The Mountains Sing(14)

I stole a glance at Grandma. Every morning she woke up before the sun, standing in long lines in front of government stores. Mostly she returned home empty-handed. If we were lucky, she’d come back with a handful of manioc. Rarely could Grandma get us a cup of uncooked rice, and even then, it was often stale and infested with insects.

Grandma helped Auntie H?nh carry the sack into our shelter. I ran ahead, straightening the straw mat. Putting the sack down, Grandma reached for a bottle of water, handing it to my aunt, who took a long drink.

Rummaging through the sack, Auntie H?nh winked at me. “Look what I have for you.”

A book! T? Hoài’s Adventures of a Cricket.

“One of my favorites.” Auntie H?nh smiled.

“It’s wonderful, at least not a work of propaganda,” said Grandma.

I was tempted to start reading straight away, but Auntie H?nh pulled another package out of the sack, giving it to me.

“Cookies?” I gasped, wanting to rip it open but not daring. I told myself not to show my aunt I was hungry.

“Your uncle Tu?n brought these back for us.” Auntie H?nh stretched her legs. “Cookies from Russia, can you believe it?”

“Tu?n came home for a visit? How is he?” Grandma asked as hope swelled in my chest. Perhaps my parents and uncles would soon be back to see us, too.

“Skinny as a firewood stick, but he brought some good news. He said we’re negotiating with the Americans, to restore peace to our land. Mama . . . on the way here, I heard about the Paris Peace Accords from the public radio’s broadcast.”

“Yes,” said Grandma. “It’s great, but . . .”

“But what?”

“The war will only end once all of our loved ones are home.”

I looked away, the longing for my parents and uncles heavy in my chest. Something that felt like fear churned. Many of my friends had received bad news from the battlefields. Such news ignited more anger. Some boys at my school, those too young to enlist, had cut their hands, using their blood to write letters to the Army, volunteering to become soldiers. I hoped the war was really ending, bringing home my parents, uncles, and everyone I knew.

“Ah, Guava.” Auntie H?nh tickled me. “No sharing?” She eyed the package in my hands.

I tore off the wrapping. The cookies lay in neat rows, each engraved with delicate patterns.

I offered them first to my aunt and Grandma, then ate as slowly as I could, letting each bite dissolve on my tongue. Years later, when a friend asked what sweet food tasted like to me, I thought about those cookies and said: Happiness.

In our makeshift home, Grandma and my aunt seemed to forget about their worries. They chatted about old times, giggling together. Around us, wisps of smoke rose from our neighbors’ shelters, entwining into the red glow of sunset. Out on the neighborhood lane, some of my friends were chasing each other, their laughter spiraling above the smoke. They called me to join them, but I didn’t. With Auntie H?nh by my side, it felt almost as if my mother were back.

That night, I slept between the two women, their soft voices drifting me into a dream. In it, my mother was running toward me, my father alongside her. As I called their names, my mother bent down, scooping me up. She smelled just like Auntie H?nh. My father embraced us both, laughing, saying he’d never let us out of his sight again.

I woke up to find myself blanketed by Grandma’s clothes. It was cold; the moon was out, trembling above the mist. Grandma and Auntie H?nh were clearing away the rubble. They were humming a song. Their voices felt like summer on my face.

Every day, Grandma urged Auntie H?nh to go home, but she stayed and worked. She worked as I went back to school and Grandma to her class. She worked until the debris had been cleared away and our shack built. Thanks to the kindness of those we knew and those we didn’t, we now had a better shelter: rusty tin sheets over bamboo poles. We no longer had to sleep outside in the whipping rain of winter.

Once my aunt was sure Grandma and I would be all right, she wiped her tears, leading her bike out to the dirt path. To prepare for her journey, Grandma had stayed up the night before, cooking a small bucket of rice, pressing the rice into balls, sprinkling them with crushed peanuts and salt. I didn’t know how Grandma managed to find those peanuts; they were as rare and valuable as gold.

We watched Auntie H?nh cycle away.

“Be careful, Daughter,” Grandma murmured, only for her and me to hear. She lifted her face up to the sky, as if fearing bombs would be dropped onto the roads where her daughter would be traveling.

I lost myself in Adventures of a Cricket. I wished I could be Mèn the cricket, leaving his nest to venture out into the world, to see the vastness of nature, meet all types of people, have a taste of independence, cause mischief, and make new friends. In the world of Mèn, there was no war. It seemed only humans waged wars on each other, making each other suffer.

More than a week after Auntie H?nh’s departure, I walked home from school with Grandma, gossiping about my friends along the way. She still didn’t allow me to go anywhere without her; she’d picked me up after her class.

Our neighborhood lane stretched out in front of us, filled with soggy mud, dotted by pieces of broken brick. We advanced slowly, stepping onto whatever brick islands our feet could find. Grandma gripped my hand in case I slipped.

“Bà Di?u Lan,” someone called Grandma’s name. I turned to see our neighbor Mr. T?p waving at us. “Two soldiers came looking for you,” he said. “I sent them to your house. I thought you were home.”