Eventually the village men started joining the military. The war reached out and snatched eighteen-year-old kids for the battlefield. Each time Tuc said good-bye to the young recruits, she cried until her eyes became dry.
I did not know exactly where the military units that came to our village were from. They usually stayed for a few months—enough time, at least, for us to miss their presence once they finally left, which they always did. Sometimes we’d wake up in the morning and they would already have disappeared, as if by magic.
One time, I found my mother reading a letter while wiping away tears. She said it was from Mr. Kieu, one of the soldiers who had stayed with us before. When she wasn’t around, I found the letter and read it in secret. Then I read it out loud to some of the village children as they listened, wide-eyed.
“After we left Quang Tri, our battalion had only a few dozen soldiers left. The enemy was very cruel. A huge stretch of land was destroyed over and over again. Now the earth there is the color of gunpowder.”
At the end of his letter—after he wrote, “Farewell to you and your children”—Mr. Kieu added, “Oh, I forgot. Please send my greetings to Ms. Tuc.”
Back then, we could not fathom the cruelty of war depicted in those lines. War to us was like a ghost that we were scared of but still wanted to tease and play with.
The next day, my mother gave the letter to Tuc. She lay on the bed reading it over and over again, repeatedly turning it from front to back as if she were searching for something hidden between the lines of writing. When she returned the letter to my mother, Tuc looked somewhat listless. But just like us, the younger kids, she had no time really to ponder whatever was bothering her about Mr. Kieu’s letter. The entire village once again started busily preparing to welcome a new battalion.
Soldiers who were around Tuc’s age came to my house to play chess, but it was just an excuse. Whenever Tuc stepped into the house, the chessboard immediately belonged to me and the rest of the kids, and we could do whatever we wanted with it. We put the chariots and cannons and horse pieces into our pockets and played with the pieces like they were our toys.
After a few months the soldiers disappeared, as usual. The village was quiet again, and everyone missed the soldiers tremendously, especially the young kids like me. There’d be some commotion whenever the village would receive a letter from one of the soldiers. We’d gather in small groups and listen as someone read the letter out loud.
But Tuc received a letter addressed directly to her, with her name scribbled on the envelope. That night she came to talk to my mother. My mother was only five years older, but Tuc still called her co, auntie. Tuc’s face looked serious. The glow of the winter moon outside flickered through our house. Tuc was quiet for a while; then she clumsily pulled a folded envelope from a fold in her shirt where she had been carrying it nestled against her chest.
I could feel her looking in my direction as she whispered to my mother, “Is he asleep?”
“He played all day,” my mother responded, “so he fell asleep as soon as he lay down.”
“I want to tell you something,” Tuc said, her voice trembling.
I peeked through my half-closed eyes and saw my mother snatch the letter from Tuc’s hands. My mother brought the lamp closer to her, examining the letter front and back. Then she gave it back to Tuc.
“Read it to me. It’s just the two of us here. Don’t worry.”
“Promise me you won’t share this with anyone,” Tuc insisted.
“Listen to you,” my mother said. “Such a child!”
Tuc breathed deeply and then started to read: “Dear my love …”
“Who wrote you this letter?” my mother asked suddenly.
Tuc pretended that she didn’t hear the question and continued to read in an uneasy voice:
Probably very soon, I will not exist anymore. The bombing this afternoon killed twenty soldiers in my unit. War is a cruel game in which you can either gain or lose everything. I feel that I still have time to prepare for death, no matter how unpredictable it may be. Tonight the moon has risen bright in the sky. Strangely, I have the feeling that everything is peaceful, as if the war has been permanently delayed, just an echo of what it was before. And I am waiting—waiting for you to step from the bright, risen moon and bandage our wounds and cool the scarred, battle-torn ground.…
Tuc could not bear to read any further, so my mother had to finish the rest of the letter, reading quietly to herself. I don’t know what the rest of the letter said, but after she was done reading, my mother and Tuc sat in silence.
Suddenly my mother sighed and said, “My god! When will this war be over?” She turned to Tuc. “Is this letter from the commander?”
“Yes,” Tuc replied. “It’s from him.”
“I can tell,” my mother said. “He’s a tall, good-looking man. No wonder …” she trailed off, then added, “I feel so sorry for both of you.”
Tuc started to cry. “The night we said good-bye,” she stammered through her tears, “he asked me
