It did not. Sam is lost. Consumed by a savage resentment, a fatal belief in himself as victim.
Is that it? Is that the answer? That we become what we most passionately believe ourselves to be?
And my thoughts are filled, too, with my dear friend Israel, who died on a soft day when the trade winds rustled, ever so gently, the palm fronds of the trees off the lanai.
"Just look at those clouds scudding by," he had said to Annie and me. "Just look at that chariot up there, ready for to carry me home." He had managed a little coughing laugh to show how indomitable the will, and then he closed his eyes forever.
I am going home, to my cottage in San Francisco, to wait, as Abigail puts it, for the next song to begin.
EPILOGUE
May 1975
THE WORLD WATCHED, with fascination and with horror, as the North Vietnamese closed in on Saigon in the last days of April, 1975. Television took us inside the American embassy and out onto the streets so that we could see, could feel the frenzy, the panic, the fear of those last hours. Cameras panned in on lines of people, running in the engine backwash to climb into planes.
Images of violence had been relayed on the nightly television for all the long years of this war. But this was chaos; what was seen on the television screen that night was apocalypse.
As time was running out, Le Tien An had sent the message, "Help us." Hayes was in Beirut, and could get only as far as Bangkok. But May was in Japan attending an earthquake symposium, and she was able to talk her way onto one of the last flights into Tan Son Nhut.
"Duck and run like hell," the Time correspondent told her as they reached the tarmac. She clutched her flight bag to her chest and ran. It was a long distance, they were in the open . . . the wind blew smoke into her eyes, her lungs burned from the effort but she did not stop. A thunderous explosion seemed to burst all around them. "Don't stop," someone yelled, "Fuel dump . . . go!"
She slumped against the terminal building. The muscles in her legs began to twitch painfully. "Oh God," she whispered to herself. "How am I going to do this?"
"Hey lady, what the hell you doing? Move your ass out of here," a G.I. yelled at her, just as another loud, booming explosion sounded in the distance. "Come on," a man with cameras hanging around his neck shouted, grabbing her by the arm, and pulling her through an opening in the barbed wire fence.
She had learned the hard facts from some of the newsmen who had been on the flight: 16 North Vietnamese divisions now surrounded the city; that was 140,000 men. Saigon's defenders numbered 60,000—if they didn't break and run as they had in Da Nang, two weeks before. Then it would be sheer horror, American marines faced with the prospect of shooting South Vietnamese to protect Americans. Inside the terminal it was a madhouse, noise and heat and long lines of people talking, shouting.
"Screw customs," the photographer said, diving into what seemed a solid line of bodies. She clutched at his jacket and followed, her elbows close to her body to move through the choking mass, not looking at the faces, pushing back the hands that seemed to clutch at her.
Outside, she leaned against a pole and said, "This is hellish." The photographer told her, sardonically, "The best is yet to come."
A rolling crash sounded from a distance. She didn't know if it was an explosion or thunder, thick black clouds were boiling in the sky, lit by flashes of lightning. The first thunderstorm of the monsoon season was brewing. Barbed wire and piles of old tires and dusty trucks and buses were everywhere. The fast-rising storm winds blew dirt and rattled the corrugated metal that lined the passageway out to the street.
All routine was gone from the city and in the midst of the rising storm you could feel the fear. One of the old gray buses she remembered rolled up, packed so tightly that people came tumbling out in a burst, and hit the ground running—as if they expected a plane to be waiting.
She climbed on, flung herself into a seat next to the window so she could breathe through the open grates. As they rolled down the long drive, she squinted to keep the dirt from flying into her eyes. Her face burned tight. A few large splats of rain splintered and sprayed, and she turned her face to them. She wanted it to rain, wanted the heavens to open and cleanse this burning place, wanted water to wash down the fires, to calm the terror, the panic.
Stay calm, she told herself. You have a job to do. For Hayes, for Hao. For An.
