by Peter Gilboy
I come back to him. “The media hasn’t gotten anything right in thirty years,” I tell him.
“But I’m a different generation,” he says.
“Yeah, you’re the generation that buys Nike high-tops for two hundred dollars, made by peasants who get twenty cents an hour. No thanks.”
“I’m not one of those, Mr. Ames. Look, I know all about Vietnam—”
“Oh, do you?”
“No, I wasn’t there, so maybe I don’t understand everything. But I know Vietnam was a dividing line. Before that, people trusted.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t remember when people trusted,” I tell him.
“I really am on your side, Mr. Ames. And I know there’s a woman who’s missing over there, and that she might still be alive. What’s her name, Mr. Ames?”
“No idea what you’re taking about,” I say again.
“Give me her name, and I’ll bust it open. Wide open.”
I head back to my car.
“We left her there, didn’t we?”
“Not me,” I say over my shoulder. “I didn’t leave her behind.”
“But someone did.”
I open the car door. “We don’t leave soldiers behind,” I say sarcastically. “Never have. Never will.”
“Then why are you going back there?”
My car door is still open. I turn to him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then why’d your office request two visas for Vietnam?”
I get in and slam the door closed. I start up and pull away. In my rearview mirror I see Rogowski still standing there.
Out on Euclid, I hear Eddie in my ears.
What’d he want?
“To make everything right,” I tell him.
To make everything right, Eddie repeats. He thinks for a moment.
Sure, he says. Sure.
42
A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
DAY 303
PATRICIA PAVLIK SAT ON a box behind a small table. On the other side three men faced her. Her liberator hovered nervously behind them.
The oldest of the three men was clearly the leader of the Leniency Team. He took out a single cigarette paper and rolled a ridiculously thin cigarette, wrinkled and crushed in places. He held it between his thumb and index finger as he lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled as he gazed at Lieutenant Pavlik.
“I am Ông giải phóng Hiep. You may call me that, or you can call me Mr. Liberator Hiep.” He smiled. “We are here to discuss your progress.” His English was good, with a light French accent. He had studied in France or at least had spent a lot of time around the French.
“Of course,” he continued, “you are free to say whatever you like.” He waited for her response.
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Hiep.”
“You have now completed the basic instruction in the history of the Vietnamese people and their Western aggressors.”
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Hiep.”
“You have the truth now. That means you are able to judge for yourself your past actions against our people. We want your judgment of yourself to be fair and not coerced.”
She nodded. “Yes, Ông giải phóng Hiep.”
“You must decide if you are to recant. You must decide if you are prepared to make your admissions public.”
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Hiep.”
“First, tell me about capitalism,” he said.
“Factory owners exploit the workers. The workers build cars, but then they can’t buy a car, even a car that they’ve produced. It’s unfair. In time the workers will unite and overthrow the owners. Then there will be no more exploitation. Everyone will have enough. All will be fair, and there will be world peace.”
He seemed to like that answer. “Next, I want to know why you think the American war is illegal.” His tone was smooth and mannerly. He took another draw on his cigarette.
“All war is illegal,” she replied quickly. “War is illegal because it kills innocent people and destroys precious lands. People should live together peacefully. There should always be peace between peoples and nations.”
He nodded and continued in an amiable tone. “Do you think the Americans and their puppets in the South are winning the war, or are the defense fighters winning?”
“The Vietnamese are winning.”
He looked slightly annoyed. “Which Vietnamese? We nationalists or the government forces in the South?”
“The government of the South Vietnamese forces is weak and they are puppets.”
“But which are winning?”
She answered honestly, looking straight at him. “The nationalist Vietnamese are winning.”
“Good. Tell us, are all nationalists communists?”
She saw her liberator stiffen. But she had been well schooled.
“The National Liberation Front is a nationalist movement, not a communist one. It includes communists, but it embraces all political parties in their efforts to expel foreigners and defeat the lackey government forces of the South. There is no link between the National Liberation Front and the Communist Party of Vietnam with Ho Chi Minh as its great leader.”
He nodded again to her, then turned and smiled approvingly at her liberator.
The man to his right spoke next. He was stockier than the others, with a flat face.
“I am Ông giải phóng Huu,” he said in a brusque tone.
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Huu.”
He leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be considering her chestnut-colored hair that was pressed flat against her head. She had the distinct feeling that he wanted to touch her and might have reached for her if he had been closer.
“I want know,” he said, his English badly broken, “if you think government forces be smashed?”
“Yes,” she replied, pretending enthusiasm. She sought their pat phrases: Routed. Smashed. Thoroughly vanquished. She would play the game too. “The puppets will be completely routed. It may take time, but they will be smashed and thoroughly vanquished.”
“And you think reunion of our country, that it is,” he sought the right word, “inevitable?”
