February 28, 1970. Today I am missing Hai a lot: her few letters filled with affection leave me excited and confused. Dear Hai, I will never forget: in summer the burning noon sunshine when I sent you on your way, tears and sweat running down your face. I didn’t have courage enough to return but followed you to Thuong’s table and then left, and then you were gone. Those times I returned to see your mother and Lai I was confused and missed you. Lai has grown, taller than me by half a head with eyes and mouth like you. She loves me a lot. The love of a revolutionary has a wonderful strength: it binds people together with a string that nothing can cut. I have never wanted to return to your mother to ask her for this and for that, and have never used love to gain anything: you are the same, and all the people we love are the same sister! There are some who will never understand this kind of emotion.
Dear sister, so far away do you know that I love you so much?
March 1, 1970. Every night when asleep I have seen clearly the likenesses of people that I love. Why? Because those images are impressed deeply in my mind and my heart, and because I am living here, a place where every step is heavy with memories: the pharmacy room, a heavy rainy afternoon in October 1968, the beautiful moonlight on the chair in room number 1, a night of the Branch meeting, a morning going to the stream to wash clothing, an operation hearing the tired breath and burning hands of those assisting me, one late night returning from visiting patients, and all those days bidding good-bye to the ones leaving with the ones staying standing there not knowing what to say… Oh, all those days passed here and anywhere else, it is the same: all carry deep memories! So what Thuy? I know that my emotions are just like that of Jean van Jean* for Codet, the love of a father for a child, the love of an elder brother for a sister and that is all the consolation for love and the hope of life. I am not like Jean van Jean because I am not that lonely, but in one respect I am just like that old man, and they are like Codet, the sorrowful orphan girl who grew up in the deep love of the old man. But no matter how much she loved him, she still had a life of her own: Maricuyt would come to her… that was it! But Thuy, please don’t be like Jean van Jean: you are different; life welcomes you with all the friendly hands, guiding you up to maturity. I have a lot of people’s love: there is not only one Codet, so don’t be selfish. Jean van Jean can be that way because Codet was his entire life, but me I am not like that. I don’t need to be that way. I have to try to be a person with my own ideas in every circumstance.
March 5, 1970. I get confused and think a lot every time I am with that girl. Can she be worthy of his love? I compare her to myself, already believing that he is like me: he has said things which show that. So what is it? Can she guarantee happiness for him or not? Thinking about him I feel sad that there is the same true affection but not as energetic as before, am I right? Before when late at night after work, just getting over a high fever or after barely escaping capture, his image was before me… now it’s different. Maybe the Struggle has taught me to have a strong heart like my M. Last night I dreamed of meeting all the people North and South, and in those images of people I love were eyes that watched me with deep worry.
March 7, 1970. Away from Pho Cuong one month exactly: it’s strange that I half miss it and half blame it that place so familiar to me. There, there are many things which bind us together: familiar roads with muddy water, the young brush on the road-side which stays frayed because of the artillery fire, the smiles of young soldiers, the words “Sister Hai” which are greetings from the friendly people. There are also some unhappy things there, people who make me unhappy, but most of that is my fault. Please try hard, please care for and protect your honor. Of course you cannot make everyone happy, but if there is something not right, then try seriously to correct that.
March 9, 1970. I don’t accept that I must forgive him, but what does that mean?
