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 nightmares 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.
Uncle Minh’s tired eyes acknowledged me as I fed him some water. I felt a silent cord that bound us. The cord of our ancestors’ lullabies that once Grandma had sung to him, and then to me.
“Hương, my daughter,” my mother introduced me, and my uncle’s eyes lit up. He opened his mouth, but my mother begged him not to speak. She told us not to ask him questions for now. Holding his hand, turning the palm up, she pressed her fingers against his wrist, feeling for his pulse.
Grandma tried to relieve us from the scorching heat with a paper fan. It was just mid-morning, but the sticky air clung to our skin. The tin sheets continued to crackle as if ready to burst.
“You’re in good hands, Son,” said Grandma as my mother reached into her knapsack. “Ngọc is an excellent doctor. You’ll be better in no time.”
My uncle nodded, the corners of his lips lifting. He gripped Grandma’s arm, as if never wanting to let her go.
My mother placed her stethoscope on Uncle Minh’s chest. She closed her eyes, listening as if her life depended on it. She checked his eyes, nose, mouth, throat, and back. When she was done, her face bore no expression. Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the stethoscope, returning it to her knapsack.
“You must be in terrible pain,” she told Uncle Minh. “How about a shot to relieve you from it?”
He closed his eyes to say yes.
She wiped her hands with the alcohol she’d brought along and administered an injection to his thin arm. “Please . . . don’t talk yet. I’ll brew a pot of herbal remedy. It should clear the mucus in your lungs. But first, you need a good meal.”
Uncle Minh nodded then shook his head.
“Wait.” I rummaged my knapsack, fetching a pen and a notebook.
“Where are Thuận and Sáng?” Uncle Minh wrote.
“On their way,” said Grandma. “Son . . . your sister the doctor says you need to eat. The phở out there smells delicious. Can we bring you a bowl?”
“I’ll get it,” said Auntie Hạnh. She grabbed her handbag and left.
Uncle Minh gave a wrinkled banknote to Uncle Đạt. “Ice seller down the lane. Buy some to cool the room?” he wrote.
Uncle Đạt pushed the money back. “Pay me later, once you and I have come home to Hà Nội . . . with tickets to a soccer match.”
Uncle Minh smiled and nodded.
I wondered if my eldest uncle had a family. I studied the shack, but the only thing that told me about his past was the altar—a wooden shelf clinging to the rusty wall. On it stood a statue of a man nailed to a cross. My uncle had become a Christian?
I followed Grandma through the back door, which opened into an area shaded by a thatched roof and surrounded by the tin sheets of the neighbors’ homes. A clay stove sat on the earthen floor, next to a pile of firewood. A large, brown jar stood in the corner, half filled with water.
“There’re so many things I want to ask him.” Grandma cried into her palms. “I don’t understand why he hadn’t sent us any news. He could’ve tried to let me know that he was alive. All these years . . .”
“He must have his reasons, Grandma. He’ll be able to tell us soon.”
Scooping water out of the jar, we washed our faces. I soaked my washcloth, using it to cool Grandma’s back. It pained me to see her bones and the scars inflicted by Wicked Ghost.
Grandma filled a bucket with water. Carrying it inside, I saw my mother sitting next to Uncle Minh, going through a stack of papers. As Grandma entered, she quickly put the papers into her knapsack.
“Ready for a sponge bath?” Grandma asked. Uncle Minh smiled. Suddenly his body jumped with bouts of coughing. Glancing at my mother, I read the worry in her eyes.
The coughing eased. The front door opened, but instead of Auntie Hạnh, a boy came in, carrying a steaming bowl. I thanked him and fanned the phở.
Grandma washed Uncle Minh. My mother unpacked parcels of herbs. She weighed different ingredients, pouring them into the clay pot she’d brought along.
Uncle Đạt came back with a tray full of ice, which he placed next to Uncle Minh. He took the fan from me, flicking it, sending coolness around the room.
At the back of the shack, I kindled a fire. My mother poured water into the clay pot.
“How is he, Mama?” I fed the fire pieces of wood.
