Two women and a legacy of memories...

(Baonghean)The small house of those two women nestled behind a dusty red road in Hamlet 2, Dien Tan Commune (Dien Chau District). We arrived at midday under the scorching sun, and saw two figures hunched over, tending to the corn in the yard. Beneath their floppy hats, their faces looked up at us with a longing gaze! Those eyes, after so many years, still seemed to hold a lingering sense of waiting...

And the story begins with tears. Tears of almost a lifetime, tears that seemed to have dried up, yet today they flowed freely. Two women – two sisters – sat leaning against each other as they had relied on each other for decades, through hunger, storms, and loneliness… So lonely that, even with their hair gray, they were still easily hurt, easily saddened. The house contained two old beds on opposite sides. Most prominently displayed were two black-and-white photographs and some medals. One black-and-white half-body photograph had been photoshopped to show a man in a suit, different from the one on the altar in a soldier's uniform. The younger sister pointed and introduced: "That's him. I waited for him my whole life, because I refused to believe he could leave me."

Then she suddenly returned to her youthful years: “The two photos hanging on the wall are of me and him, taken in 1963. After we got married, we went for a walk to Bung Bridge to take pictures. It was so much fun. We talked about so many things, teased each other along the way… How could I ever forget it, oh heavens!” Seeing her sister return to her memories, the older sister fell silent. Her hands gripped the bed frame tightly, as if trying to support her frail, sickly body from collapsing. After a while, she said, “Let’s talk about it slowly.” Turning to us, she explained, “She has heart problems; she just bought a whole bunch of medicine. I heard that surgery to widen the arteries would cost tens of millions of dong.”

Mrs. Thach and Mrs. Ngoc are drying corn in their yard.

The house seemed to be filled with the sorrow of two elderly, lonely women. The sunlight, swaying by the window, cast long streaks on the branches of the starfruit tree, then suddenly stood still. The faint sound of a rooster crowing echoed from the village. A woman hurried into the house, asking if the two women had eaten. She addressed them both as "mother": the young mother and the old mother. The older woman introduced them to the guest: "That's my son. He's married now and has three children." The younger woman wiped away tears still streaming down her cheeks and said to the older woman: "Aunt Thu, please prepare a meal for the guests. Call the children over too, it'll be more fun." The woman named Thu hurried back to the kitchen. The younger woman turned to my colleague and asked: "You're raising a young child and you're traveling so far; aren't you afraid your child will go hungry?" We were surprised: "How do you know?" The younger woman calmly replied: "Of course I know. I smell the scent of colostrum." We were speechless. That woman, in her entire life, had never given birth. Those children only existed in her dreams, long ago...

The story of the two women in that house that afternoon made us understand so much. It wasn't just about the fates of people after the war, but more than that, it was about sacrifice, unwavering faith, and the simplest yet most beautiful aspects of Vietnamese women.

My grandmother's name is Dau Thi Ngoc, born in 1940. My older sister is Dau Thi Thach, four years older than me. When she was 18, Ms. Thach accepted the love of a young man from the same village, Luu Van Su. Mr. Su joined the army, and the letters he sent home further strengthened their feelings for each other. Then, in 1960, Mr. Su managed to come home to "exchange betrothal gifts" before leaving for the battlefield in Zone B. From then on, Ms. Thach considered herself Mr. Su's wife.

She recalled: “When he left, I remember there was a military transport vehicle waiting for him. As for me, missing my husband, I took a bus to Vinh to see him off. We spent one more night together, but each in a separate bed. Back then, before marriage, we still had to sleep separately.” Mr. Su was away for long periods, “I heard he was already a squad leader,” and he always wrote letters to Mrs. Thach. “His handwriting was beautiful. The letters written on parchment paper were very long. Wherever I went, I carried his letters with me. Whether working in the fields, cutting grass, or later going to school… I kept his letters in my jacket pocket, occasionally taking them out to look at them. When I missed him too much, when I missed him too much, I would press the letters against my face. Once, I panicked because I was cutting grass and it started raining, and the letters got wet. I cried for a long time.”

Then, far away in her hometown, Mrs. Thach waited for her lover, waiting for letters from the front lines, waiting for the promise, "When the mission is completed, I will ask my parents for permission to return home together." Little did she know, the day she saw him off would be the last day she would see him. In 1965, news of his death reached the village. She heard it, but she couldn't believe it. She only believed that he couldn't be dead; the letters still carried the warmth of her heart every day, his promise still stirred her emotions, and the handshake they shared still made her tremble with emotion. She threw herself into the movement and group activities in the militia and guerrilla units, was admitted to the Party, and was sent to study economics and commerce.

