by Kien Nguyen
An overwhelming despair engulfed me like a black hole. From my second-floor balcony I began to cry with her, only to realize that a much more ferocious noise was drowning out what little sound I made—the boom of angry, explosive weapons. Down the street, a bomb went off, shaking the ground with vicious force. Now, the same unsettling rumble had hurtled me from my bed and into Loan's arms.
Loan carried me downstairs to the living room to look for my mother, who was hosting a party of sorts. In her search for information, she had gathered together the few officials left in Nhatrang. Sitting in a chair, she was dressed humbly in a traditional Vietnamese ao dai, a type of dress with a long skirt split to the waist to form two panels and worn over black pants. My mother was about four months along in her pregnancy, and her belly pushed upward beneath the silky fabric of her clothes. She was in the middle of a conversation with Mr. Dang, the chief translator for the U.S. Embassy.
Mr. and Mrs. Dang were among my mother's important allies. Her heart had no room for any relationship stronger than a detached friendship, and she admitted to me on several occasions that this deficiency was innate to her personality—except that, in her own words, it was not a deficiency but a successful adaptation to life. My mother was simply unable to trust anyone but herself.
The relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Dang and my mother was strictly business. Because of his work, Mr. Dang was able to provide my mother with the latest top-secret news about the nation, the markets, and the key people involved, which included everyone at the party. Thus my mother got her news delivered firsthand, firstclass. In return, Mr. Dang got to see the inside of my mother's bedroom, where he was able to confirm that her nightgown fit flawlessly over her shapely body, just as it had been described at the men's mahjong tables.
As for Mrs. Dang, she was always the most significant and interesting guest at any of my mother's gatherings. At that moment, with her half-filled champagne glass positioned dangerously over her large bosom, Mrs. Dang stood a few feet away from her husband, leaning on Lam and another male guest for support. Each time Lam or his friend whispered something in her ear, her exaggerated laughter would break out like shattered glass. Sitting nearby, my mother and Mrs. Dang's husband, lost in their intense conversation, seemed to disregard the tumultuous scene that was happening around them.
“Mommy,” I called out from the door.
My mother excused herself and got up to walk over to us. In Loan's embrace, I could feel the tension shooting through the maid's body as my mother approached. Before Loan could say anything, my mother reached out to snatch me away. With an icy stare, she growled almost inaudibly in the maid's ear, “Get out!” She whirled around and returned to her company, holding me in her arms as though nothing significant had happened.
To Mr. Dang, she said, “I am sorry, my son got frightened.”
“Well, at this point, madam, he is not the only one,” Mr. Dang said with a sigh. “You know, you should get out of here before it is too late.”
“Why? What about the Americans? Aren't they helping us?”
Mr. Dang gave my mother the same look he would give to someone who was crazy or just incredibly stupid. “What do you mean by ‘the Americans’? They left us long ago. We haven't received any help since 1972. We are on our own, and falling fast.”
“But —” my mother stammered, covering my ears with her hands as though to stop both of us from understanding the severity of the situation.
“Exactly my point. You have to get your family out of here soon. The Congs have claimed Qui Nhon City, and Tuy Hoa, too. Only a few short miles through the jungle and they will be here soon.”
My mother uttered a small cry. Her hands tightened around my ears, but I could hear the anguish in her voice as she cried, “Dear God, what should I do?”
“I've told you, madam. All we can do right now is run like the wind. As for my family, we are leaving, early tomorrow morning. I suggest you do the same.”
“Where should I go?”
“Well, first go to Saigon. At least there, you can always leave Vietnam through the main airport. On the other hand, if the political situation ever improves, you can come back to Nhatrang.”
“I have nothing left here to come back to,” my mother said. “I lost my bank and all of my money.”
Mr. Dang shrugged to emphasize his helplessness. “More reason to leave this condemned place. Please, don't forget to keep in touch with us in Saigon. This is the address where we will be staying.” He scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to her.
THAT NIGHT, even though several guests were still at the party, my mother sent Lam out to rent a minivan. A large vehicle seemed to be the only way for my mother to transport the six of us, including her boyfriend. The moment Lam came back with the van, we rushed to get inside, carrying only a few necessities. As we followed some of our departing guests down the driveway, not a soul in the house knew of our impetuous plan. Most of the servants were already in bed by the time the party began.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Loan ran out in front of the van, tearfully begging my mother for permission to come along. For eight years she had been a charming addition to my family, showing kindness to us all, even my mother, who despised anyone beneath her. As long as I could remember, Loan had been one of us.
In her seat, my mother viewed the uncomfortable scene unmoved. However, Loan's cries affected my grandparents, and my grandfather spoke up on her behalf. Confronted with his calm and determined intervention, my mother agreed to take Loan with us.