She pulled me to her, her lips against my ear. “Don’t tell Grandma yet. Your uncle Minh is dying. Those papers he showed me . . . cancer. It’s spread to his lungs and liver. He was hospitalized for months, but the doctors sent him home, said they could no longer help.”
“But you, Mama, your medicine can do magic.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. The cancer is too advanced. The results of his tests . . .” She bit her lip. “I’ll try, but I think I can only help to relieve the pain of his last days.”
My chest hurt for Grandma. How could she cope with such awful news?
I turned to the fire. Human lives were short and fragile. Time and illnesses consumed us, like flames burning away these pieces of wood. But it didn’t matter how long or short we lived. It mattered more how much light we were able to shed on those we loved and how many people we touched with our compassion.
I thought about Tâm and how his love had brightened my life. Whenever I felt low from missing my father, he’d been there to make me laugh. I wished he were here now to hold me and tell me everything would be all right.
The medicine bubbled, its thick scent woven into the air. My mother reduced the heat.
Uncle Đạt came out, dousing his face in water.
“Is Hạnh back?” My mother squinted her eyes against the smoke.
“Not yet,” my uncle whispered. “I saw her chatting out there with the neighbors. She must be asking them about Brother Minh.”
Inside, Uncle Minh was once again Grandma’s child, opening his mouth as she fed him the noodle soup. He chewed with difficulty and winced as he swallowed, but his eyes glowed.
While he ate, Grandma told him briefly about her walk to Hà Nội. We had a wonderful house, she said, and as soon as he was well enough, she’d bring him home.
She talked about Uncle Đạt, his happy marriage to Auntie Nhung, and their three-month-old baby who was chubby like the Laughing Buddha. She didn’t tell him how much we’d feared the little boy would have problems. The first thing Grandma did after the baby’s birth was to count his fingers and toes. When the doctors said the baby was perfectly healthy, Grandma brought her forehead to the hospital’s floor, thanking all the Gods she’d prayed to. Uncle Đạt and Auntie Nhung named the baby Thống Nhất, which meant “Unification,” a fiery wish of many Vietnamese from North to South throughout the war.
Grandma told Uncle Minh about my mother’s well-respected positions at both the Bạch Mai Hospital and the Institute of Traditional Medicine. She didn’t tell him, though, that my mother had taken Grandma and me on a trip. In front of my baby brother’s grave, she wept as Grandma and I chanted prayers, blessing his soul with peace. It was Grandma’s turn to sob when we arrived at Trường Sơn Cemetery, where Uncle Thuận had been laid to rest with thousands of other soldiers. Rows of graves stretched to the horizon, as far as our eyes could see. Many of those graves were marked “Unknown Soldier.” I’d wondered that day whether one of them held my father’s bones and his love for me, the love that I knew would not stop burning, even when buried under the cold earth.
Grandma told Uncle Minh about Uncle Sáng steadily climbing the Party ladder, that he was now an important official in the Central Propaganda Department. And about Auntie Hạnh and her family doing so well in Sài Gòn.
Uncle Đạt went out to get more phở for all of us, which I ate, sitting on a straw mat spread on the floor while listening to Grandma. She now went on and on about the good marks I’d gotten from my first year at university, and that local newspapers had published some of my poems. She talked about Tâm, who was working toward a degree in agriculture and had been my boyfriend for three years.
“I gave him a hard time at first, but he earned my trust,” she told Uncle Minh. “You’ll like him, surely. He comes from the middle region, like us.”
Uncle Minh looked truly happy for me. Some color had returned to his face. He scribbled in the notebook.
“About me?” Grandma laughed and said she was doing fine, that she liked her job trading in the Old Quarter. She’d made many friends and had many more regular customers.
My uncle raised his arm, smoothing the wrinkles on Grandma’s face. The hard work had made her look much older than her fifty-nine years of age, though she was still a graceful woman. Through the years, I’d seen men coming to our home. Grandma had sent all of them away with her indifference. I knew the river of her love for my grandpa had never stopped flowing, and I saw how I’d turn out like her and my mother, loyal to one man.
