“I bow down to the earth and forest gods, to all local spirits, and to the spirit of fallen soldier Nguyen Thanh Binh. Please protect and guide us, Binh, so we can find your grave quickly and bring your remains to reunite you with your ancestors.”
Once the incense had burned down all the way, everybody stood up, clearly tired and disheartened. Quan again asked the village leader Ut about the details of the burial years ago, during the war.
“The people here are very honest,” he insisted. “The soldier was buried here. I’m not lying. Trust me.”
Suddenly one of the laborers spoke up. “Well, if he was buried several years ago,” the laborer said, leaning on his shovel, “we won’t find the grave here. Everything sank. We should look over there instead. Look for a low spot in the ground that has the shape of a coffin. I should know, I used to dig graves on this hill.”
Everyone dispersed and went back to work. Only a few minutes later, one of the laborers shouted, “Here it is!”
Quan was overwhelmed and came running over to the fresh hole on the side of the hill.
The next steps were done very quickly. I personally washed and wiped each bone carefully and arranged them in a wooden urn. The dead had no material possessions left except his shoe heels, which were believed to belong to a pair of standard-issue soldier’s shoes, and a damp, curled ID card, though the words printed on it were illegible.
“Did ID cards exist back when Binh died?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Hung replied, without hesitating. “ID cards were issued starting in 1972.”
“I told you!” Ut the village leader said excitedly. “That’s him! A soldier. He was the only one buried here.” Ut turned to address the bones I’d cleaned and placed in the urn. “Return to your hometown now. We’ll have a prayer ceremony for you.”
Everybody was delighted and forgot immediately about how exhausted they were. Quan was so happy that he cried. He would finally be able to bring his brother back to his family and back to their ancestors so Binh could rest in peace.
Back in Hanoi there was a party at Quan’s house. The whole family got together. People cried and laughed. Quan’s elderly parents trembled as they held the wooden urn that contained the bones and had been covered with the national flag. They cried, “My son, why did you leave us for so long?”
The usually calm residential street suddenly filled with excitement. Neighbors and other veterans stopped by to congratulate the family. Anyone walking past would have easily mistaken the party for a wedding.
“Let’s drink to our accomplishment,” said Quan’s uncle, who fashioned himself leader of the family.
It was late winter. Outside, the air was cold and the winds blew violently.
This would not be an easy mistake to fix.
While everyone was celebrating and eating cheerfully, I suddenly remembered the ID card found with the remains. It was still in the pocket of my jacket. After so many hours, and probably because of my body heat, the ID card had dried so that the words were now clearly legible: “Full name: Lo Van Thang. Born in 1917. Birthplace: Muong Phang, Tuan Giao, Lai Chau. Registered residence: Sam Mun, Dien Bien. Issued on May 28, 1988.”
After reading the information on the card, I told Quan about it right away. His face turned dark as he examined the ID card himself. He read and reread each word. Then he picked up the phone and called the village leader Ut in Dien Bien. After hearing the name on the card, Mr. Ut confirmed that the remains belonged to his brother-in-law, who had died in 1990.
The next day, Quan called an emergency family meeting. His parents, after hearing the news, were speechless. They leaned against a wall of the house, both of them shocked and in a daze. The most important thing was to keep this news confidential. And it was necessary to return Thang’s remains to his original grave as soon as possible.
Once again, the white Toyota SUV bounced along the windy mountain road from Hanoi to Dien Bien. In the car this time we were joined by Ms. Hoa, a psychic. Quan had finally taken my advice and decided to seek the help of a medium.
Quan was quiet during the whole trip and rarely talked. He looked pensive. At work he was a firm and determined manager. Under his leadership our company had won the highest government recognition several years in a row. But when dealing with things like this he could hardly hide his confusion and sadness.
We arrived at Sam Mun late in the afternoon, and everybody went to work immediately looking for a place to bury the urn. The village leader Ut brought a boiled chicken and a raw egg. He walked back and forth, throwing the egg up in the air, but each time it fell to the ground without breaking. He explained that if the spirit liked a specific spot, the egg would break. Ut continued for several minutes until finally the egg broke—the spirit had chosen its spot—and everybody started to pray.
The atmosphere was so still it made us shudder. I opened my eyes for a moment and saw in front of me, hovering in the smoke from the burning incense, the image of a hunchbacked old man grinning cheerfully, showing his shiny black teeth. Then the image vanished almost immediately into the tufts of smoke.
The next morning we returned to the area very early. Ms. Hoa, the medium, quickly set up a small shrine. I stretched out a piece of canvas to cover the ground, and everyone sat in meditation. She prayed for a while and
