A Vietnamese Family Chronicle

by Nguyen Trieu Dan

  We lived in the Phat’s house for nearly a year. Our situation was difficult. Separated from her husband and her eldest son, my mother could only rely on the help of myself and my two teenaged sisters. Our savings in gold, silver and jewelry were taken by French soldiers when they entered Kim Bai. Our financial plight was at times desperate. We had enough rice but could hardly buy any meat and, some days, we even went without that essential ingredient in Vietnamese food, fish sauce. Our meals usually consisted of rice and boiled water spinach, the staple diet of the poor, with from time to time an additional dish of small fish cooked a la casserole and made very salty, so that less of it was consumed. “We are fortunate to have enough rice to eat,” my mother would say to comfort us. “Many refugees have to mix potato or manioc with their rice.” Returning from the market, she would sometimes take the three of us grown-ups aside and tell us that she could only get a little meat, therefore we should leave it to great-grandmother and the younger children. On rare occasions when there was meat for everyone, what a change a morsel of boiled pork dipped in fish sauce made to a meal! An ancestor of mine was so poor that only at a special festival like Tet could the family afford a dish of meat. While other members happily enjoyed the meat at the beginning of the meal, he kept his portion until the end. “Let me give you this advice,” he told them. “By having meat with your last bowl of rice, you would get the impression of eating the whole meal with meat.” I did not follow my ancestor’s advice, but certainly wartime scarcity helped me understand his message a little better. The Phat’s thatched house had only two rooms. We had use of the larger one. Our hosts moved into a smaller room on the side. We were nine and our stay was long, but their welcome remained the same as on the day of our arrival. They helped us as much as they could. Faithfulness and constancy were virtues most valued in our culture. Although circumstances had changed-they were members of our household before, now we were refugees relying on their hospitality-their attitude towards us remained true to the precept “One and the same, now as before.” In Sao and in neighboring villages, people opened their arms to refugees like us. Very quickly we were made to feel safe and at home.

  From Sao, I often had to cross the Hat to go back to Kim Bai. That year in the rainy season, the Hat turned into a huge and threatening river. Because of the hostilities, the dam upstream was not properly manned. Boats were not quite safe during the day as they could be spotted and machine-gunned by French planes. People had to wait until evening to cross, except for the villagers of Sao, who just swam over, using their special style of swimming known as “standing up.” Taking off their clothes on the river bank, they folded them neatly in a pile and put them on their heads. They, went into the water with one hand on the pile keeping it steady and swam with the other arm, kicking with both legs, body being kept vertical and head above water. On reaching the other side, they put their dry clothes back on and went about their business. It was a fast and most convenient way of crossing the river. I tried to learn it but could never quite keep my body vertical. So I had to use other less specialized style of swimming. The problem, however, was the clothes. It meant that I could cross the river only with someone from the village who could hold mine as well as his. Besides, the river was wide and the current strong. It was safer to have company. My own forte was the backstroke and I could swim for hours on my back. But in a flood-swollen river, that was by no means the best way to swim. For one thing, I could not see what was coming towards me. The river was full of logs, branches and debris of every kind. I had to rely entirely on the directions of my companions who, with their heads above water could see what was coming towards us. Once, however, we got caught in a big clump of marsh weed and were in serious trouble as the weed slowed down our movement and the clump carried us farther and farther along downstream. We finally managed to reach the other bank, exhausted and miles away from our intended crossing spot.

  During the time in Sao, my family was engaged in various enterprises to provide us with some income. My mother made cakes for our hostess, Mrs. Phat, to sell at market. We raised silkworms to produce cloth for the family. It was an absorbing occupation; we could really see the worms growing before our eyes and in no time they became cocoons of silken threads. We put the cocoons in boiling water to unwind the threads, which took on a golden color. The whole courtyard was filled with their pungent smell. After the silk had been removed, the chrysalis was not thrown away; when grilled, it became a tasty and nutritious tidbit. Food was scarce during the war and I well remember the thrill of having grilled silkworm chrysalises in my pocket, still warm from the fire. But silkworms were extremely delicate creatures and so many things could go wrong with them. The weather might be too hot or too cold; they might be exposed to rain or draughts. Accidents were all too easy and one’s hard work might be destroyed in an instant. Of all the problems, the most pressing was to provide enough mulberry leaves for the worms when they reached the final stage of growth before spinning their silk. It was then that they ate noisily and gluttonously and even a room with only a few baskets of worms would sound like a roof under heavy rain. I was responsible for the supply of leaves, but despite planning, something unexpected always happened. If they did not get enough food, the worms would die or at best be unable to produce much silk. The pressure and urgency were great. I had to rush from village to village and, at times, even venture fairly near the front line to buy the leaves.

