Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Vietnamese Childhood
Le Ho Lan
Published on Scribd
July 2009
2
Description
Contents
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The handcuffs
A police raid
How do you make a boy?
Mr. Gan
The girl from the South
An offer refused
Stay away from my daughter!
City girl!
The cow’s horns
Baby spiders
Layout of the village
Tadpoles
The altar
Harvesting longans
Chapter 5. Evacuation
At the temple
Bitten by a dog
Pets
Grandpa’s memorial day
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The ghost
Be Kind to Insects Day
Buying flowers
How not to kill a cock
A long walk home
The Book of Names
Two surprises
Arabian tales
Called up
A refuge
The prisoners
Escaping to the moon
The last air raid
The boys come home
Chapter 1
table. Then she made a bowl of fish sauce mixed with lime juice,
mashed garlic, slices of hot chilli, and a pinch of sugar, and put it in the
middle of the tray. My brother Dai Lam loved to shake his hand and
count each person present so that he could fetch the right number of
bowls and chopsticks from the cupboard. Mother washed her hands
and face, then brought a basin of water and placed it on a stool with a
hand towel for my father. We all sat down on the mat around the table,
our legs crossed under us, and finally enjoyed our dinner.
After dinner Mother would wash up while Mai put the table away,
rolled up the mat, and shook out the crumbs. I brushed the floor with a
sweet-smelling straw broom. Dai Lam carried in a pail of water, threw a
towel into it, wrung out the excess water, knelt down, and thoroughly
washed the floor of the room by hand until it looked fresh and clean.
Then the three of us ran out into the street to play with the other
children. My youngest brother had his bath and went to sleep.
The street at night was very quiet. There was no traffic apart
from the occasional passing bicycle. Children and adults gathered in
little clusters under the street lights to chat or play.
My friends and I did not have many toys, but that did not stop us
thinking up games to play: hop-cross, skipping games, origami, and
make believe based on old stories about kings and princesses and
mountain gods and river gods.
Sometimes we stood and watched the older children playing
cards. The noise coming from the older boys especially attracted us.
They played beside a bowl containing a mixture of pork fat and black
soot from a kitchen chimney. The winner used this mixture to finger-
paint any shape he liked on the loser’s face while the spectators
clapped and cheered. One boy kept on losing and ended up looking like
a clown, or like a eunuch in the court of a Chinese emperor. That made
everyone laugh. Sometimes the loser could not bear the humiliation,
and then the card game ended in tears and blows.
Starting school
Mai was in the first grade at a formerly private French school in the city
8
center. When the French teachers left, it had become an ordinary state
school. Every day she took the rickshaw to school.
Dai Lam, on the other hand, attended a school just a block away.
It took him only five minutes to walk there. Sometimes he waited until
he heard the first sound of the school drum and then ran.
I insisted that I wanted to go to my sister’s school, because I
already knew many of her friends. My parents said no. In protest, I
refused to go to school at all. My parents had to teach me at home.
Eventually, half a year later, I agreed to give Dai Lam’s school a try.
And so, early one drizzly February morning, Mother took me to
school. I was met by an elderly lady teacher called Chinh. She was kind
and gentle and talked to me in a soft low voice. I immediately fell in
love with her. She tousled my hair and led me into the classroom. I saw
several faces that I recognized from my street. Right away I forgot all
about my mother. At recess we played “Cat and Mouse” and made
friends with one another.
The school day ended at noon. Teacher Chinh asked me to help
her carry the class’s spelling books to her home a few blocks away. I
agreed and slowly followed after her, carrying about twenty books. By
this time the sun was very strong and hot. We walked in the shadow of
the tall trees that lined the street. Sometimes the breeze shook the
leaves overhead and a stream of air blew down and cooled my face.
I left the books on the table in Teacher Chinh’s house. She
rewarded me with a cookie. I felt very special. I gave no more thought
to the idea of going to my sister’s school.
On the first Monday of each month, before lessons began, each
class would line up in two rows. While we all stood to attention, the
honor student for that month hoisted the national flag, red with a big
yellow star in the middle. We solemnly saluted it and then sang the
Internationale, followed by the Vietnamese national anthem.
In third grade, when we were nine years old, provided that our
work and conduct had been satisfactory, we automatically became
Young Pioneers. As a sign of our new status, the teacher tied red
scarves around our collars. From then on, we had to wear a red scarf to
school each day.
9
Our food
Outings
Some evenings we walked the two miles to the children’s club, where
we could play table tennis and other games or learn how to juggle,
sing, or play the piano. Sometimes we watched a show with painted
wooden puppets.
Sometimes on a Sunday Father hosted a social gathering for his
friends at our home. On those occasions Mother gave each of us five
dong to go out and enjoy ourselves, so that we would not stay at home
and disturb them. Mother herself stayed to mix with the guests and
serve them green tea.
Usually we took the tram to the children’s cinema. There they
usually showed cartoons and educational films, made in Vietnam or
imported from China or Eastern Europe. After watching the films, we
bought and relished eating a packet of tiny Vietnamese apples,
sprinkled with salt and hot chilli powder. Then we went to the general
11
store to buy color pencils, books, and candies and had a look round the
city center.
I often looked up at the banners hanging over the busy street.
Most of them displayed poems encouraging people to work hard:
When our legs were tired, we sat on a bench by Hoan Kiem Lake
and enjoyed the scenery. Beside the red-blossomed peacock trees, the
weeping willows dipped their long, fine green hair in the water. Pilgrims
crossed over the Huc Bridge to the Ngoc Son Pagoda, and pigeons
fluttered down to search for worms. Drowsy and contented, we
boarded the tram home.
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Chapter 2
Our neighbors
13
The handcuffs
On the top floor of our building, there lived a bachelor in his forties
named Bau. His movements were very irregular. Eventually we
discovered why: he was an officer of the secret police. He was always
very warm and friendly to my family. He especially loved my brothers
and would often spend his spare time with them. Sometimes he took
them out for a special treat or to visit his friends. They enjoyed going
up to his room because it was so quiet and full of books. It was like a
trip to the library for them.
One day I was surprised to hear my brothers call him “Daddy.” I
told my parents about it, but they just smiled and said: “Your brothers
must love him very much.”
On a Monday afternoon, my brother Trung Lam, who was then
seven years old, climbed the stairs to Bau’s room to look for a book to
read. Bau was just on his way out, so he gave Trung Lam a bundle of
keys and reminded him to lock up when he was finished.
