Without looking at the book, I replied, “I know where I am.”
“Good. This is an excellent place to begin our journey. My name is Truong Qui Anh. Please call me Mr. Anh. And how shall I address you?”
“Paul would be fine.”
“Mr. Paul. We Vietnamese are obsessed with forms of address.” He squatted again and said, “Look at this mimosa plant. You see, when I touch the leaves, they are touch-sensitive and they curl.”
My luck, I get a talker. While Mr. Anh was annoying the mimosa, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching.
Mr. Anh straightened up and flipped a few pages of my guidebook. “Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”
“No.”
“Then I will pick a few places. Are you interested in the emperors? The French colonial period? Perhaps the last war. Were you a soldier here?”
“I was.”
“Ah. Then you may be interested in the battle of Hue.”
I was starting to think this guy was really a guide, then, as he looked in my guidebook, he asked, “Mr. Paul, are you quite sure you weren’t followed here?”
“I’m quite sure. How about you, Mr. Anh?”
“I’m sure I’m alone.”
I said to him, “Why did you miss the first rendezvous?”
He replied, “Just to be on the safe side.”
I didn’t like that reply and asked him, “Did you think you were under surveillance?”
He hesitated, then replied, “No . . . to be honest with you, I lost my nerve.”
I nodded. “You got it back?”
He smiled in embarrassment. “Yes.” He added, “I’m here.”
I wasn’t going to tell him that I almost wasn’t here for Rendezvous Two myself.
I asked him, “Are you really a university instructor?”
“I am. I would be lying to you if I said I haven’t come to the attention of the authorities. I am a Viet-Kieu. Do you know what that means?”
“I do.”
“Good. But other than that, the authorities have no reason to watch me.”
“You’ve never done anything like this before?”
“Well, once, about a year ago. I like to help when I can. I’ve been back four years, and now and then I’m asked to do a small favor. Come, let’s take a walk.”
We walked together on the paths, and Mr. Anh said, “The Communists take all the credit for the rebuilding here, but the fact is, they let this entire imperial compound fall from ruin to decay because it was associated with the emperors. The Communists are suspicious of history, and whatever came before them. But Western organizations have put pressure on them to restore much of what was lost in the war. The West provides the money, of course, and the Communists reap the rewards of tourism.”
We were in the outer sanctum now, near the Emperor’s Palace, and Mr. Anh led me to a flower garden formed by the ruined foundation of a building. He said, “My father was a soldier with the army of South Vietnam. A captain. He was killed right here, where this garden is, and where an imperial building once stood. He was found after the battle in the rubble here along with fifteen other officers and men, their hands tied behind their backs, and bullet holes in their heads. Apparently, they were all executed by the Communists.”
I understood that Mr. Anh was establishing his anti-Communist credentials, but this story could be totally false and how would I know?
He said, “I was very young when he died, but I remember him. He was stationed here, where my family lives. We were home that evening, the evening of Tet 1968, across the river in the New City, when suddenly my father jumped out of his chair and shouted, ‘Gunfire!’ Well, my mother laughed and said, ‘Dear husband, those are fireworks.’ ”
I watched Mr. Anh as he stared down at the garden and relived this memory. He continued, “Father grabbed his rifle and started for the door, still wearing his sandals—his boots were in the corner. He was shouting for us to go into the bunker behind the house. We were all very frightened now because we could hear screaming in the street, and the fireworks had become gunshots.”
Mr. Anh stayed silent, staring at the ground, and he almost looked like a little boy staring at his shoes while he tried to get something out. He continued, “My father hesitated at the front door, then came back and embraced my mother and his mother, then the five children, my brothers and sisters. We were all crying, and he pushed us out the back door where the bunker was dug into the garden.”
Mr. Anh picked a flower, twirled it in his fingers, and threw it in the garden. He said, “We stayed in the bunker with two other families for a week until the American marines came. When we re-entered our house, we saw that all the Tet food had been taken, and we were very hungry. We saw, also, that our front door had been broken in, and many things were taken, but the house had survived. We never knew if Father had been taken prisoner in the house, or on his way to rejoin his soldiers. The attack was a complete surprise, and the Communists were within the city before the first shot was fired. Father would have liked to die with his soldiers, and at first we thought he had. But then in March, as the people and the soldiers were clearing rubble, they found the decomposed bodies of many massacres. My father wore dog tags, which the Americans had made for him, and that was how he was identified, right here, where a building once stood. The Communists must have shot them all in this building. I’m glad he was still wearing his dog tags so we had a body to bury. Most families did not.”
Mr. Anh stood there a moment, then walked away. I followed.
We left the walled Citadel and walked along the riverbank. Mr. Anh asked me, “So you were a soldier here?”
“First Cavalry Division, 1968, mostly up at Quang Tri.”
“Ah, so you know this area?”
“I remember some of it.”
“How does it seem to you? Vietnam.”
“Peaceful.”
“This is a country whose people have had their spirit crushed.”
“By whom?”
“The regime.”
“Why did you come back?”
