My father shook his head. “Loi, you are in a country now where you must think for yourself. What do you know of these boys?”
Loi shrugged. He didn’t like my father scolding him. “Why shouldn’t I have friends?” he asked.
Perhaps thinking of all Loi had gone through and how he had lost his family, my father said, “I’m glad you have found friends. Only remember a friend must be someone you can trust.”
Loi walked slowly back to his row and climbed up to his platform. The other boys looked our way and laughed. They said something to Loi that Loi must not have liked, for he turned away from them, but after a minute he forgot us and joined the other boys in their laughter.
12
It took us a while to find Kim and her mother. Bac si Hong was happy to see us. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There are so many sick people here. They tell me I cannot help, but I will not see people sick and do nothing. I will do what I must, but I must do it secretly. I am afraid to leave Kim alone. Not everyone in the camp can be trusted. Could Kim stay with you for a little while?”
“We would be honored,” my father said. I was surprised to hear him add, “Bac si Hong, you have more knowledge about these things. What will happen to us here?”
In front of my mother, Father had been sure of himself, but now he was turning to Kim’s mother for help. I saw that he was more worried than he had shown. And more surprising than anything, he was asking help from a woman.
Kim’s mother shook her head. “I knew we would have to stay in a camp of some kind, but I had no idea it would be like this. We are no better than chickens in a coop. I have learned that those who have relatives in another country or who speak the language of another country or even have a skill that would be wanted have the best chance of finding a home there.”
“Then you and Kim are lucky,” Father said. “You speak English, and a doctor is surely wanted.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but for the moment there is much for me to do here. Only it bothers me that I must do it secretly. You have relatives in America who will help.” We had shown our uncle Tien’s postcard to Bac si Hong on the boat.
For a moment my father smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared. “America must be large. How would we ever find Tien?”
“You must ask Binh,” Kim’s mother said. “I think she wants to help us. You must also tell them you are a skilled mechanic.”
Kim and I begged to explore the large room, but my father hurried us back to our platform. “Have you lost your modesty? Would you wander among all these strangers? Listen to those terrible sounds.” There was a radio playing loud music such as I had never heard.
“We had that music in Ho Chi Minh City,” Kim said. “It is called rock.”
“A good name for it,” Father said. “It is hard music and loud enough to crack your head.”
When we returned to our little space, we found that our mother had learned a great deal from our neighbor Ly. Mother was proud of her new knowledge and seemed less worried. “I know of a place where I can wash our clothes. Although there is only cold water. Also, the family below us has children the same ages as Thant and Anh. Thant and Anh are with them now. The family hopes to be leaving in a week or two. They have promised us their place and we shall have curtains and a roof over our heads.” Mother said all this in a rush of words.
I could see the words pleased my father, but the grandmother only said, “This is what you have brought me to. I told you we should never have come.” Then she saw that Kim had her flute with her and the grandmother smiled. “Come and sit beside me and play your music for me. The sounds are strange, but if I close my eyes I can see our village.”
As Kim played on her flute everyone was not quiet, as they had been on the boat when she played. In the big room radios played loudly and people shouted to one another. Babies cried and there were loud coughs. Still, in all that noise a little island of silence grew around us. Even Loi’s friends were quiet, staring hard at Kim’s flute.
As the time for supper drew near, people began to call out impatiently for their food. At last the doors into the room opened and several carts appeared loaded with great buckets of steaming rice and smaller pails of vegetables. There were complaints from many of the families of small portions. We did not complain, for we had not had vegetables for many days. As one of the carts was rolling down our aisle, we heard a cheerful voice call to us. Dishing out the food was Le Hung. “When they found out I was a cook they brought me to the kitchen,” he said. “What better job than to be with food all day? Here, pass me your bowls.” Hung gave each of us a generous serving of the vegetables. With a quick look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, Hung handed a folded lettuce leaf to the grandmother. “You were generous with your duck,” he said, and grinned. Tucked inside the leaf were several large shrimp. The grandmother nodded to Hung, and after he had rolled his cart away she handed out one shrimp to each of us, not forgetting Kim and giving Thant two large ones.
We had just finished our supper when Kim’s mother came for her. “There is so much to do,” she said in a tired voice. “There are children with measles, which could spread through the whole camp. What is worse, no one seems to keep track of who has been vaccinated. I have no medicines to give. And I must do everything in secret.”
She smiled at the grandmother. “You are needed too,” she told her. “A woman who is having nightmares and cannot sleep has asked for someone who can chase away the evil spirits. I said I knew just such a person.”
The grandmother looked pleased and said, “It is something I have done a hundred times.”
“Also, she has a little money and will reward whoever can help her. Tomorrow I will take you to her.” The grandmother looked doubly pleased.
As it grew later, we waited for the lights to be turned off so that we could sleep. They were dimmed a little, but it was hard to close our eyes. On the top platform we were directly under the lights. “Nguyen,” Father called to our neighbor, “when will they turn off the lights?”