While searching for a book that interested him, Trung Lam was
startled to hear the clinking sound of a heavy metal object falling off
the bookcase onto the marble floor. He picked up the unfamiliar object
and examined it, wondering what it was for. In fact, it was a pair of
open handcuffs, but Trung Lam had never seen or heard of such things
before.
After playing with the handcuffs for a while, he decided to attach
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A police raid
About five o’clock one May afternoon in 1962, as my friends and I were
playing outside our building, a truck drove up and halted at the gate.
Four men got off and walked in past the gate. We all stared at them
suspiciously.
One man looked especially serious. In his hand he held a paper
attached to a clipboard. He checked a name on his paper and asked us:
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To the left of my family’s room there lived Mr. and Mrs. Bui, a young
couple with two beautiful daughters. They were wholesale distributors
of roast coffee beans. Whenever they roasted coffee, the smell filled
the whole neighborhood. Each time they gave my parents a cup of
coffee beans.
A happy smile always lit Mrs. Bui’s olive-shaped face. Her skin
was smooth like a baby’s. Her ebony hair reached all the way to the
ground when she let it hang loose for washing.
She was pregnant with their third child. Everyone told her that
she could be sure of having a boy this time. We all knew how much she
wanted one.
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The new baby, however, was again a girl. Her husband became
depressed and started to grumble at her about everything. At dinner
time we could hear him smash the bowls on the floor. Then he went
out drinking, gambling, and carousing with his friends until late at
night.
One night when he came home and heard the baby crying, he
beat his wife. Through the wall I could hear her crying and begging him
to stop. In the morning I could hardly recognize her face. It was swollen
and bruised all over. She hid away in their room and kept her sadness
to herself. Everyone knew but no one wanted to interfere in their
personal affairs.
When the baby was one month old, Mrs. Bui’s mother came to
visit for the traditional celebration. She went from family to family
carrying a round red wooden box filled with pink-painted boiled eggs.
Each person picked up an egg and dropped some money in the box as
a token of good luck for the baby. After that the baby disappeared. Mrs.
Bui never mentioned the baby again, and no one raised the subject
with her. My mother told me that she had given up the baby to her
mother.
Now Mrs. Bui often spent time talking with my mother. Once I
heard her ask: “How do you make a boy?”
Mother told her to soak her private parts in salt water every night
until she got pregnant. I laughed quietly to myself, thinking that my
mother was joking. But she really did get pregnant and she had a boy!
Her husband was happy and treated her well.
Whenever she changed the baby’s diaper, she held him up and
joyfully kissed the little bird between his legs that guaranteed her
husband’s everlasting love.
Following this success, my mother’s fame as an expert in
conceiving boys spread far and wide, and women often came in secret
to consult her.
Mr. Gan
One of my father’s friends was Mr. Gan. They had known each other
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since their youth. In early 1954, Mr. Gan’s parents, brothers, and sister
had gone to France, leaving him alone to take care of his elderly
grandmother. Shortly afterward, however, she died. The government
sent him to teach at Lang Son Middle School near the border with
China, and forced him to rent out the four rooms of his house to
families of state employees at the low rent set by the Housing Office—
three dong per month.
As he missed Hanoi and his old friends, he would take the train
and spend a week back in the capital twice a year. He had nowhere
else to stay, so he stayed with us. My father had to report his arrival at
the Community Police Station, taking along with him Mr. Gan’s identity
card and the book in which we were required to keep a record of the
visits of all our guests. The police officers asked a few questions,
examined the identity card, entered the necessary details in the book,
and added their stamp and signature.
Whenever Mr. Gan turned up, he brought us two baskets full of
peaches and pears as well as some beautiful printed handkerchiefs and
silk scarves for my mother. These he had purchased at the Friendship
Market that was held one Sunday a month just across the bridge that
marked the China-Vietnam border. One summer he brought us a fine
bamboo table with four chairs. We used them for three years, until they
fell apart. Then Mother chopped them up as firewood for the stove.
Mr. Gan was short-sighted and wore very thick spectacles. One
night he put them on the corner of the table and went to bed. My sister
Mai and I got up early and hid the spectacles. When he woke up, he
touched the corner of the table, but his spectacles were not there. As
he bent down to search the floor, Mai signaled to me and I put the
spectacles back on the corner of the table. When he stood up again, he
was surprised to see that his spectacles were there after all. We all had
a good laugh.
Mr. Gan stayed out all day and only returned in the evening to
have dinner with us. He told us that he had been shopping and visiting
friends. Occasionally he returned to his old house to see who was living
there. After dinner, he and Father chatted and joked in the courtyard.
He used to laugh so loud that the neighbors turned their heads to look.
He was unable to maintain contact with his family in France. He
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In a house beside the passage that led to our building, their side
window facing our front door, lived Mr. Tran and his daughter Tam. The
year before, my mother had planted some morning glory seeds along
their wall and already it was covered with purple flowers. Every
morning, when the flowers had opened their petals to the newly risen
sun, Tam pulled up her window and gazed at them, pausing only to
follow a passing butterfly with her eye.
Sometimes she stooped and picked a few of the flowers. If I
happened to see her do it, she exclaimed: “Aren’t they beautiful?” and
quickly pulled down the window. But as I didn’t want her to feel
ashamed, I hastened to call out: “Help yourself if you like!”
Tam and I became very close friends. One day I asked Mother
whether she and her father could come round for tea. Instead she
invited them to one of our Sunday barbecues.
Mr. Tran was addicted to tobacco. His teeth were discolored from
smoking, his lips were gray, and his thumb and the tips of his index
and middle fingers were yellow from holding cogarettes. He worked at
the Broadcasting House.
Tam was beautiful, with dark tanned skin and thick long black
hair. She was the same age as me, but seemed more independent. She
cooked and washed clothes for her father as well as herself. Both
father and daughter spoke slowly, with an accent that was strange to
us.
Mr. Tran told us that they had come from the South in 1954
together with 10,000 others, mostly soldiers and students who
sympathized with the communists. They were waiting for the
nationwide free elections that were scheduled to take place in 1956,
but the elections were never held and they had to stay in the North.
The government rehoused them temporarily in various cities and
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An offer refused
My sister Mai finished high school soon after the war began. She was
very happy—singing, dancing, and playing the harmonica almost all
the time. Mother just smiled.
