我們遺忘的村莊

美文宇

My village was located in the Mekong Delta， the most fertile land of South Vietnam， providing more than eighty percent of the rice for the nation. Sixty miles south of Saigon， the area was called the “barn of South Vietnam.” Like most Vietnamese villages， my village was fringed with green bamboo hedges. Its back leaned on the left bank of the Mekong River， and its face looked out on the vast rice fields running side by side to the horizon.

Inside the village， the red-tiled roofs emerged from the grey-thatched ones， the flower fences， the fruit trees， and the vegetable yards separating the houses. The villagers were simple and assiduous farmers， their lives tied to the yellow rice fields， the green bamboo hedges， the cows and cattle. They worried about the irregular weather; they rejoiced with the successful crops. Festivals took place all year long. The villagers prayed before and thanked God after each crop. Life in my village was as peaceful as the tranquil flowing of the Mekong River.

Every day， when the birds started singing to the sun， the whole village awakened. Group after group of farmers and buffalos left for the fields. In the orange sunshine， the silhouettes of my father and Can， our buffalo， disappeared behind the bamboo hedges at the end of the village. My mother also left for the rural market in the nearby village. My brother and I went to school.

At noon， I used to stand at the main gate and look out at the road， waiting for my mother. I could recognize the small， thin， familiar shape from a far distance. My mother never forgot to bring me something， either a small rice cake or a pack of candies each day. She wiped her wet face and fanned herself by the non la， the well-known Vietnamese hat， while I ate the cake. The sweetness of the cake seemed packed with all mother love to me.

In the evening， when the sun set westward， the grey smoke floating from the thatched roofs mixed with the snow-white clouds in the sky. The flutes， attached to the kites high in the air， sounded a beautiful melody accompanied by the singing of the flocks of birds returning to their warm nests. On the road， the farmers and the buffalos came back from the fields. The laughing of people， the noise of the animals—all those sounds in the air brought relaxation to the village.

At dusk， my brother and I joined the children in the village playing at the dam near the river. We were competing in raising kites. Our kite used to be the most beautiful， the highest kite with the sweetest sound. For making the kites， I had to spend all of my savings to buy colored papers and two spools of thread in the small town nearby. My brother had to spend many days to build the kite frame from the selected bamboo tree， and stick the colored papers on it. Finally， we attached the small bamboo flute my father made to the kite to create the sound. Now the kite with its parallelogram shape and motley tails was ready to fly in the blue sky. When my brother raised the kite at its highest， I took the string on my brothers hand to control the kite. Inspired by the admiring eyes of the village children， my pride and happiness flew as high as the kite in the blue sky.

Then， one day， the cane of war stirred up the peaceful life in my village. More and more people left the village to find another， safer place. I， myself， had just known the word “war” in spelling until an event happened： the death of Can， our beloved buffalo.

I still remember Can coming to my family. Like most Vietnamese farmers， my father had a dream of owning a buffalo. When Cans mother， the buffalo of our neighbor， got pregnant， each day after he finished working， my father had to work for our neighbor to trade his labor for the infant buffalo. At that time， my mother raised a group of chickens， and I used to have an egg for breakfast before going to school. One morning， my mother put all the chickens in cages， loaded them in our neighbors buffalo cart， and headed to the market. That noon， I received more candies than ever， but I also had no more eggs after that.

After Can was born， my father brought him home and I was jealous of him. Everybody in my family took good care of Can and forgot me. My milk had to be shared with Can. My father hung mosquito nets to protect Can every night; my mother warmed him with my patched clothes. Even my brother， my closest friend， was interested in Can instead. I tried in vain to regain the attention of my loved ones， and failing， hated the buffalo.

Gradually， my childish hatred faded away and I was happy to play with the buffalo. Can carried my brother and me， traveling from field to field to seek the green grass fields. Can enjoyed the finest green grass while my brother and I enjoyed the baked sweet potatoes remaining after the harvest; then my brother and I let Can lazily bathe in the muddy pools while we swam in the river.