The bus paused long enough for her to jump out about a block from the hotel. She ran as if she were fleeing from something other than the hard, driving rain that had begun to fall. By the time she reached the hotel, her shirt was clinging wet to her body, her hair dripped with rain. An American wearing an olive-drab undershirt and smoking a long, brown cigarette stood behind the desk, trying to work a walkie-talkie.
"Is there a room?" May asked.
He glanced up for a minute, then waved the cigarette in the direction of the stairs. "Help self," he said, "they're all open." As she was walking toward the stairs, he called after her, "Did you just come in from Tan Son Nhut? Is it still open?"
"It was half an hour ago," she said.
The man walked around the counter and stood, studying her. "Why did you come?"
"I need to get some people out. Vietnamese. Any suggestions?"
"Sure. I'd suggest you get them over to the embassy as fast as you can. The shit's really hitting the fan now—they'll be shuttling the rest of us out by helicopter. I'd say you'd better hurry."
May went up to her room, placed a call to the embassy, and asked for the political officer, who knew Hayes.
After a long wait, she got through to him and he repeated what the American at the desk had said, adding that they should use the back gate, the one on Hong Thap Tu.
Now to get Le Tien An and the child.
"I need a car," she said to the American at the desk. He opened a drawer, pulled out some keys, and said, "Here, take the black Citroen parked out back. Its owner left yesterday."
"I can't do this," she told herself as she put the key in the ignition. "I don't know where I'm going, I don't know how to get there, this is crazy, it is never going to work." She backed the car, slowly, down the alleyway. The monsoon shower had ended, the air was somewhat cleaner, and steam was rising.
Aside from a few trucks and some bicycles, the streets were almost clear. To May's amazement, she remembered the way to Le Tien An's house almost perfectly, taking only one wrong turn which, miraculously, led to the street she was looking for. She felt a sudden surge of elation. They would be packed and waiting, she would drive the Citroen to the embassy, it was going to happen after all. She rang the bell and stood, looking at the trees, wondering if the bats were inside or if they, too, had fled. She rang again, making the bell sound as loud as she could, and after a few long moments heard the familiar scraping of the lock. An old man looked out at her, his face filled with confusion. "Not here, all gone," he repeated.
May screamed at him. "Let me in, An told me to come. Open this door." She would not be turned away, not again. She pushed the door hard and almost sent the old servant sprawling. A young girl stood behind him, in the shadows of the garden.
"Where have they gone?" May demanded in French.
They shook their heads. No French, she thought, so she said the names, slowly. Le Tien An? Le Minh Hao?
The woman looked at May as if she were trying to remember something, and then her face changed. She ran into the house, motioning for May to follow. Inside, she pointed to the telephone and to a number written on a pad.
May dialed, listened for the series of small whirring and clicking noises that told her the automatic telephone system was still working, and bit her lip until the phone started to ring.
It rang four times, five. Be there, she whispered, drumming her fingertips on the top of the desk. Six times, seven. They weren't going to answer, she had lost again.
"Hello?" It was a woman's voice, not An's.
Then An was on the line, blurting out all that had happened . . . her fathe
r had been taken by two men with guns, she had fled with her mother and the child to a friend's home, they had been afraid to answer the telephone and afraid not to answer. She didn't know what to do, everything was coming apart, she couldn't find out where they had taken her father, the police didn't know, nobody knew.
May spoke with as much calm as she could muster. "You must take your mother and your son and leave with me. There is no more time."
"My father," she said, "my mother will not go without my father."
"You must convince her. An, you and Hao could be in danger— we're not certain you will be able to protect him, and once the North Vietnamese take over, we won't be able to help you."
May could feel the terrible pressure of the choice An had to make. Her own stomach tightened.
"There is so little time left, An. I am sorry, I am so very sorry but you must come, for your son's sake. For Andy's sake." She heard a short, sharp cry on the other end of the line, and a burst of static which told her they would be cut off. "Quick," May shouted, "Meet me at the American Embassy at the back gate, on Hong Thap Tu. If you come quickly, I can get you in."
