Short stories

Teacher Bau

NGUYEN SY DOAN November 16, 2024 10:00

I'm not someone who forgets promises. I just don't want Bao to nurture love in illusions. Let the broken pieces of first love sleep peacefully.

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Trng Cô giáo Báu

When they were about ten kilometers away from Kien Moc commune, the car suddenly broke down. The driver turned around and explained to everyone: "Please take a break for a few minutes, the bus company will fix it in a jiffy."

Looking up I saw a small roadside shop and slowly walked in.

The shop only sells candy and bottled drinks. The owner, a girl under thirty, said warmly: "Please come in and rest."

The shop was quite small but tidy and clean. I said: "Please give me a bottle of mineral water". The shop owner softly agreed. The back door of the shop was wide open, across a small yard was a house with three recesses and two protrusions built in the lowland style. I heard the sound of hammocks swinging and children's cries. The shop owner placed an open bottle of water and a cup in front of me: "Please have some water!"

Looking at the girl, I was startled. Oh my god! I've seen these eyes, this face somewhere before. So familiar, so familiar. Seeing me looking intently, the girl lowered her head and turned away. There was the sound of a child crying, she stood up and quickly walked downstairs. A moment later, a thin, old woman with silver hair came up from downstairs. I guessed she was the shop owner's mother. She walked in the door. I jumped up from my chair: "Bầu! Teacher Bào, right?". The woman didn't seem surprised. She must have thought that meeting her was obvious. Sitting down on the opposite chair, she lifted her glasses with one hand, and wiped away the tears that were welling up with the other: "Yes. It's Bào. Sitting downstairs, I heard a very familiar voice. The first person I thought of was you."

*

In the summer of 1980, I graduated from the border officer school and was assigned to Kien Moc border station, which at that time was also called the armed police.

Living conditions here were harsh. The villagers were starving, with only enough food for six months, and the remaining months they had to go into the forest to dig for cassava instead of rice or corn. Shifting cultivation, nomadic living and deforestation were common. It was here that I met teacher Bau.

That year, the rains were endless. The Ky Cung and Dong Khuy rivers poured down like waterfalls. The flood quickly rose, cutting the school off from the village. The school was like an oasis in the middle of a vast ocean. The teachers had gone home for summer vacation, leaving only teacher Bau. After discussing and agreeing with the border post command, I crossed the flood to rescue the teacher. I was a coastal resident, accustomed to strong winds and rough waves, so crossing the flood was not dangerous. As soon as she saw me coming in, Bau burst into tears: "I thought I would never see you again." I comforted her: "Don't be afraid, everything is over."

It didn’t take me long to learn about Miss Bau. All the information came to me very quickly. Bau was young, had a decent appearance but was as thin as a stick, her eyes were deep and sad.

Bau is the beloved daughter of the "Godfather" of opium trafficking, from Nam Dinh City. He was arrested in 1977 with a 20-year prison sentence, and is currently in a nearby prison. Pitying her father who was alone in the mountains and forests, Bau followed him to take care of him. The first year with a city girl was extremely difficult. Every day, Bau had to go into the forest to work like everyone else here. Later, seeing that the commune's primary school lacked teachers, Bau asked the commune chairman Lo A Sang to let her teach without salary or benefits. She only taught grade 1 because Bau only graduated from grade 10. She was paid by the villagers in corn, sweet potatoes, beans, peanuts... That is, with anything that could feed her.

In the third year, Mr. Sang went to the district education department to ask for Bau to be on the payroll. The department head opened his eyes wide: "Even my father wouldn't dare accept someone with a black resume and no pedagogical training as a teacher. Where is the class mentality, Mr. Chairman?". Mr. Sang pleaded: "Ms. Bau is a good person. We've worked together for three years, I know it well." The department head still shook his head. Mr. Sang got angry and said: "You guys are so dogmatic. If a father commits a crime, he has to bear it, why make his son bear it too?". The department head repeated: "Principles are principles." Mr. Sang stood up: "Our villagers need love for children, sympathy, not degrees. Think about it, all the people you transferred have graduated, but how many of them will stay? If you don't accept Ms. Bau, who will teach the children? Will you leave the class empty?".

This time, the head of the department was silent. He remembered that at the beginning of the school year, six teachers who had just graduated from teacher training were transferred to Kien Moc. After a month, five of them quietly crossed the forest and returned to the lowlands at midnight. The following month, the department transferred three more people, but they only stayed for two months before they all left. The hardship and hunger could not keep anyone. Finally, the head of the department said: "Let me report this to the leaders. In Ms. Bau's case, I support you." Although he was sulking, Mr. Sang could not abandon his school or class. After all the hard work to create the habit of sending their children to school among ethnic minorities, how could he suddenly abandon it?