“Lan, just look at your sister! She’s over the moon! What do you
want to study next, Mai?”
“Oh, Mother! What I want right now is to go out and have fun
with my friends. Some of them may not be around for very long.”
One evening, just as Mai was getting ready to go out, our family
friend Dr. Long, who worked at the Bach Mai Hospital, dropped by to do
some business with Father. Perhaps he had come to sell him some
21
In the evening, Mai went to see Hien, a young woman who lived
opposite our building. They had been close friends since they were
both little, although they had never been in the same class at school.
My friends and I gathered by the front gate to look at crochet patterns.
After a while Mai passed us on her way back to our room.
I heard a clanking sound and turned my head to see a young
man leaning his bicycle against the electricity pylon next to Hien’s
house. It was Vi, Hien’s school sweetheart—a tall, handsome, and
intelligent lad from a working class family. Hien ran out.
“How are you, Vi?” There was a note of alarm in her voice.
“Very well, thank you.”
“You’d better go, Vi—quickly!”
She ran back into the house. Vi mounted his bicycle and tried to
escape, but Hien’s father, Mr. Toan, who had just returned from the
railway station where he worked as a manager, was already in hot
pursuit. We all followed to watch. At the end of the street Vi halted. Mr.
Toan leaned his bicycle against the wall and advanced on Vi. It
appeared that Vi was trying to explain something to him, but Mr. Toan
immediately grabbed him by the hair, struck several hard blows on his
face, and threw him with his bicycle to the ground. Then he pointed his
finger at Vi and warned him in a loud and angry voice:
“You dirty rag! You stay away from my daughter from this
moment on, do you hear?”
Taking his bicycle, Mr. Hoan headed home with rapid strides. Like
the rippling surface of a river before the steady advance of a boat, the
crowd of curious onlookers parted ranks to let him pass. Meanwhile Vi
staggered to his feet, rubbed his bruised face, and ran his fingers
through his disheveled hair. His face was full of sorrow and bitterness.
Soon he was out of our sight. Mr. Toan slammed his door shut behind
him.
I walked back to my building. Mai was standing at the gate,
holding the nurse’s kit that she had intended to give Hien.
“Did you see all that?” I asked.
She gave a slight nod.
“Yes, I’ll have to give it to her another day.”
We walked home hand in hand.
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Chapter 3
Grandma’s village
In 1964 Grandma left Hanoi for her country home in a village called Ve
on the banks of the Red River, about eight miles west of the city. There
she found the peace and quiet she needed to practise Buddhism and
worship her deceased husband.
Father often went to visit her on his bicycle. My mother, sister,
24
City girl!
better by now, ran back outside to find some children to play with.
Soon a dozen children had gathered around me. Among them I noticed
the girl who had been carrying the pails. I talked to them, but they just
repeated whatever I said and giggled.
A tiny black insect landed on my hand. Before I had a chance to
hit it, it had already stung me. It felt really itchy—even worse than a
mosquito bite. I had never seen that kind of insect before. As I
scratched myself, I asked them what it was called.
“It’s a zi-i-in.”
“Zi-in,” I repeated, and they laughed. Finally, it dawned on me
that my city accent must sound very strange to them.
Soon their mothers started to call them home, and one by one
they departed. I too was about to return to Grandma’s when I heard
what I guessed might be the sound of water splashing. I followed the
sound and came upon some brick steps, leading down to a clear pond.
The edges of the pond were crowded with the pink flowers and buds of
floating lotus plants, and in the middle about twenty children were
playing and swimming. I sat down on the lower steps to watch.
Over on the other side of the pond, a little girl was holding onto
the floating trunk of a banana bush. The children around her were
encouraging her to swim. I took off my sandals and swung my feet
back and forth in the water.
After a while, I decided to let myself down the steps deeper into
the water. But when I tried to stand up, I felt my feet slipping down a
smooth velvet slide, for the lowest steps were covered with moss.
Straining to regain my grip with my toes, I slowly and carefully turned
round, bent over, and held onto one of the higher steps. As I struggled
to crawl back up, I heard a girl’s voice shouting:
“Come on! Jump in! Have some fun!”
I turned my head to see who was calling to me. It was a big girl,
swimming with all her clothes on.
“But I can’t swim,” I protested.
“Then I’ll teach you. It’s very easy.”
“Next time,” I promised.
The next time I wore a swimming costume that Mother had
bought for me. After many attempts, and after gulping down a large
volume of pond water, I learned how to swim.
That summer, my sister Mai, brother Dai Lam, and I stayed a
whole month with Grandma. As soon as we arrived, I wandered off by
myself.
gate and entered the yard. A number of dogs started barking at me.
The children appeared and commanded the dogs to sit.
I ran inside the house. In the middle of the room, I saw two large
baskets full of manioc and a big metal basin of water, in which floated
several loofahs. Little stools were everywhere. Each child took a stool
and sat around the basin.
A big girl looked at me and explained: “We have to clean manioc,
ready for our mother to make tapioca tomorrow.”
“I’d love to help. May I?”
“Sure,” they replied in unison.
And so I sat and washed manioc for a while. Then I ran to the pig
sty in the corner of their garden. With amazement I watched the pig
family. The sow was lying on her side, apparently very relaxed, while
the piglets noisily climbed over her and fought one another for access
to her nipples.
Suddenly I was startled to feel a rough and heavy hand on my
shoulder. I turned round and saw a big old farmer. With his other hand
he was holding a spade and pick-axe over his shoulder. His brown shirt
was soaked in sweat and his baggy brown pants were rolled up to the
knees, displaying tanned legs and broad bare feet with wet soil
between the toes. I realised that he must be the children’s grandfather.
He smiled at me. A single gold tooth sparkled among two rows of
teeth dyed black.
“Have you seen a cow yet?” he asked.
“Yes, I saw some before.”
“Really? So tell me, are a cow’s horns behind her ears or in
front?”
I thought and thought and ended up more confused than ever.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“Oh! That means you have not really seen a cow!” he concluded
in triumph. He pointed his finger toward the front gate. “I’ve just
brought a cow home from the rice field. Go and take a good look at her.
Check whether her horns are behind her ears or in front.”
Baby spiders
I was so tired out by wandering around the village all day that I went to
bed early. As I lay resting, I noticed a big golden spider crawling slowly
across the ceiling. Through her legs, I was fascinated to see a shining
white sac, shaped like a flat round pillow, stuck to her thorax.
