Trong had once told the whole family about a terrible bombing he’d experienced back in Quang Tri. His company was marching through a stretch of mountains where B-52 bombs already had annihilated the platoon that had marched there just minutes earlier. The bombs were so destructive that they didn’t even leave a trace of blood. Only flesh and bones stuck to the scorched mountain foliage. Trong was twenty years old back then. When the bombing and shooting started up again, he had jumped into a hole to take cover. Then he had a premonition that this spot wasn’t safe, so he moved. A different soldier immediately took his place in the hole. And then, in the blink of an eye, Trong watched this soldier’s young body turn to dirt.
Trong had never forgotten the feelings he’d experienced in that moment. They came back to him especially the day he was forced to bury his child in a sprawling cemetery outside of the village. Nobody in Hoa Binh’s family had ever forgotten this particular stormy day. Hoa Binh’s mother had given birth to another daughter after the birth of her little brother, Tu Do. Her father was delighted with the new baby girl and cooked all kinds of wonderful dishes for the family to celebrate.
Hoa Binh liked to touch her little sister’s hands because they were so delicate. But as the days went by, the baby’s skin started to turn yellow and her body became emaciated. Hoa Binh’s mother carried the baby out into the yard. The sky was full of dark storm clouds and the wind blew violently, stirring up hordes of mosquitoes. Her mother held the baby in her arms and prayed desperately up at the stormy sky. The baby died, shriveled like a dry leaf in her mother’s arms. Outside in the yard, Trong sat motionless, holding his chest. Two trails of tears rolled silently down his cheeks. Hoa Binh didn’t know what to do. She cried and lit an oil lamp, thinking that the light might somehow help. Her mother’s hands were trembling as she asked Uncle Ut to take the baby out to the rice paddies.
Uncle Ut said, “I don’t think Trong is going anywhere. Even though it’s so windy and dark, he’s just sitting there like a rock.”
The war had ended years earlier and Trong had named his daughter Hoa Binh, “Peace,” but it seemed that peace continued to elude this family.
The day Hoa Binh and her father had gone to the hospital for her health check, Trong was speechless as he held the results in his hands. Hoa Binh sat uneasily on the back of the bicycle and listened to her father’s breathing under his sweaty shirt. On the way home they stopped at a bookstore where Trong bought a book called Never Give Up. During the war he had lived in the woods under constant bombardment and gunfire; his hair and beard had grown long, his body was soaked in mud, and he’d survived on wild vegetables and creek water. But he had not felt as miserable as he did now.
Back then Trong had been enthusiastic about joining the military. “Our singing drowns out the sounds of bombing!” people chanted. “The road to the battlefield is very beautiful this season!” There was a general excitement about joining the war effort. If people didn’t join, they would feel isolated, like an outsider. So Trong didn’t hesitate about signing up himself. It was only later, when he was stationed deep in the jungle and woke up one morning to see the soldier sleeping next to him completely covered by a giant swarm of termites, that Trong truly understood the cruelty of life.
Trong’s mother assumed he’d died out there in the jungle. She was observing his death anniversary, in fact, the day he finally returned to his hometown. He carried his soldier’s rucksack on his back and cried out, “Mom, I’m alive!” Relatives and neighbors gathered at the house, laughing and talking cheerfully. Once she had finished sobbing, his old mother said, “The war is over and you are a hero because you have returned home alive and still strong. If you were dead, there would be nothing left for us to say.…”
Trong’s unit had wanted to award him the title of hero officially, but he’d refused this recognition. Now he felt that he had only really acted honorably back then, during the war—his life since had been full of deception and nasty tricks. Maybe it was an act of bravery that he continued to have children after Hoa Binh. Thankfully, his son, Tu Do, and daughter Hanh Phuc grew up and developed like other normal children. Still, though they didn’t say it out loud, Trong and his wife were anxious on a daily basis.
In her pocket calendar, Hoa Binh marked her siblings’ birthdays so she would remember those days. In the morning of their birthday she would get up early and go to the market to buy black beans for a sweet bean soup. For their birthday parties, she peeled and sliced mangoes and pomelos. Tu Do and Hanh Phuc would climb over Hoa Binh’s legs and laugh. Hoa Binh shook her billowy silk pants to tease them. Watching this scene, Trong’s face would cheer up and he’d actually smile, a smile that seemed to come from someplace very far away but made everyone happy.
It was another dark day, with storm clouds swirling in the sky above the village. Hoa Binh stumbled clumsily as she carried two baskets balanced on a bamboo pole to collect buffalo manure for her mother to use as fertilizer in the rice paddy.
“Are you collecting dung to eat with rice?” a drunken man in the village asked as Hoa Binh stumbled past. But she didn’t reply.
The man’s name was Toan. He was known for being obnoxious. He liked to
