by Kien Nguyen
“Go get David. You met David, remember? He is the tall blond in that corner right over there. He is the only one in civilian clothes. You can't see his face because it is covered by his headgear. See him yet? Good! Give him this. Tell him in English, not in Vietnamese, to let me in. Make sure you show him this pass. We'll wait right here. Go! Hurry, before he goes back inside.”
The bodyguard took the pass from Mrs. Dang's hand, and without any hesitation, forced his way through the crowd. We stepped away from the pavement, huddling together while watching him fight his way closer to the gates. Everyone's eyes were red and swollen from the tear gas in the air. He got the blond man's attention by waving the pass in front of him.
From between the bars, David reached out to take the pass from the bodyguard's hand and he scanned the crowd for Mrs. Dang. Across the street, we jumped up and down, trying to attract David's attention by waving our hands and hollering his name at the top of our lungs. After a while he spotted us, but before he could open the gate and get to us, the soldiers threw more tear gas into the crowd. People fell down to the ground, gasping for air and throwing up.
The military policemen quickly opened the large gates, using the shafts of their rifles to repel the crowd. David and three police officers shoved their way toward us. He took Mrs. Dang by the waist and pulled her across the street. She struggled, pointing in our direction, and screaming at him in broken English. “Take them, too. My friends. Two boys and a mamasan. David is Number One. Good. Thank you. Thank you. They come with me. To helicopter. Please.”
It did not take David long to understand what she was saying. He signaled the soldiers. One man grabbed my brother; another lifted me up and threw me over his broad shoulders. The last one embraced my mother in his powerful, hairy arms. I gasped desperately for air, but my lungs were filled with poison and they threatened to explode. I could not utter a word, I could not breathe, I could not see anything around me as I was carried through the crowd like a sack of rice. I was scarcely aware of the angry hands scratching and pulling at me from all directions. Instead, I closed my eyes and wished silently for death to free me.
Finally, I was dropped down onto smooth pavement. Someone placed a cool, wet towel over my face, which temporarily wiped away the sting. The knots in my lungs slowly evaporated, and I took a deep breath. Oxygen rushed into me, chasing the ache away. I tried to look around. Although the air was still saturated with tear gas, I could make out the inside of the embassy tower. My brother lay on the ground next to me, crying heartily. But his sobs through his own towel were as weak as those of a hungry kitten. I could hear my mother nearby, consoling him. From a window somewhere above me, a ray of sunshine reflected down playfully at me. Its warm touch stroked my hair, as if it were trying to whisper to me that morning was here at last.
CHAPTER FIVE
April 29-30, 1975
My brother and I spent the next eight hours sleeping in a corner of the embassy lobby, while the adults waited for the return of the helicopter. My mother tried to wake me up for lunch and supper, but in my deep sleep I just pushed her hand away.
When I finally decided to get up, the sun had almost set. Its light soared in a wanton shade of pale orange over the city. There was still a residue of the irksome gas in the air. From my window, I looked directly out on the entrance of the embassy, where I could clearly see the struggle continuing among the soldiers and the people from outside the gates. Only now the crowd had tripled in size and had become twice as restless as in the morning. All were men, since women and children had long given up fighting. A few in the crowd were armed with guns and grenades, but no one dared use them yet, except to hold them up in threatening gestures. The MPs were ordered to keep the gates securely shut, and they allowed no one to enter. I could see a few shiny yellow passes reflected in the light from the afternoon sunset as they were being raised above the crowd. The MPs ignored them.
I ventured up the stairs and out onto the roof, where my mother had told us to meet her right after we woke up. Through the long hallways, I noticed that the building was vacant, like an empty matchbox. Everyone else had gathered up on the roof, which was a very luxurious spot. At one end was a recreational area complete with an outdoor swimming pool, plastic tables and chairs with shades, and exotic plants. The rest of the roof was a smooth, square, solitary platform, reserved for the storage and landing of choppers. Besides my mother, Mrs. Dang, and David, there were five American men standing casually by the pool. Their circumstances were basically similar to David's, in that they had stayed behind of their own volition. They were a team of international journalists who had volunteered to record the fall of Saigon. Like everybody else, they had been chased from city to city, watching helplessly as the Communist battalions devoured the land before them, piece by piece. Now, they, too, were at the end of the last road with nowhere to run. The only thing left for them was to wait, either for the helicopters, or for the Vietcong, whichever came first. But unlike everybody else, the Americans seemed untouched by the tide of hysteria. They stood nonchalantly by the pool, perspiring profusely from the intense temperature, eating their dinner, and discussing world peace in humorous terms.
By midnight, most of us had abandoned all hope of escape. Nevertheless, no one moved. I sat on the floor by my mother, who held my brother in her arms while she settled deep into her own private world. A few feet away and facing us, Mrs. Dang folded her body into a fetal position, with her head clutched between her arms, and stared blindly at the dark space behind me. Every time she heard an engine sound, however faint, she would leap up gleefully, just for a second, long enough to recognize whatever it was. Then she would fall back down to the ground, embracing herself again in the same position. In the thick silence, we counted the chimes from the nearby church each time it struck until dawn came.