The spider reappeared the next night—and the night after that.
On the third night I could no longer restrain my curiosity. Careful not to
make a noise and frighten the spider away, I moved the table so that it
was directly underneath her. I clambered onto the table and stretched
27
out my arm, but she was still beyond my reach. So I lifted a chair up
onto the table.
Now I could reach high enough. Stealthily I lifted my right hand
and caught hold of her just below the thorax. Without thinking about
what I was doing, I pulled off the sac.
The spider, free again, scurried off in an instant to the corner of
the ceiling, where she stood still. I held the sac in the palm of my hand
and stroked it. It felt like a silky-smooth balloon.
I wondered what was inside. I pulled on the two sides of the sac
and ripped it open along the edge. Inside a layer of white fluff, I
caught a glimpse of a myriad of tiny golden baby spiders. Before I
knew it, more and more of them were crawling across my left hand. A
tickling sensation sent a tremor of cold electricity up my arm to the
chest, and I suddenly shuddered with fright.
Immediately I pressed my hand, still holding the sac, up against
the ceiling, and the babies rushed straight to their mother, waiting in
the corner. Gathering them between her legs, she moved off very
slowly with them to the back door and out of my sight. I felt no urge to
follow them.
I buried my head in the pillow and tried to forget what had
happened. But I was never able to forget, and the baby spiders often
return in my dreams.
Tadpoles
28
Every morning, when Grandma got up, I lay awake watching her. First
she chewed betel until her mouth turned red and spat it out into a little
copper spittoon. Then she combed out her long graying hair, wrapped
it inside a black velvet headscarf, and rolled it up on top of her head
like the rim of a hat. Next she got the kettle out of the cupboard and
fetched water to make tea.
One day, on an impulse, I decided that I would fetch the water
for her. When I heard the click of the cupboard door, I lifted my
mosquito net and jumped out of bed, turned quickly toward Grandma,
tapped her hand, and in a quiet voice—so as not to disturb my sleeping
brother and sister—said:
“Grandma, please let me go and fill the kettle for you today.”
She looked at me with a smile and handed me the kettle. I
walked to the tank of rainwater that stood on the left side of the
garden. The early morning air held my face in a pleasant icy caress.
I opened the bamboo screen cover and, without looking down,
started to scoop water into the kettle using a large white enamel cup.
Suddenly I noticed six little black creatures, with round heads and
wiggling tails, moving around in the half-filled kettle. I looked in the
tank and saw many more of the same creatures swimming happily in
the fresh dawn sunlight.
Gingerly I carried the kettle inside to show my grandmother what
I had found:
“Grandma, take a look in here! There are lots of baby fish like
these in the tank.”
“Those aren't fish,” she explained. “They’re tadpoles.”
She took me back to the tank and emptied the kettle. Gently she
struck the surface of the water a few times with the cup, and the
tadpoles swiftly swam over to the other side of the tank. Then she
refilled the kettle.
“We don’t want to boil any tadpoles alive, do we, my dear? They
too have a right to live.”
I was still worried.
“But what if one gets into the kettle by accident? And I don’t
notice until it’s too late?”
Grandma paused a moment.
“Don’t worry, my dear. If it happens by accident, that means
you’re not to blame. And even if you swallow it—well, the protein will
be good for you.”
I felt relieved.
Grandma took the kettle inside to make tea. I stayed to look
around.
Above the water tank stretched a big branch of a guava tree,
tawny and smooth, with many twigs bearing the green and yellow
guava fruit. Peering up, I spotted a row of dark brown toads sitting
29
silently on the branch. Next to one of them hung a ball of white foam. I
returned to the house and described what I had seen to Grandma.
“Inside that ball are toad eggs, soft like jelly. They will turn into
tadpoles and the rain will wash them down into the tank. And the
tadpoles will turn into toads and eat the insects in our garden.”
The altar
There was another delight in the garden—a little altar with a wooden
statue of the Buddha. In the corner of the altar, protecting the Buddha,
stood a wooden sword and a wooden knife, painted red and gold. On
the altar table, beneath the Buddha, stood a beautiful wooden bowl
that Grandma kept filled with an offering of fresh fruit.
Here, right after her morning tea, Grandma would light one of her
incense sticks and then shake it until the flame was extinguished,
bowing in prayer as she did so. She placed the used stick in a bowl of
ash.
I often hid inside the altar when my friends and I played hide-
and-seek. As I waited for them to find me, I would examine the fruit in
the bowl. Sometimes I laughed to see that mice had gnawed holes in
the fruit, leaving precious little behind for the Buddha.
Having paid her respects to the Buddha, Grandma would
proceed to the cemetery to chat with her deceased husband.
Harvesting longans
The end of our month with Grandma was drawing near. The longans on
the two trees in front of her house were ripening, turning a fawn color.
It was time to harvest them. She set a day for the harvesting and
arranged for the buyer to come.
Early that day Father arrived. Carrying a hooked bamboo pole
and a big sack to which a long rope had been attached, he climbed the
30
tree trunk on a ladder and sat astride one of the branches. Using the
pole to pull the bunches of longans toward him, he quickly broke each
bunch off its twig and carefully placed it in the sack. When the sack
was almost full, he lowered it on the rope, and we children jostled to
catch it and unpack the fruit into a large bamboo basket.
As Father moved his feet from one branch to another, the branch
from which he stepped sprang back to its original position, showering
longans down to the ground below. We hurried to pick them up and pop
them one by one into our mouths, breaking open with our teeth the
thin crisp rind, sucking in the delectable juice, and spitting out the
smooth black stones to be strung together later into necklaces.
By the time we had finished, we had filled four baskets to the
brim. Grandma wanted to sell three basketfuls and keep one for us and
to share with relatives and friends.
It was already late in the afternoon when the buyer arrived with
his bicycle and a hand scale.
“Well, you seem to have plenty of longans this year.”
“Yes,” remarked Grandma. “Thanks to the rising water level in
the Red River this summer. In the old days, mind you, when there
wasn’t a good dam, the water would have flooded the village and
destroyed all our crops and livestock. And with so much water we’d
better stock up on dry corn, peanuts, sesame seeds, and root
vegetables, as I bet they’ll soon fetch a very good price.”
