For Two Cows I Ain't Half-Bad: the memoir of a young girl in the Vietnam War Read online

  “Sorry,” I said weakly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  She nodded sharply. “Now, for nine days you will not get out of this bed. Until then, I will bring your food and empty your bed pan.”

  At that moment, the last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed. I nodded, looking at the clock. It was past 3:20 a.m. Mom left the room and I turned my baby’s face to me. I stayed awake the rest of the night just staring at her.

  “I wish your father were here with us,” I cooed to her. “Your father Sam will see us soon.”

  Morning came. Mom brought in my breakfast: hot rice, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. As I ate she cleaned the baby and made a new diaper out of old newspapers. Then I nursed the baby for the very first time. The experience was half giggle and half pain.

  By lunch I was starved. Mom brought in the food. I’d hoped for fish and rice. As soon as mom put the food tray down, I saw it was the same as breakfast.

  “Mom, why is this all I have to eat?” I complained.

  “Honey, this is all you get to eat for the next nine days,” she said gently.

  “What?”

  “Yes, that’s what becoming a mother is all about. And that’s not all. You must drink lots of hot, bitter, herb water. That will give baby pure milk. And if you love the baby, you’ll just do as you’re told.”

  I groaned. For the next nine days, I found out what true boredom was. There were no books to read, because it would be bad for my eyes. I could not comb my hair, because it would make my head ache later. Every day, I asked if the time was up. I could have sworn it was nine weeks instead of nine days.

  Finally the day came. My stomach was overjoyed. That morning Mom brought in mudfish cooked with fish sauce, a lot of black pepper, and some wild water-spinach soup. I ate everything and wanted more.

  As I set the bowl down, I said, “Mom what do I smell? Something stinks.”

  “Oh that’s your bath water. As soon as I’m ready, I’ll come for you. It won’t be long now.”

  “Goody, I sure can use a bath.” I wrinkled my nose. “But what’s in the water?”

  “Your grandmother spent all day yesterday collecting willow branches, lemon-grass, mint, and all nine kinds of herbs,” she answered, then added, in a lower tone, “If you’d had a boy, then only seven herbs.”

  “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  Mom shook her head in disgust. “Only your first time, and you sound bored. I went through it eleven times, my child.”

  After spending twenty-four hours a day for the nine days lying in a bed with a fire burning inches below, my body ached for a bath. I could hardly wait.

  Mom returned to help me out of bed. My first step was clumsy, like a baby trying to walk.

  Slowly, I went through the hallway, then into the kitchen. I saw the straw mat cover around the pot and the thick blanket over the mat. Grandmother told me to take off all my clothes. She opened the cover slowly, letting the steam flow on my face. I cried at the smell.

  “Open your mouth. Take a deep breath and blow it out,” Grandmother ordered.

  “Stand there until the water cools down some, then use that water for your bath.”

  “No, I want clean water, please,” I protested. I looked at Grandmother’s face, decided that protest was futile, then climbed inside that big pot of hot steaming, stinking herbs.

  During my days of recovery I had a lot of time to think about my new child, her history, and the local curse. We were both born in the third house to the right of the cursed black hill that separated the Catholic and Buddhist hamlets of my village.1 Although I’d grown up next to it, like everyone else, I still felt cursed by its ancient evil, an evil we felt to the base of our souls.

  Surrounded by good, rich, red farm land, the five-acre hill was a deep, unnatural black. The few trees growing there were rough and twisted. If the Buddhists are right and trees have souls, these souls were still writhing in torment. If Uncle Nam’s stories were true, the torment those souls experienced in death matched the trees’ appearance very well.

  The land where the hill exists was taken in battle by my great-great-grandfather. People said that the reason for our curse was his savagery. Uncle Nam told me the story of the Nguyen time after time. His voice showed both pride and modesty each time he told it:

  “Danh Tron len,” the Nguyen shouted, his voice roaring over the fire, death and smoke still covering the vanquished village.

  “THUN . . .! THUN . . .! THUN . . .!” the victory drum thundered, three times.