“This is my country.” He asked me, “If America were a dictatorship, would you live there?”
Interesting question. I replied, “If an American dictatorship was as inefficient as this one, I might.”
Mr. Anh laughed, then said, “Well, they may appear to you as inefficient, but they did a thorough job of destroying all opposition to the regime.”
“They didn’t get you. Or a lot of other people I’ve met who seem to hate the regime.”
“Perhaps I should have said, organized opposition.” He added, “They have not won many hearts or minds.”
We passed the Phu Xuan Bridge, and Mr. Anh insisted he take my camera and shoot pictures of me with the river in the background, then from the opposite angle with the walls of the Citadel behind me. He didn’t look particularly nervous about this meeting, which could get him shot, but I could see a little anxiety in his eyes now and then.
I said, as he was shooting, “I’m assuming if they were going to arrest us, they would wait to see if we met anyone else.”
He handed me the camera and replied, “Yes, they would wait.”
“Are you frightened right now?”
“I am beyond frightened.” He smiled and added, “You know that we are inscrutable.”
We continued our walk along the river. All I wanted from Mr. Anh was the correct name of the village I needed to get to, some directions, and anything else he might have been told to pass on to me. But the man was in no hurry, and maybe it was a good idea to look like a tourist and guide.
Mr. Anh informed me, “I attended the University of California at Berkeley.”
“I thought you wanted to get away from the Communists.”
He sort of giggled and continued, “I lived mostly in northern California, but I took a year and traveled all over America. It’s an amazing country.”
I inquired, “Where did you get the money?”
“Your government.”
“That was nice of them. And now you’re paying them back.”
He stayed silent a moment, then replied, “Your government has a program to . . . how can I say this . . . to cultivate agents of influence, Vietnamese refugees, who, like myself, promise to go back to Vietnam for a period of at least five years.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“And you never will. But there are thousands of us who have come back to live, Viet-Kieus, whose sympathies lie more with Washington than Hanoi.”
“I see. And what are you supposed to do? Start a revolution?”
“I hope not.” He laughed again and said, “All we have to do is be here, and in subtle ways, influence the thinking of the people, and of the government, if possible.” He added, “Most Viet-Kieus are entrepreneurs, some like myself are academics, and a few have even entered the civil service, the police, and the army. Individually, we have no power, but as a whole, there are enough of us so that the Hanoi government hesitates before they take a step backward, toward socialism and isolation. Private enterprise, trade, and tourism are here to stay. You understand?”
“I think so. And do you put subversive thoughts into your students’ heads?”
“Certainly not in the classroom. But they know where to come when they want to hear the truth. Do you know that it is forbidden to mention that the Communists executed three thousand citizens of this city? Everyone knows that, everyone has lost a family member, but none of the textbooks mention this.”
“Well, Mr. Anh, if it makes you feel any better, American history books rarely mention the Hue massacre either. You want to read about massacres, go to the index under My Lai.”
“Yes, I know this.”
We were at the far corner of the wall, and on the riverbank was a huge marketplace, where Mr. Anh led me.
He found a small snack bar with tables and chairs near the river, and he said to me, “May I get you something to drink?”
“A Coke would be fine.”
He went to the snack stand.
I sat and looked around. It was hard in this country to determine if you were seeing the same people twice or three times, especially the men, who all favored black slacks and sandals with socks. Some of the shirts were different, but most were white. The hair came in one color and one style, and it was all on the guys’ heads; no beards or mustaches, except on very old men, and no one wore hats. A few of the men wore windbreakers, but all the windbreakers were the same style and color, which was tan. Some of the Viets, I’d noticed, wore reading glasses, but barely anyone wore glasses for distance, though all of the drivers should consider this.
A Viet crowd was a sea of sameness here in Hue, more so than in Saigon or Nha Trang.
Mr. Anh sat and gave me a can of Coke. He had hot tea in a bowl, and a paper bag of unshelled peanuts, which he seemed to enjoy crushing.
He finally got down to business and said, “You wish to visit a certain village, correct?”
I nodded.
He pushed a handful of unshelled nuts toward me and said, “The village is in the far north. North Vietnam.”
Bad luck. I was hoping it was in the former South Vietnam, and I was hoping it was nearby, but Tran Van Vinh was a North Vietnamese soldier, so what did I expect?
Mr. Anh pretended to be looking through my guidebook as he said, “This village is small, and does not appear on most maps. However, I have done some extensive but discreet research, and I believe this is the place you seek.”
“What if it’s not?”
He chewed on some peanuts and replied, “I’ve been in direct fax contact with someone in America, and your analysts there are in agreement that this village that I’ve found is the one you are seeking.” He added, “I am ninety percent certain this is the place you are looking for.”
“Close enough for government work.”
He smiled, then informed me, “Very few Westerners go to this area, and you would need a reason to be there.”
“Do I have to supply my own reason?”
Mr. Anh replied, “By luck, there is a place close to this hamlet that does draw some tourists. This place is called Dien Bien Phu. You have heard of this place?”
“The final battle of the French-Indochina War.”