When Can grew up， two and a half years later， he became a co-worker with my father in our small field. During the leisure time between the crops， Can towed the cart loaded with fruit baskets and us to the fairs at the nearby city. He was a member of my family; he shared the hard labor with my father in cultivating the crops， and the pleasure with my brother and me in the sunshine fields. In my mind， I had thought that nothing could separate me from the buffalo， the green bamboo hedges， the yellow rice fields， and the light blue Mekong River.

One night， I was awakened by the thunder of all kinds of guns. My whole family sought shelter under the wooden bed. Shuddering in my mothers arms， I was so panicked that I could not utter a word. The thunder was closer and closer， and an explosion shined brightly in our house. Above the thunder， the cry of our poor Can made my father forget the danger. My father ran toward the stable and tried by all the means to save Can， but he made no difference. The sound of the buffalo in agony made my mother burst into tears.

To end Cans suffering， my father many times raised high the hammer， but many times he lowered it down. The red eyes of Can， tears running down unceasingly， made my father hesitate. Finally， with all his effort， my father hit the hammer at Cans neck. The buffalo fell down and my father fell down too. At the corners of my fathers eyes glittered the teardrops. This was the first time in my life that I had seen my father cry. He cried for our poor Can， and also for the collapse of his dream—the very ordinary dream of a Vietnamese farmer. Instantly， I realized that my golden childhood was over.

我的村莊位于南越最肥沃的土地湄公河三角洲，這塊土地為國(guó)家提供百分之八十以上的大米。這里位于西貢南部六十英里處，被稱為“南越谷倉”。像越南大部分村莊一樣，我的村莊四周扎了一圈綠色的竹籬。它背靠湄公河左岸，面向一望無際、一排排延伸至地平線的稻田。

村里，紅瓦屋頂從灰色茅草屋頂之間露出來，花籬、果樹和菜園把一座座房子分隔開來。村里人都是樸素勤勞的農(nóng)民。他們的生活與金黃的稻田、綠色的竹籬和牛群聯(lián)系在一起。他們會(huì)因天氣無常而擔(dān)憂，也會(huì)因收成好而欣喜。節(jié)慶一年到頭都有。村民在每次收割前都要祈禱，收割后感謝上蒼。在我的村子里，生活就像靜靜流淌的湄公河一樣安寧。

每天，當(dāng)鳥兒開始向陽歌唱，整個(gè)村莊便會(huì)從酣睡中醒來。一群群村民牽著水牛朝田間走去。在橘色的陽光下，父親和我家水牛勤的剪影消失在村子盡頭的竹籬后面。母親也向鄰村的集市走去。我和哥哥則去上學(xué)。

中午時(shí)分，我常常站在大門口，眺望大路，等待著母親。我能從遠(yuǎn)處辨認(rèn)出我熟悉的那個(gè)瘦小身影。每天，母親從不忘給我?guī)Щ貋硪恍〇|西，要么是一小塊米糕，要么是一袋糖果。在我吃糕點(diǎn)的時(shí)候，她就擦擦臉上的汗，用有名的越南斗笠給自己扇風(fēng)。在我看來，甜甜的糕點(diǎn)里似乎裹著母親對(duì)我全部的愛。

傍晚，當(dāng)太陽西沉的時(shí)候，灰蒙蒙的炊煙從茅草屋頂上飄起，與天空中雪白的云朵混合。風(fēng)笛高掛在風(fēng)箏上，伴著一群群歸向暖巢的鳥兒的鳴唱，奏出一曲美妙的旋律。大路上，農(nóng)民們牽著水牛從田地里歸來。人們的歡笑聲、動(dòng)物的叫聲——聲響在空中蕩漾，給村莊帶來輕松的氛圍。