  “Bring out the cowards!” the Nguyen snarled, anticipation lighting his eyes.

  “Right away, my lord,” an obedient soldier answered, bowing deeply, before dragging the three vanquished leaders in front of his master by the heavy chain binding them.

  “Victory tea shall be brewed on the cowards’ heads,” the Nguyen said in a more even voice as he raised his still-bloody sword.

  “Thwack!” The sword, chopping deep into the softness of a Cambodian neck, shattered the breathless silence of the crowd? Body and head fell apart. One-by-one the three fell, their eyes still glaring with hate.

  “Pick up the heads and start the fire. No! Don’t close their eyes. Tea will taste much sweeter if their eyes are open,” the Nguyen said.

  The heads, like bloody stones, were placed together in a grisly triangle, weather-beaten faces turned outward so that their open, dead eyes could watch the victory celebration. Wood from their homes was placed ready to be burned in the center, then, when a flaming torch ignited the wood, the fire flared as their bushy hair and gray beards sizzled.

  “The sweet smell of victory,” the Nguyen boasted of the gut-wrenching stench.

  “Revenge,” crackled the fire, consuming grisly trophies, as the tea pot was set on the triangle, and noon tea brewed.2

  My great-grandfather’s descendants formed a village, later taken over by the Catholic church. We lived on five acres of that land. On paper the church owned the land, but my family had lived there for one-hundred-fifty years. We felt the land, curse and all, was ours.

  I grew up fearing, as did everyone else in the village, that the ghosts of our ancestors’ victims thirsted for our blood. This fear seemed realistic. I saw many people die around that hill. But I saw a lot of people die in many places.

  During World War II, the French built a basecamp on that hill. After the war, the French from the basecamp came and burned our village to the ground. The village men had their heads cut off and the women were raped.

  My grandmother told me of an encounter she had with French soldiers.

  “Look at what I have found here, sergeant. It looks like an old crone and some children,” a French soldier said, as he dragged my grandmother out into the open, from under the bushes where she had been hiding with her children.

  My grandmother’s face was ash-stained from the burning village, and dirty from hiding. She looked old and ugly.

  “Who wants that old hag, anyway? Even the kids are too young for good sport,” replied a second soldier.

  “True, but we can still have some fun with the egg game,” answered the first soldier as he pointed his rifle at her face.

  “God, help me! Please protect the children,” Grandmother shrieked, closing her eyes in terror.

  The second soldier threw an egg, hitting her head. At the same time the sergeant shot his rifle into the air.

  Grandmother fell to the ground, eyes clenched shut, sobbing and clutching her egg soaked temple. The soldiers clutched their sides and sobbed with laughter.

  Slowly, she realized that the dead could not feel dirt and stones against their faces, nor smell the burned village. The dead could not hear the laughter of their tormenters. She brought her hands slowly down. Sneaking her eyes open a tiny amount, she looked at her hands. Instead of blood, she saw egg yolk. Looking up through egg-blurred eyes, she saw the soldiers staring at her.

  Seeing her terrified eyes staring through the remains of the yolk set off another g
ale of laughter from the soldiers. Finally, tiring of the game, they shouldered arms and assembled into a loose formation.

  The soldiers left. There were prettier women to rape, other men to kill and other villages to burn.

  Because of the hill’s curse, the French soldiers, mere instruments of the curse, were not hated. Local villagers even seemed to feel genuine pity for the departed tormenters. It was common for grieving orphans and widows of the mutilated victims of the French tortures to offer prayers not only for their loved ones, but for their murderers as well.

  Everyone who understands the implacable thirst for revenge buried in the soul of the Vietnamese people is astonished at this spiritual generosity.

  The cruel French soldiers are all dead. Most died here, their blood drained into the thirsty black dirt that had already been nourished so well for so many years.

  My thoughts returned to my new child and her father. I hoped that my Sam would be kinder to me than my father had been to my mother. I wondered how many wives my husband, Sam, would want? Like all American GIs, Sam was rich, rich enough to afford many wives. He was a lot richer and just about as powerful as my father had been.

