by Kien Nguyen
“We are just a bunch of women, children, and elderly people. We didn't know what was going on. Please forgive us,” my grandfather said.
He shook his head. “That's not an excuse. This is the time to celebrate, not to hide.” His eyes swept over us, checking our faces. “Is this your house?”
“No, sir. We rent it.”
“Where is the owner now?”
“I don't know, sir. He lived in Cholon [Chinatown] before the event. So much has changed in the last four days. We aren't sure anymore.”
“Well, brace yourselves. There will be more changes, as we are in the process of wiping out capitalism from the south. But answer me, why are you here if this is not your home? Where did you all come from? And are you counter-Communists running away from the Revolution?”
My grandfather swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Well, sir. We are from Nhatrang City. We didn't run away. We are here for a reason. You see, Commander, this is my daughter. She is pregnant and because she has had bad complications with her past pregnancies, we took her to Saigon. Because, sir, here she can give birth in Tu Du Hospital. We were just being careful, we didn't mean to run away from the Revolution. The timing was just bad when we ended up getting here.”
The commander wrote down everything my grandfather said. He walked toward my mother and studied her. She avoided his stare by looking down at her stomach. She had lost so much weight in the last few days that I could see the blue veins in her thin hands, which were folded neatly on her lap.
“Lady, how are you feeling?”
“I am fine, thank you, sir. Just a little weak from the heat,” she replied, not looking up to meet his gaze.
“Can you travel?” he asked her.
“Where am I going, sir?” My mother looked up at him. Her eyes glowed with lament and just a hint of seduction. Usually, this look made men bow down on their knees in front of her. It did not seem to have much effect on the commander.
He answered her coldly, “You're going back to your town. All of you have twenty-four hours to vacate this place. This is the new law from above. The country is finally reunited. Everybody is returning to his or her own home. You, too, have to go back and report to your town leader.”
“How are we going to get back home?” my grandfather asked the leader.
“I don't know, and I don't care. It's not my job to find you transportation. However, you all have to leave this place by tomorrow morning. We will return to make sure of that. If you don't leave by then, I have no choice but to arrest all of you. Children and women make no difference to me.”
He turned around, signaling for his men. The door slammed shut behind them as they headed toward the next house.
Not until they had all disappeared beyond the front gates did my grandmother turn to her husband and blurt out, “Oh, sir, how are we going to get out of here?”
My grandfather shook his head. Loan, standing behind my mother, cleared her throat. No longer did she look like a shy little maid who was trained to censor her thought before it reached her mouth. These past few days had turned her into a reserved yet intelligent young woman.
“Well, sir, if I might speak freely, here is a thought,” she said without raising her eyes. “If the government has thrown us out, they must have done the same thing to a lot of people. How do they leave? We can ask around and find out what these people are doing, and either do the same thing, or join them.”
“How are we going to get such information?” my grandmother asked.
“Go to the market,” was all that Loan said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The two markets facing Saigon River teemed with confused and nervous people. These bazaars stood side by side, separated by a small street that was always thick with soggy mud and unkempt with garbage. The first market sold mainly fresh food, from vegetables to livestock to fresh fish. The second one offered a variety of dried food in large quantities, such as rice and spices, along with fabrics, coals, and firewood. Even though tension permeated the markets' atmosphere, the exchange of goods still took place in an orderly fashion under the watchful eyes of the soldiers. People talked to each other in between purchases to find out information. The buzz of their whispers made it sound as if the air were filled with flies.
It did not take Loan long to make her first contact. By the entrance of the second market, she found a family of five looking for a way to get back to Cam Ranh Bay, a city near Nhatrang. These people had been unable to secure transportation. They were planning on traveling by foot for more than four hundred kilometers through deadly swamps and jungles where a lot of booby traps remained from the war. After hearing their plan, Loan wished them good fortune and pulled us deeper into the market.