“The reunion of the country is certain, Ông giải phóng Huu.”
They waited for her to say more.
She continued. “The independence of the fatherland from the imperialists and revisionists is inevitable because of the just cause of the great revolution and its great people. Their march toward peace will be successful due to the bravery of the fighters of the Liberation Front and the accuracy of their antiaircraft weapons.”
The flat-faced man leaned forward. “And you condemn U.S. airmen for genocide?”
“Genocide is always wrong,” she responded, hoping the emphasis would conceal her evasion.
“So you condemn U.S. airmen?” he demanded.
She controlled the panic rising inside her. “Many American protesters in the Second Front at home condemn them.”
“And you?”
“Me? I do not know the airmen.”
All three men fidgeted and looked over their shoulders at her liberator. The leader then spoke. “But you informed as to the truth of the situation, yes?”
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Huu.”
“And what the truth of situation?”
“That the war must stop. That war is bad for all sides.” She continued, speaking quickly, repeating everything she had already said, elaborating slightly. She knew they did not mind repetition. Still, they seemed displeased.
The third man, thin and dark with a mole on his right cheek, said, “I am Ông giải phóng Toan.” He waited for her to greet him.
“Yes, Ông giải phóng Toan.”
“Tell us,” he started, then immediately switched to Vietnamese. “Tội gì bạn đã phạm phải ở đây.”
“My crimes?” she asked. She concealed the returning panic, and now the anger too. “I tried to escape, Ông giải phóng Toan. I am very sorry.”
“Why?”<
br />
“I was not thinking clearly. I was ignoring my education and I was holding to imperialist ways.”
“What other crimes? The crimes that brought you to our country.”
“In my assignment I helped supply arms and truckloads of food to the Americans and the reactionary forces of the South.”
“What else?”
“I did not understand the consequence of my actions. I am sorry, Ông giải phóng Toan.”
“Do you think Vietnamese revolution same-same like American Revolution?”
She had not been schooled on this. But her mind worked quickly. “Yes, Ông giải phóng Toan. Just like the American Revolution, you fight a guerrilla war against an enemy that has come from across the ocean. You seek freedom. That is all you want. You want to destroy the oppressor.”
He waited for more.
“You fight bravely for your homeland and for the elections that were denied you. Your cause is just. You know the battle is long and hard but you do not swerve from your duty. The final victory of the National Liberation Front is inevitable.”
They conferred among themselves. She watched anxiously, her heart pounding. Maybe she had misjudged them. Maybe they weren’t just going through the motions but were serious and dedicated. Not just playing their part. Maybe they actually believed it.
But there was one game she knew they were playing; their civility toward her was a façade. She could sense the underlying contempt these men had for her.
They stopped conferring and turned their attention back to Patricia. The flat-faced man spoke again. “If we let you go, what you duty after you go back your imperialist country?”
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to shout—But I’ll be free!
“Ông giải phóng Huu, I will tell everyone the truth about the very lenient policy of the Liberation Front.”
“What else?”
“I don’t understand.”
He huffed under his breath. “You evade! If you go home, you demand capitalists leave from each nation they exploit?”
“I will demand justice, yes.”
“Will you encourage worker strikes and hunger strikes?”
“Justice is what I want, Ông giải phóng Huu. Always justice.”
“Will you do meetings and support peace-loving people of the five continents and Second Front in America?”
“I don’t understand.”
He frowned. “Not understand? Not understand you responsibilities?”
“I do. I promise to tell the truth about American aggression in the world.”
He raised his voice. “How you help Second Front in you country?”
“I do not know the Second Front,” she said, and then quickly added, “but I will join them as soon as I return. Together we will fight for the peace-loving people of the five continents until all capitalists are routed and thoroughly smashed.”
His face showed that he was unconvinced.
The leader of the Leniency Team stood. He had papers in his hand. He set them on the table between them. He pulled out a stubby pencil and laid it on the papers. “You waste our time,” he said. “These are further questions. You have the day. We will study your answers.”
The other two men stood to go. They faced her. She realized they were waiting for her to stand. She got to her feet and contrived a nod and a smile. They continued to face her, and she knew they wanted her to bow to them. She lowered her head and bent slightly at the waist. The men moved to the door. They put on their rain ponchos. They stepped outside, leaving her alone with her liberator.
When they were gone, her liberator stepped toward her. “They listen not just to you words,” he said, “but you mind.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You answers are correct. But the Leniency Team not convinced. You must convince on the pages.” He pointed. “Or no leniency. The cows will come home before you released.” He smiled at that. “You must speak the truth. Speak with you conscience.”
He turned and abruptly left.
Lieutenant Pavlik looked down at the questions. She read them quickly. Some were the same as she had answered a hundred times to her liberator. But there were some new ones.
What has been your role in oppressing the American Negros living in your inner cities?
