The Mountains Sing(51)

I wanted to tell my uncle not to blame himself but feared I’d interrupt his thoughts. Perhaps he had to untangle his feelings on his own, by talking out loud, so that he could understand how it was to be alive, and to be dead at the same time.

“I’ve been thinking about Thành’s family now that I’m back here in Hà N?i, H??ng. . . . I must visit them. I want to tell them what a unique person he was, but I fear they’ll ask me where his body is buried.

“I can’t fucking remember . . . The bamboo forest was enormous, and we’d made no headstone. There were no nametags on the Northern soldiers I’d seen rotting in forests, on roads, dirt paths, floating in creeks and rivers.

“I could’ve become one of those unknown bodies easily, I swear. Once, I wrote my name, date of birth, and our address onto a piece of paper, stuffing it into the tiny glass bottle of my penicillin antibiotics, and kept it in my pants’ pocket. I was determined not to become another unknown body, you know, but when I crossed a river, the strong current took the bottle away.

“The S?n ca bird stayed in my breast pocket, though. It brought me incredible luck. Until, on one of the last days of the war, I stepped on a land mine. The whole world became blank.

“I woke up in a medical clinic. When I looked down and saw the stumps of my legs, I wished I’d died. What use is a man without his legs? What use is a man who has to rely on others to feed him?”

Uncle ??t picked up the liquor and finished it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, banging the empty bottle onto the table.

“I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m so sorry.”

Uncle ??t turned to me, his face wet with tears.

“I’m sorry, too, H??ng. I don’t know what happened to your father, but I do know that wherever he is, he loves you, very, very much.”





The Walk

Ngh? An-Thanh Hóa, 1955

Guava, I need you to understand why I didn’t tell you about your grandpa, your great uncle C?ng, and your uncle Minh until now. In your schoolbooks, you won’t find anything about the Land Reform nor about the internal fighting of the Vi?t Minh. A part of our country’s history has been erased, together with the lives of countless people. We’re forbidden to talk about events that relate to past mistakes or the wrongdoing of those in power, for they give themselves the right to rewrite history. But you’re old enough to know that history will write itself in people’s memories, and as long as those memories live on, we can have faith that we can do better.

So, what happened that day, after we ran away from the village of our ancestors? . . .

A COLD DROPLET splattered onto my forehead. I opened my eyes to find myself slumped on dew-soaked grass. My five children lay around me, snuggled against each other. Watching their innocent faces, my stomach clenched. My brother was dead. Those who killed him wanted to uproot and erase our family. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to continue carrying the torch of my brother’s life forward, and seek justice for his death one day.

I studied our surroundings, yearning for a glimpse of Minh, but nothing. Young rice plants rolled out their green carpets. Clumps of trees and faraway villages dotted the horizon. Nearby, a stream gushed.

It didn’t look right. Farmers of my region were known to be industrious, always arriving at their fields before sunrise. That morning, though the sun was up, the fields were empty. It must have been the Land Reform that had forced people to abandon their work.

The previous night, we’d run for our lives. We’d heard shouts and cries bursting out of the villages we passed. Torches and flames that lit up the skyline looked like tongues of demons. We ran, stumbled, got up and kept going, until our legs gave way and we collapsed on this patch of grass.

Now hunger pulled me toward the sound of water. I knelt, put my face into the stream, and drank. The pain from my feet throbbed. I’d been pulled away so suddenly and had no shoes on. Thorns had burrowed deep into my soles. Thankfully, all the children, except for Sáng, had sandals.

A wild banana plant stood on the stream’s bank, but it bore no fruit. I searched, but there was no sweet potato, cassava, or other vegetable nearby. I remembered from the Great Famine that the banana plant could keep us alive, though: Peeling away outer layers, I found its white core. Food for my children.

Something moved. A mud crab half the size of my palm. It climbed onto a rock, sunbathing. Quiet as a cat, I inched forward, caught it, and broke it into parts.

As Sáng nursed hungrily, I opened the cloth bag Mrs. Tú had given us. A bunch of bananas, three ripe na fruit, and a handful of sesame seed candies. Their perfume flowered, like her love for us. We had to survive to come back to her.

I nudged the children. Thu?n and H?nh turned away. Ng?c and ??t sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. I led them to the stream. “Wash and have a drink first.”

Back on the patch of grass, I offered them the banana stalk.

“But that’s pig’s food,” said ??t.

“If pigs can eat it, so can we.” I smiled and bit into the stalk. Juicy and crunchy, it relieved me of thirst.

Ng?c took a bite and nodded. “Delicious.”

??t shook his head but gave in, biting down. His face softened as he ate.

I picked up a crab leg, popping it into my mouth. “Try,” I told the children, who shuddered. “It’s going to be a long walk.”