“I’m perfectly happy now, having found you.” Grandma rested her face against her son’s hand. She tilted the bowl, pouring the rest of the soup into the spoon. “Well done, my child. Finished.”
Uncle Đạt and I insisted that Grandma eat. She joined us on the straw mat. I went to the bed, picking up the fan. My mother came out of the cooking area, asking Uncle Minh to take a nap. He shook his head and held up the pen. “Ngọc, tell me about Hương’s father?”
My mother sat down and massaged Uncle Minh’s legs. It was a story I had asked to hear many times. “I met Hoàng when I was eighteen, at the Mid-Autumn Festival,” she began.
It was a magical night, the sky adorned by the full moon. Around the Lake of the Returned Sword, thousands of paper lanterns lit by candles gathered for a parade, their lights bobbing like scales of a dragon to the rhythms of songs and drumbeats. My mother, too old to carry a lantern, chased her friends, racing past the lit-up figures of stars, animals, flowers. As her friends disappeared from her sight, she ran faster and tripped on a sharp rock. She fell, blood gushing from her foot.
She cried out in pain, but her voice was swallowed by the songs and drums. No one seemed to notice her. As she grew desperate, a young man emerged from the mass of people. He knelt down, took off his outer shirt, tore it up, and bandaged her foot. He brought her home and on the way, he made her laugh so hard, she forgot about the pain. They’d been inseparable from then until the man—my father—joined the Army.
I showed Uncle Minh the Sơn ca. “My father carved this for me.”
My uncle studied the bird. “It’s beautiful. Where did your father fight?” he wrote.
“I don’t know. We never got a letter from him.”
“I gave up looking for Hoàng,” said my mother, “but recently there was this story in the newspaper. A soldier had been injured in an explosion and lost his memory. At the beginning of this year, he listened to the radio and heard a poem about the river that runs through his village. The poem evoked such powerful emotions that he remembered his way home. His family had no news from him for nine years, and then he turned up. Can you imagine how happy they were?”
I thought about the work I’d published. I longed for my father to read it and find his way back to us.
Auntie Hạnh appeared. Uncle Đạt met her at the door. She told him something and he frowned. I was desperate to know what was going on, but didn’t want Uncle Minh to see us whispering.
Grandma returned to the bed. “Get some sleep, Son. We’ll talk more later.”
Uncle Minh nodded, but the pen scribbled across the page, “Mama, how are Grandma Tú, Mr. Hải, and his son?”
“Mr. Hải and his family are fine. They can’t wait to see you. As for my beloved Auntie Tú . . . I’m sorry, Son . . . she died by the time I could return to our village. People said she’d committed suicide, but I don’t believe it.”
Uncle Minh gripped the pen tight. “You think someone killed her?”
“Yes, to take over our land. She was defending it so fiercely.”
“Those evil people, they’ll rot in hell.” The pen trembled in my uncle’s hand.
“What about Brother Thuận, Mama?”
Grandma was distraught. As my mother held her, I talked about the bombings and the two soldiers who’d brought the news of my youngest uncle.
“Thuận, oh my little brother . . . ,” Uncle Minh howled. He thumped himself in the chest. He reached for Grandma’s hand, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Mama, I’m sorry. You’ve suffered so.”
“But my life is filled with blessings, too,” Grandma choked. “It was a great blessing when I received your telegram. How did you have my address, Son? And why didn’t you contact me any sooner?”
Uncle Đạt and Auntie Hạnh stood beside me, anxious for the answers. Uncle Minh wrote something, only to blacken it with the ink. He flipped to a new page, only to hold the pen with his eyes closed.
I flinched when he threw the pen and the notebook onto the bed. He struggled to sit up, then crawled toward Grandma. He kowtowed to her, his head touching her feet. “Mama . . . forgive this useless son.”
“Minh.” Grandma reached for his shoulders, pulling him to sit up. “If someone is to blame, it’s me. I failed to keep our family together.”
“But I haven’t—” Violent coughing interrupted my uncle. He clutched his chest as my mother patted his back. Once the coughing eased, she gave him some water.
