“But Mama, people say many government stores have been destroyed, that there isn’t much food left to buy.’’
“Well, you have your children and parents-in-law to feed. Don’t bring anything next time.”
I stole a glance at Grandma. Every morning she woke up before the sun, standing in long lines in front of government stores. Mostly she returned home empty-handed. If we were lucky, she’d come back with a handful of manioc. Rarely could Grandma get us a cup of uncooked rice, and even then, it was often stale and infested with insects.
Grandma helped Auntie Hạnh carry the sack into our shelter. I ran ahead, straightening the straw mat. Putting the sack down, Grandma reached for a bottle of water, handing it to my aunt, who took a long drink.
Rummaging through the sack, Auntie Hạnh winked at me. “Look what I have for you.”
A book! Tô Hoài’s Adventures of a Cricket.
“One of my favorites.” Auntie Hạnh smiled.
“It’s wonderful, at least not a work of propaganda,” said Grandma.
I was tempted to start reading straight away, but Auntie Hạnh pulled another package out of the sack, giving it to me.
“Cookies?” I gasped, wanting to rip it open but not daring. I told myself not to show my aunt I was hungry.
“Your uncle Tuấn brought these back for us.” Auntie Hạnh stretched her legs. “Cookies from Russia, can you believe it?”
“Tuấn came home for a visit? How is he?” Grandma asked as hope swelled in my chest. Perhaps my parents and uncles would soon be back to see us, too.
“Skinny as a firewood stick, but he brought some good news. He said we’re negotiating with the Americans, to restore peace to our land. Mama . . . on the way here, I heard about the Paris Peace Accords from the public radio’s broadcast.”
“Yes,” said Grandma. “It’s great, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The war will only end once all of our loved ones are home.”
I looked away, the longing for my parents and uncles heavy in my chest. Something that felt like fear churned. Many of my friends had received bad news from the battlefields. Such news ignited more anger. Some boys at my school, those too young to enlist, had cut their hands, using their blood to write letters to the Army, volunteering to become soldiers. I hoped the war was really ending, bringing home my parents, uncles, and everyone I knew.
“Ah, Guava.” Auntie Hạnh tickled me. “No sharing?” She eyed the package in my hands.
I tore off the wrapping. The cookies lay in neat rows, each engraved with delicate patterns.
I offered them first to my aunt and Grandma, then ate as slowly as I could, letting each bite dissolve on my tongue. Years later, when a friend asked what sweet food tasted like to me, I thought about those cookies and said: Happiness.
In our makeshift home, Grandma and my aunt seemed to forget about their worries. They chatted about old times, giggling together. Around us, wisps of smoke rose from our neighbors’ shelters, entwining into the red glow of sunset. Out on the neighborhood lane, some of my friends were chasing each other, their laughter spiraling above the smoke. They called me to join them, but I didn’t. With Auntie Hạnh by my side, it felt almost as if my mother were back.
That night, I slept between the two women, their soft voices drifting me into a dream. In it, my mother was running toward me, my father alongside her. As I called their names, my mother bent down, scooping me up. She smelled just like Auntie Hạnh. My father embraced us both, laughing, saying he’d never let us out of his sight again.
I woke up to find myself blanketed by Grandma’s clothes. It was cold; the moon was out, trembling above the mist. Grandma and Auntie Hạnh were clearing away the rubble. They were humming a song. Their voices felt like summer on my face.
Every day, Grandma urged Auntie Hạnh to go home, but she stayed and worked. She worked as I went back to school and Grandma to her class. She worked until the debris had been cleared away and our shack built. Thanks to the kindness of those we knew and those we didn’t, we now had a better shelter: rusty tin sheets over bamboo poles. We no longer had to sleep outside in the whipping rain of winter.
Once my aunt was sure Grandma and I would be all right, she wiped her tears, leading her bike out to the dirt path. To prepare for her journey, Grandma had stayed up the night before, cooking a small bucket of rice, pressing the rice into balls, sprinkling them with crushed peanuts and salt. I didn’t know how Grandma managed to find those peanuts; they were as rare and valuable as gold.