31
Chapter 4
New year
January 25, 1965. The Vietnamese new year was approaching. The bus
and railway stations were packed with people returning to their
families for the holiday. We school and college students had two weeks
off; workers had one week. Food prices on the open market were
skyrocketing.
Since this was the biggest celebration of the year, my mother
sold some of her jewellery to buy provisions not covered by our food
stamps—pork, chickens, sticky rice and mung beans, candies, cookies,
roast pumpkin seeds, preserved fruits and vegetables, flowers, papery
leaves of the arrowroot plant for wrapping earthcakes, and two strings
of firecrackers to attach to our doorposts. Mai and I decorated our
rooms and the passage outside with lanterns and rows of flowers made
32
of colored paper.
Four days before the new year, in accordance with Vietnamese
tradition, we embarked on the long and arduous process of making
earthcakes, which symbolize our appreciation of the earth that brings
us fertility and wealth. We prepared the ingredients out in the
courtyard, where the evening before we had left the sticky rice and
mung beans out to soak overnight in bowls of water.
My mother cut up the pork loin, skin and fat still attached, into
big slices and seasoned them with salt and ground black pepper. We
children helped by preparing the arrowroot leaves. We washed them
and, in order to make them flatter, stripped off the black half of the
main vein. Then we scooped the mung beans out of the water, a
handful at a time, put them in a basket, rubbed off the husks to expose
the yellow flesh within, and placed them in a second bowl of fresh
water. The husks rose to the surface, from which we skimmed them. To
the husked beans we added salt, then steamed and mashed them and
rolled them into apple-sized balls. Meanwhile Mai drained the sticky
rice and mixed in some salt.
At last we brought all the ingredients into the house. My father
set a big wooden board down on the floor. He and Dai Lam each sat on
a little stool and started to make the earthcakes, while I sat between
them watching.
On the board they neatly arranged five arrowroot leaves in an
overlapping criss-cross pattern. In the middle of the leaves, they
placed a level bowlfull of sticky rice and patted it to make a round pad,
on which they laid half a ball of mung bean and another bowlfull of
sticky rice. To complete the cake, they carefully folded the leaves into a
perfect square and tied it up with bamboo string.
I joined in and made an earthcake of my own. To show it was
mine, I attached a red string to it.
Altogether we made about thirty earthcakes. One by one, we set
them in place in a special pan, as big as a tall drum, and covered them
with water. The pan was now so heavy that Father and Dai Lam had to
struggle to lift it up onto the hot coal stove. We had to boil the cakes
for at least twelve hours—from late afternoon until early the next
morning, at intervals replenishing the coal and the hot water.
Mai tended the stove until midnight, while I slept. Then my
friends came round as arranged, and together for the rest of the night
we sat around the red-hot stove, laughing and chatting about
everything between heaven and the ocean floor. This was a memorable
yearly occasion for us. Outside, a cold fine misty rain poured down
incessantly, mixing with the dirt to form a black gluey mud that stuck
in our sandals.
In the morning, Father removed the earthcakes from the pan and
spread them between two big boards. On top he set several bricks to
press the water out of the cakes. After a couple of hours, we hung the
33
cakes up to dry on a string inside the house. But to eat them we had to
wait for the new year.
another happiness, good health, and a new baby in the new year.
I tagged along behind Mother, holding a flowery tray laden with
small red packets. Inside the packets were preserved waxgourd and
other delicacies for Mother to give to the children in the building, who
crowded around us wherever we went.
“Are you going to be good boys and girls in the new year?”
They nodded their heads vigorously, and she handed each one a
red packet, wishing them all a happy new year and a happy birthday.
Individual birthdays are not celebrated in Vietnam: new year’s day is
celebrated as everyone’s birthday.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ai!”
“You are very welcome.”
Mother smiled like a flower opening its petals, and I smiled along
with her.
On the second day of the new year, I swept the house and yard.
Innumerable candy wrappers, pumpkin seed husks, pieces of fruit peel,
and firecracker papers had accumulated, but it is the custom not to
clean up on new year’s day itself. That would bring poverty and bad
luck.
None of us realized then that this was the last time we would
celebrate the new year in the city. We would see no more firework
displays for a long time to come. The air raids began. To put us out of
harm’s way, our parents sent Trung Lam and me to stay with Grandma
in her village. We lived there a long time. Like other children evacuated
to the area, we went to the local school.
35
Chapter 5
Evacuation
36
At the temple
Once every lunar month, early in the morning on the full moon,
Grandma used to walk the two miles to the Buddhist temple in a
nearby village. She took with her some money and fruit to give the
monks and nuns whose wisdom, advice, and blessings she sought. In
return, they gave her pressed cakes of sticky rice, which she brought
home for us.
One Sunday morning, Grandma took us along to the temple.
There we met a young nun, a monk, and a number of other families
who were visiting the temple. We children played in the orchard. A two-
year-old boy sat next to his mother, holding a piece of honeydew
melon in his hand. A woman told me that he was the son of a family
who worked at the temple, and that he was being trained to be a
monk.
The nun and the monk asked the children, about a dozen of us
altogether, to sit down in a circle around a flat rock, in the shade of a
clump of bamboo trees. We introduced ourselves. The nun and the
monk welcomed us and talked to us about the temple and their work.
Then the young boy’s mother brought out a big teapot and tiny
teacups without handles. The monk slowly poured tea into the cups
and passed them around. He asked whether any of us would like to tell
a story or sing a song. Smiling shyly, we glanced sidelong at one
another. The nun broke the ice by singing a folk song. Then she said:
“My family were wealthy landowners and devout Buddhists. I
went to France to study medicine, but when I came home for the
summer the monk visited us and persuaded me that the country
needed me, so I decided to become a nun.”
Silence fell again.
The monk turned to the girl on his left and invited her to share a
song with us. She sang half a lullaby and broke out laughing.
“I’m afraid I can’t remember the rest. It’s a new lullaby.”
“Who else knows the song?” asked a chorus of voices.
“I know it!” I answered.
“We want to hear it!” they all shouted.
So I sang:
Rag dolly,
Both cheeks pinky.
You evacuated along with me.
37
Bitten by a dog
One day, I was playing and skipping all by myself around the hamlet
when a big dog suddenly appeared and began to chase me. Hoping to
frighten him off, I skipped faster and faster. I had almost reached
Grandma’s gate when a woman standing opposite shouted at the dog
and yelled to me:
“Sit down, you silly girl, he won’t bite you!”
I promptly sat down and held my arms around my knees.
