“Please don’t say that. I’ve been waiting for you for years!”

  Thao paused. She adjusted the rucksack on her back and then once again looked deeply into Thanh’s eyes.

  “Let me free you from the burden of your commitment to me,” she said finally, speaking very slowly.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Thanh said, cutting her off. He took Thao’s hands in his own and smiled. “Back together again after all these years, and already we’re fighting.”

  Thao suddenly felt much better.

  “Maybe I’ve become stubborn and aggressive after a few years in the war,” she conceded.

  Half a year had passed since then, and they still met every Saturday evening. One weekday, Thao went to find Thanh outside of his class to ask him something. While they were talking in the hallway, Thao noticed Thanh’s face turn pale, then blush as he suddenly became quiet. Turning around, Thao saw a female student walking toward them. She had full, luscious lips and youthful rosy skin. She stared directly at Thanh as she passed by into the classroom. Once she was gone, Thanh tried to continue talking to Thao, but his hands trembled now as he held the balcony railing.

  Thao understood what was going on. She hurriedly ended the conversation and left. Obviously Thanh and the girl were in love, although they had probably never admitted it to each other. They were classmates and spent plenty of time together. Everyone must have noticed that they made a beautiful couple.

  She had become an obstacle to Thanh’s happiness, Thao realized. He was only with her because of a platonic feeling of love and duty. There was no romance. She knew that if they got married, their life together would be tedious. Thinking about all this, Thao recalled Tham’s words about her love for Thanh, the words that had felt like a warning delivered right before Tham was killed.

  After the semester was over, Thao visited her hometown during the break. When she returned to Hanoi, she told Thanh that they needed to have a serious talk about the fact that they were not a good match. She told him that she’d found a new boyfriend and that he should stop thinking about her. Thanh listened attentively to what Thao said, but he seemed indifferent. He assumed she was lying to him. But then Thao started receiving letters delivered to the Literature Department’s office every week; the letters arrived in a thick envelope with the words “To my beloved Mac Thi Thao” elegantly written on the outside.

  Eventually, Thanh started to reconsider what Thao had said. He wondered now if maybe she was telling the truth. On the one hand, he felt angry at her betrayal; but on the other hand, he also felt a sense of a relief, as if he’d been relieved of a heavy burden. A month later he proposed to his classmate, and they got married that summer, right before graduation.

  On the night of Thanh’s wedding, Thao lay down on her bunk and lit a small oil lamp. She shielded the dim light with her hands, afraid that it might wake her sleeping roommates. They had started alienating Thao lately; it was as if they considered her diseased and therefore kept their distance, shunning her so she was left by herself in an isolated quarantine zone.

  Thao spread the letters out on her bed and counted them. There were sixteen total, all unopened. Everyone in the Literature Department had condemned Thao for betraying Thanh. How could she betray such a handsome, faithful man?

  Thao opened the first letter, carefully peeling back the sealed top of the envelope. She thought of Thanh. At this very moment he was probably comfortable and happy in the arms of his new wife. When Thao had been stationed at the depot in the Laughing Woods, she’d longed for a similar night with Thanh. It had once been the fire of desire that motivated her to make it out of the Laughing Woods.

  The light from the oil lamp grew dim. It reminded Thao suddenly of a ripe, heart-shaped tomato. She cupped the lamp in her palms, squeezing the dying flame tighter and tighter, imagining the juices from the tomato running in waves of warmth over her hands and arms. She had the sensation suddenly that someone was tickling her. She began to laugh. Then it seized her whole body. As she convulsed with laughter, she flung her arms wildly, scattering the letters all over the room.

  One by one, the other girls in the room started to wake up. They were scared and sat up in their beds. They listened to the laughter and, in the dim light from the oil lamp, saw the image of Thao writhing in a fit on her bed.

  “She’s hysterical,” one of them said.

  “She’s gone insane,” concluded another.

  “We must take her to the doctor,” another suggested.

  But when they tried to urge Thao to come with them to the emergency infirmary, she refused to go. The roommates held her legs and arms and called to some male students down the hall to help them carry Thao to the infirmary, where she was forced to take a handful of white pills. Finally she fell asleep.

