Bao Ninh - The Sorrow of War

How could he understand, at sixteen? He hardly understood the words, let alone the sense of her mother’s complaints. Yet many years later he recalled that Phuong’s mother had predicted a few of the character changes in Phuong accurately. The girl’s soul would become warped and twisted when she played in the mainstream of life, she had said. But then the war had come soon afterwards and there was little that could be said or done anyway.

He recalled Phuong’s playing, when she was just fifteen. ‘That’s lovely, Phuong,’ her mother had said one day. ‘Now play a piece from Mozart, or the Moonlight Sonata.’

Phuong started scratchily and the music seemed lifeless. But as she bent to the task her hands flowed and she began to play passionate, inspired music. Her face flushed and her long hair fell across one side of her face but she was totally absorbed. The sonata spread its gossamer wings and embraced Kien as he drifted off into a pleasant reverie.

‘It was then I knew she would be a troubled soul,’ he thought to himself in later years. Towards the end of the third movement Phuong’s cadence changed and a sombre, then depressing mood fell heavily over the room. Kien had openly wept for Phuong, in admiration and love. It was an ominous passion; he knew then their souls would be intertwined forever, through the last years of peace, through war, and in peace once more. He was helplessly drawn into the involvement. ‘The passion will remain, and the sorrows too,’ he thought.

Almost from that moment on, a harsh and cruel wind had blown across their world. In another fit of depression he sat through the morning, noon and evening recalling those few hours of so long ago.

On the table before him again, untouched, was his manuscript with the stories of so many of his dead heroes. His mind drifted from the beauty of the sonata through their wonderful final months in school until, catching the memory in a trap, he went over exactly what happened on the goods train during that air raid twenty years ago.

He had wanted to forget. It had been sheer coincidence that she had been in the carriage at all. It had been an unfortunate confluence of events leading to their presence together in a freight car at the Hang Co railway station when the bombers had struck. She had wanted to go as far as possible with him to the front, with no concern for the consequences.

There had been two raids. The first, shorter one, was when the train had been forced to stop. He had been knocked unconscious and flung onto an embankment. He was dazed. He hadn’t been able to recognise which car he’d been in and when attempting to get back on the train he had missed his footing several times and got more injuries.

Now, he dimly recalled dreaming some ugly scenes, they came to him in contrasting black-and-white images, like negatives on film. Still bleeding and dizzy, he had scrambled onto the loco as the train started off again, and fallen into a deep sleep.

The authorities had then decided the raids had finished for the night and sent the train rolling south again, towards Vinh. It successfully defied the odds by crossing the Dragon Jaw Bridge in the early-morning light but then stopped at Thanh Hoa station to avoid an outgoing train. Kien was woken by a furious whistle piercing the air and the sound of a mechanic swearing angrily. He jumped down from the car without a word to anyone and looked in astonishment at what lay before him.

Thanh Hoa station was completely destroyed. Bomb craters gaped everywhere, opening their horrible mouths in the early morning sun. Their train was standing amidst the wreckage, its own freight cars heavily damaged. While Kien was taking this in some tough-looking louts jumped down in front of him. They were filthy and stank of alcohol and were swearing among themselves. They went into the ruins of the station and disappeared behind the wreckage.

He turned from them and looked back at the car they had been riding in, sensing this was where he and Phuong had been. He pushed the door open a little wider, letting more light in. There were sacks of rice piled along both sides of the car, and loose rice everywhere from burst bags. He peered into a dark corner, finding Phuong there, in a sort of twilight. She was leaning on some rice sacks, her legs folded, her arms covering her face as though asleep. Her long, tangled hair fell over her scratched shoulders.

He called her name, hoping it was not her. He stepped closer and his knees trembled at the sight. He almost collapsed as she looked up at him with a curiously unfamiliar and vacant look. Her blouse was wide open, all the buttons ripped from it, and her neck was covered in scratches. ‘Phuong, Phuong, it’s me, Kien,’ he said gently. But she kept on staring, showing no sign of recognition. ‘It’s me!’ he repeated. ‘It’s just coal-dust on my face, you can’t recognise me. I had to jump on the locomotive after I got thrown out in the bombing. It’s me, Kien,’ he went on, not making much sense.

The black-and-white scenes from last night were confusing him; he held her shoulders between his hands. She bit her bruised lips, but no words came. She continued to stare, her eyes dull and eerie as though they wished to withdraw under Kien’s questioning.

He too, was terrified. ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t be afraid, we’ll get out. Nothing to be afraid of. But what happened to you?’

Phuong couldn’t answer. Instead she shook her head, then looked down.

Kien began to close her blouse but there wasn’t a single button left. Her bra had been snapped and a strap dangled loose. Her bare breasts were covered with a cold film of sweat. Kien felt himself unable to cope or to understand fully what had happened. He began to cry painful, salty tears which ran hotly down his cheeks, and he almost choked as he tried to comfort her with more words.

‘Let’s get out of here. Can you stand up?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, her first word. Grasping his arm she stood up slowly, then staggered. He bent to prevent her falling. He saw that her slacks had been torn open, and blood ran down her inner thigh to her knees. She covered the blood with her arms, but more ran over her knees and and down her ankles.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were injured? Sit down, sit down. We’ll bandage it. Does it hurt?’

Phuong shook her head. No.

‘Sit down. I’ll make some bandages from my shirt.’

‘No!’ she cried, pushing him away. ‘Can’t you see? It’s not a wound! It can’t be bandaged!’

What was going on? He knew so little! Phuong lifted herself up and staggered towards the doorway. Although she was bleeding she showed no pain. Her clothes were in shreds and she was filthy.

She was preparing to jump down. Kien rushed to help her. As he did so a big, heavily muscled man wearing the top of a sailor’s uniform vaulted into the doorway, blocking out the bright sunshine. Just then the train whistle shrieked, signalling departure.

‘Where are you going?’ the big man asked Phuong, standing in front of her and blocking Kien, whom he had ignored. ‘The train’s about to leave, you can’t get off here!’ he said roughly. It was an order.

‘Here, I’ve got a pair of slacks for you. Got some water, food. Who’s this guy?’ He talked non-stop, expecting her to obey, and looking greedily at her open blouse.

‘Yes,’ she replied meekly. Neither she nor Kien appeared to understand what she had agreed to. She was at her wits’ end and would agree to anything he said. Kien had never seen her as pale, or in fear before. ‘Whaddyer want?’ he then shouted at Kien. ‘You know this is a military transport.’ As he said it the train they’d been waiting for started to run past them. They would be leaving in a few seconds. The whole carriage shook as it passed.