All morning we walked through the crowd, searching for a ride. My mother was out of breath, her face pale. My grandfather occasionally fell behind, since his hip bothered him with each step. Each time we stopped in front of a group of people to ask for information, the reaction we received was the same: they all looked at us dumbly at first, then smiled with courteous sincerity. If they knew of an escape, their knowledge would remain hidden behind their smiles before they, too, disappeared into the crowd.
Just as we were about to lose hope, we stumbled upon Mrs. Tam's herbal medicine corner, which displayed baskets of dried flowers, plant roots, and wood chips. She sat behind a mountain of herbs, surrounded by customers seeking a share of her cures. Her voice raised above the noise of the crowd to catch every passerby's attention.
“What are you looking for?” she screamed. “This is for nausea and vomiting. Boil two cups down to one. This one is for inner or outer hemorrhoids. Take it with food twice a day. This one is for the treatment of coughing.”
As she spotted my mother, who stared at her with anger, she waved the crowd to silence. Looking at my mother, she asked, “Hey, old dear, where did I know you? Ah, yes, I remember. You are the mean birdie with a knocked-up belly. How are things? You don't look so good.”
“Guess how things are,” my mother retorted. “Look at me. You sold me your fake herbs, old crone. I am glad I found you here, because I want my money back.”
The old woman stood up in between her leaves and barks and pointed a finger at my mother. “Are you crazy, asking for your money back? My drugs are fine; it's you that are fake. Didn't I warn you many times that it might not work? Is it any fault of mine that you all get yourselves knocked up?” She narrowed her eyes with suspicion at my mother and Loan. “The mistress and her servant—you two are sharing the same man, aren't you? Don't lie to this old woman, some gigolo must have grabbed both of you like a pair of chopsticks. By the way, why are you still hanging around town? I thought your pompous behind should be hauled back home by now.”
My mother was boiling with rage. No one ever dared to speak to her that way before. She was humiliated as the crowd around her turned to stare and whisper at us. Standing next to her as calm as a lake in the absence of the wind, Loan answered the old woman's questions. “We can't find a ride back home. Do you know of any way, Mrs. Tam?”
“Of course I know.” The old woman arched her back. “I know everything about this town. But why should I help that pompous mare? She tickled my angry bone the very first day I met her ugly face, giving me nothing but grief.”
Loan then bent down to pick up my brother and me, setting us on her hips. “Then please help these children,” she said to the herbalist. “They are innocent. For the good karma of your next life, please find them a way home.”
The woman looked at us. Slowly, the wrinkles on her face began to relax as her anger abated. She spoke again. This time, her voice softened. “Two hundred dong for the lead, and five hundred for the tickets. Cash only.”
My mother cried out in astonishment. “Seven hundred dong? Are you a blood-sucking thief? Four hundred is all I have. For everything, or you forget it.”
“Hey, mad horse, I don't deal with you.” The old woman waved her finger at my mother, then
she pointed at Loan. “But I'll deal with this child. She is a smart girl.”
Loan said to the old lady, “Mrs. Tam, you've heard the mistress. We only have four hundred dong to spend.”
“Okay, fine, because of the youngsters.” She clapped her hands. “I'll show you a way out. I close the shop at three-thirty. Meet me back here with your money and your suitcases all ready, because old Tam waits for no one.”
She returned to the crowd. We stood there, stunned. Then my mother beckoned for us to head home. As we were walking away, I could still hear the old lady's voice advertising her goods. “What is it that you are looking for, sir? How about you, madam? This is the drug that cures all diseases. Take it with an empty stomach, twice a day for one day, and you will be feeling twenty all over again…”
AT MRS. TAM'S INSTRUCTION, we met back at her shop at three-thirty, taking with us a few bags of clothing. She was waiting for us. All of her medicines were stored in two hand-woven bamboo chests. Each chest had a long handle, which Mrs. Tam hooked with a wooden cane. And with her shoulder under the pole, she strained to lift her merchandise up off the ground in one breath. Walking toward us and carrying her goods in this fashion, Mrs. Tam threw a small bag toward Loan. She then signaled for us to follow her.