That morning of April 30, 1975, outside the gates of the U.S. Embassy building, the mob had grown so large that it spread over ten blocks. From above, the streets looked like a massive hive of killer bees, boiling with rage. We watched in frustration as helicopters from many nations carried out rescue missions in several parts of the city, but none came for us.
Suddenly, as if God had decided to step into the chaos himself, every loudspeaker from every corner of every street simultaneously blared at maximum volume, halting the entire city. A moment later, the familiar voice of President Duong Van Minh rumbled in the air. He tearfully read to his people a letter of surrender, relinquishing Saigon to the Communists. It was 10:30 a.m.
At that exact moment, we realized that two Vietnamese helicopters had separated from the frenzied motion in the sky and were hovering above us. One was disguised with blue-green marine camouflage. The other, much smaller, was a metallic silver in color. Upon seeing them, Mrs. Dang let out a shrill cry. She fell to her knees and cried gratefully to God and the heavens above for responding to her prayers. Soon we were all either howling like wolves saluting the full moon or just shrieking with sheer delight.
The choppers were also catching the attention of people on the street below. As they got closer, the yells from the crowd soared louder. Fists were pounding in the air, and people were screaming with all of their might, “Wait for me—let us in—for God's sake—please —.”
As the silver helicopter got about thirty feet away, I could see Mr. Dang standing in its doorway, wearing his properly pressed whitecollar shirt and black pants, laughing to his wife triumphantly. He was in his forties, bald and dainty, and quite animated. His head was well hidden inside a military helmet, which was a size too large, making the rest of his body appear smaller. His torso was secured to the aircraft by a seat belt wrapped around his waist. He waved happily and signaled that he recognized us as well. The wind swept powerfully from the propellers to churn the air below like a close-up cyclone, beating each gust wildly on, over, above, and around us. The other helicopter circled at a slight distance waiting for its mate to land on the roof.
Then it happened. From somewhere i
n the crowd, someone fired a rifle. The bullet tore through the air and struck the side of the helicopter. Then, more guns were fired from the crowd. The helicopter pilot lifted his big bird back up into the sky.
Mrs. Dang ran to the edge of the balcony and pleaded with the crowd. “Do not shoot, please. Stop shooting! My husband is up there.” She jumped up and down to make herself more visible. David leaped from under a table to pull her back down. She fought him off weakly, still begging the mob below, “Please don't shoot. Please don't…please…”
But it was too late. A bullet had found its way to its target. From where I was, I could see Mr. Dang's bright white shirt blossom into a wet trail of red blood, oozing out eerily as he tried to cover it with his hands.
“Nooooo!” Mrs. Dang cried out from the deck.
Mr. Dang faced his wife from up above with a surprised look, as if he were unable to comprehend what had just happened to him. The glimpse between them lasted less than a second before he lost his balance abruptly. The helicopter twirled itself into a half circle, knocking Mr. Dang to the floor, still tied securely by his seat belt. Another hail of bullets hit the front propeller. The chopper twirled in midair, like a sick sparrow, then stopped momentarily, before it plunged down to the quarterdeck below and exploded into flame. The blast blew across the pool, temporarily blinding me.
In an instant, all that was left was a burning chopper lying on its side, dying slowly under the blue sky and hot sun. Above it, the other chopper turned around and disappeared from sight. From the street, the crowd screamed in satisfaction.
“Noooooo!” Mrs. Dang's voice was barely audible. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. Everyone was too shocked to do anything but watch her collapse like a rag doll.
From a far corner below, marching toward the embassy, came the first troop of the Vietcong's military, playing some strange anthem with trumpets and a bass. Their trucks and tanks, concealed under thick layers of dust, roared into the city. On top of these vehicles sat the Red soldiers. Some held up flags, either with the red background and one yellow star in the middle or a half-red, half-blue background, also with a yellow star in the center. Others pulled out banners with slogans scribbled on them. I could make out some of the phrases, such as, “We come in peace. Let's heal the wounds the capitalists left behind. North and South Vietnamese are siblings, we can all stop the fighting now.” The music filled the air with happy notes, designed to soothe the tension of those on the street.
David turned to my mother and said, “I am sorry. It is over! The war is over. We can't keep you here anymore. Take your sons and your friend out of this building before it is too late. We are better off here by ourselves, without any Vietnamese. Do you understand me? Get out of here, now. Good luck, and take care of yourselves. All of you.”
In a last desperate burst of energy, Mrs. Dang tried to approach the dead helicopter in hopes of finding her husband's body, but to no avail. We were pushed hastily out the door. We held on to each other tightly until we got down to the street. No one bothered to notice any of us as we let ourselves out through the gates, mixing into the stream of people surging everywhere. The Communists marched slowly down the avenue, greeting people on both sides of the street, and handing out little portraits of Ho Chi Minh, together with paper flags, as if these things were small treasures. Finally, they got to the front of Doc Lap Palace. Using their tank as a bulldozer, in one swift motion, they ran down the iron gates while the people applauded and cheered.
Saigon was claimed at 11:30 a.m., April 30, 1975.