  The roommates returned to their room and noticed the letters scattered all over the bed. One of the letters was opened and contained only a few lines:

  I’ll write to myself every Thursday night. Then on Friday I’ll go to the Nga Tu So post office on my bicycle to mail it so I can receive my letter by Saturday afternoon.

  I know this is silly, but it’s what I must do so that Thanh will forget about me.

  Oh Tham, my sister, I’m the only person left now in the Laughing Woods. There is no happiness for me anywhere.

  Dear comrade sisters, rest in peace in the Laughing Woods! I will keep my promise to you all. I will make Thanh our faithful prince.

  Girls in the Literature Department tended to be sensitive; Thao’s roommates were able to figure out what had happened. They began to cry as they remembered that in the past few months they had alienated Thao and made her feel so alone.

  At the first sign of dawn, the girls ran to the top floor of the dormitory, where Thanh had a room, and knocked eagerly on the door. Thanh seemed annoyed when he opened the door and saw them standing there. But the girls didn’t say anything. They simply took him by the hand and led him to Thao’s bed and the scattered letters. Silently Thanh read one letter, then the next and the next until he had opened and looked at all sixteen of them. Two-thirds of the letters were blank. Thanh’s face was white; he looked as if he might collapse.

  Hurriedly Thanh ran to the infirmary, but Thao had already left. The door to the room where she’d been sleeping was left ajar. The white sheet on the bed showed the imprint from where her small body had lain the night before after she’d been forced to take the sedative pills. The inevitable thought gave Thanh the sensation of choking: while Thao had been restrained here, treated like an out-of-control crazy person, he had been luxuriating in the happiness of being with his new woman.

  Thanh walked to the hallway, then out onto the street. There was a strong, cold wind blowing across the city from the north. Yellow leaves floated in the air like butterflies caught up in a storm. As he walked, he couldn’t escape the image in his mind’s eye of a girl crushed by the cruelty of life, writing letters to herself at night by the dim light of an oil lamp. Suddenly he thought of a story he’d once heard about a type of sea bird that spat up drops of blood to build its pink nest; when the birds were worn out—when they’d spat up too much blood—they flew high up into the sky, then plunged themselves into the sides of rocky cliffs to die.

  Thanh wandered past a familiar corner where on their Saturday dates he used to buy Thao sour plums with his modest scholarship money. Thao had eaten the sour plums enthusiastically without frowning, to make him happy, Thanh knew.

  The fruit vendor was falling asleep, her head resting in her palm.

  “Excuse me,” Thanh asked, waking her up. “But do you remember the girl who often wears an old soldier’s uniform? Have you seen her pass by here recently?”

  The seller rubbed her eyes. “Well, yes, actually,” she said. “You mean the girl who used to eat sour plums with you, right? She was here just a minute ago.” The seller pointed across the street to the bus station. “I think she went to wait for the bus over there.”

  Thanh hurried to the bus station and looked for Thao everywhere, but she wasn’t there.

  Seeing no other choice, he returned to his new wife. Later he got a good job in the city, and they eventually started a family. Life went on as usual, but Thanh still thought of the sea bird and how small its wings must be.

  * * *

  Five years later, the alumni gathered at the university’s main meeting hall. They wanted to relive their romantic pasts. At the party for the faculty of literature, Thanh chose a seat by the window, even though it was cold outside.

  Maybe a magical thing would happen and Thao would actually show up. But how would she appear in front of him now? With a worn-out, exhausted body, or with dreaming eyes and a willow branch in her hands? Would she be wearing a nun’s brown robes and greet him by placing her palms together and saying, “Amitabha”? Or would she appear as an elegant, wealthy woman wearing valuable jewelry? Would she be a talented journalist fresh off the plane from Saigon?

  The party was loud and rambunctious. The wind blew noisily, like heavy footsteps. Pensively Thanh looked out the window, toward the main gate of the university.

