Xuan’s hut was isolated in the woods. Occasionally local kids looking for their lost water buffaloes would stop by and ask for a glass of water, but those were the only visitors she had. Next to the hut, Xuan farmed a piece of land given to her as a favor by the village so she wouldn’t have to travel somewhere else to work. Once a month she went to the market to buy food. After two or three years of this life, Xuan began to walk unsteadily. And she remained childless. People said that her husband was impotent. Xuan worked hard on her farm, digging holes to plant manioc and banana trees. She said she would keep burying manioc roots until she was buried herself. She planted only banana trees because she didn’t know how long she would live. Trees like jackfruit and plum needed a long time to grow.
I lived far away from the village, so I only heard about Xuan second hand. I heard that she’d had a bad experience with her husband’s family. Her brothers-in-law had come to the farm and taken all the good, ripe bananas. They even pulled up the young maniocs and taro roots to make a sweet soup. Meanwhile, Xuan’s dimwitted husband was sick all the time. Xuan, of course, wasn’t allowed to get sick, otherwise both of them would starve to death in the woods.
The kids who tended to the buffaloes said that in her hut there was a military medal in a glass frame. The framed medal hung high up on a pillar where Xuan had tied the frame so it wouldn’t fall and break. The medal was for the rank of corporal; after nearly a decade in the military, that was the highest rank she’d been allowed to attain. She was Corporal Xuan of our village.
At Mr. Buong’s funeral, Xuan wore an old soldier’s uniform and a white mourning cloth tied around her head. Later that evening, I talked to my mother. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “The day Xuan moved out, she had no clothes or blankets to take with her, so I gave her the two sets of uniforms that you brought home and left here. When I gave them to her she started crying and said, ‘So then, I’ll wear the clothes of a soldier from the central highlands again.”
Mr. Buong died, and his daughter continued to live a miserable life. He must have known about her fate. That was why, when he stopped breathing, his eyes were still open.
8 / RED APPLES
VUONG TAM
Vuong Tam was born in 1946 in Hanoi. He studied at Hanoi University of Science and Technology and has published both poetry and fiction. He is a member of the Vietnam Writers’ Association and works as a reporter for the newspaper New Hanoi. His story “Red Apples” first appeared in 2008 and was included in the short-story anthology The Female Faces of War (Chien tranh cung mang guong mat dan ba). The story is unique in that it features a character from the van cong, the North Vietnamese Army military unit composed of singers and performers tasked with traveling the country during the war to provide uplifting, nationalistic entertainment to both military and civilian audiences. For the pianist at the center of the story, the injuries she sustained as part of the van cong make it difficult for her to leave the house and establish an independent life in postwar Hanoi. She is similar, in this sense, to other female veterans in Vietnamese war fiction—stoic yet traumatized and scarred by the war, and unable to easily transition to the traditional roles of wife and mother.
I glanced at the piece of paper in my hands. It contained the address of a girl I wanted to get to know. A newspaper dating agency called “Looking for Friends” had sent me the address. Obviously I was nervous because the information about her couldn’t really help me imagine how she might actually be. She was apparently 1 meter and 58 centimeters tall and “healthy,” which made it hard to say whether she was chubby or skinny. Her hobby was interesting. In that category she’d written only two words: “sad music.”
It was chilly outside, and the alley seemed quiet and empty. I stood near the entrance and looked for someone to ask about Miss Hanh An’s house. From somewhere in the distance I heard the sweet singing voices of a children’s choir and the sounds of a piano slowly accompanying the singing. “Mother’s eyes are gentle,” the voices sang. “We listen to her lullaby …”
As I stood there listening to the slow rhythm of the music, a boy came running toward me. I stopped him and asked for directions.
“Over there, where you hear the singing,” he said, pointing immediately to the end of the alley. “That’s Miss Hanh An’s house.”
I started to get more nervous as I walked closer to where the boy had been pointing. Then, all of a sudden, the children opened the iron gate of the house and came rushing out into the alley.
“Good-bye, Miss Hanh An!” they called out.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” a voice replied.
Hesitantly I walked to the gate and saw a young woman wearing a pair of glasses with dark lenses.
“Excuse me, are you Miss Hanh