It was deep twilight now, the streets were wet and shiny and now and then bursts of light made them glisten with color. Streets that were once alive with people and bicycles and food stalls were now deserted, except for an occasional furtive figure, hurrying. The noise of the day had subsided, though it almost seemed that she was hearing white sound, the calm before the storm. She drove as fast as she could, now and then having to swerve to miss a vehicle that had been abandoned, or that had run out of gas or had simply quit. An and Hao would be there, somehow she would get them in the back gate, they would leave tonight. That is how it would have to be, she could not imagine any other ending to this day.
She was driving down a tree-lined boulevard when a large burst of light seemed to hover from above and then there was a roaring noise. She looked up to see a helicopter descending, its beams lighting the street with a garish white light. It has to happen now, she told herself, as she turned the corner and saw the mob that had gathered at the back gate of the American Embassy.
She watched, transfixed, as the crowd, packed tight, surged forward. How could she possibly work her way up to the gate? And if she got up there now, and inside, how could she find An and Hao when they arrived?
Above her, a helicopter hovered and swung sideways, moving slowly forward, and came to roost on the embassy roof. They were going to have to fight their way through the gates, and then they were going to have to make it to the top of the stairs and onto one of those helicopters. How many more would there be, she wondered. Help me, she said, as if Hayes could hear her.
She looked at her watch. It had been twenty minutes. She left the keys in the car and began to make her way to a point where she could scan the crowd. It seemed to be multiplying, young men were climbing the walls of the embassy, and in the flashes of light she could see them silhouetted against the barbed wire. She was caught in a wild surge, pressed forward. She could feel her heart pumping, could feel a hot burning under her arms. A blast of wind from the helicopter, hovering over the crowd, blew her hair into her face. She pulled it back with her free hand so she could scan the crowd. An, Hao, they had to be behind her.
"Please," she shouted, pleading, "I need to go back," but no one heard, or cared.
Out of nowhere, it seemed to May, a camera crew was behind her and wedged her in as they moved forward. She had no choice but to go with them.
"Mei-jin," she thought she heard. "Mei-jin!" She pushed herself up, stretched to see. An, it was An who was screaming at her.
May shouted at the camera crew to help her, at the same time lunging backwards until her muscles sent flashing pains, her arms reaching out to An. "Help me get to her," May begged them. The sound man tugged at the cameraman's sleeve, pointed to An and Hao, then to May. They stopped their forward movement, and began to swing the camera back and forth, first at May and then back to An, who was holding Hao above her head, making a path through the packed humanity.
"Help me," May screamed, pulling hard at the arm of the cameraman. They followed her, like a phalanx, the cameras going.
"Take my hand," May shouted, reaching for An.
An was holding the boy above her head, he was crying. "Take him, take him," she screamed at May.
The crowd surged again, pulling them apart, but a man in the crowd passed the child over his head to May. She reached, felt her hands under his arms as the full glare of the television lights caught them.
"You bastards," May screeched at the crew. "Stop that and help me get that woman."
When she looked again, An had been swept to the side, she was out of reach. Holding the child firmly in one hand, May pushed away the camera, wanting to shield him from its awful glare.
"An," she screamed into the crowd.
"I cannot go," the child's mother screamed back, "I cannot go."
The embassy gates opened to allow eight Marines through. At first May thought they were coming to rescue her. Then she saw they were heading toward the camera crew. She held the child to her, tightly. She could feel him tremble.
The camera swung away from May to a point behind them. A young Vietnamese pointed an M-l rifle at the approaching Marines. May froze in place, she was locked in, she could not move. "Get him," shouted one of the Marines, a tall black man, and another marine lunged at the man with the weapon. In the turmoil, the television cameraman went down. The weapon was wrested from the Vietnamese, and May watched as a Marine picked up the camera and smashed it to the ground.