“Oh, the lights are never turned off. There are thieves here. If they turned off the lights, no one would dare to sleep.”
13
We could not believe that anyone would steal from people who had so little, but the next morning, when Kim’s mother brought Kim to us for the day, we saw that Kim had been crying. Bac si Hong was very angry. “Last night while Kim and I were asleep someone came and took Kim’s flute. How could they be so cruel? They will sell it for much less than it is worth, and there is no way I can replace it.”
“But with the lights,” my father said, “surely someone must have seen who took it.”
“Those around us were asleep, too. Even if they weren’t, it is very dangerous to report a thief here. The thief would find a way to avenge himself against anyone who informed on him.”
We all tried to cheer Kim up, but it is hard to cheer up someone else when you are none too happy yourself. When my father was called in to see Binh he was told many people would be sent back to Vietnam, and she urged him to agree to join them. When he refused and begged to be sent to another country, Binh said the only thing in his favor was his skill as a mechanic.
Father said, “Binh asked if I knew anyone in another country, and I showed her the postcard from Tien. The government here lists people by their villages as well as by their name. Also, they keep track of where they go. It is very remarkable. Binh said she might be able to find Tien and his family. It is nothing we can count on. Still it is a hope.”
Hope was all we had during those days that became weeks. One of the worst things was that there was little water to bathe in and no soap. We began to itch all over, and Kim’s mother said we had scabies. Scratching was just about all we had to do. Each day was like the day before. At first we went about and visited with the people from our boat, but after a while we grew discouraged and just stayed on our platform. Loi did not come to see us, and the one time that Kim and I went to visit him
he seemed uncomfortable with us. We thought he cared only for his new friends. When Loi was not with his friends he was standing in line by the window. There was only one window in our warehouse room. It was high up. If you wanted a chance to see the sun and the sky you had to wait for a turn to step on the wooden box beneath the window. For just a quick glimpse of the sky you had to wait for an hour or more, but Loi was often in the line.
We had been in Hong Kong nearly four weeks when Loi climbed up to see us in the middle of the night. In his hand was Kim’s flute. “Quickly, take this and hide it until I am gone,” he whispered. His hand was trembling.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I am going back to Vietnam,” he said. “We leave for another camp in a few minutes.”
Once before the officials had come in the middle of the night to round up people to send back to Vietnam. Some of the people had agreed to return; others did not want to go back. Everyone in the camp was afraid they might be made to return. Some people who thought they were on the list to go back would change beds with other refugees so that the officials could not find them. “Loi, why do you want to go back to Vietnam?” Father asked.
“There is no hope for me here. What country wants a boy who has no skill but fishing? And I miss the sea. I could not stand being shut up here any longer.” He looked warily over his shoulder. “Also, it is dangerous for me. I want to get away from them.” He pointed to the sleeping boys on his platform. “You were right to warn me,” he said to my father. “Those boys stole Kim’s flute. I tried to make them give it back, but they threatened me. I didn’t dare tell you or they would have beaten me—or worse. I had to wait until I knew I was leaving to return the flute.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Anh said. Like Anh, I also wished Loi would not go, but I could not bring myself to say it. I was only brave enough to squeeze Loi’s arm.
Loi smiled at me and seemed to cheer up. “They are giving all of us who go back some money. With that I can buy an interest in a fishing boat. And I will get to ride in a plane.” He patted Anh and Thant on the head. As he climbed down from our platform, the doors opened and the officials came in to round up the refugees. Loi hurried over to them, glad of their protection, but many families complained bitterly at being sent back and vowed that however long it took they would return to Hong Kong. Some families cried and begged to stay. I put my hands over my ears to keep from hearing the terrible sounds.
“One day it will be our turn,” the grandmother said.
The rest of the night I stayed awake, unable to sleep. I remembered the sad cries of those who were being sent away. I knew that we would probably never see Loi again. The only thing that cheered me was the thought of how happy Kim would be when she saw her flute.
14
The next morning, Kim could hardly believe her eyes. She had to hear the story of Loi appearing in the middle of the night twice. Kim’s mother said, “It was very brave of Loi to return the flute.” Something in Bac si Hong’s voice made us stop talking about the flute and ask her what was wrong. “I will tell you because Kim will have to stay with you, but you must not tell the others.” She lowered her voice. “There is cholera in the camp.”
Mother put her hand across her mouth to keep from crying out. The grandmother shook her head. “There is nothing to be done for that.” There had been cholera epidemics in our village. “For all my herbs and potions I have never found a way to cure those who fall sick with cholera.” It was not often the grandmother admitted that there was something she could not cure.
“Fortunately,” the bac si said, “in Hong Kong they have medicines and vaccines that will cure the sick, but it will take time to vaccinate everyone. Also, it is important that the water and food are not contaminated. Meanwhile there may be many who will be sick, and there are few to care for them. Still they will not let me help. Everything I do must be done when those in charge of the camp are not watching.”