However, after finishing her studies, she didn't pursue a career but instead returned to her hometown to work in agriculture. She thought, "As a woman, if I travel far and wide, if he ever comes back, he might suspect that I haven't waited for him faithfully." Mr. Su's family loved her dearly, treating her like a daughter-in-law. Ten years after Mr. Su's sacrifice, she decided to have a child to rely on during her sadness and loneliness. She felt disadvantaged because she lacked a wedding ceremony and couldn't honor him, so she had to rely on a child. Mr. Su's relatives came to the health station where she gave birth to visit their grandchild and congratulate her. Her daughter, Thu, bears her mother's surname. She said, "I lacked a wedding ceremony, but I have Thu. My sister had a wedding, but she didn't get to be a mother."

As for Ms. Ngoc, she got married in March 1963, and her husband went to war in October. Ms. Ngoc recalled: "My husband and I were brought together thanks to the efforts of both families. On my wedding day, I was still dreaming of becoming a village school teacher. It wasn't until we moved in together that I realized love had come. It happened slowly, but it was incredibly deep."

Then, just as their love was blossoming, he joined the army and went south. Before leaving, he held his wife's hand tightly and instructed her: "I'm going for the country's duty. You stay home and take care of my parents. When the country is unified, I'll come back to you. Then we'll have a peaceful life, and we'll have children together. I believe that day isn't far off." In 1969, news arrived that Nguyen Dinh Chau had been killed in action in the South. Like her sister, who believed her beloved would return, Mrs. Ngoc was convinced the news was wrong: "I clung to that hope to live. Around here, five people were reported to have died, and yet three of them still returned." She told her parents-in-law, "He can't be dead."

Until 1972, her husband's family received the death notice for the fallen soldier Chau. She recounted: "No one dared tell me the day they received the news. But the sorrowful look on his face, my husband's parents couldn't hide it from me for long. Eventually, he became ill from the worry. Before he passed away, he called me in and said: 'Ngoc, Chau is gone, your life is still long, you don't have any children yet. Your parents agree to let you remarry. Go and take care of yourself, my child!'" At that moment, Ngoc could only hold her father-in-law's hand, her heart aching. Deep down, she still remembered her husband's parting words. No, she couldn't collapse in grief; she had to rise up and be a support for her aging and ailing parents-in-law. Moreover, she still burned with the belief that he would return to her after the bombs and bullets. They still had to have children, to see them grow up, to see them pursue their youthful dreams.

During those months of fierce bombing and warfare, the two sisters, Mrs. Thach and Mrs. Ngoc, were always enthusiastic leaders in local movements for the front lines. Mrs. Ngoc was a deputy platoon leader in the militia, digging canals and building embankments to irrigate the fields, and participating in supplying food to the soldiers. She remembers her Party membership ceremony under a willow tree by the Le family canal, after she had just waded out of the water. She was one of the few Party members to be "admitted on the spot" in a surprising yet solemn manner. Life became increasingly difficult, so she asked her husband's family for permission to work at the cooperative's store to distract herself and earn extra money to make ends meet. Day after day, month after month, year after year... her youth was wasted by her longing and the lingering heartache for the South.

One day, she suddenly realized she was nearing the end of her life. Her husband had not returned, and she had no children. She quietly left her husband's family, having fulfilled her filial duties to her in-laws. Where could she go? Only her sister's humble thatched hut remained in the small corner of the village. So, Mrs. Ngoc went to live with Mrs. Thach, asking for a small corner to set up her husband's altar. Oh, how precarious that thatched hut was during the rain, wind, and storms. A meal for two felt lonely, lacking warmth. Their shared sorrow only intensified their pain. "I've suffered enough, and now I've come back to make my sister suffer too," Mrs. Ngoc choked out. But she didn't know where else to go. "Luckily, Thu and her family live nearby."

Countless times, their backs lay on their single beds, and they silently wept through the night. They pitied each other, lamenting their own fate… Perhaps that’s why Mrs. Thach’s eyesight had so deteriorated? After her eye surgery, she suffered complications that affected her nerves, causing her whole body to contract and making movement difficult. They raised chickens and pigs, and grew corn and rice. Their lives and medical expenses depended entirely on the monthly allowance Mrs. Ngoc received as the widow of a fallen soldier. Yet, whenever anyone mentioned their hardships, they would tell themselves, “Let’s not complain, let’s not talk about it…”

As she turned the pages of a wooden chest to show us the letters, Mrs. Thach's hands trembled. Her aged hands, nearing eighty, still cherished the letters from her youth as if they were treasures. We had the feeling that these two women, these two shadows in the house, had lived only on memories for so many years, and those memories remained remarkably fresh. They were strangely vibrant, as if untouched by the dust of time. It seemed their only possession was their memories...

We bid farewell to that rickety house, looking back to see the shadows of two women intertwined on the sun-drenched courtyard. All the way home, our hearts ached with the hope that Mrs. Ngoc had expressed: "I hope to soon find his grave (Mrs. Ngoc had repeatedly asked for help searching for her husband's grave throughout the southern provinces without success) and to have a small plot of land of her own to use as a place of worship in the future…"

Thuy Vinh - Thu Huong