Immediately the dog snapped at the left side of my leg through my red
corduroy pants. I cried loudly and the dog ran away. The woman was
nowhere to be seen. I ran back to Grandma’s house.
“What happened?” she asked. “Why are you crying?”
“A dog bit me just outside,” I sobbed.
She held me tight in her arms, stroked my hair, and talked gently
to me.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry. I’ll see about the dog. Meanwhile, let me
see where the bite is.”
I pulled up the leg of my pants.
“Here, Grandma, he bit me right here. A big dog without any hair,
like a lion.”
With her fingers she gestured to Trung Lam to bring a chair for
me. She examined my leg.
“You’re very lucky, dear. Only a few deep tooth marks and a little
bleeding. Stay here and I’ll fetch some salt water to wash the wound.”
While Grandma was in the kitchen, Trung Lam jabbed his finger
at me.
“Now they’re going to give you twenty-one injections at least. In
your belly button. That’s what they did to a girl in my class who got
bitten by a dog.”
Grandma returned with the salt water.
“Isn’t that true, Grandma?” Trung Lam persisted.
38
“Oh go away, Trung Lam, and leave your sister alone. Why don’t
you go down to Mrs. Cam, in the hamlet? It was her dog who bit her.
Tell her I said to take her dog to the collective farm office to be tested
for rabies.”
He ran off. An hour later he was back with the good news that
the dog was free of disease. I didn’t need any injections after all.
Pets
were terrified of Titi. Soon they jumped off the wall and disappeared
from sight.
“Titi, you are my hero!” exclaimed Grandma, gently stroking his
face with both her hands.
Titi vigorously wagged his tail left, right, left, right… He was
extremely proud of himself.
Grandma gave Titi his breakfast. I took a pail and went into the
banana orchard to look for snails for the chickens and ducks. The snails
were big and fat, and striped purple and yellow for camouflage. I broke
their shells open with a brick to make it easier for the chickens and
ducks to eat them. The ducks especially loved them. Then I let the
chickens and ducks out of their cages and fed them some more
chopped vegetables and dried yellow corns. While I got ready for
school, they busied themselves chasing insects and one another and
digging for worms in the garden.
Sometimes we would forget to close the door and the chickens
and ducks would get into the house, where they jumped on the bed,
the table, and even Grandpa’s altar. To prevent them from flying away
and from stirring up a storm of dirt when they flapped their wings, I
clipped their wings with scissors.
down to the earth, turning spring back into winter for a few days so
that Mrs. An’s husband could try on the sweater.
One March, a few days before Grandpa’s memorial day, on a
cloudy and windy morning, Grandma took everything down from
Grandpa’s altar for cleaning—the copper dishes, vase, and incense
bowl, the fruit and food bowls, and Grandpa’s portrait.
“Trung Lam!” she called out to my brother. “Can you help me
wash these things please?”
He stared at them in dismay. “But there are so many of them,
Grandma. It’s a girl’s job. Let Lan do it.”
“I asked you, not her,” Grandma insisted. “You must learn how to
do it so that a woman will marry you when you grow up.”
“But I’ve never seen Father wash a single bowl, and Mother still
married him.”
“Things are different nowadays. You wait and see!”
Trung Lam was not really happy about it, but he knew Grandma
never took “no” for an answer. He put on his sweater and carried a
basin full of objects to the well. Behind him he could still hear Grandma
telling him what to do.
“Get a bundle of straw and dip it in soap and ash to polish the
copper. I want to see it shining bright.”
After helping Grandma clean the house, I went to the well to see
how Trung Lam was doing. His face had turned blue with cold, his
fingers were all wrinkled, and the copper objects still looked dull. So I
sat down and gave him a hand.
I remembered a lesson in meditation I had learned at the temple
and decided to put it to use.
“Trung Lam! Breathe in and out gently and evenly. Concentrate
on the copper bowl and think how beautiful it will be when we have
finished.”
Meditating was very helpful. We quite forgot the cold and wind.
Grandma was very pleased with us.
“You did a good job, Trung Lam,” she said as she replaced the
objects on the altar. “They look brand new.”
tall mountains, ran a bright orange line, like the neon strip lighting
used in advertising displays. I ran into the house to tell Grandma, and
she came out and watched with us.
“The sun is setting behind that cloud, you know,” she remarked.
An hour later, all of a sudden, a heavy shower fell, and with it the
chill of night.
On the way home, Grandma asked my father: “Dong, did you see
how your father’s grave has changed?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The left side was higher than it used to be.”
“There must be termites under there eating the coffin,” I
suggested.
My aunt put her hand over my mouth to stop me developing this
irreverent line of thought any further. At the same time, she started
humming a tune in an attempt to distract Grandma.
“What was that you said?” complained Grandma. “I didn’t hear
you.”
“Oh, nothing. Really,” I answered.
“Lucky Grandma is a bit deaf,” Mai whispered in my ear.
Grandma resumed her conversation with Father.
“Dong, see how the earth swells up around the grave. It’s a sign
of a great future that awaits us.”
“Did you all hear that?” Father asked, feigning astonished
delight.
We joyfully nodded. Not that any of us believed it, but we all
wanted to make Grandma happy.
My parents and my aunt and her husband departed that evening,
but Dai Lam and Mai stayed another night with us. We were very tired
after such a busy day, so we went to bed earlier than usual. In any
case, because of the air raids and the shortage of fuel the electricity
was cut off early in the evening.
I shared Grandma’s double bed so that Mai, who always used to
toss and turn in her sleep, could have my bed to herself.
42
The ghost
Just before midnight, the solemn quiet of the dark night was shattered
by a scream.
The scream came from Mai.
“A ghost! A ghost! There’s a ghost in the room!”
I dashed into her room while Grandma looked for matches. I saw
little sparkling green lights slowly moving along the wall. Grandma
came in holding the kerosene lamp.
“Wow!” I laughed. “So it was you, tortoise!”
Someone had glued a bottle full of fireflies onto the tortoise’s
shell.
Grandma headed straight for Trung Lam’s room.
“Trung Lam! It was you, wasn’t it, you little monster?! You almost
scared your poor sister to death! It isn’t worth feeding you! I’d do
better giving your food to Titi instead.”
She went on scolding him until I interrupted:
“Grandma, Dai Lam and Trung Lam aren’t here. They’re camping
out in the garden tonight.”