Without looking back at us, Mrs. Tam asked Loan, “Do you have the money with you?”
“Yes, we do. Where are you taking us? And what is in this bag you gave to me?” Loan asked.
“Hold that for later. I am taking you to your ride,” was all she said.
We walked for almost an hour, carrying our luggage with great difficulty as the city disappeared behind us. As we moved into the surrounding ghettos, big buildings slowly gave way to tin shacks. Along the banks of the river, which circled Saigon, many of the shacks stood on stilts that rose from the water. At the outskirts of the city, we left the slums behind, and endless rice fields appeared before our eyes, stretching to the horizon.
Just when my mind began to dull, Mrs. Tam decided to stop. In front of us stood a Communist military base, surrounded by barbed wire and open grass fields. We stepped away from the old lady in a panic. A herd of soldiers came out, most of them not a day over eighteen. They held their guns in warning as they saw us getting closer. Many of them recognized the old lady.
To her, they shouted happily, “Mother Tam, how are you? Have you got anything for us?”
My mother was too fearful to speak. She held on to my arm.
Loan asked the old woman, “What is going on? Did we do something to offend you?”
“Relax,” the old lady muttered, “I am taking you to your ride. Just pipe down and let me handle things.” To the soldiers, she smiled. “I bring you some pork buns, my sons.” Turning to Loan, she ordered, “Give the comrades the food, darling.”
“What food?” Loan whispered to Mrs. Tam.
“The bag I gave you earlier, give it to them,” the old woman whispered back to her.
The soldiers took the bag from Loan's hand. They tore the pork buns away from the oily wrappers and ate them quickly. When the food was gone, they looked at her and smiled. The whitish residue of the bread stuck between their teeth.
“Who are the people with you, Mama?” they asked.
“These fine people are my friends who are in need of a ride to Nhatrang. Are there any troops leaving town this evening that can accommodate them?”
One soldier volunteered the information, “Yes, as a matter of fact, there are. For you, Mother Tam, anything is possible. Platoon threeoh-six is heading to Hue at eight o'clock tonight. The truck can drop them off in Nhatrang tomorrow afternoon. That is, if your friends want to wait right here. You know we can't take them inside the base, right?”
“Right, right. Thank you, sons. Excuse me for a second while I give these people the instructions, yes?”
“Sure, Mama.”
She turned to us and lowered her voice. “Look, I found you a ride. These are sweet kids, and they won't give any trouble. Stay right here in one group where they can see you, and don't make any sudden moves, because curfew is coming soon. Now, give me the money.”
“Where are you going? You can't leave us here like this,” my mother said.
“I can't stay with you. I have to get home before curfew. You just have to trust me, lady.”
My mother reached into her blouse for the stack of money hidden in her bra. Without letting the soldiers see what she was doing, Mrs. Tam snatched the cash. As fast as it had appeared, the money vanished again.
“Where are our tickets?” my mother asked the old lady.
“Oh, no ticket. Don't worry about it, you are all set.”
“I can't believe this. You are cheating us again, aren't you?” My mother swallowed. “You said earlier that it would be five hundred dong for the tickets. But instead, you took us here in front of a military base, before these guns, telling us to wait for a ride that is way past curfew time. How can we trust you in a situation like this?”
“I said don't worry about it. It's all set.” The woman spat a stream of phlegm onto the ground. “I am doing you all a huge favor. How dare you question me in such a manner! Do I want to do business with you? Why don't you just shut up before I lose my patience?” She glared at my mother disdainfully.
“How did you get to know these soldiers?” my grandfather asked the old lady, ignoring my mother.