Once inside, the maid embraced my brother and me tightly. She kissed us with tears on her cheeks before turning to my mother, and bowing down to press her face to my mother's hands. The moment the girl's lips touched her hands, my mother pulled away as if touched by fire. Her face darkened, and her eyes burned at the girl with hatred. With a swift movement that startled everyone, my mother struck a hard blow across Loan's left cheek. The slap sent the girl's head backward to hit the van's steel wall with a cold and hollow noise. Somehow, Loan still managed to keep her head bowed low to the ground.
In the frightful silence, my brother began to cry softly with fear, but no one reached out to comfort him. I was too shocked to utter a sound.
CHAPTER THREE
Saigon, April 1975
In Saigon we rented a two-story dwelling on a street of Frenchstyle houses. A few blocks away lay the seat of the government, Doc Lap Palace, where all the Vietnamese presidents had lived. Unable to adjust to the foreign environment of this new house, my brother and I ran up and down the stairs, peeking through every room and observing the busy world outside through the cracks of the sealed front windows. Neither one of us fully understood why we ended up there. With the adults in the household lost in their worries, we were free to roam the place.
Saigon was in chaos. Nguyen Van Thieu, the South Vietnam president, unexpectedly quit his term on April 23, 1975. Gathering his personal belongings as well as his assets, he had fled the country. In an attempt to calm the populace, Congress had appointed Tran Van Huong to be the country's new president. He, in turn, set a new record for serving the shortest presidential term in Vietnam's history: four days. On the afternoon of April 27, at the request of Congress, a new president, Duong Van Minh, appeared outside Independence Hall to greet a welcoming crowd. Minh reignited the trust of his people by making lots of exciting promises. However, like the teetering government, his lofty plans eventually crumbled.
Through the adults' conversations, I learned that my mother had taken us to Saigon with the intention of fleeing the country if and when the government failed. In our first few weeks there she established a web of connections and obtained all the necessary passports and airplane tickets so that we could leave anytime we wanted. However, each time we planned on leaving Vietnam, my grandparents refused to join us. In addition, like the new president, Saigon was still deep in denial of the devastation taking place elsewhere in the country. As long as there were still par
ties and social banquets, there was hope. Each day we said good-bye to some of my mother's friends as they left. To us, the future did not appear so grim, for there were always more planes coming in, and we had our guaranteed seats on them. We remained in the city and waited.
At home, there was an insurmountable tension between my mother and Loan. The maid tried to keep out of my mother's way, but it was an impossible task, because my mother seemed to be all over the place all the time. Without her bank work to keep her busy, she seemed on the verge of a breakdown. Her erratic behavior got even worse after we received a piece of information from back home via my mother's older sister.
My aunt informed us that since the Communists had claimed Nhatrang on April 2, she and her family had been robbed several times at gunpoint. They had decided to leave the Nguyen mansion after thieves desecrated it and took my mother's Mercedes, her jewelry, and some of the hidden cash.
ON APRIL 28, just before morning broke, my mother heard the report we had all waited for: a panicking voice on the radio reported the coming of the Vietcong. My mother told Loan to go and get me out of bed. Without a word of explanation, Loan took me to the basement, a twelve-by-fifteen-foot hole that the owner had dug under the kitchen floor as a hiding place in the event of war. The rest of the family was already gathered.
In the far corner, my grandmother sat like a statue near a dim light. In her hand she held a string of beads collected from under the Bo De tree, where the Buddha once sat to seek enlightenment. The tips of her fingers moved the beads in a methodical manner. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her lips whispered an inaudible prayer. Next to her my grandfather huddled at the only table in the room, covering his ears, trying to block out the terrifying noises outside. Beside him lay his cane, which he had acquired many years earlier, after serving in the Vietnamese Republican Army as a captain, up until the day a Vietcong bullet exploded in his right hip.
A few steps away Lam lay on a sofa. As usual, his jet-black hair was perfectly combed and blow-dried. He looked alert and relaxed. Deeper in the shadows of the room, my brother stood next to my mother, clutching his favorite teddy bear to his chest. My mother's hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and her face, pale without makeup, appeared stark under the flickering light as she leaned heavily against the door. Her full stomach was visible under her nightgown, and one of her hands lay across her belly as if she were trying to protect the fetus inside. She and my grandfather were in the middle of a conversation as Loan and I entered the room.
“Daddy, we have to leave,” my mother was saying. “Please, sir. There is no time left to waste.”
My grandfather lifted his head from his hands. His eyes were two dark holes filled with pain, but he shook his head decisively.
“I've told you many times before, and I am telling you again. I am not going anywhere. I was born here on this land. I will die here on this land. So will your mother.”
My grandmother continued to pray quietly, her expression unchanged. I wasn't sure if she was paying any attention to the conversation. For her entire adult life, she had never made a move without my grandfather's permission. The fact that my grandfather had decided to stay behind was enough for her.
