The segment of " Cease Fire, Day 492 " printed in the Pantagraph in 1975 is but one chapter of that memoir. The Vietnamese version, in its totality, was printed and released in October 1977 by Nguoi Viet Publishers.

By then, I've had an English version, translated by Bui To Loan. I had some American friends review the manuscript for publishing purposes. They all sincerely advised me to abandon the project, due to the sadness of the story and due to the fact that Americans, at the time, were trying to forget about Vietnam. Consequently, the manuscript sat in a drawer for almost a quarter of a century.

Reading it again recently, I thought a few segments to be worth sending to you and those other readers who saw the article twenty years ago, if only to make myself a more thorough story teller. The last chapters of the memoir, even if unimportant, should be made available to those who happened to see the beginning one:

"..In 1975, while I was writing the final chapters of this memoir, South Vietnam was going through disastrous times. Province after province and subsequently the whole Central Highlands had gradually fallen into Communist hands.

Each day, there were reports of tragedies in all our news media: Images of human remains littering national highways; stories of rockets falling, exploding on the column of refugees escaping southward; children dying of hunger, thirst and loss of strength. Thousands of families were shattered. In temporary camps, children looked for their parents, day after day, among fresh arrivals- parents who may have been wounded, or may have perished on the way. South Vietnam was disintegrating at alarming speeds.

In the face of that ocean of miseries, my family's own tragedy seemed minute, irrelevant.

I stopped writing, stopped thinking of ever finishing my memoir.

Until one afternoon, when T., my sister Gam's husband, came to visit.

There are two wooden entrance doors to our house, both sagging under their own weight and the weight of time. When opened, they made a scraping noise against the cement floor. Guests, upon arrival, usually release the latch to open the doors and let themselves in.

I saw T. getting off his vehicle. I heard the scraping doors as he pushed them open. I saw him walking in, by himself. He looked haggard from the trip and somber from the recent tragedy befallen him.

He had walked in from the harsh sunlight of mid-day, all alone.

On other occasions, seemingly so recent, he also had created the same familiar scraping sounds when he opened the doors. But, then, he usually would not enter but would allow Gam, with Ty on her arms, in first and he would follow in with Khanh Linh by his side. There would always be sounds of laughter and greetings as their family stepped in. T. would be moving at a leisurely pace, with a quiet look of contentment.

That familiar scene and sequence were so engraved in my mind that it seemed impossible that they would never re-occur. But at this moment, T. had entered, alone, never again having the opportunity to wait for his wife or his children to precede him. T. had entered alone. Very alone.

In that instant, I decided I must finish writing down everything I had planned to.

Mankind has in its possession increasingly destructive weapons. It is possible to annihilate whole nations in a single hour. That power of destruction, should it ever happen, would horrify us, would take away our breath.

I felt just as frightened, just as asphyxiated when I saw T. walking in all alone.

When a house is destroyed and the family members that live there are killed but for one lone survivor who would live on to mourn the passing of the others. That kind of destruction is no less horrific, no less unbearable.

Allow me to go on, to describe the first time I went back to see what remained of that house by the Vac bridge.

Half a year after the destruction of my sister's household, some friends of mine invited me to come along and visit Bien Hoa. Upon arrival, I requested them to take me to Vac bridge to take a look. The evening sun had yet to set, but there was no sun light on the road we had to travel. Nearing the bridge, I spotted the billboard that was the landmark for the alley to Gam's house. I was gripped with anxiety and even fear. Peering into the alley, I felt dizzy, hesitated to go further. But we went on into that half urban, half rural path in between luxurious tree gardens.

The remnant of floor had been swept clean of debris and, in the cracks, weeds were springing up. An old woman was gathering some plants in the area. The pond of aquatic vegetable still remained and the yard was overrun with trees and undergrowth, resembling a small jungle.

I stood on the floor, looking at that small jungle where my departed sister and her children used to grow fruit trees and flowering plants. The fruit trees were taller than a grown adult. Different flowers were blooming below, like weeds. A particular vine with purple flowers were climbing all over, looking like a big floral net, linking small plants with the fruit trees. How vigorous and robust they looked, these living things sown by my sister, my nephew and my niece!

The neighbor, a woman, went to her balcony and looked at me. It took me a while to recognize her. She spoke of how rockets were still coming down into the area, on a regular basis. She had been staying there with her children for lack of an alternative place to move to even though they were sick with fear. Every few days, a few houses in the area got destroyed, a few acquaintances got maimed, killed.

I wandered about on the cement floor; went back to look at a remnant wall, all that remained of the bathroom, and found a half-used bar of soap still in its usual location. The cracks in the flooring, the flowers, the bar of soap all brought back to my mind those moments I had had with Ty, Khanh Linh...

I also at that time pondered on some wise reflections made about war. Political leaders world wide often said that we need to sacrifice our generation for future generations; we often said we should sacrifice ourselves for a happier future for our children.

But suppose some demented mind suggests we sacrifice the children, destroy them to ensure our own welfare and happiness, wouldn't mankind have an uproar of anger, indignation?

And here, in this very war, children were killed; killed in large numbers. It was enough to make me wish for an atrocious fate for those who sent off the rockets, those who instigated this whole war, and for their offsprings.

I realized I could not harbor those evil thoughts when, on the way back out, I heard the sounds of a baby crying.

• Chapter 9

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