“Get to know them? What a question! I want you to know that they are all my children. I have been raising and taking care of hundreds of these boys in the last ten years, right under your capitalist noses,” the woman said, smiling scornfully. “You see, poor folks like myself could and as a matter of fact did get very close to the Vietcong. You might even say that I am one of the Cong's mothers, and many of these fine boys are my babies. Now, if you excuse me, my job here is done. I must get going before it gets dark. Enjoy your trip.”
She turned to the soldiers to bid them farewell. Despite her age, Mrs. Tam seemed to have no problem handling the chests on her shoulders. From the top of her lungs, she sang an ode about a hero who died during the war, as she marched down the street and disappeared into the dusty afternoon.
THE MILITARY TRUCK did not leave its base until almost 9:00. Thanks to Mrs. Tam's emphatic recommendation, we experienced no problem embarking. The soldiers pulled us up into the back compartment as the truck prepared to leave Saigon. About forty men were squeezed tightly together in a small area, but they left generous room for my family on one bench against the far end of the truck. We moved together to our seats, trying to occupy as little space as possible. I sat on Loan's lap, while my brother cuddled up between my grandparents. Next to them, in a corner, my mother hid herself in a shadow, clutching her abdomen.
The soldiers smiled to welcome us. Their uniforms were stained with sweat and dirt as if they had not been washed for months. Many of them sat with their buttocks against their calves on the floor, since there were not enough seats. They stared at my brother and me with curiosity. I looked back at them and smiled.
The trip to Nhatrang took more than eight hours. Two-thirds of the way, I drowsed in the arms of a soldier. He played with my curly hair, telling me about his family in the north. He had a little brother on crutches that he had not seen in over five years.
“Pay attention, little guy. I am going to teach you something,” he said with enthusiasm, looking at my mother for her permission. She recoiled further into her seat without looking directly at him.
“I am going to recite to you the teaching of Uncle Ho. It is for all of the children in the south, and it tells of five rules. Are you ready?” His eyebrows raised to show his excitement.
I asked him, “Who is Uncle Ho?”
“Uh-oh. Wait a second, little boy.” A surprised look flooded his face as he pulled me closer to him. “Who is Uncle Ho? Why, he is Uncle Ho Chi Minh, our savior, our supreme president. His legend spreads far and wide to many nations in the world, and just by his name alone came the destruction of the sh
ackle that, for many years, enslaved our people to the evil Americans and to the phony Vietnamese Republican government. How could you be so unenlightened, little guy?”
My mother mumbled a hasty apology for my ignorance. The soldier nodded as if to express his forgiveness, and continued on with his lecture.
“The first rule is,” he began, “‘Love thy country. Love thy neighbors.’” Lying in his arms and listening to his voice, I thought of a similar experience that I had had on the beach of Nhatrang. Back then the soldier had been an American who had occupied a military base near my house. One day when I was playing outside with some of my classmates, a voice called out in a foreign tongue, beckoning the children to come closer.
On the other side of the barbed wire, I could see a soldier with a red face and sun-bleached blond hair. He held up a handful of candies, which he used as bait for our company. I came closer to him as my friends hesitated. “Kien,” they shouted to me, “come back.” Unlike the rest of the children, I was not in the least frightened of the foreigner in front of me. Having attended my mother's parties, I had had plenty of experience with strange people and understood some of their funny language. I took a step closer to the fence.
“Hello, little fellow. Want some candies?” the American soldier asked in English. I noticed a tint of gray in his icy eyes.
I nodded. He gestured for me to come closer, which I did. Through the barrier I accepted his gift. “Nice little fellow,” he asked, “do you know how to blow bubble gum?” Again I nodded.
He ran out of the base to the other side of the barbed wire and joined me. My friends stayed away, observing every move we made. The soldier ignored my classmates' aversion as he turned and waved at them.
“Don't you want to share some candies with your friends?” he suggested.
I shrugged. He laughed and ruffled my head. I brought him closer to my classmates, and the candies I had in my hand overcame their fears. We spent an afternoon playing with the soldier on the sandy beach while the sea murmured at our feet.