My uncle nodded his thanks. He peeled away a corner of his straw mat. Underneath was a swollen envelope. With both hands, he gave it to Grandma.
I leaned forward, catching a glimpse. “Gửi Mẹ Trần Diệu Lan, 173 Phố Khâm Thiên, Hà Nội.” The envelope was addressed to Grandma. There was no sender’s name.
Uncle Minh picked up the pen. “I wanted to send it by post, but feared it’d fall into the wrong hands. Please, read it together,” he wrote.
“We’ll do that as soon as you’ve drunk your medicine.” My mother looked at her watch.
As Uncle Đạt adjusted the pillows behind Uncle Minh’s back to help him sit up straighter, Grandma stared at the envelope without opening it.
My mother returned, in her hands a bowl of black liquid. I winced at its smell. She fanned the liquid to cool and brought it to Uncle Minh’s lips. “It’s bitter but it will help.”
He took a sip, then shuddered. He drew his head back, sticking out his tongue, shaking his head.
“Brother, please, you have to drink all of it,” said Uncle Đạt. “Ngọc’s treatments did wonders for me. I drank at least fifty pots of her brew and look how strong I am.” He flexed his upper arms, which bulged with muscles.
Uncle Minh chuckled, coughed, then took a deep breath. He pinched his nose, swallowing the medicine in small gulps. Finally, he finished the bowl. We clapped.
“Now, you must rest.” My mother helped my uncle lie down. “Sleep. We’ll talk when you feel better.”
We sat in a circle on the floor, far away from the bed. “Keep your voices low,” my mother said.
The envelope stayed still in Grandma’s hands. Auntie Hạnh reached for it. As she opened the flap, pulling out the pages, an old-looking envelope slipped out.
A smaller letter. It was also addressed to Grandma, but bore the sender’s name: Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận—my dead uncle.
Grandma’s eyes flew open. “It’s Thuận’s handwriting. Oh, my son, my son!”
My mother held on to Grandma’s shoulders as I became dizzy.
“How the hell did he get this?” Auntie Hạnh voiced the question that was running wild in my mind. Uncle Đạt eyed the bed. Uncle Minh had turned away from us, his skin sagging from the bones of his back.
My mother took Uncle Thuận’s letter from Grandma and read it aloud to all of us.
Đông Hà, Quảng Trị, 15/2/1972,
Dear Mama,
On the doorstep of this New Year of the Mouse, I think about you. Oh how I long to be with you, and with my brothers and sisters. How I long to sit next to the bubbling pot of bánh chưng, the perfume of those sticky rice cakes warming our home.
How are you, my dear Mama? How are Hương, Sister Ngọc and Sister Hạnh? Have you received news from Brother Đạt, Brother Sáng, and Brother Hoàng? If you haven’t, don’t worry. They’re strong and skillful. Soon they’ll join me in returning home.
Mama, I heard the bombings in Hà Nội are getting worse. Please take good care and stay in underground shelters. If you can, leave. Go to a village where it’s safe.
I dream about the day when I can come home to you, Mama. All over Việt Nam, hundreds of thousands of mothers are waiting for their sons and daughters to return from the war. Tonight, I see the eyes of those mothers and yours lighting up Heaven above my head.
How are you celebrating Tết this year, Mama? Could you manage to buy sticky rice and pork to make bánh chưng? Do people still sell cherry blossom branches on the streets? Oh I miss watching those red and pink flowers bursting out from bamboo baskets or on the back of peddlers’ bikes.
You would have loved our New Year celebration here in the jungle, Mama. We had a feast today, with fresh fish caught from a stream. You’d have enjoyed the tàu bay wild vegetable I cooked. And can you guess what I found yesterday on my trek? A branch of a yellow mai. Its budding flowers tell me this war will end, that I will soon come back to you. Come back to you and be your child again.
I miss you, Mama.
Your son,
Thuận.
P.S. My comrade is heading for the North on an assignment so I’m giving this to him. Please tell Hương, Ngọc, and Hạnh I’m halfway through my letter to them. I hope to be able to send it soon.
