by Le Tat Dieu

Early dawn. The boy next door rushed in with the bad news:

"Rockets hit Gam's house. Her two children were killed on the spot. She herself was seriously wounded....."

The boy kindly managed to hide part of the truth. Another death could be too much. But then, amidst cries of shock, he tried not to deceive:

"Gam is very serious. Perhaps she will not survive."

As we hurried to the bus, I asked, "Was she conscious when brought to the hospital?"

"No.. fear that..." The boy hesitated. He wanted to tell about the third death, but felt too sad.

Crying, I prayed for her survival.

Arriving at Bien Hoa, the family divided into two groups. My father, my mother and my sister, Voc, hurried to the house on Vac bridge to see the bodies of the two children while I was guided to the Bien Hoa hospital by the boy.

The hospital was crowded. There were many, many wounded and the waiting room was jammed with relatives. All the rooms in the emergency ward were closed. No one was allowed to go in.

But for me, no restrictions, no regulations, were important. I banged on the door and dashed in. There were some words of protest, but said with understanding.

I went from room to room, making sure to see all the faces. How happy I would be to see her on one of the beds.

But she would ask about her two children. I would say-forcing a smile, an innocent smile-that there had been a miracle. That the almighty God, with his special compassion for children, took up her little ones and placed them tenderly on the lawn in front of the house, on the pond of spinach (rau muong is a vegetable much like spinach, but grows in water in Vietnam), on the ripened rice field, any place that would make her believe her children were not harmed.

But if she asked to see them?

I was planning another lie as I ran from one room to another. I prayed for her survival. To be alive, in any physical condition, would be much better than death.

An old man wearing a hat of the 1954 fashion patiently took me to the second floor. He waited for me at the door. Not there.

Fearing the worst, I reluctantly hurried to the mortuary. The door was open. The compartments containing the bodies could be seen.

The guard pulled out the one on the top, explaining as a tourist guide:

"This one has no head. It is not easy to identify. It has no head nor legs."

The section was pulled out only half-way. The lower part of the body was not seen. But, indeed, it had no head.

The guard helped me pull out a second body. "This one is not easy to identify either," he said.

The third body was a mass of flesh while the fourth body was only legs and arms.

The boy, who had followed me from room to room and to the morgue, tried to calm me by saying, "She lost no parts of her body."

A girl, about 14 or 15, burst into tears as another body was pulled out.

"That's my brother! That's my young brother!"

I hadn't realized children also came to look for their beloved ones.

The boy had been honest. The body of my sister was not dismembered. I closed her eyes. A fragment of the rocket had struck her heart, causing a small but fatal wound.

Another fragment hit her right eyebrow. The nightgown she was wearing was covered with dust and blood.

She had been sleeping with her two children on a bed in her cozy house. The three, fearful of the dark, had left the light on. Then I found her here, in this cold, dark place, among the fragmented bodies.

At that moment I observed her carefully. She still remained a small thin girl, pitiful as ever.

The house could be seen from Vac bridge, though partly obscured by a row of bushes. The quiet road leading to the house passed a small, pretty green garden. My sister had often boasted of her house, which was a combination of classic and modern.

The bodies of my nephew and niece had been washed. They were put on white sheets. They looked neat in their short hair.

Small wounds scattered over their bodies had been washed clean. A couple of larger wounds on one leg of Ty, the boy, were dry but still looked painful, even in death.

Linh, the girl, was 5 years old and had started her schooling on Saturday morning. She was in kindergarten just one day.

Witnesses said the two children were killed on the spot. Their eyes were closed in sleep when the rocket hit them. They died in their sleep. They looked beautiful in death...their beautiful faces, their beautiful hands...

The people stood still, looking at the children. But all did not have the courage to watch.

The grandfather was crying on the lawn in front of the house, facing the rice field. The grandmother was weeping against the ruins.

The body of the neighbor woman who had lost her head was laid before a crucifix.