  “Oh, Laughing Forest! You have swallowed so much blood and tears. Why would you also steal my little sea bird?”

  19 / THE SORROW WASN’T ONLY OURS

  LUONG LIEM

  Luong Liem was born in 1946 in Thai Binh and lives in the coastal northern province of Quang Ninh. As a soldier, he fought in the pivotal Tet Offensive of 1968 and served until the end of the war. He is the chairman of the Quang Yen Association for Victims of Agent Orange and works with the nonprofit organization Marin to search for the missing remains of Vietnamese soldiers who died in the war. He writes both short stories and poetry, and his work often depicts the hardships soldiers faced during and after the war. Like other stories that deal with the effects of dioxin poisoning, “The Sorrow Wasn’t Only Ours” highlights how the war continued to harm and even kill long after 1975. The title of the story suggests the generational nature of the fallout from the war, particularly the lingering effects of dioxin poison, passed from veterans to their children born well after the fighting ended.

  * * *

  Back in elementary school, Dai and I were only friends. We loved each other, but it was innocent and platonic, the kind of love typical of two young water buffalo herders with mud-caked hands and feet. Still, we experienced passionate affection for each other.

  Back then, we used to hold hands and run joyfully to a clump of bamboo trees or a corner of the rice paddy to catch grasshoppers to feed to my father’s pet bird. As time went by, our love grew deeper. Years and years of our footprints marked the muddy road we had walked together to school. Everyone said our love was so strong, nothing could destroy it. But actually it ended up falling apart within the blink of an eye.

  Who had caused this to happen? Was it Dai or myself? I felt extremely sad. My sadness was like thousands of sharp needles penetrating my young, weak heart. The wonderful dreams that Dai and I had nurtured over the previous ten years suddenly collapsed. There were no more smiles scented with blooming red orchids. What was left for me was just emptiness, which sent chills up my spine. Sorrow had come unexpectedly and left me with an emotional bleeding wound. My tears were everything. It seemed like I had become nothing but tears, endless tears that poured from my face and dissolved into the earth around me.

  At university, Dai studied architecture while I studied economics. Although we’d gone to school in the same city, we hardly saw each other. We tried our best to meet at least once or twice a month. But by the last years of university, we were so absorbed in studying that we hardly saw each other at all.

  In the last months of school before graduation, I left to do an internship in another province. When I returned to the city, I found out from my friends that Dai had been hospitalized. Hurriedly I ran to the hospital to visit him. I thought, Dai will be excited to see me. I will rest my head against his muscular chest and listen to the beating of his heart. But when I got to Dai’s hospital room there was another girl sitting by his side. Dai looked at me indifferently, like a stranger he didn’t recognize. I tried to talk to him, but Dai refused to respond. He stared blankly at something far away. I got angry and left.

  After finals I went to visit Dai again. His body now looked gray and lifeless, like a pebble on the bank of a river. His eyes, which had once burned with energy, were now dry. He looked miserable, like he was wasting away. As soon as he saw me, Dai turned his face away, as if he hadn’t even noticed I was there. If the romantic love between us was dead, there was still at least our friendship, our connection, our basic human compassion. Why was this happening? Whose fault was it?

  After graduation I got a job at a coal company in the city. I was just a regular salaried employee, but I eventually got married and lived a decent life. My in-laws held somewhat high positions in the coal industry. My father-in-law was head of the Coal Equipment Import and Export Department, and my mother-in-law was in charge of the communal dining hall for one of the largest coal mines. We didn’t have to worry about the basic necessities of life.

  My in-laws let my husband and me enjoy our lives freely. We ate and bought whatever we wanted; we would just tell my mother-in-law how much it cost and she would pay for everything.

  I thought that I would be able to enjoy this comfort for the rest of my life, but unfortunately it came to an end.

  After my husband and I had lived together for three years, it was time for us to have children. Our parents wanted grandchildren to hold in their arms. In our fourth year together I got pregnant, which made everyone happy. Time went by slowly as I waited eagerly for my first child to be born. But before the end of the seventh month I suffered a painful miscarriage. I screamed and fainted when I saw the grotesque fetus covered in blood; not a human exactly, but not quite an animal either. My mother-in-law seemed even more horrified than I was. But she was able to stay calm. She held me in her arms and comforted me. “You can do nothing about it if Heaven doesn’t let you have it. You’ll have other chances. You and your husband are still young, so don’t worry.”