We watched Auntie Hạnh cycle away.
“Be careful, Daughter,” Grandma murmured, only for her and me to hear. She lifted her face up to the sky, as if fearing bombs would be dropped onto the roads where her daughter would be traveling.
I lost myself in Adventures of a Cricket. I wished I could be Mèn the cricket, leaving his nest to venture out into the world, to see the vastness of nature, meet all types of people, have a taste of independence, cause mischief, and make new friends. In the world of Mèn, there was no war. It seemed only humans waged wars on each other, making each other suffer.
More than a week after Auntie Hạnh’s departure, I walked home from school with Grandma, gossiping about my friends along the way. She still didn’t allow me to go anywhere without her; she’d picked me up after her class.
Our neighborhood lane stretched out in front of us, filled with soggy mud, dotted by pieces of broken brick. We advanced slowly, stepping onto whatever brick islands our feet could find. Grandma gripped my hand in case I slipped.
“Bà Diệu Lan,” someone called Grandma’s name. I turned to see our neighbor Mr. Tập waving at us. “Two soldiers came looking for you,” he said. “I sent them to your house. I thought you were home.”
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.
Sơn, 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 Thủy 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. Như’s shack, which sat across from ours.
I struggled with my plastic sandals. Thủy 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.
“Dạ, xin chào,” the older soldier offered Grandma his polite greeting. “We’re looking for the family of Comrade Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận.”
Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận was Grandma’s fourth child. My Uncle Thuận.
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.” Thủy 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 t
he 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 Hương. 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 Thuận. 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 Hạnh’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 Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận.”
“How’s Thuận? 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 Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận 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 Thuận was ambushed. He fought courageously.”
Grandma reached for my uncle’s uniform. She buried her face in his clothes. “Thuận ơi, ơi con ơi. Con về với mẹ đi con ơi!”—she wailed his name, asking him to come back to her.
I clung onto Grandma. My Uncle Thuận was dead. Uncle Thuận, who’d tossed me into the air and tickled me until I rolled around laughing. Uncle Thuận, who’d climbed countless sấu trees to pick the ripest fruit for me, who’d made the most beautiful paper kites for me to fly.
“Mother, we know how terrible you must feel. But we assure you your son didn’t die in vain. We, as his comrades, will wipe out the enemy.”
Grandma shook her head as if not wanting to hear more. “Did you . . . did you know Thuận well?”
“We belonged to the same unit, Mother. Comrade Thuận was a brother to us. He was kind to everyone.”
Grandma ran her fingers over the letters, tracing the handwriting of her son.
“There’s one more.” The older soldier held out another letter. “For his girlfriend, Miss Thu.”
Grandma cupped the letter in her palms. She swallowed hard. “Thuận wanted to marry her. I was already saving for their happy day. Our happy day.”
“We know, Mother. Thuận told us he couldn’t wait to hear you sing at his wedding.”
“I’ll go see Thu tomorrow,” Grandma said. “Would you . . . would you like something to eat?”
“Thank you, but we need to go.” The older man smiled weakly. “We’re here on a training course, Mother. Our commander asked us to see you first.”
Grandma nodded. “Stay safe . . . so you can see your families again.”
The soldiers bent their heads. Outside, a strong gust of wind ripped through the air, clashing against our tin roof. On the neighborhood lane, a young boy called for his mother, his cries fading into the distance.
I turned back to the fire. It had dwindled, leaving behind half-burned, smoldering twigs. I could hear nothing now, and felt nothing except for the tightening grip of winter.
Grandma and I set up an altar for Uncle Thuận. We no longer had a photo of him. His knapsack and clothes sat in front of his incense bowl. Grandma stayed up three nights to pray for my uncle’s soul to reach Heaven. Her murmurs, the wooden bell’s rhythmic chime, and incense smoke filled our hut.
I woke up after the third night to see Grandma in front of our home, gazing up at the sky, Uncle Thuận’s letters in her hands—letters I’d learned by heart. I only needed to close my eyes for his words to appear before me, leading me into Trường Sơn jungles where he journeyed under tall trees, where butterflies flittered and monkeys jumped from one branch to the next, where his laughter rose as he caught fish from streams and picked tàu bay plants to eat. There was no fear, no fighting, no death in his letters. Only hope, love of life, and the longing for home. He was just a young man who believed his future was ahead of him.