Grandma reached for her cane. Mai was feeling much better by
now, so I left her on her own and ran out to warn my brothers. By the
time Grandma had found their tent, they were no longer around.
Gradually Grandma calmed down. She remembered the
imprisoned fireflies. Taking pity on them, she returned to the tortoise,
pulled the bottle off its shell, and carefully released the fireflies into the
night air. We all went back to sleep.
In the morning, Dai Lam and Trung Lam apologized to Mai for
their practical joke. Then they had to clean the glue off the tortoise’s
shell.
Every year, on the fifth of May by the lunar calendar, the country
celebrated Destroy Insects Day.
In olden times, before people knew about hygiene, insects
multiplied in the month of May and spread infectious diseases that
claimed many victims. People blamed ghosts and devils, which they
thought had come disguised as insects. They beat as loud as they
could on drums to chase the ghost-insects and devil-insects away, and
set out bowls of poisoned soup to kill them. The poison that they mixed
into the soup was cyanide powder, extracted from seeds and plants.
Nowadays DDT is sprayed instead.
43
Buying flowers
country home.
I stepped gingerly into the yard.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” the woman remarked.
“You’re not from hereabouts?”
I shook my head.
“Who are you staying with?”
“My Grandma Thu in Ngac Hamlet.”
“I know your Grandma. She’s a lovely lady. How is she?”
“She’s fine. She told me a lot about you and Mr. Tu.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” That was Mr. Tu speaking as he came in
from the garden. “All the bad things, right?”
“N-n-n-n-no, no, not at all,” I stammered in confusion.
“I’m only joking, you know,” he laughed.
I stared at him. Despite the gray hair on his head and the eight-
inch-long gray beard hanging from his chin, the smooth maroon skin of
his face made him look like a young boy. He picked some kumquats
and gave them to me. I rubbed them against my blouse, popped them
into my mouth, and started to chew. They were sweet with a slight
tang, and their aroma enveloped me in a fragrant mist.
“You came to buy some flowers for your Grandma, didn’t you?”
asked Mrs. Tu.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“It’s full moon tomorrow, so today your Grandma is going to
worship at the temple, and she always takes flowers with her. Follow
me, I’ll cut some for you.”
She led me into the garden between rows of trees heavily laden
with light yellow apricots. I pulled a branch down to eye level. Though I
could see that the fruit were not yet ripe, my mouth was watering. I
wished that they were mine, so that I could eat them right away.
I was still contemplating the apricot branch when I heard a
squeaking noise. It was Mrs. Tu passing through a bamboo gate set in a
fence of tall straight cacti. I ran after her. As I approached the gate, the
gentle breeze wafted a strong sweet fragrance in my direction. I
entered the garden and to my surprise found myself surrounded by a
vast carpet of flowers—marigolds, carnations, gerberas, snapdragons,
chrysanthemums, dahlias, and many others that I was unable to
identify.
“Aren’t they beautiful!” I enthused.
“Would you like to pick some for yourself?” asked Mrs. Tu,
smiling.
“Oh yes! Can I pick some Rangoon creepers in that shrub over
there, please?”
“Fine. Help yourself.”
I ran to the end of the garden. Standing by the vine, I picked the
flowers one by one, alternating the red with the pink, bent the green
tubes in the middle of the petals to make loops, and chained them
45
Occasionally we ate one of our cocks or ducks with eggs for dinner.
One Sunday morning, Grandma said to me:
“Lan, I’m going out to visit a friend today. Would you mind
preparing dinner for tonight? Choose a big cock and cook it. I’ll be back
in time for dinner.”
Now the fact of the matter was that I had never before killed a
chicken in my life. But I didn’t want to disappoint Grandma. I had
watched her kill a chicken several times and was more than willing to
give it a try.
“Alright, Grandma,” I confidently assured her. “Don’t worry, I’ll
see to it.”
Grandma set off and I sat and pondered the best way to kill a
cock. I tried to recall exactly each step that Grandma took when she
did it, but the more I thought about it the more confused and nervous I
became.
I decided that I had better allow myself plenty of time. I also
decided that I could not let the chickens and ducks run free that day as
they usually did.
So early in the afternoon, I placed a big pan of water on the coke
stove to boil, left a bowl and a sharp knife lying ready on the kitchen
floor, and then went to the cage and pulled out a large cock. I carried
him back to the kitchen and held him down with my bare feet, my left
foot over his legs and my right foot over his wings. With my left hand I
bent back his neck, and with my right hand I plucked the feathers from
his neck. I reached for the bowl and knife, made a small incision in his
neck, and let the blood drip into the bowl. I noticed that much less
blood was coming out than when Grandma had done it. Some
46
At one period, Hanoi was suffering such frequent and heavy air raids
that the government, in order to protect evacuees, suspended all
public transportation between the countryside and the city.
Nevertheless, Trung Lam, who had not seen his parents for a whole
month, was missing them so terribly that I decided to try to take him
home. So one Saturday after lunch, I told Grandma that we were going
to the taxibus stop but that if the taxibus did not turn up we would
come back.
Grandma waved us goodbye and wished us luck. At the taxibus
stop we waited and waited, but a whole hour passed and there was still
no sign of a taxibus.
“Trung Lam,” I said, “there isn’t going to be any taxibus today,
I’m afraid. Let’s go back to Grandma’s.”
“No,” he replied, “I’d sooner wait some more. If you don’t want to
wait with me, I’ll wait all by myself.”
Tears were streaming down his face.
“Well,” I suggested on a sudden impulse, “let’s walk home then!”
He brightened up instantly and became quite excited.
“What a good idea!” he exclaimed.
At first we actually ran. Then we slowed to a walk. At intervals we
stopped for a rest. We sang to keep our spirits up. Dusk was falling
when we reached the village of Nghi Tam. Guava trees full of white
flowers lined the road, but we were in no mood to enjoy the scenery. All
we could think about was Mother and Father welcoming us home to a
delicious dinner. We knew we were not far now from the city tram
station.
Altogether it took us five hours to get home. We covered about
ten miles, eight on foot and the last two by tram. Our parents were
astonished to see us. They had no delicious dinner ready for us, of
course, and we had to make do with some bread. We had a bath and
fell asleep exhausted.
My brother and I were awakened from our deep slumber in the
early hours of the next morning by the harsh wail of the air raid siren.
