Back in Da Lat, Tâm walked to Da Lat University. Situated on a hilly area near Xuan Huong Lake, it had been founded by Vietnamese Catholic bishops, and Tâm had attended the Catholic school in her Mekong River village. She had no idea how she would pay for classes, but she was sure the familiarity of a Catholic school was an omen that she should continue her education. She found the central administrative office and waited for the woman at the reception desk to finish a telephone call. While she waited, she browsed through a book with all the educational programs and curricula.
Finally the woman hung up. “How can I help you?”
“I am interested in your degree in agriculture and forest management.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Silviculture?”
Tâm nodded. It was as close as she could get to the study of botany at the university.
The woman looked her over, then shook her head. “Women do not study forest management.”
Tâm ignored the comment. “What are the requirements to apply?”
The woman held up a finger and looked down at a telephone list taped to her desk. She punched in a number. “I have a young woman here who is interested in our agriculture program. May I send her to you?” She listened and nodded. “Right away.”
The woman gave her directions to the agriculture building. When Tâm arrived, a man in khaki overalls and a plaid shirt was typing at a desk. He looked up. “Do you have your transcripts from your last school?”
Tâm shook her head. “I attended a small Catholic school in the Mekong Delta. I—I graduated in 1968,” she fibbed. “I was planning to go to university to study botany, but my village was attacked and my family killed.” That was the truth. She had never returned for the graduation.
The man spread his hands. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do without your records. Can the school mail them to us?”
Tâm equivocated. She didn’t want anyone to know where she was, and giving them a forwarding address for her transcripts was too risky. “No.” She hesitated. “Isn’t there some test I could take to qualify? An entrance exam?”
“I am sorry.” He looked back down at the typewriter and started to peck the keys.
Her shoulders slumped, and she turned to leave. She was halfway to the door when the man said, “Wait.”
“Yes?” She slowed and peered over her shoulder.
“I may be able to find you a job as a farmworker. If your supervisor thinks you have promise, you could audit a class on a provisional basis.”
Tâm turned around and grinned.
Tâm knew as soon as she began working the land that this was what she wanted. She’d helped her father when she was young. Back then it felt like a chore. Now, though, working on a farm about ten kilometers from Da Lat, Tâm loved to coax young flower buds to blossom and sprouts to become vegetables. She loved the smell of warm, wet soil and hot, dry sun. The fields resembled carpets woven from rich hues of green. And, of course, the perfume of fully grown flowers. To choose what species of herbs or vegetables to plant adjacent to each other to control pests. She even liked to weed.
She was creating life rather than destroying it, and she imagined the Buddha was smiling, pleased with the occupation she had chosen. She sometimes wondered if raising a child was in some tiny way similar. She would never have children of her own—she intuitively knew that—but she suspected that mucking around in soil to help seeds sprout and flowers bloom required a similar love and dedication.
After the first year, her supervisor told the Agriculture Department of the university that he was pleased with her progress, so the university allowed her to audit a course at night. It was a good solution. They would permit her to take the exam at the end of the course. If she passed, she would get half a credit. It would take longer to get the degree, but as long as she had work and money for food, she would stay in Da Lat as long as it took. Years, probably. Despite the hostility of Bảo’s mother when she first arrived, Da Lat had begun to cleanse Tâm’s soul.
Still the war dragged on. The U.S. formally exited the fighting in 1973, leaving Vietnam in civil war. The Communists were driving the momentum, and by 1974 the North was steadily gaining territory in the South, installing Communist officials to run the local governments of Southern cities and provinces they now controlled. With their control, though, came demands for higher taxes, loyalty tests, and increased conscription. Anyone who dared to side with the Saigon regime was captured, imprisoned, and sometimes executed.
In November of 1974 four officials from Lam Dong Province visited the farm where Tâm, who was one of five farmhands, worked. The bureaucrats lined up all five and demanded their names, place of birth, names of family members, and how long they had been in Lam Dong. The four other farmhands were local, and their responses did not cause concern. Then they questioned Tâm.
One official asked how she had come to Da Lat. Why had she not returned to the Mekong Delta? She told them about the American massacre of her village. Another asked what she had done after the massacre. She told them she’d worked at the Saigon Café and then spent time at the Cao Đài temple. She didn’t tell them she fought for the Communists. How did she get her limp? another asked. She told them she was injured during a bomb blast in Cholon.
Forced to repeat her answers three times, she was as suspicious of them as they were of her. How much did they know about her? Had General Minh tracked her to Da Lat? Was this a trap? Was she on the verge of arrest? She tried to hide her fear, but her throat closed up, and her voice caught in her throat. The officials scowled, and she thought they might take her in. But the owner of the farm, Chú Dũng, told them it was the middle of the growing season and he needed her. The officials, whose expressions indicated they were irritated, said they would come back after the harvest.
Five minutes after they left, Chú Dũng crooked his finger at Tâm. They went into the greenhouse, where the seeds were raised. He shooed out his wife, who was watering. When they were alone, he said sadly, “You know what I am going to tell you.”
Tâm nodded. “I hope I have not caused you trouble.”
“We will be fine. My brother-in-law works for the province. But you cannot stay.”
“I understand.”
“Is there something in your past you do not want to tell me?”
She looked down.
Chú Dũng let out a breath. “I do not know when they will be back. It could be tomorrow. It could be never. If they do return, I will tell them that you left the day after they questioned you. That I hardly knew you. And that I am grateful they came. That you were clearly a disloyal citizen and you needed to be ‘weeded out.’”
“Yes, of course.”
“Pack your things. I will tell the university.” He paused. “But see me before you go. Every farmhand who works as hard as you deserves a bonus, and you have been one of my best.”
Tâm’s heart filled with gratitude. Despite the horrors of this war, despite the fear that now wrapped around her, a few generous souls still clung to their humanity.