  Our main-and most successful-enterprise was making conical hats. My sisters Trang, Giang and I went to the canton Chuong to learn how to make the hats with Teacher Hien’s wife. Teacher Hien was for several years our house tutor in Hanoi, hence his title of teacher. At the time he was studying for his baccalaureate or final secondary school examination. After many sessions without success, he married and returned to his village, Chuong. Coming from a well-off family, he led a comfortable life even during the war. Chuong was, at that time, still some distance from the front line. Teacher Hien always offered us good hospitality and good meals, which meant a lot in wartime. He was also glad to have someone whom he could trust, to talk to about the war and the way things were going in the country. People like him were considered as intellectuals by the communists and had to be careful of what they said and to whom they said it. I was, however, his former pupil and as close as a family member. He and I used to stay up talking late into the night. Soon, my sisters and I became quite proficient at making conical hats. I made the bamboo frame on which my sisters then sewed the latania leaves. We manufactured hats of a nicely balanced shape and with a smooth and shiny surface, for my sisters only used good latania leaves and were careful not to break them when they sewed. We produced between ten and twenty hats each day. They sold quite well. The money earned helped to buy meat and other luxuries such as sugar, soap and medicine. My grandfather had not shown much interest in our hat-making activity. But one day, he came to visit with great-grandmother and sat down for a while to watch us work. He did not leave until he had seen some latania leaves and a few sticks of bamboo transformed into a pretty hat, ready to be worn. Not a man prolific with compliments, he had high praise for our workmanship and described our products as “artistic.”

  Often, I travelled to remote areas to buy latania leaves and to sell hats. Hostilities had pushed the markets deeper into the hinterland of the west and some were meeting, under tree cover, at the very foot of the hills. I had always wanted to go to those hills. Standing on the dike of Kim Bai and watching the western mountains turn purple against the glow of the setting sun, I had dreamed that someday I would find myself in the highlands retracing the steps that, millenniums ago, our Viet ancestors had taken to go down and settle in the delta. But I never was able to go that far, only to the foothills of the mountains. The region I went to was some distance away from the front line and ground action by the French was not a threat. However, bombings and strafings were daily occurrences. Anything that sounded like a plane would send people running for cover. What was feared most were sud
den attacks by paratroopers dropping down from the sky and giving one no time to flee. Yet, in such a tense situation, villages we went through offered friendliness, reassurance and trust. As soon as they knew that our small group came from Kim Bai and Sao, a neighboring region, villagers were all willing to offer hospitality and lend a helping hand. My grandfather was, of course, a well-known public figure, but I found that many people also knew of my father, who had worked in the central administration in Hanoi and not in the provinces.

  We were caught by the monsoon one day as I went on one of my market trips. Our hats and cloaks made of latania leaves were dripping wet before we found shelter at a tea stall. Some people from a nearby village were sheltering there too. On learning that I came from the Nguyen family of Kim Bai, they invited us to stay the night at their place, as rain continued to pour down and soon it would be dark. There was no way we could have gone on to our destination, so we did not wait too long before accepting their kind offer. Their thatched cottage was small with little furniture except for the ancestors’ altar and a wooden platform. We had just settled down when other villagers appeared. Word had gotten around that we were in the village. A well-dressed man of about forty, said that he had met with my father and asked us to be his guests. Not being able to say yes or no, we let the villagers decide for us on what to do. Eventually everyone, including our first hosts, left for the man’s house. By then it was dark. Rain kept falling. We came to a nice and well-lit place, a cottage with a thatched roof over wooden walls and a brick floor. Several wooden platforms could be seen in the room. In front of the ancestors’ altar stood a long narrow table flanked by two wooden sofas, where we sat. The corporal, who led our party, and I were treated as honored guests. It appeared that our host had some matter which came up before the Hanoi City Council many years ago and my father, a public servant at the Council, had dealt with it fairly. Even after such a long time, our host was glad that I happened to be in his village, and he could, in some measure, repay the kindness. As we talked, the sound of chopping knives came from the kitchen and the sweet smell of cooking rice floated towards us. Soon, food was served. On the tray were dishes of boiled chicken meat and giblets, sautéed vegetables, clear chicken soup, pickled cabbage, simple country fare quickly prepared for unheralded guests. In the warm atmosphere of fellowship, we ate heartily, without waiting to be pressed by our hosts as we would normally do. I had hardly had any chicken since our evacuation to Sao. The fish sauce, too, was deliciously tasty compared to the rather cheap sauce that my mother bought for our daily meals. That night, I slept on a platform next to the altar, feeling happy and at ease, just like at home after a good meal. Rain had driven the mosquitoes away and sleep came quickly. Next morning, we got up early, but our hosts had been up earlier and we were treated to another meal before resuming our trip. Those years of war spent in the countryside have left deep marks in my memory: the constant danger, the terrorized shouts of villagers calling on family and neighbors to flee, the humiliation of being defenseless. But I also recall the intense solidarity of people in the country, and the many acts of kindness which filled my heart with gratitude.

