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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781462035762 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 08/02/2011 |
| Pages: | 128 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.30(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Nguyen's Two Worlds
By Edith K. Kriegel
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Edith K. KriegelAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-3576-2
Chapter One
Chu Lin, 1965
* * *
It was harvest time and South Vietnam's war with the North had been raging for more than fifteen years, the end of which was nowhere in sight. The South was left ravaged, desolated, bereft of its rich heritage of rice fields, lush farmlands, fruit-bearing orchards, and rolling pastures. The once fertile earth was now a vast wasteland, a great hardened, encrusted mass. The farmhouses and charred ruins were strewn over lakes and rivers.
Only the little hamlets had escaped the devastation. For them only there was a harvest at this time. Small hamlets were bypassed and they survived. Men and ammunition were too costly to waste on them.
One such community was Chu-Ling, which had fewer than one hundred farm families. High above the China Sea on a plateau near the crest of Hogau Mountain, it had only two narrow, rocky roads leading up to it. Because it was so inaccessible, Chu-Ling and the few surrounding hamlets had not suffered the fate of the lowlands.
Like all of South Vietnam, Chu-Ling had given young men to the war and few had returned. Those who did had missing arms, missing legs, and the kind of damage that only war is capable of. They could be seen now, alongside the women, the girls and boys, and the old men, bending to the soil, gently extricating the ripened crops just as their ancestors had done before them for generations.
Methods had not greatly changed. All work was done by hands and on knees. When great strength was needed, oxen or, when available, horses would be used to pull up deep roots and draw the plows. Each farmer kept only half of his crops. The other half was collected for the war effort.
Nguyen Choeu and Tran Diehm, two young farmers in their early thirties, had large, productive farms that they had consolidated and that they now worked together. As part of the war effort, they had volunteered to oversee all the work produced by their community and the nearby hamlets and to deliver the government share to the commissary at Tam Ky, fifty miles to the north. There the produce was distributed to Da Nang and other large cities.
Nguyen and Tran, friends since childhood, lived on the farm with their families. Nguyen lived at the north end with his wife, Thao, and his six-year-old son, Chiang. Tran lived at the southern tip with his wife, Kathan, his fourteen-year-old twin daughters, Han and Kim, and his eight-year-old son, Duong. The constant passage from house to house formed a well-worn path between them.
Like Nguyen and Tran, their two sons were also inseparable, always playing and plotting together. On the path they would play their favorite game, which Duong had created, called double-up and giddy-yap. Chiang would crouch down while Duong would make a running leap over him, landing a few feet ahead. Then Duong would crouch low for Chiang to do the same. Only Duong was much bigger so he'd catch Chiang in midair and run him piggyback up and down the path. It was a bumpy ride for Chiang since Duong had been born with his left leg shorter than his right, causing him to hop at every other step, but Chiang loved it. You could hear both boys from one end to the other yelling, "Double-up and giddy-yap! Double-up and giddy-yap!"
"It seems almost sacrilegious," Nguyen said, shaking his head. "They are having such fun while so much of the country is in mourning, so much ruination, so much death all around us."
"A matter of geography," Tran said. "We are too small for the Communists to waste time on and ..." He pointed upward. "He has strange ways."
"Look at them," Nguyen said as he pointed to the two boys. "Your Duong is a faster runner than any boy with two good legs."
"Yes, and maybe soon Kathan will have a new boy to run with them."
"How is she?" Nguyen asked.
"Impatient," Tran said with a laugh. Interrupted by the heavy drone of a plane, both men looked up.
"A commissary plane flying south instead of north," Nguyen pointed out.
After the produce was sorted, tied, and bagged, there was another droning sound.
"That is not a commissary plane; that's a military plane," Tran said with alarm. No more words passed between them. They were both men who were used to denying their ill feelings and keeping their fears to themselves.
It was Nguyen who made the deliveries to Tam Ky. He would start out with a loaded wagon at dusk and make his way down the narrow mountain road. By nightfall, he would reach the flatlands and would travel to Tam Ky in the darkness to avoid detection. The next night he would return in the same manner, starting out at night and reaching the mountain at dawn.
"I am worried," Tran said.
"There is enough food and water here for a month," Nguyen answered him matter-of-factly so as not to worry his friend. "You don't have to watch me this time. Stay with the families. I'm depending on you."
Tran closed his eyes and whispered to himself a prayer.
Chapter Two
To Tam Ky
* * *
At dusk, Nguyen started out. His load was heavy and he had harnessed two horses. Night fell as he reached the flatlands and for several hours he rode on into the darkness. It was a clear night and the stars lit his way. He had yet another mile to go to reach Tam Ky when heavy smoke broke his vision. Moving across the sky, drifting toward him, it obscured the stars. An acrid, burning odor rose up and smoke was gradually darkening the path before him. He moved warily, his heart pounding wildly.
