. Hải led us through the open gate. He raised his voice, “Anyone home?”

  Grandma, my mother, and I clung to each other, stepping into the slippery front yard. Once paved with redbrick tiles, it was now punctured by pockets of greenish water and scattered with rubbish. The longan tree was no longer there. Wild grass and green moss had overgrown every possible space and corner.

  And the house! Where were the doors bearing exquisite carvings of flowers and birds, the dark lacquered shutters that gleamed in the sun, the ceramic dragons and phoenixes that danced atop the curving ends of the roof?