January 12, 1969. Binh came and brought news of the American withdrawal; Pho Cuong returns to normal. Through his letter I know he is still all right. Four pages with the last lines left to say in person because he was too tired to write more, all about missing me and worrying about me. During these 12 days he ate only one adequate meal, wearing the same clothing wet or dry without changing. Tanks and troops were after him constantly for a few days, and many times he was almost killed. He didn’t tell me everything but from another person’s letters I know what happened. I am sorry and worry for him, but I am also angry with him because he has not been honest with me, thinking that he doesn’t want me to worry. Because of his deep affection for me he didn’t want me to know the entire true situation.
January 14, 1969. Everyone has left; the quiet clinic is sad. Only a few wounded soldiers remain; only a few personnel are left also. Everyone is busy with their own work. I listen carefully but there is only the sound of the running river. Twenty six years old already, not so young at all. Why do I let sadness disturb my heart? People really do make decisions. Like Nguyen Du* said: “When you are sad your surroundings are never happy”. How can anyone be happy when the American pirates remain in our country killing our people? How can you be happy when your country is still split in two, when everyone in the family is scattered in different directions.
But my dear Thuy, you cannot stay unhappy and always worry so much. The Struggle asks for people with happiness, strength, and strong belief. Take care of these feelings and forget the sad clouds before your eyes.
January 16, 1969. Nghia came to visit but I had gone to correct examinations so he left a letter and present for me. Handing me the gift and money Ba said: “Having an adopted young brother like that is very good”. The comment may not mean anything but I am not very pleased by it. Maybe Ba and many others cannot understand the affections between my warm heart and these people. Nghia, Thuan, Khiem, and Thuong… we love each other with a wonderful care, a care which makes people forget themselves and think only of the people they love. With this emotion people can sacrifice all of their lives to protect the persons they love. So what do these few thousand (piaster) mean? What do these presents mean? You must understand that these gifts cannot be priced with money, only with love. They sometimes need 10 or 20 piaster to buy cigarettes but when they have that they want to share it all with me. Sometimes they don’t let me know that they are poor so they can let me have money to spend. The result of this is I have to try hard to be worthy of these young men.
January 18, 1969. Reading his letters I feel sorry for him, but he makes me laugh also. His affections are really wonderful, very simple and warm. I never before read so simple a letter. Through the words he never cares about I see the truth of him. He worries about me from the biggest to the smallest things. He worries about my future husband: will he be a kind or a cruel person? It makes me laugh. I don’t know what he thinks about love. Why does he imagine a poor wife like that? But he is also right, because he doesn’t understand the standards for my beloved, an educated girl raised in Socialism. Don’t worry my young brother; your sister will not easily choose a love, don’t you know that?
January 19, 1969. A beautiful Sunday afternoon. The sun is very beautiful and the wind blows hard in the old forest. The radio plays international music. Working in the small room why do I feel this is so peaceful? I forget all about bombs and fire, mourning and sorrow; in my heart is only the happiness of the music.
I don’t know if I deserve to be criticized or praised; criticized because I forget all the people who continue in sadness and sorrow, because I forget the blood thirsty devils who remain in our country, or praised because after thousands and thousands of hardships I still have love, happiness, belief in life, and a hope still green and fresh in my spirit.
My dear Phuong*, there you always see the sadness of separation from family, but here I see a scene thousands of times sadder than that. Regardless, I still hope that you and I never lose our happiness and the hope in our hearts. Please remain the way you were; every Sunday afternoon we will go listen to music, come home late at night and write in our diaries, our dreams continuing even through the bullets and bombs surrounding us.
