The Mountains Sing Page 13

  “I bet they didn’t like what you told them.” I frowned.

  “They called me a traitor.” He clutched his stomach, curling up like a shrimp.

  “Who did?”

  He closed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

  I reached for his stomach. “What did you drink or eat, anh?”

  “They served us homemade juice.” He winced. “I couldn’t tell what it was.”

  I wished my brother was home, but he’d taken the children to visit our relatives. As I rushed to the kitchen to make ginger tea for Hùng, my feet felt as if they were tethered to boulders. Just last night, Công had reminded Hùng to be careful, but Hùng had knocked his fist against the table. “Brother,” he said, “only through democracy can we ensure that there’ll be no abuse of power.”

  When I returned to the bedroom with the tea and a cool towel for his head, Hùng’s breathing was ragged and rapid. He drank the tea but asked for water. I brought him a large cup. He gulped it down.

  “Would you like some more?” I asked, alarmed.

  He shook his head, his fever warming the towel in my hand.

  “Let me go get Mr. Nguyên.” I stood up, ready to race out to find the healer.

  “No need.” Hùng looked up at me. His eyes were strange. The pupils were small, too small. “I’ll . . . I’ll be fine. Just need a good sleep.” The muscles on his face started to twitch.

  “We need Mr. Nguyên.” I ran out of the room, shouting.

  Mrs. Tú hobbled toward me. “What’s wrong, Diệu Lan?”

  “Anh Hùng is very ill. Please watch him, Auntie. I’ll be back soon.” I would’ve liked to stay with my husband, but Mrs. Tú had twisted her ankle the day before.

  I dashed out to the village road, praying while running. When I reached the healer’s house, he wasn’t there.

  “Are you all right?” his son, Việt, asked. “My father is out with his friends.”

  I told Việt about Hùng.

  “Let’s go find him.” Việt grabbed the wooden box his father always carried while visiting patients. We raced out into the village, running from one house to the next.

  It took us a long time to find Mr. Nguyên and rush him to my house.

  Entering the front yard, I heard Mrs. Tú’s voice. “Hùng ơi, con ơi!” she was wailing. My feet started to give way beneath me.

  Việt snatched my arm, pulling me along. We burst into the bedroom. Hùng was convulsing violently under the grip of Mrs. Tú. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. Foam bubbled at his mouth.

  “Stay calm, women! Stop screaming.” Mr. Nguyên ordered Việt to loosen Hùng’s clothing. We held him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself or fall out of bed.

  The healer checked Hùng’s breathing, eyes, and chest. He clutched Hùng’s hand, turning the palm up, listening to the pulse. Through my tears, I saw his eyes widen.

  “Poison. Don’t touch the foam,” he shouted. “Make him vomit. Turn him!” He hurried to wrap his hands with a cloth. “Mrs. Tú, go wash your hands with soap. Get me some warm water.”

  Việt and I turned Hùng onto his stomach, tilting his head down to the floor. The healer forced open Hùng’s mouth, trying to induce him to vomit. Not much came out.

  Mrs. Tú rushed into the room with a jug of water. We returned Hùng to his back. I wiped his mouth and caressed him with my voice. By now his tremors were easing, but he felt limp in my hands. His eyes had stopped rolling, and I caught the flicker of desperation in his eyes.

  “Hold on, anh Hùng. Look at me. Talk to me!” I commanded, yet he didn’t reply. His eyes were closing.

  “Mr. Nguyên, please . . . ,” I begged. The healer had opened the wooden box, scooped powders into a bowl and mixed them with water.

  We sat Hùng up. Mr. Nguyên fed him the concoction, but it flowed back out. Hùng could no longer swallow. He could no longer respond.

  Wrapping our hands with cloths, we opened Hùng’s mouth, trying to force the medicine down, but it didn’t work. Mr. Nguyên shook his head. “Diệu Lan. I’m sorry. I’m afraid we are too late.”

  I got down on my knees. “Please save him, Mr. Nguyên. I beg you!”

  The healer pulled me up, his eyes sorrowful. “It’s too strong, the poison Hùng took.”

