The Mountains Sing(4)
As I escaped on an imaginary journey into the South, the bombs fell onto Hà N?i—the heart of our North. Whether it was day or night, at the clanging of a gong, Grandma would clutch my hand, pulling me toward the mountain. It took thirty minutes to climb, and I was never allowed to rest. By the time we reached the cave, gigantic metal birds would be thundering past us. I held on to Grandma, feeling thankful for the cave, yet hating it at the same time: from here I would watch my city being engulfed in flames.
A week after our arrival, an American airplane was shot and its pilot managed to fly his burning plane toward Hòa Bình. He ejected with a parachute. Other planes strafed and rocketed the area as they attempted to rescue him. Much later, we emerged from the mountain cave to see torn body parts strewn along winding village roads. Grandma covered my eyes as we arrived under a row of trees where human guts hung from the branches.
We passed the collapsed village temple. Sounds of a commotion rushed toward us, followed by a group of people who ushered a white man forward. Dressed in a dirty, green overall, the man had his hands tied behind his back. His head was bent low, but he was still taller than everyone around him. Blood ran down his face, and his blond hair was splattered with mud. Three Vietnamese soldiers walked behind him, their long guns pointed at the white man’s back. On the right arm of the man’s uniform the red, white, and blue of a small American flag burned my eyes.
“Gi?t th?ng phi c?ng M?. Gi?t nó ?i, gi?t nó!” someone suddenly shouted.
“Kill him! Kill that bastard American pilot,” the crowd roared in agreement.
I clenched my fists. This man had bombed my city. The aggression of his country had torn my parents away from me.
“My whole family is dead because of you. Die!” a woman screamed, launching a rock at the American. I blinked as the rock thumped him in the chest.
“Order!” one of the soldiers shouted. Grandma and several others rushed to the sobbing woman, took her into their arms, and led her away.
“Justice will be served, Brothers and Sisters,” the soldier told the crowd. “Please, we have to bring him to Hà N?i.”
I watched the pilot as he walked past me. He didn’t make a sound when the rock hit him; he just bent his head lower. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw some tears trickling down his face, mixing with his blood. As the crowd followed him, shouting and screaming, I shuddered, wondering what would happen to my parents if they faced their enemy.
TO CHASE AWAY fear, I buried myself in my book, which took me closer to my parents. I inhaled the scent of mangrove forests, sniffing the breeze from rivers crowded with fish and turtles. Food seemed to be abundant in the South. Such food would help my parents survive if they made it to their destination. But would the South still be this lush even with the American Army there? It seemed to destroy everything in its path.
Approaching the last pages, I held my breath. I wanted An to find his parents, but instead he joined the Vi?t Minh guerrillas to fight against the French. I told him not to, but he had already jumped into a sampan, rowing away, disappearing into the white space that expanded after the novel’s last word.
“An should have tried harder to search for his parents,” I told Grandma, pushing the book away.
“Well, in times of war, people are patriotic, ready to sacrifice their lives and their families for the common cause.” She looked up from my torn shirt, which she was mending.
“You sound just like my teachers.” I recalled the many lessons I’d learned about children considered heroes for blowing themselves up with bombs to kill French or American soldiers.
“Want to know what I really think?” Grandma leaned toward me. “I don’t believe in violence. None of us has the right to take away the life of another human being.”
TOWARD THE MIDDLE of December, whispers circulated that it was now safe to return home, that the American President Nixon would take a rest from the war to enjoy his Christmas holiday of peace and goodwill. People left their hiding places, flocking down to the roads that led them back to our capital city. Those who could afford it hired buffalo or cow carts or shared a truck. Those without money would walk the entire way.
We didn’t join them. Grandma asked her students and their families to stay put. Buddha must have told her so. On December 18, 1972, we watched from inside the mountain cave as our city turned into a fireball.
Unlike the previous attacks, the bombings didn’t cease. They continued throughout the next day and night. On the third day, Grandma and several adults ventured out to get food and water. It took Grandma so long to come back, and she brought Mr. and Mrs. Tùng with her. As Mrs. Tùng moaned about her knees, Mr. Tùng told us that the Americans were using their most powerful weapon on Hà N?i: B-52 bombers.
“They said they want to bomb us back to the Stone Age,” he told us, gritting his teeth. “We won’t let them.”
Hà N?i burned and bombs fell for twelve days and nights. When the bombings finally stopped, it was so silent, I could hear bees buzzing on tree branches. And like those hard-working bees, Grandma returned to her class and the villagers to their fields.
A week later, a group of soldiers arrived. Standing on the temple’s remaining steps, a soldier had a smile stretching wide across his gaunt face. “We’ve defeated those evil bombers!” He pumped his fist. “Our defense troops shot down eighty-one enemy airplanes, thirty-four of them B-52 bombers.”