The Mountains Sing(95)
“Don’t judge before you know all the facts.” Grandma squared her shoulders. She gathered the larger envelope and its unread pages, giving them to me. “H??ng, read clearly. Don’t stop until you reach the end.”
Nha Trang City, 16/12/1978
My dear Mama, Ng?c, ??t, Thu?n, H?nh, and Sáng,
It’s Minh here. I’m writing this twenty-three years since the day we last saw each other. Believe me, there have been many times when I started this letter, only to tear it apart. There’re so many things I want to tell you, but didn’t know how to begin. How could I pack all my longing for you into the smallness of words? It’d be better for me to talk to you in person but what if I’ll never get to see you again?
Thu?n, I got your letter in 1972, a few months after you’d written it. Holding your words in my hand, I laughed since you all had survived the Land Reform, and I cried because you had to fight in this bloodbath of a war. Oh my little brother, how are you now? ??t, Sáng, Ng?c and H?nh, did you have to go to the battlefield? Were you injured?
Mama, how did you manage to escape from those murderers? I’m so sorry I couldn’t wait for you and take you with me as I went to the South. If I did, perhaps all of us would be in America right now, living in freedom, as a family. Oh how selfish and cowardly of me to have run away without waiting for you after my escape. As the eldest son in the family, I should have taken care of you. I failed in my responsibility. I’m so sorry.
My beloved family, there’ve been many things that happened since the day that tore us apart. Perhaps I can begin by recalling what happened to Uncle C?ng and me during that dreadful day. It’s painful to remember, but I must relive those experiences, for they not only changed me but also explain the reasons for my actions later on.
It was a peaceful day, and we had been weeding a patch of rice field, remember, Mama? After you’d gone home to feed Sáng, I worked alongside Uncle C?ng. Suddenly, shouting voices boomed.
“Someone must have caught a thief,” said Uncle C?ng, his back bent low above the rice. But the voices were getting closer. When I wiped sweat from my eyes and lifted my head, a group of men and women were charging at us, armed with bricks, knives, large sticks.
“To hell with wicked landowners!” the crowd shouted, their weapons high in their hands.
Uncle C?ng begged for mercy, but those people overpowered him. As I howled and kicked, they pinned us down, tied us up, beat us, and dragged us toward our village.
I was terrified when I saw you, Mama. You were being flung down the five steps of the front yard.
Fear paralyzed me as I was gagged, pulled away from our home, and paraded around the village. Uncle C?ng and I had to walk under the rain of rotten eggs, rocks, brick shards, and angry words. Bleeding, we were led to the village river and bound with coarse rope to large trunks of trees.
We knelt, thirsty and in unbearable pain. As I struggled to free myself, Uncle C?ng leaned over to me. He couldn’t talk, but in his eyes I read his sorrow and his love for me. Nearby, those who captured us had started a bonfire. They laughed raucously as they ate, emptied bottles of rice liquor, cheered, and shouted slogans. They challenged each other to deliver the worst punishment to the wicked landlords.
When the heat of the discussions among the men was intense, they unbound Uncle C?ng. They demanded that he kiss their feet. When Uncle C?ng refused, they kicked him, calling him the dirtiest of names. I tried to shrink into a ball when they dragged out a lidded bamboo basket—the kind used for transporting pigs.”
At this, I had to stop. Across from me, Grandma was biting her lip so hard that it was white. I wished I could make the words vanish so that they wouldn’t inflict additional pain on her.
But Grandma’s eyes told me to go on.
“Admit you are a wicked landlord who exploits poor farmers!” one of the men shouted at Uncle C?ng.
My dear uncle shook his head, and they pushed him into the basket, closing the lid.
Howls gurgled in my mouth as the basket was hurled into the river. “Tell us you’re a wicked landlord and we’ll release you!” the mob chanted as they dunked the basket repeatedly.
I tried to break away from the tree. I wanted to strangle each person there with my bare hands, but the rope held me back. My eyes had been emptied of tears by the time Uncle C?ng’s lifeless body thudded down on the ground next to me. I wriggled, craned forward, and managed to reach him with my foot. I nudged him repeatedly, but there was no response. As time passed, his body grew cold and stiff.
Dead—my uncle who had taken care of me like a father. Dead—the man who had taught me about kindness and hard work. My uncle was murdered in front of my eyes and yet I wasn’t able to do anything for him.
The men continued to drink and shout their slogans. I was sure they left me alive to punish me in the coming days, for all our villagers to witness. Occasionally, they stood up, went to the tree, and pissed on me. They kicked me and laughed at me. I bit my lip until it bled. I hadn’t known about hatred, even when my father was taken away from me, but now I tasted hatred on my tongue. I vowed to take revenge for my father and uncle as long as I live.
Late in the night the men became so drunk, they crumpled into heaps around the withering fire, their snores and snorts breaking the silence of the hour. I struggled but was powerless against the rope. I lost all my hope as the fire died down.
A soft voice. My heart jumped. Mr. H?i and his son had come for me. They hurried to untie me, then led me onto a road. Everything was dark as coal; I didn’t know where I was.