Lately, I have been feeling depressed. Looking around, I see so many unhappy things, making me lazy, my mind empty and sad. Sometimes I don’t know whether to write dark thoughts or write small stories to make life more beautiful. Then I suddenly remembered the girl I met when I first set foot on American soil, and her smile made me decide that I would only write things that make life shine with hope.

 

         

When I was in the refugee camp, I volunteered to work for an American charity group, going to the tents every day, talked and noted down what the refugees really needed and then reported to those in charge to find ways to help them. I was often accompanied by a tall American friend, a highschool student, probably living nearby Pendleton Marine Camp. She was not pretty but very cute, and while taking break from school during the summer she volunteered to work as a social worker. Every morning around 10 o'clock, she and I met at the office, then we slowly walked through the tents, talking with the refugees, taking notes of what happened or their requests and suggestions. Or brought them things they asked for the day before.

In the camp, besides the tents, there was also a more spacious building, probably a former military barracks. Two-story beds were placed along the wall. One day, while making the round as usual, we found ourselves standing among a large group of refugees, some standing, some sitting on a small bed, all singing happily. The girl bent down asking me what they were singing. I liked her a lot because she seemed to be a very thoughtful person, often inquired about my life stories, listened to me attentively, and I could feel her emotions showed on her face. She wanted to know why we had to leave our home country to evacuate to such a faraway place, bringing nothing but our passionate love of freedom. I told her everything I knew and felt, considering her as a close friend of mine. More than that, I was glad to have someone to confide in even though she might not understand what went through my mind at that time.

I roughly translated for her the lyrics of the songs that the crowd was singing. She and I stood watching for a while, then she bent down closer to me and requested me to ask the crowd in Vietnamese whether they had any music instrument to play with while singing. Everyone shook their heads.

 

One of them said: "I brought one but it broke." She curiously asked: "What kind of the instrument is yours?" That man, about thirty, of average height, answered: "A violin. I have played the violin since I was a child, I play classical music." She was silent, deep in thinking, then quietly took out a pen and wrote down the room number. She asked for the guy's name, wrote it down carefully. We said goodbye to everyone, and continued on our morning round.

 

After lunch, we met again and did our afternoon round. We finished our tour earlier than usual because she said she had to stop by her mother's home that late afternoon. At the intersection, she said goodbye to me and walked towards the exit gate while I walked back to my tent.

 

After a few steps, without telling each other, we both stopped, turned around and waved goodbye to one another. She waved by extending her hand, moving it up and down with her palm facing down. And I did mine by waving my hand left and right. Seeing her way of waving, I mistook that she was calling me over because that the way we Vietnamese did, so I turned back and approached her. She was surprised to see me approaching, thinking I had something to say to her. So both of us stood facing each oher, waiting for the other to start talking. Finally,  I said "bye", turned around and walked away. After a few steps, I looked back, and I saw her, again waving her hand to me the same way she did earlier and I suddenly understood that it was the way Americans saying goodbye. Feeling hilarious, I waved back. She smiled brightly and walked straight out of the camp's  gate.

The next morning, at ten o'clock, I went back to the office and saw her sitting there waiting for me.  Next to her was a violin case. The case was old but well taken care of and clean. Seeing me, she picked up her violin case, stood up and then walked with me towards the building where the guy who had the violin resided. We did not start the round by visiting other tents first as usual. We went straight to the bed where the crowd was already summoned singing. She handed the violin case to the guy, telling me to say to him that she asked if he could play some classical piece for her. The man was moved at the request. He opened the case, carefully took the violin out, put it on his shoulder, and tried a few notes. After adjusting the strings, he played a Vietnamese song first, and the crowd sang along noisily. The girl looked at him and smiled happily. She told me again to ask him to play a classical piece for her. He stood up on the upper bunk, played a short piece, then another, and another. Then he reluctantly put the violin back in the case and handed it back to the tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl.

The girl looked at him, gently pushed the violin case towards him, and whispered: "It's for you. From my father."

 

Dang Le Khanh 

 

ps. I don't know if the person who received the violin still has it or not. As for me, I will never forget the girl's lovely and bright smile. She made me believe in humanity.