I went to Grandma, embracing her. The sky was as clear as a mirror, and I sensed Uncle Thuận was up there with my ancestors, watching over us.
We’d hoped for the war to end, but it continued. If Grandma was sorrowful and fearful, she never let me see it again. One day, after looking long and hard at my thin body, our cold kitchen, and our ragged home, she told me she wanted to quit her teaching job, which paid next to nothing. At first I thought I’d heard it wrong, but then her students started appearing, pleading with Grandma to change her mind.
“Please, Grandma, don’t quit!” I insisted the next day as she picked me up from school.
“Shh.” She put a finger to her lip, eyeing the teachers who stood close by.
At home, she lowered herself onto the straw mat. “Now we can talk. But let’s keep our voices low.”
“You can’t quit teaching, Grandma. Don’t you see how much your students love you?”
She reached for our comb, running it through my hair. “Yes, I’ll miss my students. But I can’t stand brainwashing their innocent minds with propaganda. We aren’t just teachers, we’re servants of the Party.”
“But where will you work, Grandma?”
“Can you keep a secret?” She brought her mouth to my ear. “I’m going to trade on the black market, to buy us food and rebuild our home. To save for the return of your parents and uncles. And I’ll be free, no longer somebody’s servant.”
“You’ll become a con buôn—a trader? But that’s . . . that’s bad. . . .” My eyes widened, the words of my ethics teacher ringing in my ears: “As a socialist country, we honor workers and farmers. We must sweep bourgeoisie and traders away from our society. They are leeches living on people’s blood.”
“Ha, it seems you’ve been brainwashed, too.” Grandma snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with being a trader, and you can bet I’m going to become one. In fact, I’ve already traded my gold earrings for some stuff to sell.”
I reached for her ears and gasped. Her only valuable belonging, which she’d saved for Uncle Thuận’s wedding, had disappeared.
“You traded the earrings for what, Grandma?”
“Let me see.” She counted her fingers. “Sandals, towels
, batteries, soap, bicycle tires. Best-selling items on the black market.”
“But where are they?” I looked around our empty shack.
“At a friend’s house. In the Old Quarter. They’d be confiscated if I carried them around.”
“But isn’t it illegal, Grandma? I heard only government stores are supposed to trade—”
“Guava.” She interrupted me, taking my face into her hands. “I’m not going to do something bad, believe me.”
I looked into Grandma’s eyes and saw determination. But would her new job get us into trouble?
“We need food,” Grandma told me. “People need these items. Besides, we have to prepare for the future, for the return of your parents and uncles. We can’t live forever like this.” She patted our bed, the straw mat. It looked miserable, glued to the earthen floor.
“Grandma, but if something happens to you—”
“Nothing will. I’ll be very, very careful.” She kissed my hair then pointed at a pot dangling from the roof of our cooking area. “Guess what I have for us?”
“Rice?” My stomach rumbled.
“Better. Wait and see.” She winked at me. “I got you a gift, too, but can’t remember where I put it.”
I jumped up and peeled away the straw mat. Nothing. I looked under our pillows. There was nothing under our clothes and among our bowls and chopsticks, either.
“Look harder.” Grandma giggled.
Finally, I found my gift, wrapped and hidden under the pile of dry branches for cooking fuel. A book. Pinocchio, the Adventures of a Little Wooden Boy. Squatting on the mat, I opened the pages, which transported me to Italy, where Geppetto the woodcarver discovered a piece of wood that could talk.
A delicious smell rose from the kitchen. I lifted my eyes. Grandma’s thin body bent down to the fire. She’d always encouraged me to read far and wide, unlike my friends’ parents who pushed their children to memorize textbooks. She’d always done the best for me. I was a bad granddaughter for doubting her.
I came to her, eyeing the pan. Beef. Paper-thin slices of it were sizzling.
The Mountains Sing Page 5
