The Mountains Sing(15)

Grandma thanked the man, gripped my hand tighter, and hurried forward.

In front of us stood a yard—our communal washing area—the only place in our neighborhood where we could collect clean water that dripped from a slimy tap. Kids and their empty buckets made up a long line. As we approached, the children sprang up. Abandoning the buckets and jostling each other, they hurtled toward us.

S?n, the boy who won most of our racing games, pulled at Grandma’s shirt. “Grandma, the soldiers asked about you. They—”

“They said they wanted to wait for you,” my friend Th?y interrupted. Several voices buzzed up around us like bees.

“Wait. One person at a time, please,” said Grandma. “Now, where are the soldiers?”

“Over there. Over there!” Several hands pointed at Mrs. Nh?’s shack, which sat across from ours.

I struggled with my plastic sandals. Th?y dragged me forward. Grandma was already rushing ahead. She slipped on the mud, tried to stand, and fell again. When I arrived at her side, two soldiers were already pulling her up. We helped Grandma wipe off the mud, but she brushed our hands away, telling us she was fine.

The soldiers stood tall and thin in their dark green uniforms. One was older, with deep wrinkles around his eyes. The other one was young, as young as the high school boys who’d just left my school for the battlefields.

“D?, xin chào,” the older soldier offered Grandma his polite greeting. “We’re looking for the family of Comrade Nguy?n Hoàng Thu?n.”

Nguy?n Hoàng Thu?n was Grandma’s fourth child. My Uncle Thu?n.

Grandma clutched my hand, leading the soldiers toward our home. The neighborhood kids followed, their whispers mushrooming around us. The older soldier reminded them about their water-collecting duties. They understood his hint and scattered.

“Tell me later . . . about the news they bring.” Th?y breathed her words into my ear before dashing away.

Inside our shack, I fetched a towel for Grandma and spread out the straw mat, wondering whether the soldiers knew my parents and other uncles.

Grandma invited the men to sit. They bowed their thanks, taking off their rubber sandals. I eyed the footwear, appreciating the secret of their sturdiness: my father had told me soldiers’ sandals were made out of thrown-away tires.

Sitting cross-legged on the mat, the men undid their hats, placing them onto their laps. The hats were the color of their uniforms and each had a brilliant gold star on the front. My parents and uncles wore the same when they went south.

Grandma poured some water into the bucket, placing it on the three bricks. I kindled a fire.

She took a deep breath before turning back to the soldiers. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

“It wasn’t that long, Mother,” one soldier said. He called Grandma “Mother,” just like my uncles did.

The soldiers were now asking for my name and my grade.

“I’m H??ng. I’m thirteen and in grade six, Uncles.”

“Ah, you’re tall for your age,” exclaimed the older soldier.

The younger one laid down a dark green knapsack. It looked full, and I hoped it contained a letter from Uncle Thu?n. Grandma had told me there was rarely any postal service from the battlefields, so our best chance of getting some news from my uncles and parents was when one of their comrades returned to the North, bringing us a letter or depositing it into a post box somewhere.

“I must be crazy!” Grandma gave out a sudden laugh. “I’m trying to make tea, yet we have no tea leaves. This has never happened . . .” Her voice quivered with nervousness, but I didn’t know why.

“It’s fine, Mother. We just had a drink at your neighbor’s.”

Grandma fumbled for the water bottle. “Sorry, we only have one cup.”

I turned to the stove, feeding the fire a couple of twigs. It roared, sending tiny sparks into the air. We couldn’t waste such a fire, I told myself, reaching into Auntie H?nh’s sack, groping around for the last handful of rice. This would be sufficient for two bowls of watery porridge. I released the rice into the bucket, watching it slide through a curtain of steam.

The older soldier cleared his throat. “Mother, we heard about the bombing but didn’t think it was this bad.”

Silence followed. I added water to the pot. The fire bathed me in its warmth.

“Mother, we’re here with news about your son, Comrade Nguy?n Hoàng Thu?n.”

“How’s Thu?n? Is he well?” Grandma gripped the hem of her shirt, her fingers trembling.

Instead of answering, both men got up, kneeling. The younger soldier unlaced the knapsack. With both hands, he lifted a soldier’s uniform while the older man held up several letters.

“Mother . . .” They offered the uniform and the letters to Grandma.

“No!”

“Comrade Nguy?n Hoàng Thu?n was brave.” I could only catch these few words. Everything around me spun into a blur. I crawled toward Grandma. She was crying, her shoulders heaving.

“We’re sorry, Mother. Comrade Thu?n was ambushed. He fought courageously.”

Grandma reached for my uncle’s uniform. She buried her face in his clothes. “Thu?n ?i, ?i con ?i. Con v? v?i m? ?i con ?i!”—she wailed his name, asking him to come back to her.

I clung onto Grandma. My Uncle Thu?n was dead. Uncle Thu?n, who’d tossed me into the air and tickled me until I rolled around laughing. Uncle Thu?n, who’d climbed countless s?u trees to pick the ripest fruit for me, who’d made the most beautiful paper kites for me to fly.