draft exemptions. A pot clattered on the cement slab. Anh hugged her knees, her eyes closed. My exemption as a teacher had been rescinded. The music came back on the radio. I turned it off. Anh came to the table and sat quietly next to me, hands folded in her lap.
There were no words to comfort her. We couldn’t look at each other; that would confirm the looming disaster. We stared at the wooden tabletop. It was secondhand, banged up and full of scratches, but it was ours. We earned this tiny two-room alley house with years of hard work. Anh saved and skimped, never spending anything on herself. She did the neighbors’ laundry. I taught full course-loads at two different schools at opposite ends of the city, commuting on buses four hours daily, six days a week. We had just moved into Saigon from Ben Tre to avoid the Viet Cong recruiters. All our bright plans were shattered.
We put the baby to sleep in her crib across the room from our bed. Anh turned down the oil lamp, unrolled the mosquito netting, and curled into my arms. She was usually bubbling with gossip and stories about her day and the neighborhood, whispering us both to sleep. Tonight she was still, her hands clutching mine.
I was more afraid of being away from my wife and child than I was of being sent to fight. This was all the love and happiness I had built for myself. I wondered how Anh would manage. She had never held a job. I knew with shameful and terrifying certainty that the day would come when she would have to pawn her single piece of jewelry, a jade bracelet, to feed our child. The thought was devastating. My precious little world was crumbling. I was twenty-seven.
We held each other through the sinking hours. Midnight passed, then she whispered the most amazing thing: “None of this matters. I had a dream that we grew old together.”
D RAFT Monday arrived quickly. The wonderful aroma of pork-and-mushroom dumplings filled our home. Anh smiled at me from the kitchen. She was making a special breakfast of
banh cuon
and a luxurious cup of hot cocoa with condensed milk. It was a delicious farewell treat—much better than my usual breakfast of one fried egg and bread. Her cooking skills had developed considerably since we first lived together. I teased her that if I weren’t drafted, I’d open a restaurant and put her to work while I relaxed and counted the money. Anh giggled and pinched me. I was trying not to think that our savings would only last her a month or two. My soldier’s wages would come late, and they would be a pittance.
“I want to see you to staging camp,” she said for the fourth time.
“It will be hard for me to say good-bye there. Stay here; try to think of it as a long teaching stint out of town. In a few weeks, they’ll transfer me to the training camp or the military school. We can see each other then.”
Friends who had been drafted told me what to expect. They gave me a list of what to bring: a mosquito net, a pair of pants, two shirts, boxers, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb—certainly nothing of value. I bundled everything inside a brown paper bag and tied it with a length of twine. Bring money if you want to eat, they said, but keep your wallet and your wits about you; we’re all educated and slated to become officers, but there are thieves among us.
I waited for half an hour, but no one from my big family came to send me off. I had thought that at least one of my brothers would come with good wishes. Father was still disappointed with my marriage. No doubt he considered this draft was part of the bad luck that came with Anh. It was just as well. Our family was never good at showing our feelings.
Anh walked me down the alley, carrying the baby. She was silent in a distracted way that I had learned was her expression of sorrow. She knew how to hold her tears, and I was grateful for it. On the main street, the sun had climbed above the buildings and the sidewalk was bustling with
There were no words to comfort her. We couldn’t look at each other; that would confirm the looming disaster. We stared at the wooden tabletop. It was secondhand, banged up and full of scratches, but it was ours. We earned this tiny two-room alley house with years of hard work. Anh saved and skimped, never spending anything on herself. She did the neighbors’ laundry. I taught full course-loads at two different schools at opposite ends of the city, commuting on buses four hours daily, six days a week. We had just moved into Saigon from Ben Tre to avoid the Viet Cong recruiters. All our bright plans were shattered.
We put the baby to sleep in her crib across the room from our bed. Anh turned down the oil lamp, unrolled the mosquito netting, and curled into my arms. She was usually bubbling with gossip and stories about her day and the neighborhood, whispering us both to sleep. Tonight she was still, her hands clutching mine.
I was more afraid of being away from my wife and child than I was of being sent to fight. This was all the love and happiness I had built for myself. I wondered how Anh would manage. She had never held a job. I knew with shameful and terrifying certainty that the day would come when she would have to pawn her single piece of jewelry, a jade bracelet, to feed our child. The thought was devastating. My precious little world was crumbling. I was twenty-seven.
We held each other through the sinking hours. Midnight passed, then she whispered the most amazing thing: “None of this matters. I had a dream that we grew old together.”
D RAFT Monday arrived quickly. The wonderful aroma of pork-and-mushroom dumplings filled our home. Anh smiled at me from the kitchen. She was making a special breakfast of
banh cuon
and a luxurious cup of hot cocoa with condensed milk. It was a delicious farewell treat—much better than my usual breakfast of one fried egg and bread. Her cooking skills had developed considerably since we first lived together. I teased her that if I weren’t drafted, I’d open a restaurant and put her to work while I relaxed and counted the money. Anh giggled and pinched me. I was trying not to think that our savings would only last her a month or two. My soldier’s wages would come late, and they would be a pittance.
“I want to see you to staging camp,” she said for the fourth time.
“It will be hard for me to say good-bye there. Stay here; try to think of it as a long teaching stint out of town. In a few weeks, they’ll transfer me to the training camp or the military school. We can see each other then.”
Friends who had been drafted told me what to expect. They gave me a list of what to bring: a mosquito net, a pair of pants, two shirts, boxers, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb—certainly nothing of value. I bundled everything inside a brown paper bag and tied it with a length of twine. Bring money if you want to eat, they said, but keep your wallet and your wits about you; we’re all educated and slated to become officers, but there are thieves among us.
I waited for half an hour, but no one from my big family came to send me off. I had thought that at least one of my brothers would come with good wishes. Father was still disappointed with my marriage. No doubt he considered this draft was part of the bad luck that came with Anh. It was just as well. Our family was never good at showing our feelings.
Anh walked me down the alley, carrying the baby. She was silent in a distracted way that I had learned was her expression of sorrow. She knew how to hold her tears, and I was grateful for it. On the main street, the sun had climbed above the buildings and the sidewalk was bustling with
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