Was it possible that her head was blown into dust without a trace? Or perhaps it was somewhere. The neighbors had been looking for it-at the pond of spinach, on the rice field and in the rabbit pen. They even searched the roof, the water trough.

They wanted to help the dead, whom they believed must recover lost members of the body.

"Where is T?" I asked.

"He has gone to the hospital to take Gam home," I was told. T was my brother-in-law, the only survivor of this family. (T is not the full name of the brother-in-law. The author chose to use only an initial to protect his identity for fear of reprisals. T still lives in Vietnam.)

He should at this moment be walking into the cold mortuary. Would he be guided to the right compartment or, as I had experienced, go from one compartment to another?

All the neighborhood was concentrating on assisting the bereaved families. A room about a half meter away was turned into a temporary office of the local Christian congregation and the village council.

The tragedy was described over a loudspeaker and an appeal for donations was repeated several times. Tape recordings of the mourning music also were played.

In addition, flags of mourning were put around the small pond of spinach in front of the house and a parachute was stretched out for shade.

The pastor made a brief appeal for help to the people present at the ruined place. His voice was low and melancholic, but contained no complaint, no hatred.

The winding cloth needed for the services arrived. The old man seemed uncertain:

"Shall I start now or wait for the children's mother?"

He looked questioningly at the crowd.

"Please, go ahead. Their mother has died."

The other grandparents and uncles and aunts of the children arrived. The youngest aunt, who had cared for the children for many days, was crying and trembling.

The children were covered with the winding cloth. Within seconds they were two rolls of white cloth, two merciful white rolls. Last night they were playing until their mother put them to bed. Last night they were sleeping soundly beside their mother.

My brother-in-law came staggering along the small road, carrying a stretcher with the help of a friend. My sister, now wearing the same white uniform as her two children, was on the stretcher.

Gam and her two little ones were put side by side.

The voice of my aunt, telling about the kindness of a neighbor, was heard over the sound of the sad music.

"God bless her. She has boiled her fifth pot of tea. Her eyes are full of tears. She sincerely loved the children and their mother."

The helpful neighbor with tearful eyes was leaning over the fence. The teapot was in her hand.

Two Catholic nuns appeared from a small path on the side of the spinach pond. They weren't cheerful and smiling as they used to be.

The Buddhist monk invited to conduct the services came two minutes later. A woman in the crowd called loudly:

"Relatives of Gam, come here so that the services can begin."

Another woman murmured in my ear:

"Your sister apparently was pregnant. After her burial you should scatter over her tomb a handful of sesame seeds or grow a banana tree on it. The baby in her stomach can't be conceived again until the sesame grows to be a plant. Don't forget."

Everybody was urged to say a prayer.

It was almost noon. I thought the day must be very long, the longest day. The weather was very hot and depressing. The crowd under the parachute umbrella was still very large.

If one turned his back against the destroyed house, covered his ears against the sad words from the loudspeaker, there were no signs of the tragedy.

The two children had had a beautiful lawn to play in and a small pen for rabbits. There was another small plot of land near a cluster of banana trees where they could throw fruit seeds with the hope of having some trees.

There were breezes blowing through the rice fields. The sky was blue and clear, with kites and birds flying peacefully.

The echo of the distant cars and trucks sounded like a strong wind. Beyond the ripened rice field, beyond the green lawn, beyond the beautiful squares of rice was a horizon created by the houses facing the main road. Perhaps on the other side of those houses were sewers and heaps of garbage and dark ponds. But from a distance, they formed a zigzag horizon pleasant to view. It was a warm drawing of life, of human beings in a tranquil nature.

Twenty-four hours earlier-24 hours before the coffins were lifted up to be carried away-the two children had run out of the front door and smilingly seen their father off to his job.

Their father had cautioned Gam:

"Remember to put the children to bed early tonight. Otherwise Linh will sleep too late for school."

As he had walked away, he had waved at the children. They had smiled and blinked their eyes in the sun.

And then T had walked on down the road to his office, unaware that he was leaving his wife and children forever.