As the black marine pushed his way back, she grabbed at his sleeve. "Help us," she said. "I'm American."
They were inside the gate, looking out, but she could not see An in the crush of Vietnamese pleading and begging to be allowed in. A helicopter hovered, lowered itself into the compound. Hao wrapped his small arms so tightly around her neck that she could not breathe.
"Little brother," May managed to gasp, "I will take care of you until your mama comes back. Shh, shh little one." She held tight to him, aching for his loss, breathing the awful pain of it. Her arms and her back hurt, but she could not think of that. The roar from the sky assaulted her senses. It was as if the bats, grown enormous, had come out of the trees and were roaring inside her head.
A light rain began to fall. She ran for cover, stumbling through a clutch of Vietnamese who cursed and kicked at her.
"Chinoise," one of them spat in disgust.
"American," she screamed at them, her anger bursting through. "I'm American."
She felt a hand on her arm, an insistent voice close to her ear. "Mrs. Diehl," he said, "it's okay, come with me." He tried to relieve her of Hao, but the child screamed and she said, "No, it's all right."
"Hayes is pretty frantic," the young political officer said, "I'll try to get a line through to him. And we have to get you on a helicopter pretty fast now. It's coming down to the line."
"All these people," May said, looking about her at the swarms in the embassy compound, "will they all get out?"
He pretended not to hear her question. May knew the answer, and suddenly she felt her cheeks glow hot with shame.
Marylee called to tell me that Hayes and May would be bringing the boy home, that Andy's son would be staying with the Diehls in Burlingame. Her excitement was contagious. "Faith," she said, the words spilling out and over themselves. "Can you believe what May did? Did you ever think . . . they are in Bangkok for a few days, the child needs to be checked by a doctor, and May and Hayes are trying to find out what has happened to An. May told me to call you . . . she knew you would be worried," Marylee sputtered, adding, "Andy's son. My grandchild. Bless May, going in like she did . . . I cannot believe it, I simply cannot."
Marylee is totally immersed in the refugee program. The Diehls have a Vietnamese family living with them—a mother and father and two children, twins, a boy and a girl who are a year older than Hao.
"It's pret
ty chaotic down there," May laughed, when I asked how it was in the Diehl household. "Marylee is making a major effort to learn Vietnamese, and her pronunciation must be pretty funny because she has them all in stitches. How are the Nakamuras taking all of the uproar?"
May frowned. "Not well. I'm afraid. The whole thing with Sam . . . missing now, for two years. They are convinced he was captured by the Viet Cong and is in a camp somewhere. They still think he was on some kind of secret combat assignment."
"They must have asked Hayes to help them?" I probed.
May shook her head, sadly. "Oh yes, and he has very dutifully gone through the proper departments, and the last record they have is of Sam leaving Saigon on a World Airways flight in October of 1973, en route to Oakland, with stops in Manila and Honolulu. He never went through U.S. Customs."
"So," I said.
"So," May shrugged. "It is terrible for them, the Nakamuras, but it would be worse, we think, if they knew the truth. And in some ways it comes out the same—Sam is lost."
May had planned to return to Washington with Hayes, but when she told Hao she would be leaving he burst into tears, so they decided she should stay on until he became more accustomed to the Diehls, and was not afraid.
"As much as we might wish he were, he is not our child, he is An's," May told Hayes. "As long as a child has a parent who loves him and wants him, our job is to reunite them. We've got to get her out of there, to bring his whole family out if we can, and if they want to come. Then we can be Hao's godparents, his loving aunt and uncle."
"And what if we can't get her out?" Hayes wanted to know.
"We must," is all May could say.
May stayed on for a month, and part of that time she spent with me, going over all the details of that last day in Saigon and, though she laughed at the idea of it, helping me bring the "May Papers" up to date.
Gift of the Golden Mountain Page 50