Tears stung my eyes. Uncle Thuận had loved bánh chưng cakes so much that he always insisted that Grandma make them for Tết. With him gone, Grandma had never made them again.
“My poor baby brother. He loved us and he loved his life,” said Auntie Hạnh. She bent forward as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “It’s people like him who killed Thuận.” She pointed at Uncle Minh.
“Hạnh!” Uncle Đạt grabbed her arm, pulling it down. He eyed Grandma, who was cupping Uncle Thuận’s letter to her face.
“He fought for the Southern Army,” my aunt hissed. “I learnt this from his neighbors. So there’s only one explanation, how the letter fell into his hands.”
“Don’t judge before you know all the facts.” Grandma squared her shoulders. She gathered the larger envelope and its unread pages, giving them to me. “Hương, read clearly. Don’t stop until you reach the end.”
Nha Trang City, 16/12/1978
My dear Mama, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, Hạnh, and Sáng,
It’s Minh here. I’m writing this twenty-three years since the day we last saw each other. Believe me, there have been many times when I started this letter, only to tear it apart. There’re so many things I want to tell you, but didn’t know how to begin. How could I pack all my longing for you into the smallness of words? It’d be better for me to talk to you in person but what if I’ll never get to see you again?
Thuận, I got your letter in 1972, a few months after you’d written it. Holding your words in my hand, I laughed since you all had survived the Land Reform, and I cried because you had to fight in this bloodbath of a war. Oh my little brother, how are you now? Đạt, Sáng, Ngọc and Hạnh, did you have to go to the battlefield? Were you injured?
Mama, how did you manage to escape from those murderers? I’m so sorry I couldn’t wait for you and take you with me as I went to the South. If I did, perhaps all of us would be in America right now, living in freedom, as a family. Oh how selfish and cowardly of me to have run away without waiting for you after my escape. As the eldest son in the family, I should have taken care of you. I failed in my responsibility. I’m so sorry.
My beloved family, there’ve been many things that happened since the day that tore us apart. Perhaps I can begin by recalling what happened to Uncle Công and me during that dreadful day. It’s painful to remember, but I must relive those experiences, for they not only changed me but also explain the reasons for my actions later on.
It was a peaceful day, and we had been weeding a patch of rice field, remember, Mama? After you’d gone home to feed Sáng, I worked alongside Uncle Công. Suddenly, shouting voices boomed.
“Someone must have caught a thief,” said Uncle Công, his back bent low above the rice. But the voices were getting closer. When I wiped sweat from my eyes and lifted my head, a group of men and women were charging at us, armed with bricks, knives, large sticks.
“To hell with wicked landowners!” the crowd shouted, their weapons high in their hands.
Uncle Công begged for mercy, but those people overpowered him. As I howled and kicked, they pinned us down, tied us up, beat us, and dragged us toward our village.
I was terrified when I saw you, Mama. You were being flung down the five steps of the front yard.
Fear paralyzed me as I was gagged, pulled away from our home, and paraded around the village. Uncle Công and I had to walk under the rain of rotten eggs, rocks, brick shards, and angry words. Bleeding, we were led to the village river and bound with coarse rope to large trunks of trees.
We knelt, thirsty and in unbearable pain. As I struggled to free myself, Uncle Công leaned over to me. He couldn’t talk, but in his eyes I read his sorrow and his love for me. Nearby, those who captured us had started a bonfire. They laughed raucously as they ate, emptied bottles of rice liquor, cheered, and shouted slogans. They challenged each other to deliver the worst punishment to the wicked landlords.
When the heat of the discussions among the men was intense, they unbound Uncle Công. They demanded that he kiss their feet. When Uncle Công refused, they kicked him, calling him the dirtiest of names. I tried to shrink into a ball when they dragged out a lidded bamboo basket—the kind used for transporting pigs.”
At this, I had to stop. Across from me, Grandma was biting her lip so hard that it was white. I wished I could make the words vanish so that they wouldn’t inflict additional pain on her.
But Grandma’s eyes told me to go on.