  Those few times that I saw Dad, he was a big, dark, handsome man. His power as a combination tax collector and police officer rivaled the powers of a god. Little wonder that he usually got what he wanted from the ladies.

  Even if Dad was a greedy man, I wish Mom had treated him a little better than she did. Grandmother told me the story about their marriage often. I almost feel like I was there.

  Chapter 2

  One wife, then you sleep in a king’s bed.

  Two wives, then you sleep by yourself.

  Three wives, then you sleep under the house with the pigs.

  (old Vietnamese proverb)

  Bai Cham hamlet, Kien Phoung province, Viet Nam–1951

  Master Quam, my father, organized–for the first time ever–family records for the villagers. He was interviewing the heads of households and recording all information about birthdays, family members, and property into books called Khai gia dinh. He and his six bodyguards had set up a local daytime office in the yard of the old woman, Qua, under her favorite shade tree.

  Qua’s husband, Ca-Ba, had been a wealthy man. The family was still well-off compared with others in the small Catholic hamlet. Qua’s daughter, Tien, was twenty-six years old, still had youth, and a beauty that never completely faded. Her husband had been murdered four years before by Hoa Hao Buddhist raiders.3 Despite the interest of local suitors, Tien wanted a special man.

  Quam, strongly attracted to Tien’s stately, light beauty, claimed to be an unmarried orphan. He immediately started making friends with Tien’s mother, Qua. Tien, interested, but no dummy, started spying on Quam, trying to find out if he was truthful.

  Approaching one of the guards, Tien asked, “Honorable soldier, didn’t I hear that Master Quam’s wife and children are coming to visit in a few days? I want to be sure to receive them properly.”

  “No ma’am, I’ve known the master for several years, he’s never had time for women. He is always busy with his job,” Nguyen van Ten, the loyal soldier, replied.

  Later that evening, Tien filled her square wooden water buckets at the river. As she started home, the heavy buckets hanging from opposite ends of a six-foot-long bamboo carrying pole, she met Quam.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said. “This is no job for a woman.” He lifted the doi thun nouc4 away from her.

  “I have been doing a man’s work ever since my husband was killed. I’m used to it now.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take that over for you.”

  “That sounds like a proposal.”

  “If you want a proposal, then it’s a proposal,” Quam said, smiling. “I can be much help to you and your family.”

  “I already have two children.”

  “I’ll love them as if they were my own.”

  Tien didn’t come home that night. Next morning, they announced their engagement. The traditional marriage party was as lovely as Tien’s traditional gold wedding earrings.

  Quam went to Qua’s brother, Uncle Nam, to arrange the wedding. Since it wasn’t Tien’s first wedding, she got only four trays, instead of nine, of traditional gifts. One tray of Trau Cao (betel nut) was for Qua. One tray of rum was for the party. There was one tray of Jasmine tea and herb tea. The most important tray was bare except for the precious jade earrings, necklace and matching jade pendant.5

  On the wedding day, Quam wore a formal black Ao-dai6 and black mandarin cap. Standing next to the beautiful woman Tien, he was an impressive sight. The neighbor women were jealous and her old suitors stared from the gate.

  Tien always said that the next two years were heavenly. A year and a half after that night on the river bank, a baby girl was born. They named her Bac, meaning silver.

  A bit later, Tien became pregnant again. She planned to name the next child Ngan, meaning savings. Tien means money. It was to be a prosperous family–at least in names.

  Quam was late coming home one night when Tien was nine months pregnant with the second child. Tien went out looking for him, a big butcher knife in her hand and a dangerous expression on her face. She knew where to find him.

  Moui was a few years younger than Tien. She was the dark-skinned daughter of a local fisherman. It was much cheaper for the poor man to pay the tax collector with his daughter than to pay with scarce money.7

  The full moon was out after a day of heavy rains. After slogging through the mud, Tien arrived at the fishing camp on the river bank. Except for some fishermen mending their nets by the light of a few dim oil lamps, no one was there. She turned and walked into the woods.

