Short story: August Bells

My name is Tran Van Binh, I am seventy-six years old. Every morning, I often go to the front porch, sit under the fallen banyan tree, my hands shaking as I hold a cup of tea, quietly listening to the chirping of birds and the distant sound of church bells. For the elderly, memories are something that will come back without effort - like the smoke from tea drifting in the wind, like the sound of bells calling the souls of the past to wake up.

Every year, when mid-August comes, my heart is filled with indescribable emotions. It is the month of history, the month of the red flag with yellow star, of the cry of “Independence! Freedom!” resounding in the hearts of millions of people. And for me, it is also the month of my father - the silent but steadfast security soldier who contributed his flesh and blood to the great uprising of the nation.

My father - Tran Van Hoa - was originally from a village along the Day River, Son Tay region. During my childhood, I only knew him as a quiet, serious man, but he often helped the poor, loved children and especially often sat silently before the altar of the Fatherland hidden in a small attic - a place that my siblings and I were not allowed to visit.

It was not until I was in high school, when I wrote an essay about “The Hero I Admire”, that I asked my father: “Dad! Did you fight in the resistance war?” He was silent for a long time before nodding slightly. That was the first and only time in many years that he told me about the fragments of a fiery time.

My father joined the revolution when he was only 21 years old, a strong, resourceful and ambitious young man. He said that in the summer of that year, a Viet Minh cadre named Vu Xuan Tanh was assigned by the revolution to work in the village. In just a few months, Mr. Tanh gathered many patriotic young people, opened a popular education class, spread current news, told stories of the Nghe Tinh Soviet, and from there gently planted in the hearts of the people the awareness of the loss of their country and their homes, the misery of slavery, so that the Vietnamese people would stand up together to make a revolution to save themselves and their country.

My father not only joined the National Salvation Youth Organization but was also assigned to be a liaison, transporting documents, leaflets, and weapons from one region to another. Once, he disguised himself as a boatman, hid letters in the hem of his shirt and on the top of his conical hat, and rowed all night long in the cold rain from Son Tay to Ha Dong. Then, once, when he was stopped by a French patrol near the dike guard post, he pretended to be drunk, staggered, and fell to the ground to avoid being searched. My father told stories like that in a very calm voice, as if they were just things that needed to be done, nothing serious. I once asked: "Aren't you afraid of dying?" He smiled, his eyes looking into the distance: "Of course I am. But back then, our people's lives were worse than death. Seeing people being beaten, rice being robbed, people having to kneel before soldiers in green and red uniforms, it was very painful, my child. And seeing that, I had to think of doing something, I couldn't just sit still...".

In 1944, my father was assigned to the Security Department, which was then called the “Regional Security Team” of the Viet Minh. He began to learn how to investigate, monitor the enemy, and protect cadres in order to destroy the plots of informants, spies, and henchmen. The work was dangerous and hard, but my father never refused any mission. He once told of a night in May 1945, when he was ordered to protect a top secret meeting of the Northern Regional Party Committee in Ha village, bordering Ha Dong - Son Tay. In the middle of the night, French secret agents in disguise broke into the village. My father, along with two comrades, risked their lives to lure the enemy out to the fields to preserve the main force. Seeing a shadow, the secret agents chased after them. In the dark, my father jumped over the ditch, cut his heel with a piece of broken glass, but still managed to crawl into the bamboo grove, and transmitted the alarm according to the code. Thanks to that, the meeting was not exposed, and the key cadres escaped safely. After that event, my father was admitted to the Party and transferred to reconnaissance work, specializing in detecting informants, monitoring enemy movements and supporting rallies and uprisings.

In August 1945, the situation in Hanoi and the northern provinces was boiling. The revolutionary spirit spread like wildfire. People like my father did not sleep for many nights. They secretly drew maps of the enemy's occupied positions, made plans to protect our headquarters and the people, and arranged human resources to prepare for the General Uprising. On August 17, my father was ordered to set up a post at Son Tay district - where the French and their lackeys had their administrative headquarters. He and four other security soldiers disguised themselves as porters and infiltrated key points. On the night of the 18th, it rained heavily. They used whistles and flares to signal. A group of people under the direction of Viet Minh cadres marched to the district headquarters. After the shout: “Down with colonialism! Support Viet Minh!”, people from all over the villages were just waiting for the right moment to rush forward, some with knives, some with sickles, carrying poles, sticks… rushing up following the red flag with yellow star, the atmosphere shaking the heavens and earth. Viet Minh forces quickly planted the flag on the roof of the administrative building. Son Tay district was liberated, the government was in the hands of the revolution.

When the cry of “Long live Vietnam’s independence!” rang out, my father stood among thousands of people, tears welling up, streaming down his gaunt cheeks after years of secrecy, asceticism, living between life and death. The revolution succeeded. My father continued to work in the Security sector, working quietly, quietly dedicating his life to protecting the government and the people. During the years of peace, he lived very simply. He never boasted about his achievements, never asked for anything for himself. Once, he refused to file a dossier for the State to award him the Medal of Military Exploit. He said: “Many of my comrades have died, I am very lucky to be alive.”

I grew up, became an engineer, then a university lecturer, my father never forced me to follow his career. But in every word, every action of his was always disciplined, standard, meticulous, careful, making me understand more deeply what a "silent warrior" is. Every time I lectured students about the August Revolution, I told my father's story. The students were dead silent. Many of them, after class, tearfully said: "Sir, now I understand how the freedom we have was exchanged for blood and tears."

Now, my father has been gone for many years. On the altar, there is only a photo of him in his youth wearing faded khaki, above his head is a red flag with a yellow star, restored according to my mother's memory of those heroic years.

This August, I sat under the banyan tree again, listening to the bell ringing from afar. Suddenly, it was as if his shadow appeared, sitting next to me, smiling softly. It seemed like the bell ringing at this historic moment was like a connection between yin and yang for my father to return. The security soldier of that year will always live in each bell ringing in the middle of August, in the red flag fluttering in front of the village gate, in the silent eyes of the elderly who had gone through fire and bullets... and in me, his little son, forever indebted to the time when my father lived to protect the country.