  It happened again when I got pregnant the second time. I knew that my husband and in-laws were upset, but they still took good care of me.

  But when I had a miscarriage the third time and the fetus came out flabby, as if it were just made of water, my mother-in-law started to scream and berate me.

  “You have bad karma! Your parents must live a dirty, immoral life! You were only born to haunt and ruin my family. I want you to leave my son alone and move out immediately!”

  “Why are you saying that about my parents? I can’t have children because of my unlucky fate, that’s all. It has nothing to do with my parents.”

  “How dare you talk back to me! Get out of here now!”

  Listening to my mother-in-law’s cruel words, I wanted to prove that it wasn’t my fault, or that of my parents either. But what had happened was the evidence that I could not refute. I decided to stay quiet and swallow my resentment. But my husband, who had always loved and pampered me, started acting cold. He even brought home girls and had casual sex with them right in the bed that only he and I had shared. I requested a divorce. His family agreed immediately.

  The day I left them was also the day I quit my job at the coal company. If I had stayed at the company, I would have had to face my unfaithful husband on a daily basis, and that wouldn’t have allowed me to concentrate on anything.

  Because for years I had been so occupied with my work and with the comfort and happiness of being the daughter-in-law of a wealthy family, I’d forgotten about my hometown, the place where my umbilical cord was buried and where my parents were longing for me to come visit. Before, my husband and I had driven a luxury car to visit them only once a year.

  I came back to live with my parents, carrying with me the bitterness of my mother-in-law’s false accusation. I was myself again, a typical rural woman. Dai, my first love, was still living there, and now I had to face him every day. At first I wanted to avoid him, but I didn’t know how. I lived for myself and for today without thinking too much about the past because it would just cause trouble. But I wasn’t sure why with each day that went by, I cared for Dai more and more.

  After he finished university, Dai had been offered a job with a high salary and opportunities for promotion at a well-known construction company in the city. But he had declined the offer and requested instead to be a low-ranking state employee in our hometown. He eventually became the vice-chairman of the district.

  Dai’s life had remained the same over the years. He lived a simple and humble life, focused mostly on work. I loved him primarily for this reason. Because my love for him hadn’t turned out as I had expected, I now had even more compassion for him. As the days went by, I never stopped caring for him.

  But Dai acted very cold toward me. Whenever I came to see him, he was always cranky and tried to decline my help. But I didn’t care. I still came to see him. I did whatever I could to help him, even if he scolded me and told me to leave him alone.

  After moving back to my hometown to live with my parents, I eventually learned the reason Dai had rejected my love after his severe illness years ago. When we were growing up, Dai had been a handsome young man, with rosy skin and strong muscles. But suddenly, around the time we entered university, his skin started turning pale and his muscles became withered. After undergoing several medical exams, he was informed that he had inherited dioxin poisoning from his father.

  Dai loved me and had sacrificed his life for me. When he found out about his dark future, he decided to reject me, thinking, People are truly happy only when their lovers are happy. Dai wanted me to have a happy family, so he had intentionally built a wall between us. I hadn’t known about this before.

  Now that I knew the truth, I loved Dai even more. But he kept rejecting me. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to let time solve the problem and continued visiting him every day. As each day passed, he started to become less and less cranky. Then one day he sat down beside me and said, “Hoa, I let you go back then so you could enjoy your own happiness. But everything didn’t turn out the way I wanted. Although I lived far away, I still knew about everything that happened to you. I love you very much. It’s not your fault. It’s the war’s fault. Both of our fathers were exposed to Agent Orange and passed the effects of the dioxin poison on to their children. That’s why you gave birth to such grotesque things. Now let’s talk about us. We can’t have children. We don’t know what the future will be like for us. So let’s just end our relationship now.”