  “No! Please save him. Save him!”

  I lay my face on Hùng’s heart. But he was silent. Silent as a piece of paper that had been erased of all its words.

  Công was miserable and furious when he got back. He beat his fists against his chest, talking about revenge. He tracked down those people who were with Hùng at their meeting. They denied any responsibility and threatened to put Công in prison if he didn’t stop making accusations.

  I should have pursued it further, Guava. I should’ve tried to find the one who killed your grandpa and bring him to justice, but I was a coward. I was fearful for Công’s safety, as well as my children’s.

  But Công was stubborn. He went to the authorities. I had to come with him, to make sure he wouldn’t be arrested.

  “Nobody killed your brother-in-law,” one official told Công, eyeing me. “Perhaps he took his own life.”

  “That healer Nguyên is crazy,” snarled another official. “What proof do you have? Pursue it further and we’ll put you and that insane healer of yours in prison. Defamation against the Party is a serious crime.”

  I begged Công to go home. I knew it wasn’t true that Hùng had committed suicide. He loved us, Guava, and he loved his life.

  Soon, we heard plenty of rumors that the Việt Minh was getting rid of its anticommunist members, as well as intellectuals and the rich. The Party had to belong to farmers and workers, not to a member of the bourgeoisie like Hùng.

  I don’t know whether these rumors were true, but I do know that politics is as dirty as sewage. I don’t ever want to set my foot near it again.

  I can’t tell you how wrecked we were by your grandpa’s death. Your Uncle Minh, seventeen by then, had been very close to him. So were your mother, your Uncle Đạt, Uncle Thuận, and Auntie Hạnh. Sáng was the only one who didn’t know what was going on. He was just four months old.

  I had to stay strong for my children, but for a long time afterward, I felt like a broken shell. I know now that true love is rare and once we find our true love, we must hold on to it. I just wish that when Hùng was alive, I’d told him more often that I loved him.

  Công swore to stay out of politics and never to support the government again. He poured his energy into our family business, which had been prospering under his leadership. He passed his skills to Minh and the two of them spent a lot of time together. We all worked hard and managed to hire additional workers. Our fields continued to be lush and our cattle stalls full.

  I thought we were getting back on our feet. I was sure we’d received enough bad luck and Heaven would spare us from further turbulence.

  But I was wrong.

  In October 1955, just seven months after your grandpa’s funeral, something else crashed down onto our heads.

  “Diệu Lan, can you keep a secret?” asked Mrs. Tú in the kitchen as I poured shredded crabmeat into a clay pot filled with rice porridge. Food for Sáng. I’d just come back from the field, and wanted to feed him before going out to lunch. One of my mother’s friends was turning seventy and had invited me to come over.

  “What secret, Auntie?”

  “Remember Thương?” Mrs. Tú whispered. “She worked as the cook for the Đinh family. I ran into her this morning at the market. She told me the Đinhs have left. They’re trying to cross the border, to go to the South.”

  How strange, I thought. The South had been cut away from us over a year before, in June 1954, by something called the Geneva Agreements. The Communists ran the North, but in the South, Ngô Đình Diệm was in charge, supported by the French and the Americans. Most of those who worked for the French or were Catholics had moved south. As far as I knew, the Đinhs hated the French. They weren’t Catholics. Since the
Great Hunger, they’d prospered and become the richest clan in Vĩnh Phúc Village. Besides, the North-South border had already been closed. How could they even get to the South?

  Mrs. Tú edged next to me. She lowered her voice further. “Diệu Lan, I think you should listen to this. Thương said Madam Đinh told her the Communists have started some crazy thing called the Land Reform. Landless farmers are encouraged to rise against rich landowners. That’s why the Đinhs left.”

  I squinted through a curtain of woodsmoke, ladling the porridge into a bowl. “I heard about the Land Reform, Auntie, but we have nothing to worry about. Remember how much rice, silver, and gold we donated to the Việt Minh?” I closed my eyes, trying to make myself believe what I was about to say. “The Party will protect us against any uprising. After all, together with other landowners, we financed their troops.”

  “I know, Diệu Lan. But I’m worried.”

