Tâm slipped into the bush and was quickly out of sight. Mai retreated to the cashew bush and squatted behind it. She wrapped her arms around her knees. She could no longer see the square, but she didn’t want to. The sounds and smells, plus what she had already seen, were enough.
Rocking back and forth, she tried to think about something other than the unfolding nightmare. The family had bought a transistor radio and they quarreled over it, each wanting to listen to something different. Finally, their father had parceled out times. News for him; classical music for Mama. Mai liked the station from the army base, even though it was broadcast in English. American pop was unfamiliar at first, but the songs were simple, and the throbbing beat was sensual. In fact, the radio, regardless of what was broadcast, had opened up a new world for the entire family. No longer were they isolated farmers and fishermen on the Mekong River, doing what their ancestors had done for centuries. Now, even if they couldn’t join it—there was an enormous world out there. A world full of cities, different cultures, people, and, of course, war.
At fourteen, in fact, Mai thought differently about boys. They’d ceased to be bothersome. They had become mysterious creatures whose attention she wanted. She cared for her hair, making sure it was always oiled and scented with jasmine. She wore her uniform to school and her áo bà ba, her button-down shirt with black pantaloons, in the fields, but at the end of the day she would change into one of the two skirts she and Mama had sewn. She begged Mama to let her borrow her lipstick and mascara, particularly when she thought she might run into the sampan maker’s son. Was this how girls became women?
She wasn’t sure, mostly because Tâm wasn’t like that. Her sister’s nose was always buried in a science book she’d borrowed from the school library. When Tâm wasn’t reading, she talked with Papa about history, politics, and the war. Mai and Mama weren’t interested, but Papa was angry about the American War and their so-called pacification, which, he said, was just another phrase for death and destruction. He wanted the infidels gone. Vietnam could solve its problems by itself.
“But, Papa, we did not reach an agreement with the Communists,” Tâm said, clearly trying to maintain a respectful tone.
Papa shot her a stern look. “If the French and then the Americans had not invaded us, we could have worked it out,” he said. “Bác Hồ is a reasonable man. More than Diệm. Communists love their children too.”
Then, less than two months ago, during Tết, North Vietnam launched a surprise attack on dozens of South Vietnamese cities and American forces. The campaign was long and aggressive, but the North ultimately failed, and they were forced to retreat.
Tết had triggered harsh retaliation from the Americans. Mama worried that war would come to their village. Tâm and Papa assured her it wouldn’t. Their village was small. There was nothing worth fighting over.
They had been wrong.
Now Mai rose and went back to the spot where they had pushed aside the jackfruit fronds. More people now occupied the square, many crying or silent with shock. The heat from the fires baked their faces, and several of the women had fans. Mai spotted her friend Dung among them. They’d listened to the radio together when it was Mai’s turn, and spent long hours spinning dreams of the rich young men who would court them.
Dung wanted to move to Saigon. Everyone was rich there, she declared. “Servants do the chores. The women shop, and their husbands buy them sweets every day.”
Mai’s dreams were more modest. A big house in the village would do. She didn’t mind housework. And she wanted children of her own. Lots of them.
All at once, Mai sucked in a breath. Her mother had just appeared in the square. She was carrying her brother, Sáng. He was sobbing. He had to be confused and frightened by the fires, the noise, the invasion of strange white men. Her mother’s lips were stretched tight, the way they did when she was angry and about to mete out a punishment for misbehaving. Behind her was a soldier, his rifle poking her in the back.
Mai hugged her arms across her chest. Craning her neck, she tried to spot Papa, but there was no sign of him. Maybe Tâm was right. Maybe he was hiding in the bush, waiting for the Americans to leave.
Mama sat down with Sáng in her lap and rocked him. That did nothing to soothe him, so she gathered him to her chest and rested his head against her shoulder. Mai could see her mother’s lips move. She was probably crooning a lullaby. Mai’s throat closed up, and a deep longing came over her. She wanted to be with them, wanted Mama to sing her a lullaby. She belonged with her mother. But who knew what the Americans were going to do? Tâm said they were better off in the bush.
When it happened, Mai didn’t believe it. Three soldiers guarding the villagers in the square whipped around and trotted in the direction from which Mama had come. Someone yelled out in Vietnamese, and once she heard the voice, she knew whose it was.
Papa was shouting in English. “Yankees go home! Uncle Hồ warn us. You evil!” The people in the square stirred, murmuring among themselves, some with fearful expressions, others in horror. Two women shook their heads. Where had Papa learned English? The radio? Meanwhile the three GIs ran toward him. A spray of gunshots crackled and spit. Her father’s rant suddenly stopped.
A chorus of wails went up from the villagers. More soldiers rushed over, aiming their rifles at the crowd and screaming. “Hands up, you bastard gooks!” one soldier yelled. “Get your fucking hands up! Any more VC here? Better tell us now!” Mai didn’t understand the words, but when he pantomimed throwing his arms above his head, she got the gist of it.
The soldiers who had left the square returned, dragging a body between them. Papa! His face was bent at an odd angle to his body. Which didn’t matter much, because most of it was blown away. His gut oozed blood, and his lower parts . . . Mai watched in a daze, as though she was in the middle of a horrendous but riveting play and couldn’t look away.
When Mama saw Papa, a cry of revulsion ripped from her throat. Her mother placed Sáng on a neighbor’s lap, jumped up, and hurried toward her father. One of the soldiers aimed his rifle at her and told her to go back. But she either didn’t understand or didn’t care. The soldier yelled out one more warning. She was heading toward the soldiers, one arm waving, the other tucked in the folds of her pajamas. Mai saw her withdraw a knife. The GIs saw it too. There was another rat-tat-tat of bullets. Mama fell to the ground, blood flowing from her head and ears. Horrified, Mai clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Where’s the kid?” a soldier yelled. The woman cuddling Sáng kept her mouth shut. Mai realized when the soldier’s eyes focused on Sáng that the soldier meant her brother. She didn’t know what to do. She should try to rescue him. But she was frozen, paralyzed by fear. Where was Chị Tâm? The soldier shouted again in a mix of English and Vietnamese, more urgent this time. “Where’s the little VC bastard?”
One of the women in the square pointed Sáng out. Chi, the village gossip. No one liked her. The Americans grabbed Sáng, whose terror temporarily silenced him. The soldier took him away from the crowd, out of sight. Another shot rang out. Mai’s heart cracked.
But the shooting wasn’t over. Papa’s outburst had released something in the crowd. They must have been fueled with sudden courage, because they got to their feet, raised their fists high, and shouted at the GIs. Some repeated what Papa had said. Others protested their treatment of Mama, Papa, Sáng, their presence in the village, the invasion of their country, their very existence. Joined together in one angry mass, the crowd swarmed toward the Americans. The soldiers were taken aback, and, for a moment, there was no reaction. But then one of them—their leader? Mai wondered—barked out something even she could understand.
“Fire!”
The soldiers raised their rifles, aimed at the villagers, and shot them all. Bodies fell where they were, fists half raised, expressions of anguish. A minute later it was silent.
The horror. The flies. The heat. Mai vomited on the floor of the jungle.