I don't know what to say.

"My first memory," Song says, "is of my mother smiling at me and then leaning her rifle against a coconut tree. Uncle says that my mother would nurse me in the dark before going off to ambush French soldiers. One night they killed her."

Song reaches out and takes my hand. "When I was eight years old the steel crows came. The ground bounced up and down and then my father and my little brother Chanh were killed. I am so proud of my family."

Song looks into my eyes, holding on to my hand with a fierce intensity. She says, "We stand on oppostie banks of the river, our tears mingling, Bao Chi, my brother, but you must never think that you are alone. We are your family now." She smiles through her tears. "In hell, people starve because their hands are chained to six-foot chopsticks, too long to bring rice to their mouths. Heaven is the same, only there people feed each other."

When I first came to Hoa Binh, I called Song "Fish Breath." She called me "Vat luy," which means "Angry Fortress."

I kiss Song's forehead quickly and turn away. "Thank you," I say. Then I say in Vietnamese: "You've saved my life here, Song. I was a dying man when I came here. The spirit hardens in war, and the body is nothing without courage. You've been very patient with me."

Song's voice is lighter when she says, "Then you will leave the bad road you are on, my brother?"

I say, "Yes, my sister."

Song kisses me on the cheek, stands up, and goes across the room to her sleeping mat. She sits down, removes an oil-cloth from her tiny antique typewriter, rolls in a gray sheet of paper. She types in French, writing her Viet Cong war novel, which she calls Days without Sunlight, Nights without Fire.

I watch her in silence. After a few minutes she stops typing and smiles at me. "Someday, Bao Chi, our hearts will burst into flame and we will become strong and beautiful like tigers in the jungle. Then, together, we will beat the big drums of propaganda. We will shake the brass and steel of the White House."

Johnny Be Cool comes in, carrying his shoeshine kit, and he is in a bad mood. Johnny Be Cool is about ten years old, lean, tall for his age, a half-breed black kid with the walk, talk, and bearing of a deposed prince.

Johnny Be Cool does not greet us, but goes directly to his corner of the hooch and lies down on his sleeping mat. In a one-room hooch privacy is at a premium, so Song and I do not question Johnny Be Cool. Song types her novel and I watch her work.

There's a clunk out back in the woodpile. We know that it's only the Woodcutter unstrapping his harness from his back and dropping what sounds like half a ton of cut wood.

We line up in the center of the room, me, Song, and Johnny Be Cool.

The Woodcutter comes in and we bow.

Siletnly, the Woodcutter bows. Then he leans his ax, his rifle, and his bamboo walking stick against the fireplace, sits down, and waits for his supper. The Woodcutter is a funny little old man with a black turban on his head, a white wisp of beard, a twinkle in his eye, and a stainless steel backbone.

"Ong an com chua?" asks the Woodcutter as he does every day--"Have you eaten yet?"

"No, Honorable Uncle," says Song, as she says every day. "Of course not."

Johnny Be Cool is first to the table. Food is his answer to every problem in life.

The Woodcutter and I sit down at the Western-style table of polished bamboo, on bamboo benches.

Song dishes out boiled rice and big red shrimp. She gives me the teapot and I pour hot green tea into bamboo cups.

After Song sits down, the Woodcutter bows his head and says, "Cach mang muon Nam"--"Long live the revolution."

Song, Johnny Be Cool, and I say in unison: "Cach mang muon Nam."

We wait until the Woodcutter picks up his chopsticks, brings his bowl up close to his mouth, and starts to eat. Only then do Song and Johnny Be Cool pick up their chopsticks. I pick up my white plastic spoon.

The Woodcutter stops chewing, then says, right on cue, "The rice is burned again, niece."

As she does every day, Song says solemnly, "I'm sorry, Uncle. The spirit of the kitchen must be angry."

The Woodcutter grunt and resumes eating. "Yes, that must be what it is."

Song giggles, leans over, hugs the Woodcutter, and kisses him, saying, "Misfortune hones us into jade."

The Woodcutter says to me in Vietnamese, "Bao Chi, did you perform your work at the harvest today with revolutionary enthusiasm?" The Woodcutter speaks English well enough, but has always refused to speak a single word of English to me.