  “We’ll be fine, Auntie. We work as hard as everyone else. We give people jobs. We’ve done nothing wrong. Công and I already talked about this. . . . And Auntie, we can’t just leave. The workers and their families depend on us. The graves of my parents are here to be looked after. Besides, how can we just abandon everything? My parents and grandparents built all this with their lives. We can’t just run away because of some rumors.”

  Mrs. Tú nodded.

  Holding the bowl, I walked out of the kitchen. In the yard, the longan tree was blooming, its blossoms spreading a dome of pearls atop its green canopy. Instead of bringing joy to my heart, the sight reminded me that life’s peaceful moments could be as short-lived as flowers—gone with a strong gust of wind. The news of the Đinhs’ departure could be a warning sign.

  “Mama, look.”

  I turned to see Đạt, sunlight on his shoulder, rushing toward me. Fourteen years old then, he was taller than me, and well built. Thuận, eight, and Hạnh, seven, ran after him. Carrying bags in their hands, they were coming home from school.

  Đạt opened his palm and showed me a shivering bird. It was featherless, its wings drooping by its side. “A sẻ bird, Mama. I found it under a tree.”

  “I saw it first.” Hạnh shook her head.

  “No, I did first.” Thuận’s face reddened.

  “How about all of you found it at the same time?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Bring the poor creature back to the tree. Its mother must be looking. If you can’t find the mother, feed it water and insects.”

  “Let me see, let me see.” A voice flew through the gate. Guava, your Mama Ngọc. She was a pretty girl of fifteen then. Glowing skin, deep dimples on her cheeks, her schoolbag in her hand.

  The children squatted down, studying the bird and debating what to do next. I hurried inside, to my bedroom. Sáng was already standing up in his cot, crying.

  “Mama’s here,” I cooed, placing the porridge down and picking him up. My baby, he was so cute, with those big eyes and chubby face. Villagers who passed by for a visit often pinched his cheeks, saying how much he looked like his father.

  “Mẹ, mẹ,” Sáng babbled, lifting my shirt. He was nearly one year, yet I hadn’t weaned him. I knew he’d be my last baby.

  As soon as he’d satisfied his thirst, he pointed at the porridge.

  “You’re really hungry, aren’t you?” I chuckled.

  Once Sáng finished eating, I changed into my favorite green silk blouse. Công had ordered it for me from the famous Vạn Phúc Silk Village, where people had been weaving silk for over a thousand years. The fabric was exquisite, made of several layers, with the ancient Vietnamese word Phúc—Blessings—woven into it many times over. The shirt was thick, perfect for the cool autumn weather.

  While doing the last button, I cocked my head. I heard voices and the sound of running feet.

  “Đả đảo địa chủ cường hào!” Screams flooded through my half-open window: To hell with wicked landowners!

  Rushing to the window, I pushed my hands against the wooden shutters, opening them wide.

  A group of people armed with bricks, knives, large sticks, and angry faces were dragging Minh and Công across the yard. In their brown farmer clothes, my brother and son were shoeless, their feet spattered with mud and blood, their shirts and pants torn, their hands tied behind their backs. They were being pulled by the hair as well as their arms. Less than an hour ago, I’d been with them in the rice field.

  “Minh, Brother Công!” I wailed.

  The crowd turned their attention to me.

  “Catch her. That’s the rich bitch. The wicked landowner!” a woman shouted, pointing at my face. She had a large protruding forehead and teeth that looked like those of a rabbit. I recognized her as the butcher at our village market. She had a reputation for cheating her customers. Later, much later, I found out that the Việt Minh deliberately chose bần cố nông—landless farmers who were fed up or angry with life—to lead the Land Reform movement.

  “Kill them all, the wicked landowners!” the mob was chanting. Many of them were pointing their fingers at me.

  I turned, picked Sáng up, frantically looking for somewhere to hide. I crawled into a corner, Sáng clutched tight against my chest. My baby. I needed to protect my baby.

  The door crashed open. Two men and the butcher-woman charged in. Anger and excitement glinted in their eyes.

