I spent less than a year in prison because my uncle’s son, as a high official in the Communist party, influenced his unit to release me early. I should have stayed there much longer for someone of my military rank, but many of the officers also knew my mother from when they were young. My mother would often see one particular officer in the street and she would pressure him, “Ba Son, when will you release my son from prison?” Ba Son soon began to avoid my mother by walking the long way around town, but she would always find him and he could only reply, “Great auntie, we will let your son out when he demonstrates good behavior. Just wait and see.” He could not give an outright, “No,” to my mother because she used to feed him from her own kitchen when he was one of the poor Viet Minh rebelling against the French. The Communists finally let me out of prison during Tet of 1976, but still required me to weekly report to them.
After my release, I met my future wife, Tên,[1] when she visited a relative’s home to use their overlock sewing machine. I remember that she wore a red blouse that day and I recognized her as the sister of my good friend from prison. We hadn’t spoken before, so I walked across the street to introduce myself. I learned a few key facts: that she would visit that home often to use their overlock machine and that her favorite dish was egg noodles. Her family, like mine, had also immigrated from China as illiterate peasant farmers, but they became wealthy storeowners until the Communists seized their home goods business and all three of their houses. For a time, they were forced to live with friends on a country farm, but I petitioned the authorities to return just one of their homes. The process took about six months, but it gave me time to get to know Tên. Once her family got their home back, she began to teach sewing classes. So, I recruited six of my nieces to be her students as an excuse to see her more. I brought her many gifts as well. And once, when she became quite ill, I secured medicine for her through my black-market connections. Every day, I also paid for a niece deliver a bowl of Tên’s favorite egg noodles. This ploy almost turned out badly because the girl who sold the noodles thought that I was interested in her. Why else would anyone purchase so many noodles? The noodle girl was very generous with her portions until she found out they were meant for Tên. After that, each portion became smaller and smaller. Yet Tên and I would eventually marry and we have been eating noodles together ever since.
[1] Tên was the Chinese name which my wife’s family still calls her, though she often uses her Vietnamese name, Nhan.
