The Mountains Sing(12)
We turned onto a rutted road before merging onto the national highway. My father explained that the road used to be called ???ng Cái Quan, built by our emperors and upgraded by the French to serve their colonial needs. At occasional checkpoints we had to stop to show our travel permit. Stationed by the French, the guards there scrutinized our papers, inspecting our cart, looking for weapons we could be transporting for the Vi?t Minh guerrillas who were rising up against them.
My father knew how to handle those guards, and soon I relaxed. The highway was almost empty at this hour. For the long while that we traveled, we only passed a cart pulled by a skinny cow and a group of farmers lugging baskets piled high with vegetables.
“Just straight ahead and we’ll be in Hà N?i.” My father leaned back beside me.
From afar, a rooster called out his morning greetings. Daybreak gleamed on the horizon. The rain ceased, leaving a thick mist in the air. Large bushes lined up along the roadside, their silhouettes looking like gigantic animals ready to pounce.
The cart climbed onto a hilly part of the highway, where I cast my eyes beyond the thick lines of trees, beyond emerald rice fields, toward clusters of houses with wisps of white smoke unfurling above their roofs. Down there, mothers and sisters were preparing breakfast for their families.
I realized no one was living next to the highway, and for us to buy food or water we’d have to turn into village roads that occasionally cut into our path.
The buffaloes whipped their tails, chasing away flies that hovered above their fat bottoms. I loosened the ropes, thinking that once I returned home, I needed to take my whole family across this vast countryside.
“Di?u Lan . . .” my father said just as my eyes widened at the sight of a commotion ahead. Where trees had thinned, I could see a group of houses burning like torches and columns of black smoke funneling into the cloudy sky. I heard the wails of women and children, the screams of men, and shouts in a strange language. I pulled the ropes hard. The buffaloes stopped, craning their necks, listening.
I turned to my father. Fear had frozen on his face.
“Japanese. Japanese soldiers,” he mumbled with unblinking eyes. I glanced back at the burning village. Men were marching out of its glow, toward the highway, their bayonets held high.
“Go back! Go back!” My father snatched the ropes from my hands.
The cart quickly turned.
“Look, Papa, look.” I pointed ahead.
A large shadow was creeping along the road, bayonets gleaming like tigers’ eyes. Sandwiched between two groups of Japanese soldiers, we had nowhere to run, no village road nearby to turn the cart into. I couldn’t see the soldiers clearly yet but knew they were advancing quickly, their footsteps sending tremors onto the road.
“C?ng. Get up!” My father reached into the cart, shaking my brother.
“What’s wrong?” C?ng sprang up.
“Hurry. Take your sister. Hide by the roadside. Choose the thickest bush. Whatever happens, don’t come out until I say so.” My father turned to me. “Go.”
I jumped, fell, and rolled down onto the mud-spattered road, the nón lá crushed beneath me, crackling like hundreds of cockroaches being popped. Crouching down, C?ng dragged me toward a deep trench that ran along the roadside and pulled me into a bush. I lost my sandals in the trench. Thorns burrowed into my naked feet. Twigs dug into my scalp. I bit my lip, desperate to stay silent.
Holding our breaths, we watched our father from tiny gaps among the leaves. He’d spun the buffaloes around. At his order, the animals advanced toward Hà N?i. Following C?ng, I crept from one thick bush to another. We stayed low, letting the sounds of the buffalo footsteps guide us.
The thumping of the buffalo hooves softened. From our hiding place, I could see that the first group of Japanese soldiers had gathered on the highway, blocking my father’s way, while the second group was coming up from behind.
My father approached the first group.
“Stop! What’s in that cart?” a man roared in badly accented Vietnamese. He looked almost like a local except for the way he’d tucked his pants into his high boots. Somebody must have punched him in the eye, for it was swollen and black. He was carrying a rifle, as well as a sword.
“Potatoes, Sir. I’m taking potatoes to Hà N?i.” My father’s voice was calm and polite.
“Hasn’t your mother taught you manners?” the black-eyed man shouted. “You Vietnamese must bow down to us. Bow, bow down low!”
C?ng held me tightly in his arms. “Don’t make any sound. They’ll kill us.” He cupped his palm against my mouth.
My father got down from his cart, bent his body low, and bowed to the Japanese.
My eyes darted toward the second group of soldiers, who were reaching the cart. They were dragging several young women by their hair. The women’s shirts and pants were ripped, exposing pale breasts and upper legs. Blood was running down their inner thighs.
“Show us what you have in that cart.” Black Eye flicked his fingers.
My father lifted up the cart’s back door, heaving away the wooden board. Black Eye and several of his comrades inspected the cart’s contents.
“Sir, these potatoes are for my customers in Hà N?i.”
“Damn your customers!” Black Eye lifted his rifle and aimed at the inside of the cart. Torrents of bullets deafened my ears. Potatoes jumped from the cart like injured fish. The remaining soldiers threw back their heads, laughing raucously. I tasted blood on my tongue; I’d bitten into my lip.