The Mountains Sing(43)

While doing the last button, I cocked my head. I heard voices and the sound of running feet.

“?? ??o ??a ch? c??ng hào!” Screams flooded through my half-open window: To hell with wicked landowners!

Rushing to the window, I pushed my hands against the wooden shutters, opening them wide.

A group of people armed with bricks, knives, large sticks, and angry faces were dragging Minh and C?ng across the yard. In their brown farmer clothes, my brother and son were shoeless, their feet spattered with mud and blood, their shirts and pants torn, their hands tied behind their backs. They were being pulled by the hair as well as their arms. Less than an hour ago, I’d been with them in the rice field.

“Minh, Brother C?ng!” I wailed.

The crowd turned their attention to me.

“Catch her. That’s the rich bitch. The wicked landowner!” a woman shouted, pointing at my face. She had a large protruding forehead and teeth that looked like those of a rabbit. I recognized her as the butcher at our village market. She had a reputation for cheating her customers. Later, much later, I found out that the Vi?t Minh deliberately chose b?n c? n?ng—landless farmers who were fed up or angry with life—to lead the Land Reform movement.

“Kill them all, the wicked landowners!” the mob was chanting. Many of them were pointing their fingers at me.

I turned, picked Sáng up, frantically looking for somewhere to hide. I crawled into a corner, Sáng clutched tight against my chest. My baby. I needed to protect my baby.

The door crashed open. Two men and the butcher-woman charged in. Anger and excitement glinted in their eyes.

“There she is, the bitch!” shouted the woman, baring her teeth. “Get her. Bring her outside.”

Someone grabbed my hair, pulling me up. As I screamed, the woman snatched Sáng away from me. The men twisted and roped my hands behind my back.

“Outside, bitch!” one man roared.

“Look how fat she is. Fat from farmers’ blood,” said the other man.

I was pulled and pushed along the corridor, across the living room. I howled for my children as someone flung me down the five steps. I struggled to open my eyes and saw Minh writhing on the floor.

“M? ?i,” he called for me. Behind him, C?ng’s face was white with fear.

“To hell with wicked landowners!” The mass of people surrounded us, chanting their vicious words, their faces contorted by anger.

My children’s cries rose high above the noise. Through gaps among the moving legs, I saw Ng?c, ??t, Thu?n, and H?nh huddled in Mrs. Tú’s arms.

“Where’s my baby Sáng, where is he?” I screamed.

“Kill them all, the wicked landowners.” The crowd’s rage swallowed my voice.

“I beg you, please let them go.” C?ng bent forward, knocking his head onto the brickyard. “I’m in charge of this household. This woman and her son are innocent. Please . . . let them go.”

I sobbed. It pained me to see my brother shaking. The torn patches of his shirt and pants revealed areas of bleeding flesh.

From the village road, drumbeats started to surge into the yard. The crowd shifted, giving way to children who marched toward us, their hands knocking on red drums clutched against their stomachs. Guava, some of those children had been students of your grandpa. Some had been friends of your uncles and your mother. For sure they would help our family. For sure some of the people around me would help us.

The crowd cheered, and the children got more excited. The thudding of their feet against the yard sent tremors through my bones. I saw the cruel glint in everyone’s eyes. I saw their satisfied smiles. The drummers advanced and lined up in front of us. As the drumming stopped, a boy raised his foot and kicked C?ng straight in the face.

I screamed.

A woman lurched forward, a brick held high in her hand. “Shut up, wicked landlord, or else I’ll crash this down on your stupid head!”

I bowed my head low. When I looked up, chairs were being carried out of our house and arranged into a row between the drummers and us. Some people were led to the chairs. They were Mrs. Tú, Mr. H?i, and the six farmers who worked for us. I begged Mr. H?i with my eyes. He’d rescued me from Wicked Ghost, could he save us today?

A man with a thin face emerged. Dressed like a farmer, but with skin as fair as of those who’d stayed most of their lives outside the sun. He introduced himself as the head of the People’s Agricultural Reform Tribunal. He said he was a farmer, but the way he looked and acted told me otherwise.

The man cleared his throat. “Today is significant for all of us. The Land Reform has arrived at V?nh Phúc Village. For hundreds of years, rich landlords have exploited us poor farmers. Today, we stand up against their exploitation. Today, we’re here to take back our rights!”

The drums rolled and the people shouted, “To hell with wicked landowners.”

“For generations, these rich bourgeoisie ng?i mát ?n bát vàng—sat in cool shadows and ate from their golden bowls—while we, the poor, have had to bend our backs under the sun to work for them and to serve them,” the official shouted.

Drumrolls. Angry screams.

“Now it’s your turn to seek justice.” The man turned to face Mrs. Tú, Mr. H?i, and the workers. “Denounce them. Tell us how they’ve exploited you.”