What is your view of the oppressed role of women in the United States?
If you are released, will you form a cadre cell that will spread the truth about the National Liberation Front?
What is your personal history, to include residences, education, activities and prizes won?
Are you willing to die for justice?
The pages were limp in Patricia Pavlik’s hand. She sat down. Using the table as a writing surface, she wrote slowly. When she was done she left the papers there. She walked alone to her doghouse.
It was late afternoon of the same day. In the distance was the dull thump-thump of a helicopter. Maybe two helicopters. They were in the area often enough that she thought nothing of it. The village was well hidden from any aircraft.
Suddenly there were gunshots, automatic rifles firing rapidly. There were shouts and screams from the village. She was being rescued. They had found her. They had waited until the right moment, and now they had come for her, swooping into the village by air to find her and take her home.
She scrambled outside. She crouched at the side of the doghouse waiting for the Americans to make their way to her. Her heart pounded. It was over. It was over.
The firing continued, as did the screams and shouts. Then the firing tapered off. Now it was only haphazard. Then, after a few minutes, it was only sporadic. But the shouting continued. She waited. She did not dare move to investigate.
She saw her liberator come over the incline toward her. He was strutting, laughing haughtily, triumphantly. He stood over her where she still crouched at the side of the cage.
“We celebrate,” he told her. “The capitalists have been vanquished.” He studied her reaction. She did not understand. “The peace treaty,” he said. “It signed. The imperialists concede to us. They are routed and smashed. Now they will run back to America.”
She stood. She tried to take it in, stunned and excited. It was over. Yes, it was finally over.
“Come watch the village defense forces,” he told her. “They celebrate. I protect you from them. They still want to kill you. But I protect. Do not be afraid. I protect.”
She followed him up the incline, then down the path to the center of the village. There were many more people than she had seen before, more than seventy men and women and children. She could not imagine where they all had come from. Seeing her, some of the children ran to her and pulled on her arms and gazed up at her, smiling. They ran back and shouted something to the others. Women came forward now, smiling as they looked at her.
Her liberator put up a hand. They halted. “They kill you if I don’t stop them you,” he told her.
But the mood was festive. There was no anger on their faces, just interest and curiosity. The three men from the Leniency Team stood off to the side drinking something from small plastic cups. Perhaps they were celebrating too. They had not yet seen her.
She heard soft voices from the villagers in front of her. “Người Mỹ, Người Mỹ”—American.
The women and children reached past her liberator to touch Patricia. He tried to push them away, but some reached her, pinching her arm gently. She knew this was a sign of affection, not hate. Then, with a loud command, her liberator finally moved them back. The village people’s eyes were still wide on her and their faces still smiling.
Her liberator shouted, “You must look down! You must be repentant!”
She looked down, then glanced up at the people. There was no antagonism. No hatred from the people.
Now she saw the Leniency Team turn toward the crowd. Her liberator saw them too and warned again, “You must look down! You must be repentant!”
She did as she was told.
The leader of the Leniency Team pointed at her and shouted something to the villagers. Suddenly they were all in unison, shouting with him, balling their fists toward her and surrounding her, shoving to get at her. She looked down. The shouting continued as the crowd moved even closer. Angry faces now. Angry fists. Angry shouts. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Another hand on her other shoulder. She did not need to look. They were reassuring hands, hands that said someone was with her, that they were supporting her even if they could not help her.
The angry display continued. But the hands on her shoulders were the real display, reminding her that her own suffering was just one among many; that they too were helpless. She hunched and pretended to cower before the crowd. But she wanted to cheer. She wanted to hug them all.
She knew that she was not alone.
43
JANUARY 18, 2006
MAURY WILLS FIELD,
2:00 P.M.
WITH THE CLAYMORES SET, Geltz keeps first watch, as usual. He prefers it, likes to stay up and thumb through his rosary beads. But after a time he falls asleep and doesn’t wake up Colome. So Colome dreams on and doesn’t wake up Eddie. Nobody wakes up anybody. We all dream on.
There’s never a parking spot on Georgia, so I make two rights and park across from Maury Wills Field. It has a track around it, and that’s my favorite place to run. The field is named for Maurice Morning Wills. He’s a former Dodger and Pirate. I remember the year he stole 104 bases. It couldn’t be done, they said. So he did it.
I get out and cross the street toward the field. I’m wearing two heavy sweatshirts, running pants, my beat-up high-tops, a knit cap, and a black headband. It’s as fashionable as I care to be. I go through the gate to the infield and the track. Eddie follows behind. He chooses the bleachers.
Maury Wills Field is part of Banneker Rec, one of our inner-city oases. Swimming pool, tennis, baseball, and more. Across the way is Howard University. Today the baseball field is covered with two feet of snow, but the snow on the track around the field has been beaten down by joggers to allow for a decent running path.