“Yes. Military men of all nationalities go there to study this historic battlefield. So you should go there. When you have seen the museum and taken some photos, ask a local person where is this hamlet you are looking for. It is less than thirty kilometers north of Dien Bien Phu. But be careful who you ask. Up north, they report everything to the authorities.”
He sipped his tea, then continued, “I have been to Dien Bien Phu, and so I can tell you that there are many hill tribespeople who gather near the museum and in the market to sell their crafts to the tourists. The tribesmen are mostly H’mong and Tai. You will recall from your time here that the tribespeople have little loyalty to the Vietnamese government.” He added, “They are not anti-Communist, they are anti-Vietnamese. Therefore, you should direct your inquiries to a tribesman, not an ethnic Vietnamese. You may find a few tribesmen who speak some English, but mostly they speak French for the tourists who are mostly French. Do you speak French?”
“Un peu.”
“Bon. You should try to pass as French.” He added, “I think you can trust these people.”
“Tell me why I should trust you.”
Mr. Anh replied, “That would take some time, and whatever I say would not convince you. As I see it, Mr. Brenner, you have no choice.”
“How do you know my name?”
“If I needed to contact you at your hotel in an emergency.”
I informed Mr. Anh, “It’s very unusual in these situations for you to know who I am. I don’t mean to sound racist, but you’re not a native-born American, and you don’t qualify as a person who should know either my name or my destination.”
He looked at me a long time, then smiled and replied, “I still have relatives in the new country. Your government trusts me, but to be sure, they have arranged a family reunion for me in Los Angeles. I am to leave for the States on the same day you leave Hue. If I don’t show up in Los Angeles, they will assume I have betrayed them and you.”
“That’s a little late for me, partner.”
“I have no intention of betraying you, Mr. Brenner. In fact, I wish you a successful trip because if something happens to you, it will not go well for me or my family in Los Angeles.”
“I see. Well, we don’t shoot people.”
“That’s not what they told me.”
I didn’t reply to that. Bottom line here, the stakes were very high, whatever the game was, and Mr. Anh was either loyal to Uncle Sam, or scared shitless about his family, or both. They weren’t fucking around in Washington. I said, “Okay. Sorry if I insulted you.”
“Not at all. It was a legitimate and necessary question. Your life is at stake.”
“Thanks.”
“For you, it doesn’t matter if I’m loyal or under duress. I’m on your side.”
“Great.”
Mr. Anh stayed silent, chewing on his peanuts, then said, “Whatever your mission is, Mr. Brenner, I assume it is important enough for you to risk your life. If not, you should take the next plane to Hanoi or Saigon, and get out of this country. This can be a pleasant place for the average Western tourist—but if you are deviating from tourism, the government can be very unforgiving.” He added, “I have been asked to help, and I agreed, thereby putting my own safety in jeopardy. I don’t know what this is about, but I am one of those Vietnamese who still trust the Americans.”
“Well, I don’t.”
We both smiled.
I said to Mr. Anh, “Okay, if you are who you say you are, then thank you. If you’re not, then I suppose I’ll see you at my trial.”
“You would be lucky to get a trial. I’ll tell you something you may not know—the Hanoi government is obsessed with the FULRO. You have heard
of this group—Front Unitié de Lutte des Races Opprimées—the United Front for the Struggle of the Oppressed Races?”
I recalled again the photos I saw in the American War Crimes Museum in Saigon. I said, “Yes. I’ve heard of the FULRO.”
Mr. Anh had more good news for me. He said, “You will be passing through FULRO territory. The Hanoi government is merciless in hunting down these guerrillas, and merciless in their treatment of Americans who have made contact with them. If this is your mission, and you are caught, you can expect to be tortured, then shot. I know this for a fact.”
Well, this was not my mission, but it occurred to me that I’d have a hard time explaining that if I were arrested. I always assumed that the worst that would happen if I were caught would be a few weeks or months of unpleasantness, followed by a diplomatic solution to the problem, and repa-triation back to the States. But if I put the FULRO into the equation, I might very well wind up being the last American MIA in Vietnam.
Mr. Anh was a bottomless well of interesting facts, and he said, “There have been CIA men, Special Forces men, and American freelance mercenaries who have gone into the remote areas of the country to aid the FULRO—most of them have never been heard of again.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
Mr. Anh looked at me and said, “This is an unhappy country, a country whose history has turned brother against brother, father against son. Here, in the south, you never know who to trust. But when you get to the north, it is much easier—trust no one.”
“Except the hill people.”
Mr. Anh did not respond. He sipped his tea and asked me, “Has your visit brought back memories?”
“Of course.”
“In this country, most of the war generation are dead, or have fled. Those who remember do not speak of it. The government celebrates every Communist victory, and they have changed each of their defeats into victories. If they had thirty years of victories, what took them so long to win the war?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question, but the answer was, “The winners write the history.”
Mr. Anh continued, “I had to go to America to learn the history of my own country. If you listen to Hanoi long enough, you start to doubt your own memory and your own sanity.”
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