CHAPTER SIX
Saigon, May 1975
After the fall of Saigon, my mother took Jimmy and me back to the rented house near the park. For the next four days and nights, we lived in its basement. The floor was dirt; the walls were sandbags. At one end was a small bathroom, which had a dim light. From it ran a cord to the bare bulb that hung over the living area. Because of the frequent lapses in electrical service, candles were our primary source of light. Each day, we huddled on our small futons and listened to the foreign sounds of marching feet and pounding fists reverberating from door to door down the block. Until it was our turn to be tabulated into the new system, we hid like a family of rats during the rainy season.
Only Loan dared to go outside to search for food, gather news, and do errands for my mother. Before leaving, she would cover her body in black garments in order to blend in with the rest of the people in the city. Until she returned home, we would watch for her petite frame from the brim of an oval window a few inches above ground level. The market did not have much to offer. During wartime, no one in his or her right mind would be foolish enough to exchange food for money, for fear of starvation and/or inflation in the future. The markets had always been busy social gathering places, but now they were full of Communist soldiers. Hoping to draw as little attention to herself as possible, Loan never dared to stay long. Although the food she brought back was usually stale and meager, she managed to create tasty rice-and-vegetable dishes, mostly composed of either Chinese spinach or watercress, and flavored by the exotic, fish-based sauces she had learned in cooking school. We were grateful for every bite. Loan would prepare the food in the firstfloor kitchen and bring it down to us in the basement.
The news that Loan brought back consisted of rumors and speculation spread by confused and uninformed people. Observations of the Vietcong's activities yielded a few hints for survival. The first and foremost was that in public or at social meetings, everybody had to appear to be a Communist. Any accusation to the contrary would bring instant and horrifying wrath upon the accused. No one trusted anyone, not even family members. Popular fears centered on the new government and its officials; as for the Red soldiers, the majority of them seemed harmless, especially to the children. Nevertheless, everyone was aware that the curfew started every night at exactly nine o'clock, and whoever was caught on the streets after that time would be shot on sight without warning. Reports of these curfew deaths added more terror to the already frightened city.
To make their presence felt throughout Saigon, the Vietcong divided themselves into small groups and spread out. Many eager families volunteered their homes for the soldiers, praying that a sincere gesture would somehow redeem their past sins. The rest of the troops settled into vacant houses, hotels, halls, and schools, or bunked down in the streets.
Inside our new prison, my brother and I became the center of my mother's misery. She had always tried to protect us from the rumors, stares, and judgments that our American features drew. But now the pressures on her were more than she could handle. Hiding in the furthest corner of the cell, my brother and I watched our mother pace like a caged animal. And for the first time in my life, I was overwhelmed with self-hatred, for I realized that I was different and so was my brother, for whom I held a similar and intense dislike. I wanted to pull the fair hair out of my head, scratch off my pale skin, and peel the expensive sandals from my feet. I prayed for something to happen—anything at all, so that the shame would no longer haunt my mother's eyes. Instead, I just sat there, numb with fear, and prayed for time to pass quickly.
One afternoon, after a couple days of hiding, my mother sent Loan to the market to bring back some black dye. Without warning, she swooped over to our hiding corner and seized us with her sharp fingernails, as if she were catching a fowl in its cage. Ignoring our frightened cries, she pulled us along the cold ground into the bathroom. As we kicked and screamed, she poured the dark liquid over us and marinated our blond heads for what seemed a long time. I remember sitting next to my brother in the bathroom, trying to cover my bare chest with my thin arms. Her roughness as she tugged at our hair and her silence burned a panic in us. Both of us were crying from the sting of the dye. She loomed over the two of us with a crazed look in her eyes and pointed her forefinger straight at our faces.
“Listen, you two, shut up! Men don't cry! Remember that.” And she added more dye to our hair.
Unable to obey, we could not st
op crying. Finally my grandfather ran into the bathroom and struck her face with the back of his hand. Pointing to our reflections in the mirror, my grandfather shouted at her.
“Stop this madness right now. Look at what you've done to your children. Is that really necessary?”
My mother looked into the mirror and froze. Looking back at her were two little faces covered in ink and streaked with tears. We could not meet our mother's eyes. With her shaking hands and crimson face, covered by a mask of hatred, she looked like a monster to us. Shocked by the image in the mirror, my mother began to sob.
She knelt to wipe the stains off our faces with the back of her hands. “I am so sorry,” she whispered gently.
The deranged woman who had terrified us was gone, and my mother's voice murmured in our ears. “I can't help you. Nothing I can do can change who you are.” She added, “Please don't cry. All of it is my fault. I don't know what came over me. But I promise I will not let anything or anyone harm you two. Not as long as I am still alive.”
We all cried on the bathroom floor until there were no more tears left. Later that afternoon, my mother made a decision. After she sent my brother and me upstairs, she announced to my grandparents and Loan that it was time for a family meeting.
From the stairs, Jimmy and I strained to hear the conversation. We could not make out much of what the adults said, but we could hear my grandfather's voice shattering the air. I had never heard him so angry before. “No, I forbid you; it is very dangerous; you are crazy —”