  “There she is, the bitch!” shouted the woman, baring her teeth. “Get her. Bring her outside.”

  Someone grabbed my hair, pulling me up. As I screamed, the woman snatched Sáng away from me. The men twisted and roped my hands behind my back.

  “Outside, bitch!” one man roared.

  “Look how fat she is. Fat from farmers’ blood,” said the other man.

  I was pulled and pushed along the corridor, across the living room. I howled for my children as someone flung me down the five steps. I struggled to open my eyes and saw Minh writhing on the floor.

  “Mẹ ơi,” he called for me. Behind him, Công’s face was white with fear.

  “To hell with wicked landowners!” The mass of people surrounded us, chanting their vicious words, their faces contorted by anger.

  My children’s cries rose high above the noise. Through gaps among the moving legs, I saw Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, and Hạnh huddled in Mrs. Tú’s arms.

  “Where’s my baby Sáng, where is he?” I screamed.

  “Kill them all, the wicked landowners.” The crowd’s rage swallowed my voice.

  “I beg you, please let them go.” Công bent forward, knocking his head onto the brickyard. “I’m in charge of this household. This woman and her son are innocent. Please . . . let them go.”

  I sobbed. It pained me to see my brother shaking. The torn patches of his shirt and pants revealed areas of bleeding flesh.

  From the village road, drumbeats started to surge into the yard. The crowd shifted, giving way to children who marched toward us, their hands knocking on red drums clutched against their stomachs. Guava, some of those children had been students of your grandpa. Some had been friends of your uncles and your mother. For sure they would help our family. For sure some of the people around me would help us.

  The crowd cheered, and the children got more excited. The thudding of their feet against the yard sent tremors through my bones. I saw the cruel glint in everyone’s eyes. I saw their satisfied smiles. The drummers advanced and lined up in front of us. As the drumming stopped, a boy raised his foot and kicked Công straight in the face.

  I screamed.

  A woman lurched forward, a brick held high in her hand. “Shut up, wicked landlord, or else I’ll crash this down on your stupid head!”

  I bowed my head low. When I looked up, chairs were being carried out of our house and arranged into a row between the drummers and us. Some people were led to the chairs. They were Mrs. Tú, Mr. Hải, and the six farmers who worked for us. I begged Mr. Hải with my eyes. He’d rescued me from Wicked Ghost, could he save us today?

  A man with a thin face emerged. Dress
ed like a farmer, but with skin as fair as of those who’d stayed most of their lives outside the sun. He introduced himself as the head of the People’s Agricultural Reform Tribunal. He said he was a farmer, but the way he looked and acted told me otherwise.

  The man cleared his throat. “Today is significant for all of us. The Land Reform has arrived at Vĩnh Phúc Village. For hundreds of years, rich landlords have exploited us poor farmers. Today, we stand up against their exploitation. Today, we’re here to take back our rights!”

  The drums rolled and the people shouted, “To hell with wicked landowners.”

  “For generations, these rich bourgeoisie ngồi mát ăn bát vàng—sat in cool shadows and ate from their golden bowls—while we, the poor, have had to bend our backs under the sun to work for them and to serve them,” the official shouted.

  Drumrolls. Angry screams.

  “Now it’s your turn to seek justice.” The man turned to face Mrs. Tú, Mr. Hải, and the workers. “Denounce them. Tell us how they’ve exploited you.”

  Drumrolls. Angry shouts.

  “They never exploited me. They treated me as family,” Mrs. Tú said, weeping.

  “You fool! They’ve brainwashed you.” The butcher-woman jumped forward. She was the one who snatched Sáng from my arms. Where was he? What did she do with him?

  “It’s true,” said Mr. Thanh, one of our longest-serving employees. “They pay us well. They send our children to school.”

  “They never insulted us,” said Mr. Hải.

  “We’re lucky to be working for them. Luckier than most people,” Mr. Hà, another worker, said.

  “Shut up! You’re naïve and stupid,” shouted a man, stepping up to the front. He raised a large stick in his hands and bared his yellow teeth. “Can’t you see that they got rich on your sweat and blood? They exploited you and brainwashed you.”