Then he saw it. A brilliant, shimmering hole in the darkness, the commissary was in flames. Enormous, dancing flames lit up the sky. He was less than a mile away, yet he could hear the crackling sounds like the sounds of sharp flying bullets. Then came the sound of horse hooves pounding the earth, galloping toward him. He slowed up and pulled his cart out of the way. He recognized the rider, Lieutenant Thang Lon, the commissary manager.
"Turn back, turn back!" he shouted when he saw Nguyen. "Run. Take your families and run!"
For a moment, Nguyen sat in a daze watching Thang Lon disappear. Then Nguyen moved swiftly. He emptied the wagon of all the produce, strewing the ground around him. He turned the horses' heads homeward and, raising great clouds of dust in his wake, drove in a frenzy.
It was dawn. Tran's eyes were glued to the sight approaching him. When Nguyen reached him, he jumped up to join his friend on the seat. The look on Nguyen's face frightened Tan. For awhile they rode on in silence, Nguyen breathing heavily.
"I told you to stay with the families."
"I had to watch for you. Thang Lon was through here. He told us they were going to destroy all the hamlets here and move the soldiers in. 'Operation Breadbasket,' they are calling it. They're going to use our crops to supply their army. Planes carrying hundreds of soldiers are landing near Hogue Mountain."
"It's over, Tran." Nguyen whispered. "We must leave. We must run." Tran looked stricken, his eyes boring into the floor of the wagon. Nguyen knew his friend's thoughts.
"I know, Kathan. You must bed her down in the back of your wagon. We'll all help each other." Nguyen stopped the horses and dropped the reins. He grasped Tran's shoulders.
"You realize what we must do! We must leave our land. Tomorrow! We must all risk this. Kathan and all of us will have a worse fate if we stay." Then softly he explained. "The convent. We will go there. It's three hundred miles, but it's the only place. The Red Cross quarters are there too. I'm going to pack our wagon and leave tomorrow. You too must do the same."
Tran leaped off the wagon and walked away.
"Where are you going?" Nguyen yelled. "It's more than a mile to your house. Come back. I'll take you there!"
"No," Trans answered. "I will walk the mile. I must think, I must think."
Nguyen watched his friend walk away. He touched the reins lightly and the horses moved forward slowly, soundlessly. Like Tran, he needed time to gather his thoughts. The full impact of the morning's terrible events was beginning to stagger him: the magnitude of the changes they must make in their lives; the home of their ancestors that they must now abandon and flee; the possible consequences of traveling hundreds of miles on hard, rocky roads; and how to tell Thao. Once she was strong, but right before Chiang was born, the Communists rampaged through Da Nang, slaying her father and mother. Since then she has been so fearful, so fragile.
Again, Nguyen touched the reins and the wagon moved homeward. He took a long look backward, mentally bidding farewell to the road he may never take again. Off in the distance, he could see Chiang running and Duong limping after him. He reached the house and closed the door behind him so softly that Thao did not hear him. He stood leaning against the door, praying.
Chapter Three
Fleeing
* * *
Thao was showing her husband her new sketches.
"Now, each doll carries this little box on her arm, which contains a second set of clothes. Children are always dressing and undressing their dolls so I must bring this along."
"No! Not the sketches either," scolded Nguyen. "I know they are precious to you, but we will have no use for them. And not the fabrics. We'll find new fabrics as we travel. Only what is needed: warm clothes, blankets, food, some medicine, some rope to tether the beasts. Please, it breaks my heart just as it breaks yours to leave these things."
For an endless moment, Thao did not move. Nguyen held her close. Then there were tears and a jumble of words as she wept in his arms.
"Can it really be? Chiang and Duong, Kathan, our house, our rice so beautiful and ripe? We must gather some ..."
"No, we don't have the time. We must leave. Please, please do not cry. We'll be all right."
There was a knock at the door and Tran entered.
"Kathan is so weak she will need a little time to rest before the trip. Then we will start out and join you at the convent, God willing." Nguyen walked him back to the door.
"The convent is three hundred miles away and I pray we will reach it without mishap," Nguyen whispered to Tran. "But of one thing I am certain. It is more dangerous to stay here. They are moving in and planning to destroy all of us. Please, do not let too much time go by, and when you reach Tuy Hoa you will see a crossroad. One leads to the waterfront. The other road, the east road, leads to the convent. That is the road you must take."