“Admit you are a wicked landlord who exploits poor farmers!” one of the men shouted at Uncle Công.
My dear uncle shook his head, and they pushed him into the basket, closing the lid.
Howls gurgled in my mouth as the basket was hurled into the river. “Tell us you’re a wicked landlord and we’ll release you!” the mob chanted as they dunked the basket repeatedly.
I tried to break away from the tree. I wanted to strangle each person there with my bare hands, but the rope held me back. My eyes had been emptied of tears by the time Uncle Công’s lifeless body thudded down on the ground next to me. I wriggled, craned forward, and managed to reach him with my foot. I nudged him repeatedly, but there was no response. As time passed, his body grew cold and stiff.
Dead—my uncle who had taken care of me like a father. Dead—the man who had taught me about kindness and hard work. My uncle was murdered in front of my eyes and yet I wasn’t able to do anything for him.
The men continued to drink and shout their slogans. I was sure they left me alive to punish me in the coming days, for all our villagers to witness. Occasionally, they stood up, went to the tree, and pissed on me. They kicked me and laughed at me. I bit my lip until it bled. I hadn’t known about hatred, even when my father was taken away from me, but now I tasted hatred on my tongue. I vowed to take revenge for my father and uncle as long as I live.
Late in the night the men became so drunk, they crumpled into heaps around the withering fire, their snores and snorts breaking the silence of the hour. I struggled but was powerless against the rope. I lost all my hope as the fire died down.
A soft voice. My heart jumped. Mr. Hải and his son had come for me. They hurried to untie me, then led me onto a road. Everything was dark as coal; I didn’t know where I was.
“You have to leave, Minh. . . run far away. Stay here and they’ll kill you,” whispered Mr. Hải.
“How about my mother, my family? Shouldn’t I wait for them?” I asked.
“I’ll tell them that you’ve escaped, and they, too, should flee. Go now, else they’ll catch you.” Mr. Hải’s hands trembled on my face. “Good luck, Minh. They have a quota of how many people to execute. My son will take you to the national highway. I’m going to your mother.” His footsteps disappeared into the night.
At the national highway, his son’s urgent words buzzed in my ears, telling me to try hitchhiking, to run fast.
After he’d hugged me good-bye, I stumbled along the road. Shouts and drumbeats from afar sent tremors from my head to my toes. I told myself I had to survive. I was nearly eighteen. I could take care of myself. I had to, but a part of me begged to go back home, to look for you, my dear Mama, to look for you, my beloved brothers and sisters.
As I wandered on the national highway, I ran into a Catholic family who were fleeing—Mr. Cường, his wife, and their two daughters. They’d managed to secure travel passes for the national highway and were waiting for their buffalo cart. Looking at my bleeding wounds, cut by the rope, they felt sorry for me. They shared with me their medicine, food, and water. They asked what had happened and offered to hide me inside the cart. They knew it’d be dangerous but decided that God had arranged for them to meet me, and that it was their duty to help.
Turning back to our village and seeing only fear and death, I let those kind people cover me with straw. They surrounded me with bags of belongings and fixed a wooden board above me. As I was pulled away from my birthplace, I felt my limbs were being ripped apart from my body.
After days of traveling, Mr. Cường’s family drew back the board. I emerged into the light to find myself in Hải Phòng, a city Mr. Cường said was around 120 kilometers east of Hà Nội. I looked back at the road we’d just traveled. It was filled with black coal dust. I saw no future for me there.
Mr. Cường told me he planned to cross the border by sea and head south, and I decided to go along. The South meant freedom from the Communists. Once I got settled, I would send news to you and perhaps help you escape. The thought cheered me up.
Mr. Cường was an influential trader who knew quite a few people in Hải Phòng. One of them took us into his home. When night fell, he led us to a deserted part of a river, where a fisherman and his boat were waiting. We got into the boat, flattening ourselves onto the wet floor, and the fisherman covered us with nets and rowed us away.
It was well into the next day when the fisherman removed the net. On immense water stood a gigantic ship, with tiny fishing boats bobbing around it. The ship was packed with people and was about to head south. Mr. Cường’s family had arranged tickets for themselves.