For some reason, at the beginning of the new school year, Bau received an order from the education department to move to Kien Hoa. Kien Hoa village borders Kien Moc but is deeper. Living conditions are many times more difficult than Kien Moc, all Mong people. They are trying to get used to a settled life. The road to Kien Hoa is only a foot wide, muddy and slippery. The school is located on an empty land full of rocks. At night, sitting with knees drawn up in the hastily built teachers' dormitory, listening to the sound of rain falling on the porch, makes me feel sad.

Horribly hungry, starving. The symbolic salary was only coming after a long wait. All the teachers only got one meal a day of rice and one meal of porridge. The teachers looked at each other and cried while slurping the porridge.

Later, when I got to know the head of the district education department, I understood why Bau had to transfer schools. In a cold but sincere voice, he said: "The department's leaders plan to gather teachers who are on the move or have unusual backgrounds into that place. It's easy to manage when things go wrong, and it also provides teachers for remote areas. Kill two birds with one stone." I stared at him in surprise. Fortunately for the children, the superiors thought so, but the teachers here didn't. They, along with the commune government, mobilized the people to join hands to build the school.

Because I lived far away, I only met Bau occasionally. Every time she cried: "I feel so sorry for the children!". Then she said: "At first it was very difficult, having to explain to the villagers that having a letter is many times better than a grain of rice or corn... The villagers said: But our stomachs are hungry, eating letters is not enough". After a long silence, Bau continued: "We had to go to each house, despite everyone's coldness, to ask the parents to send their children to classes to learn to read and write".

Gradually, the school became more crowded. But hunger and hardship also defeated many teachers in the village. Many days, Bau had to teach three or four classes at the same time. The school had three classrooms, each divided horizontally into two classes sitting back to back. After teaching one class for a while, he had to walk to the end of the house to teach another class. Even a healthy person would give up, let alone a weak and frail Bau.

Once, when I went to Kien Hoa to help my fellow countrymen build houses, I stayed for a few days. At midnight, Bao knocked on my door. As soon as the door opened, Bao leaned close to my ear and whispered: "Do you have any more dry food? I'm so hungry." I blamed myself for being careless. All day, Bao had not had a single grain of rice in his stomach. In the afternoon, I saw Bao wading through the stream in his pants and shirt looking for fish and crabs. The boys who went with me were excited that tonight they would have a hearty meal of fish soup. Unexpectedly, Bao gave all the food he had found to his students, and then went home hungry.

I felt so sorry for Bau that tears welled up in my eyes. I ventured to ask, "Why don't you go back to your hometown like other teachers?" Bau smiled softly, "My father told me the same thing. Back home, we'll be together when we're hungry and full, and here, Dad can take care of himself. Honestly, I wanted to leave several times, but the children seemed to read my mind. Their eyes were filled with tears as they peered out the window as if begging the teacher to stay. How could I possibly leave? Besides, the whole district, the whole province, the whole country is suffering, not just me."

It is normal for a soldier to move here and there. After 5 years in Kien Moc, I transferred units. The night we said goodbye, we sat in the women's room. Seeing that it was late, I stood up and said: "Tomorrow morning I will leave. I wish you good health and peace." Bao also stood up. Suddenly, Bao hugged me. While I was still in shock, Bao's warm, soft lips pressed tightly against mine. Bao said urgently: "Anh Thoang. I love you!"

Gently removing Bảo's hand, I said: "Please forgive me. I realized your love a long time ago. But I am a coward, not worthy of your love. I cannot overcome the barrier of egoism. Let's consider each other as good friends. Okay?". Bảo did not answer...

Since then, I have not contacted Bao again. I am not the one who forgot my promise. I just do not want Bao to nurture his love in illusion. Let the broken pieces of first love sleep peacefully.

Today's meeting was so unexpected. Seeing me looking intently at the photo of a soldier wearing the rank of lieutenant, Bau said: "This is my house, he died in 1988 at the Ha Giang front". I expressed my condolences to Bau. Not wanting to make the story too heavy, I asked: "Are you still here?". Bau looked at me in surprise: "If you are not here, then where are you? This is my second hometown. The niece just now is my daughter, a teacher. And the son-in-law works at the district military command". I asked again: "How is Kien Hoa these days?". Bau smiled: "It's very different from before, there is electricity, rice fields, secondary schools, and asphalt roads running through. At first, everything was difficult, even bitter. In return, I received the love of my students, of the villagers, the trust of the government, and of my colleagues. Oh, Mr. Lo A Sang passed away at the age of 80. What a pity".

I was speechless at Bau’s story. I could not understand how a frail young lady from Thanh Nam could for thirty years patiently carry each letter up the 12 slopes of Kien Moc to nurture the barren hills, the most arduous place in the country. Accepting all the losses and bitterness, she still devoted herself to her students.

I asked: "Suppose, just suppose, that day you ran away from Kien Moc, what would your life be like today?" Without hesitation, Bau said: "If life allowed me to do it again, I would still do what I did. Being able to live my life with my wishes is a great happiness."

Bau's simple answer explained all my doubts. That's right, it was her love for her job and for children that helped Bau, the frail woman, to walk steadily on the path she had chosen.

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