  After a short search she found the two lovers in a hammock, asleep in each other’s arms. She checked the faces silently and carefully to make sure that she had the right culprits. Placing the single edge of the knife against her finger she rechecked an edge she already knew was sharp. After a second’s pause, blood started to ooze from a deep cut Tien hadn’t intended to make.

  Tien’s feet sank into the deep, sticky mud. The smell of death from the rotting fish in the nearby fish-sauce factory was smothering. The knife was sharp.

  “Thu-a-c-k!” The sound of a knife chopping deep shattered the silence of the night. The hammock collapsed, dropping the two terrified lovers into the mud. Quam recovered first.

  “Wh–at?”

  “You’ll find your things in the pig pen.”

  “Tien, please, let me explain!” he pleaded as he untangled himself from hammock and lover, struggled up out of the mud, and stumbled, like a drunk, over to his wife.

  Tien didn’t say anything. She just waited for him to get close. Then, with every bit of strength in her body, she hit him right between the eyes with the handle of her knife. He went right back down into the mud.

  When Quam regained consciousness, he went home to find his clothes scattered all over the yard and pig pen, right where Mom said they would be. Finding the pigs playing in the mud with his best clothes, treasured leather briefcase, and important police papers, Quam’s face blanched. He started sputtering and stormed into the house.

  “If you and I are finished, give me my baby!”

  “Kill me first,” Tien screamed back. “She’s my baby. You have nothing to do with it. I carried her in my belly for nine months. You had some fun!” Baby Bac bawled her lungs out and Qua stepped back.

  Quam grabbed one of the baby’s arms, Tien grabbed the other. The tug-o’-war threatened to tear the child apart. Finally Quam won. He held Bac’s baby hands in one of his big hands and her little feet in his other.

  “If that’s what you want, I’ll destroy my property. No more loving memory,” he yelled, starting to swing the child’s head at a post.

  “Now, sir. Sir!” Qua shrieked. “If you and my daughter want to kill each other, fine. But leave my grandbaby alone!” She snatched baby Bac from Quam’s hands and rushed to safety.


  Surrendering, Quam picked up what he could find of his things and started the long walk to his office in the village.

  Next morning a neighbor reported seeing VC soldiers pick him up before he made it half way to An Long.

  When Tien had the baby not long after that, she didn’t name it Ngan, after all, but Beo. Besides meaning silver, Bac also can be part of the word bac-beo, which means remorse. The young sisters became Bac Beo, or remorse, and Tien spent the next two years blaming herself for Quam’s death. She felt that she had killed him.

  After two long years of remorse and guilt, a message arrived. Quam was alive. The Communists had put him in a POW camp instead of executing him. He had waited for the right moment, then escaped to Than Binh.

  Tien packed supplies, including the fixings for Quam’s favorite meal, into her little sampan for the two-day, two-night journey. Than Binh is a long way from An Long when a woman must paddle a boat dodging both the war and the large ships in the river.

  “Good-bye,” she said to her mother. “Take care of the children. I’ll try to come back.”

  “Mary and Jesus!” Grandmother said. “Don’t go, my child. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I must see him and beg his forgiveness. I love him. I thought I’d killed him.”

  My grandmother hung her head forlornly, then sighed. “Good-bye, my child. God bless!”

  When she finally arrived in Than Binh, Mom moored her boat to a large tree and asked directions to Dad’s house.

  When Tien knocked on his door, a strange woman answered. Standing behind the woman were two little boys and a baby girl.

  “Hello, may I help you, Miss?” the woman asked.

  Tien frowned, confused. “Please direct me to police officer Quam’s house.”

  The lady responded, “This is Officer Quam’s house. And you must be either Mrs. My or Mrs. Thuy, from Cho Mioi.”

  “No. I’m Tien, from An Long.”

  The woman didn’t even look surprised. “You poor woman,” she said sympathetically, “you look exhausted. It is such a long journey. Please come in. Sit down. Let me make you some tea.”