Mr. Cường told me to wait as he went aboard. A short while later, he appeared on the tall deck together with a man in white uniform. He convinced the man that I’d be a strong, good worker.
On the ship, I shoveled coal into burning furnaces. I worked furiously, trying to exhaust myself so I could fall asleep during breaks. There was no turning back, no land in sight, just the wind, the water, the sun.
It took more than a week for us to reach Nha Trang. I left the ship, black with coal dust, but bright with new joy in my heart. I’d found friendship in Linh, Mr. Cường’s eldest daughter. Together we grieved for our lost homes, but at the same time we were excited about the future ahead of us—a future free of terror, we thought.
The Southern government was trying to encourage people to flee the North. They provided free accommodation and means of support to newly arrived Northerners. I stayed with a group of young men in the same neighborhood as Mr. Cường’s family. During the day, I worked as a laborer for a construction project. In the evenings, I attended classes. I wanted to get a good job, earn money, to be able to bring you to the South, my dear Mama, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, Hạnh, and Sáng.
I often found myself wandering around Nha Trang port, staring at the streams of people pouring out of ships and boats. I hoped you had been able to go south like me. I wrote many letters, but found no way of sending them. There was no longer a North–South postal service. No one I knew would risk their lives by going back to the North. Still, the hope for our reunion burned inside of me and gave light to my dark days.
I finished high school, with Linh by my side. I went to church with her and found peace in listening to God’s words. I found new strength in my faith. I was baptized and vowed to be a good Catholic.
But being a good Catholic isn’t easy. God asks me to forgive those who harmed me. But how could I ever forgive those who murdered my father and my uncle and tore our family apart?
I studied hard, got into university, and graduated with a law degree. I specialized in criminal law, determined to help undo injustice. On my graduation day, while my friends laughed, I cried because you were not there to celebrate with me. On the first day that I worked as a practicing lawyer, I didn’t cry, though. I smiled because I knew you would be proud of me.
My job paid well and I was able to borrow from the bank to buy a small house. My first house, can you imagine?
I wish you could have been there at my wedding. Linh looked just like an angel. Our son, Thiện, was born one year later, followed by our daughter, Nhân. You would have loved to meet your grandchildren, Mama. They know you well because I told them stories about you every day. I didn’t ever want them to forget their roots.
The war intensified. Fighting took place on the outskirts of our city, but sometimes artillery exploded in our neighborhood. We lived in fear because anyone could be a disguised Việt Cộng, hiding a hand grenade inside their pants or shirt.
The American government had sent their troops to help, and I was convinced we were going to defeat Hà Nội. Once that happened, the first thing I’d do is to return to our village and find you.
I wanted the Communists to fall, but still, when the draft notice arrived, I was stunned. I looked up at Jesus and prayed to him. I wanted to safeguard the freedom we had in the South, but if I went to the battlefield, I would face death and Linh could be left alone with my children. If I went to the battlefield, I would risk fighting against my brothers and sisters.
My father-in-law came to see me. He said it’d be difficult for me to escape the draft, but he was ready to bribe. Or he would bribe to get me an office job with the government. Our Southern regime, unfortunately, was so corrupt that you could almost buy anything with money. I despised such corruption and didn’t want to support it.
That night, as I tried to make up my mind, I remembered how white the funeral bands were on our heads as we wailed in front of my father’s coffin, how wicked the laughter of those who’d killed Uncle Công, and how bitter the hatred I’d tasted on my lips. And I remembered my vow of revenge.
So, in 1971, I joined the Army of the Republic of Việt Nam, the ARVN.
Oh, my brothers and sisters, I had to be the man who stands up for his beliefs, but I knew then that I could be facing you in the battlefield. Sixteen years had passed, but your faces were imprinted in my mind. If we were to meet each other, would you shoot at me? I wouldn’t. But what if one of my comrades had his gun pointed at your forehead? Would I kill my brother in arms to save my brother in blood?