Father urged us to hurry down to the shelter, but our legs ached so
badly after the previous day’s marathon that we could hardly walk. So
instead of running to the shelter we crawled under the wooden bed.
When Mother came back from the shelter, she berated us angrily.
“Don’t you two have any sense at all? Didn’t it occur to you that
if there was no taxibus it might be for a good reason? It’s so dangerous
here. The bombers come over several times a day. You shouldn’t be
here!”
48
Once, in the middle of the night when I was fast asleep, Grandma
gripped my arm with her fingers and shook it. I woke up with a jolt. She
wanted me to join her for a late-night supper of duck-embryo eggs,
mint leaf, salt, and pepper, served with a pot of jasmine tea. She ate
five eggs and made me eat another five.
By then I was fully awake, so I asked her a question that had
been in my mind for a long time.
“Grandma, why do all our male relatives on my father’s side
have similar names? And why are all our female relatives named after
flowers?”
“Well, my dear, you ask me exactly the same questions that I
asked your grandpa after I married him. This is the story he told me.
“Your great-great-grandparents were called Bach and Truc. After
nine long years of marriage they were still childless. They had offered
up many prayers to God, to the Buddha, and to the ancestors. They
had performed many good deeds. They had looked after the babies of
their friends and relatives for free. But nothing had helped. There was
only one thing that your great-great-grandfather absolutely refused to
do—and that was to take a concubine, as his relatives advised.
“Their patience and blessings were finally rewarded and your
great-great-grandmother gave birth to a beautiful son. They and their
relatives were overjoyed. Gifts and flowers filled the house. They
named their son Xuan, meaning Spring, as he was born in the spring
month of March 1836.
“One night, your great-great-grandpa, still very excited about the
baby and unable to sleep, was watching his wife nurse Xuan when an
idea suddenly struck him. He conceived the plan of preparing a book in
which names would be set out for the next eight generations of the
family. However numerous his male descendants might be and
wherever they might live, they would unafilingly recognise one another
and their place of origin by their personal and family names.
“Sons in the first four generations would be named, like his own
son, after the four seasons: Xuan, Ha, Thu, Dong. From the fifth to the
eighth generation, sons would be named in honor of the natural
treasure troves of the earth: Lam (Jungle), Son (Mountain), Phong (Air),
49
Two surprises
Tuesday, third week of May, 1966. This was the day we were to hear
the teacher read out the results of our seventh grade exams. Most of
us felt very confident. We were not surprised that only three failed out
of a class of 32. To celebrate we decided to arrange a farewell lunch for
the following Saturday.
We agreed that we would serve barbecued duck with rice
noodles. All the teachers who had taught our class were invited. Each
of us contributed two bowlfulls of rice and five dong.
Early on Saturday morning, I set off with three of the other girls
for the store, where we exchanged all the rice for fresh hot rice
noodles. It didn’t take us long. Meanwhile, several of the boys had
gone to the market with a large basket to buy ducks and vegetables.
Two hours later they finally returned. Their basket was filled with
lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, spring onions, and bamboo shoots. But
ducks were nowhere to be seen! Instead, we were astonished to see
four big fat ganders being driven along with a stick by two of the boys.
“Where are the ducks?” we asked in dismay.
They laughed.
“There weren’t any ducks in the market today, only these
fellows!”
“Then why didn’t you buy pork?” asked Tram.
“Well, aren’t geese fowl too? Do you want them or not?”
There was agitation, perhaps a hint of anger, in Hai’s raised
voice.
“We want them, yes, of course.”
We didn’t want to spoil the party, and anyway the ganders had
already been bought. So we went along with them, even though none
of us had ever eaten gooseflesh before.
One of the boys began to whistle and the atmosphere relaxed.
Everyone lent a hand to prepare the feast. We slaughtered and cut up
the geese and roasted them over a charcoal fire. To make soup, we
threw the bones and the offal into a big pan together with the bamboo
50
Arabian tales
Chapter 6
Called up
I laughed.
“That is me,” I explained. “I am Le Ho Lan.”
At last he seemed to notice my presence. He blinked in
astonishment.
“But you’re a girl,” he observed.
I nodded.
“Go home. There must be a mistake.”
When I returned to school the next day, my friends thought that I
had failed the health check.
“No,” I had to admit, “I didn’t even get that far. They don’t need
city girls.”
Country girls too were not drafted into the army, but they at
least were mobilized for road building and other public works. City girls
were considered not tough enough even for that.
However, six of the seven boys in our class were called up. They
were all assigned to different divisions, and after no more than three or
four months’ training were sent to the front.
A refuge
The prisoners
In April 1972, worried that the Americans would bomb the dikes that
protected Hanoi from the Red River, the government ordered all the
students in the city to work for one month to build a reserve dike. We
had to work from early morning until late at night, bringing with us our
own food and water jugs.
One by one, using shovels, we filled the sandbags with sand, tied
them up, and threw them into position. We worked so hard that we lost
all idea of how many bags we had filled. During the short breaks for
meals, as we rested our aching bodies, we discussed the possibility of
escaping to the moon. That, we agreed, would be the ideal solution.
It was close to midnight on December 26, 1972. Hanoi was sunk deep
in sleep.
Suddenly the loud wail of the city air-raid siren shattered our
dreams and jolted us awake in a spasm of terror. In our building I heard
the sounds of hurried footsteps, slamming doors, and crying children.
Our parents jumped out of bed. Father shouted to my sister and me to
get out of the building fast and run to the shelter nearby. When we
hesitated, he asked sarcastically whether we preferred to be buried
alive. We replied that we were coming, but instead we just rolled off
and under the bed. We really could not believe that the Americans
would drop any more bombs after they had already agreed at the Paris
Peace Conference to withdraw their troops from the South.
The footsteps died away and we found ourselves alone in the
silence. A few minutes later, there was a light whooshing sound. At the
same moment, a heavy wave of air pressed down on our bodies. We
heard the tinkle of breaking glass from the shelf in the corner, the
crack of roof tiles striking the brick sidewalk outside, and then the
engine roar and pop-pop-pop gunfire of a warplane flying directly
overhead.
Quiet descended again, only to be broken shortly by the shouts
of militiamen looking for survivors hidden under the debris and calling
58
One evening in June 1973, my girlfriend Bich came to visit me. She told
me that her old boyfriend Sinh, who had gone to the front at the same
time as my own boyfriend Tung, was back. She had been with him at
his home the previous night.
59