In only a day’s time several people fell ill. Dao was so weak she could do nothing for her baby. Tho had all he could do to watch over Dao. Mother offered to care for the baby and Kim and I helped. Our neighbor Nguyen was so ill we could hear his groans all night. We hardly saw the bac si. When she came to see Kim, her hair, usually so neatly pulled back from her face, was untidy, and there were circles under her eyes. “I have had very little sleep,” she said. “But that is nothing. What worries me is that an officer in the camp has caught me helping the sick. He is threatening to send me back to Vietnam, but as long as I am needed I won’t stop.”
By the end of the week she told us, “I think the epidemic is under control. Almost everyone has been vaccinated.” “Almost,” because there were a few people who hid from the nurses and would not be stuck with a needle. The grandmother was one of them. Nothing my father could say would convince her that the vaccination was necessary. “No one will squeeze poison into me,” she insisted.
It must have been because she was so stubborn that the grandmother would not tell us she was feeling sick. She was also a little ashamed of refusing the vaccination. We noticed that when Le Hung came with the special bits of food he saved for her, she would not eat. Soon she was so ill we didn’t know what to do. Her eyes bulged out under her closed lids and she moaned that she was going to die.
Father went for Kim’s mother. After she examined the grandmother, the bac si said, “She will have to be moved to the hospital at once. She is very sick.” But the grandmother was not so sick that she did not angrily refuse to go to the hospital. “I will die if they take me away.”
The bac si gave in. “It is true,” she said to us, whispering so that my grandmother could not hear. “It would be hard for her. They do not speak Vietnamese at the hospital, and they would not understand her. I have made friends with the nurse, and it may be that she will give me some medicine.”
Like my grandmother, many people would not admit how sick they were. They were afraid of being taken away from their families. No one was allowed to visit the hospital. The doctors and nurses did not speak our language. Worst of all was the worry that while they were gone their families would be sent back to Vietnam. Because they would not go to the hospital, many did not get well. There would be cries of sorrow in the night, and you knew that someone had died from cholera.
The grandmother was lucky. In a few days she was better and looking for Le Hung to see what good thing he might bring her to eat. Dao was better too, and had her baby back.
It was two weeks before the bac si was finally able to take Kim back. “I’m going to sleep around the clock,” the bac si said.
That night the officers again came to return people to Vietnam. Our neighbors Nguyen and Ly were taken. Ly was weeping as they left. “How can we believe it will be safe to return,” she asked, “when my father is still in prison? And we will be hungry again.” But their pleading to stay made no difference, and they were taken away.
For a long time after that none of us could sleep. When we finally did it seemed only moments before I felt a tug on my arm. I woke with a start. Kim had climbed our ladder and was sitting on our platform. She was trying not to make any noise, but I could see her shoulders shaking with sobs. I woke my mother and father. My mother put her arms around Kim. “What is it?” she whispered.
“They have taken my mother back to Vietnam.” She was crying so hard that we could hardly make out the words.
“Why?” I asked, scarcely able to believe what she was telling us.
“Last night the father of the family next to us had pains in his belly. They asked my mother for help, so she examined the man and said that his appendix must come out right away. She told the family to ask that the man go at once to the hospital. The officer said it was night and the man must wait until the next morning. My mother was very angry and she went to the officer and said the man might die if he didn’t get to the hospital. The officer asked her how she knew that. She said she was a doctor and she had examined the man. The officer said
that was against the rules. He would not take the man.
“This morning the man was very sick, and my mother went to the head of the camp. She told him about the officer who was on duty last night and how he would not send the man to the hospital. Then they sent the sick man to the hospital right away and they scolded the officer. The officer was very angry with Mother. Tonight when they came to take the others to be sent to Vietnam, the officer said Mother must go too.” Kim put her hands over her face.
“They didn’t try to take you?” my father asked.
Kim shook her head. “Mother saw them coming and she told me to hide in the platform of the people below us. They have been our friends. When the officers were gone, I was to come to you. Mother said they were just angry with her and would not look for me. At first I wouldn’t go, but she cried and begged me so hard I finally did what she told me to. She said she did not care for herself, but that I must have a chance to go to school and to study music. She believes that you will be lucky and go to America. But I wish I had gone with my mother. I would rather be in Vietnam if I could be with her.”
It was many hours before Kim stopped crying and many days before she would eat more than a small bite of food. Some days she did not talk at all.
Kim’s sadness was catching. We began to lose hope for ourselves and worried that like Kim’s mother, we too would be sent back to Vietnam. My mother’s eyes often had tears, and my father became more silent each day. There was nothing to do but sit in our little space. After a while we didn’t even want to be awake. We went to bed earlier and earlier and got up later and later. The more we slept the quicker the time went by. Kim would not play her flute, even for our grandmother.
Thant and Anh whined and quarreled when they were awake. They had nothing to do and no one to play with. The family with the two children on the platform beneath us had gone to England. Just as they promised, they had given us their platform, and now we had a roof and a curtain to draw around us. Longer and longer each day the curtain stayed closed while we slept, trying to get through the long hours of waiting.