Chapter Four
A Rose Bud
* * *
The next morning Nguyen's family started out. Their cart was packed with their bedding and other necessities. One horse led and another was harnessed in back. Little Chiang sat between his parents, smiling up at Nguyen as Thao's tears wet his hair.
All night they traveled, and the next day and the next, Thao taking over the reins when Nguyen slept. They passed through Bing Sohn and then Quang Nai. People everywhere were fleeing southward. Many like them were on horse-drawn carts. Others were on a narrow road, parallel to theirs, with carts drawn by oxen. And those families who had no carts were walking along the side of the roads, backs laden high with their worldly goods.
When they entered Quang Nai, Nguyen had been asleep in his seat for several hours. Thao had been driving and, when Nguyen opened his eyes, he saw that his wife's face was wet with perspiration. Her head began to nod and her breathing sounded labored.
"Stop here!" Nguyen ordered, startling Thao. "Under that big tree. We must rest a few hours."
Other travelers were resting nearby and Nguyen found a place for his family. He spread a blanket. Thao lay down on it and fell fast asleep. The weather had been very hot and she had not even stopped to wipe the moisture from her face. He gently touched a towel to her forehead as she slept.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Van Sehn," he whispered. "I didn't mean to sleep so long." He was recalling the promise made to Thao's father eight years earlier, the day they were married. Mr. Van Sehn, Thao's father, had been a rich food merchant in Da Nang, buying produce from the farmers and distributing them to the markets.
"I forbade her to see you," Nguyen remembered Thao's father telling him. "For two years suitors called on her, teachers and professional young men who I thought might make her lot in life easy. I only succeeded in making her unhappy and you too. She would have eyes only for you."
"Nguyen," he had said, "you know I disapprove of this marriage. You are a good man. But you are a farmer and Thao is not the strong woman that would make a good farm wife. She is delicate, artistic. These are not the requisites for a farm wife. Thao is not accustomed to hard work, especially not the routines of a farm wife.
"The hospital delivers all the children's battered and ragged dolls to her and she returns them to the hospital looking like little princesses with new limbs, freshly painted faces, new costumes. She lives for the happy smiles on the faces of the children when she will return their dolls to them. That is the work she loves. You must promise me, Nguyen, you will never expect hard physical work of her. You are never to send her out in the fields."
"Please do not worry," Nguyen had told Thao's father. "I promise you she will always have my understanding, my love, and my protection. Please do not worry." And indeed, these eight years had been happy years for Nguyen and Thao. The birth of their son Chiang helped her deal with the tragic loss of her parents. Yet now Nguyen was worried about his wife. Would she be able to survive this journey? He looked at sleeping Thao and lay down quietly near her.
Chiang was bouncing a ball and chanting noisily.
"Chiang, take your ball and play with those children over there. Mother needs to rest quietly." But Thao woke up.
"Please sleep a little longer. You need more rest," implored her husband.
At Thao's call, Chiang came running into her arms.
"Oh, I'm fine now," she said as she hugged her boy.
A whimpering sound made them look up and there, on all fours, was a baby crawling into their midst. Chiang called out in surprise and the baby sat back on its haunches, staring at him. At the sight of Chiang, the little, tear-stained face of the baby suddenly broke out into a big smile. Its nose wrinkled up and its cheeks dimpled. They were all captivated.
"What a beautiful child. Where's your mama?" Thao asked, looking around for a following parent. "What's your name? You're too pretty for a boy so you must be a girl. And you are like a little flower, so your name must be Rosebud, yes?" Thao laughed. It was so long since Nguyen heard his wife laugh.
Chiang rolled the ball into the baby's lap.
"Get it, Rosebud!"
The baby slapped at it, squealing happily, when suddenly an old man dashed up and swung the baby into his arms.
"Mai Linh! Mai Linh! You naughty girl. You must never run away again. I thought I lost you," he said, brushing a tear away. "She is my granddaughter."
"Please, will you and your grandchild have something to eat with us before you go back to your cart?" Nguyen asked.
"I have no cart," he answered. "My daughter has two other children. Her husband died in the fighting. We were walking."
"Then you will all have something to eat with us. Please."
"We were walking with the others," the old man went on. "The baby is healthy and strong, but one of the boys is sickly. He has seizures. He is not able to walk these distances and we were resting by the side of the road. An older man like myself approached us. He had room for only one, providing that the person would alternate the driving with him. His wife was lying ill in back of the cart and he had been driving for two days and nights without sleep.
"I pleaded with him to take my daughter, who is an able driver, with her children. They would not take up much space in back of the cart, I told him. But he would take only the boys with their mother. The baby would interfere with his wife's rest, he said.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Nguyen's Two Worlds by Edith K. Kriegel Copyright © 2011 by Edith K. Kriegel. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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