Those questions were alive in my mind during my four years in the Army. I slipped through the fingers of death many times. And though I never saw you, I often found myself by the side of the dead enemy. As I looked at their faces and inspected their belongings, I feared the worst.
I thought I’d find satisfaction seeing my enemy dead, but the sight only made me empty and sad. I realized that blood that is shed can’t make blood flow again in other people’s veins.
I had expected us to win the war, but the Americans withdrew their troops one year after my oath to fight alongside them. They swallowed their promise to help protect the South from Communist invasion. And our ARVN had been weakened by the weevil of corruption. When the Northern Army and the Southern Việt Cộng won battle after battle, my commander fled with a helicopter. Some of my comrades committed suicide. The rest deserted their posts or surrendered.
The day my hometown, Nha Trang, was taken over, I wept. By then, I’d abandoned my weapons and come home. We dug a shelter at the back of my house for me to hide, but after several weeks living underground as an animal, I crawled out. The radio was telling us that the new government was working toward reconciliation. They asked all former ARVN soldiers to turn ourselves in. They promised not to punish anyone. They sent people who were former ARVN soldiers to our home to talk to my wife and children. Those soldiers said that they’d been treated well; Northerners or Southerners, we were all brothers and sisters now.
Linh and my father-in-law accompanied me when I first turned myself in. We worried I’d be arrested, but the officers who spoke to me were friendly. They asked me to write a report about things I’d done during the war. Afterward, they told me to go home and report back every week for the next three months, and that this was only for administrative purposes. That night, we celebrated. I decided that as soon as my three-month time was up, I would try to find you.
But nothing is certain in life. When I reported to the authorities the next week, I was immediately ushered into a crowded truck, which took me to a reeducation camp many hours away from Nha Trang, high up in the mountains. I didn’t even have the chance to say good-bye to my loved ones.
The camp was a harsh labor prison. We had to clear away bushes and hoe rocky land to turn it into rice paddies. Without medical care and enough food, many people died. Malaria nearly killed me several times. What made me more miserable, though, was the fact that I didn’t know what had happened to Linh and my kids—or to any of you.
The two years at the camp felt like centuries. Upon release, I came home to see my wife and children struggling. Linh couldn’t find a job and had had to sell her jewelry, clothes, and our furniture to be able to keep Thiện and Nhân at school. They were labeled Ngụy—“the Illegitimate”—and suffered extreme discrimination. For the next two years, I wasn’t entitled to my rights as a citizen. I couldn’t work. I didn’t have an ID card. I wasn’t able to vote. Every week for the next many months, I had to report to the authorities.
My father-in-law had built himself a business empire in Nha Trang but lost nearly everything after the war. While I was in prison, his houses, assets, and business were nationalized. He and his wife had to spend one year in the Lâm Đồng New Economic Zone. The mountainous conditions there were harsh, and every night they had to gather and sing songs that praised the new government. One night, my father-in-law grabbed his wife and sneaked out of their hut. They escaped, went home, and dug up the gold ingots they’d buried in their garden. They bought a boat and within the next many months, secretly prepared to cross the sea to America.
It’d be a dangerous journey. “But I’d rather die than live the life of the unwanted,” my father-in-law told me. My wife and children decided to get on the boat. They begged me to come, and I wanted to, but my mind turned to the North. I’d lost you once. I couldn’t do it twice. I had to go back for you first.
Watching my wife and children depart was the hardest thing I ever had to do.
Alone, I returned home. I rented a rickshaw, stood at street corners and waited for customers. I also waited for the moment I could contact you. I kept believing things would soon change, that I could soon travel back to our home village. Unfortunately, prosecutions against those like me continued. If I sent you letters or came back to see you, I would bring you serious harm.
I longed for news about Linh, Thiện, Nhân, and my parents-in-law, but only terrible stories reached me. Stories about boat people being robbed, raped, and murdered by pirates at sea; stories about boats running out of food, water, and petrol, being capsized by storms. I could do nothing but pray.
When I fell ill, I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t serious, that it was only caused by my worries. Then I threw up blood and couldn’t get up anymore. I had to sell my house to finance the treatments.
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 Âm 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.