  However, my market trips became suspect to the communist authorities. Friendly villagers told us that our group was being followed by the secret police. My mother wanted me to stop, but I managed to continue for a few more times, arguing that if the communists wanted to arrest me, they could always do so, whether I went or stayed at home. Corporal Phat took the precaution of never leaving me alone, for people had disappeared that way, after they were arrested by the police in the absence of witnesses. For more than twenty years, the corporal was in my grandfather’s service. He only returned to live in Sao when grandfather retired. He was not a soldier-the title of corporal was an honorary rank he received-but worked as a civilian in grandfather’s personal staff. He had known me since I was born and liked to tell of the days when he looked after my meals and took me to school. “In spite of the fact that you had an egg every morning, you were so thin,” he reminisced, adding “but you were a very bright boy, I could see that!” He himself was thin and very tall, one of the tallest Vietnamese I had known. I never felt safer crossing the swelling Hat River than in his company, as he was expert in swimming “standing up” style, and was so relaxed and tall that one had the impression he was not actually swimming, but walking on the river bed. Corporal Phat knew well the region leading to the western highlands. He had acquaintances in many villages and we were never short of places to stay. I very much enjoyed the trips made in his company. They gave me opportunities to meet with people and discover more of our countryside, but more and more we could feel the unwelcome presence of the secret police on our tail. Then, one day one of my uncles disappeared. All of us ran frantically from one village to another to find out his whereabouts, but no one could tell us what had happened. After a few weeks, he walked home. The reason given for his kidnap and arbitrary detention was that the police had just wanted to talk to him. After that incident, there was no question of another market trip for me.

  The village life which I knew no longer exists today. Our traditional system had been called a “village democracy.” Under communist rule, the autonomy that villages enjoyed vis-à-vis the central government and their democratic setup have been abolished. The traditional ceremonies and festivals have been abandoned. The communists sought to break up village solidarity by sowing division and hatred among villagers. They were against the ancient ties and traditions which had given each village its distinctive character. Their aim was to destroy village spirit. The village community and the family had been the two pillars of our society. Throughout the history of our nation, these two institutions had cushioned the effects of frequent political upheavals and protected the common rights of our people against excessive encroachments by the government. Now, the communists were out to destroy family and village spirits, so that nothing would stand between the individual citizen and the absolute power of the party apparatus. Children are taught to spy on their parents. Villagers are made to hate one another. But how can a political regime, no matter how dictatorial and ruthless it is, prevail over the Vietnamese family spirit? As for the Vietnamese village, it had existed as a community since the earliest times. Through the centuries, it had developed in response to the needs and aspirations of our people. The communists wanted to impose on it a model of class struggle taken from a foreign ideology. In the long run, they cannot succeed, and I feel sure that the age-old village spirit will one day rise again.

  II. The Source in the Mountains

  8. The Family Chronicle

  The origins of our family went back to the fifteenth century. Our earliest known ancestor lived in Kim Bai, five hundred years ago. From him down to the present time, we have been able to establish a continuous line of sixteen generations.

  The family chronicle kept in our Melbourne home came from my grandfather. It was written in the scholarly or Chinese script. Up to the beginning of this century, the Vietnamese language had two components: the colloquial, used in everyday life and the scholarly, used in government business and as a vehicle for learning. The colloquial language was written with characters adapted from the Chinese. After the scholarly language was abolished in the 1910s, the colloquial one-which, in the meantime, had been romanized-became the “national language.” My grandfather graduated and started his career under the old system. Like other scholars of his generation, he continued to use Chinese script in his writings, in preference to the newer script. Grandfather did not specify when the chronicle was written. I believe it was in the early 1910s, after he had succeeded in tracing an earlier ancestor of the Nguyen, thereby extending the knowledge of our lineage up to the fifteenth century. The text mentioned my father’s birth in 1907, but gave no indication about his next brother, who was born in 1913. Thus, it should have been written between those two dates or, at any rate, not very long after 1913. Two texts of the chronicle existed, a draft in grandfather’s own calligraphy and
the official chronicle of our family in the calligraphy of his friend Duong Ba Trac.