黃昏時(shí)分，我和哥哥同村里的孩子們一起在河邊的大壩上玩耍。我們正在比賽放風(fēng)箏。我和哥哥的風(fēng)箏最漂亮，飛得最高，發(fā)出的聲音最甜美。我不得不花掉自己所有的積蓄，到附近的小鎮(zhèn)買扎風(fēng)箏的彩紙和兩軸線。哥哥得花好多天用精心挑選的竹子做風(fēng)箏骨架，然后把彩紙貼在上面。最后，我們把父親做的小竹笛系到風(fēng)箏上，風(fēng)箏就可以發(fā)聲了。這會(huì)兒，這只平行四邊形的風(fēng)箏帶著彩色尾巴，準(zhǔn)備在藍(lán)天上飛翔了。當(dāng)哥哥把風(fēng)箏放到最高，我便握住哥哥手上的線來控制風(fēng)箏。在村里孩子們羨慕的目光下，我受到鼓舞，驕傲和快樂飛得像藍(lán)天上的風(fēng)箏一樣高。

后來，有一天，戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)之杖攪亂了村里平靜的生活。越來越多的人離開村子去尋找另一個(gè)更安全的地方。以前，對(duì)于“戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)”一詞，我自己只是知道如何拼寫而已，直到發(fā)生一樁事件——我們心愛的水牛勤死了。

我依然記得勤來我們家的情景。像大多數(shù)越南農(nóng)民一樣，父親夢(mèng)想有一頭水牛。當(dāng)鄰居家的水?！诘哪赣H——懷上牛崽，父親每天干完活兒后就得為鄰居干活兒，以此換取水牛崽。那時(shí)，母親養(yǎng)了一群雞，通常上學(xué)之前，我早餐都有一個(gè)雞蛋吃。一天早上，母親把所有的母雞裝在幾個(gè)籠子里，放在鄰居家的水牛車上，去了集市。那天中午，我得到了比以往更多的糖果，但在那之后我再也吃不到雞蛋了。

勤出生后，父親把它牽回了家，我就嫉妒起了它。家里的每個(gè)人都對(duì)它體貼入微，把我給忘了。我的牛奶也得跟勤分享。每天夜晚，父親掛起蚊帳來保護(hù)它;母親則拿我?guī)в醒a(bǔ)丁的衣服為它取暖。就連哥哥——我最親密的朋友——都對(duì)它產(chǎn)生了興趣。我試圖重新獲得自己所愛的人的關(guān)心，但白費(fèi)功夫，我就恨起了小水牛。

漸漸地，我孩子氣的仇恨消失了，我樂意跟小水牛一起玩。勤馱著我和哥哥，越過一塊塊田地，去尋找綠草地。我和哥哥把地里剩下的紅薯烤著吃，勤享用著最好的青草;然后我們到河里游泳，讓勤懶洋洋地在泥池中洗澡。

兩年半后，勤長(zhǎng)大了，成了父親的幫手，在我們的小塊田地里干活兒。農(nóng)閑期間，勤拉著我們到鄰近城鎮(zhèn)趕集，大車上還裝著果籃。它是我們家中的一員;農(nóng)耕時(shí)，它和父親一起干重活兒，跟我和哥哥一起在陽光下的田野里享受快樂時(shí)光。在我的腦海里，我原以為沒有什么能把我跟水牛、綠色的竹籬、金黃的稻田和淡藍(lán)色的湄公河分開。

一天夜里，我被各種隆隆的槍炮聲驚醒。我們?nèi)胰硕级阍谀敬蚕?。我在母親的懷里瑟瑟發(fā)抖，驚恐得一個(gè)字也說不出來。爆炸的轟響越來越近，炸到了我們的房子，把房子照亮?？蓱z的勤的叫聲淹沒了爆炸聲。父親顧不上自己的安危，朝牛棚跑去，想盡一切辦法搶救勤，但都無濟(jì)于事。水牛的慘叫聲使母親突然放聲大哭。

為了結(jié)束勤的痛苦，父親多次高高地舉起錘子，但又多次放下來。勤的眼睛發(fā)紅，淚水不斷地流，這使父親猶豫不決。最后，他使出了全身力氣，一錘砸在勤的脖子上。水牛倒下了，父親也倒下了。父親的眼角閃著淚光。我長(zhǎng)這么大，還是第一次看見父親哭。他為我們可憐的勤而哭，也為他的夢(mèng)想破滅而哭，那正是一個(gè)越南農(nóng)民普普通通的夢(mèng)想。我立刻意識(shí)到，我的金色童年結(jié)束了。