He continued, “I can't go to America. I don't want to go to any foreign land where I don't speak the language or know the customs. I'd rather die here by the Vietcong's hands, among my ancestors, than live like a ghost among strangers. You go! Take the children and go. Stop wasting time waiting around for your mother and me. We'll be fine, don't worry about us. I am a sixty-four-year-old decrepit man. No one in this world, not even the worst kind of Congs, would be heartless enough to hurt an old man and his feeble wife. Don't stay here because of us.”
My mother was not convinced. “Please, Daddy. Think of the children. You know I can't leave you and Mother here alone, but, if I stay, the children will suffer.”
“I am not going anywhere,” my grandfather insisted. “Nothing you can say will change my mind.”
My mother understood her father's dedication to his country. But she also knew that Vietnam was beset with racism. Through generations of defiance, as they struggled against Chinese, Japanese, and French oppression, this bias had been ingrained in every Vietnamese person. My mother feared what it would do to my brother and me in the future.
Nine years before, when an American civil engineer working in Saigon had hired my mother as a translator, a romance had blossomed between them. I was the result of their brief liaison. My fair skin and curly hair spoke clearly of my father's dominant genes. Perhaps because my appearance made him recognize his own mortality, or because of my mother's irresistible charms, before he left the country permanently, my father emptied his bank account into her hands. The thirty-something-thousand U.S. dollars he left us was a great fortune for anyone in Vietnam. My mother used this money, and her connections, to secure herself a partnership in a bank.
A few years later, she married another American, an officer, and Jimmy, my brother, was born. Jimmy's father left Nhatrang in 1971, with the last of the American troops, to go back home to his own family. He, too, was quite generous. The money he left us helped to pay off the mortgages my mother had on the mansion and provided some needed renovations. My mother also had the tall wall erected around the mansion, which not only shielded the house from outsiders' curiosity but also sealed us up, as if covering something shameful. We were meant never to be discovered.
Now though, my mother realized that no wall on Earth would protect us from being ostracized. The secrets that my mother had tried to protect so desperately were impossible to hide. Hopeless, she knew that we would grow up in an unforgiving society, as neglected as wild rice. Our only hope was to get out of Vietnam and move to a more accepting place. She looked at my grandparents sorrowfully, as she held my brother and me in her arms.
“Daddy, forgive me,” she said. “For the sake of my children, I am leaving.”
She turned to glare at Loan, and her voice deepened.
“Loan, get the suitcases.”
Then she told us, “Go and give your grandparents a kiss goodbye. Make it good. This will be the last time you see Grandpa and Grandma.”
We did as we were told. My grandmother dropped her beads on the floor to reach for us. Her tears gushed down her wrinkled face as she kissed us with all of her love. My grandfather's embrace was so tight that it cut off my air supply for what seemed like an eternity. In our ears, he whispered how much he loved my brother and me. Then at last, the embrace broke as Loan reappeared at the door with the suitcases. With her help, we changed into our clothes, packed a few belongings, and headed for the van.
“Take Loan with you. Maybe she can be of help,” my grandfather said, pushing the girl toward us.
“What?” My mother stopped in the middle of the room. “She can't come with us. She doesn't have a ticket.”
Lam spoke for the first time. “So what? We all know that you are a very powerful woman and that you could move a mountain if you had to. Nobody is asking that you move any mountain; we just want you to take care of this girl instead of abandoning her here. Come on! Give it a try, won't you? For once in your life, do something nice for someone else. Who knows? It might even make you a real human.” My mother glared at him as he continued. “Please, I think it could work. Right now, everything is very confusing out there. The police can't possibly check each and every person for passports. Even if they do ask for yours, the way you know people in this town, I am sure we could still sneak her out with us. But seriously, let's be honest. The problem isn't about whether you can or can't. It is whether you want to or not, isn't it?”
“You shut up,” my mother said.
“Sure, anything you say, madam.” He shrugged and walked away.
“Take her with you,” my grandfather repeated. It was no longer a suggestion to my mother, it was a command. “I owe her father that much for the bullet we shared. I promised him I would take care of her, which I have done thus far. I want you to
take this responsibility now. Do anything you can to help Loan—for me, please? Besides, she can watch over the kids. And hurry up. Go! Get out of here and save yourselves, all of you, and don't fight anymore, for heaven's sake. If for some reason you can't take care of Loan at the airport, she will come back to me. At least this way, she can fetch some news about all of you for me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” my mother reluctantly agreed. Before she could change her mind, Loan ran to the van and climbed inside to huddle in a corner. My mother got in last. She looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the girl's presence.
As Lam drove us away, I could see my grandparents' mournful faces pressed against the oval basement window, which was only a few inches above the ground. My mother sat stiffly, her face frozen in an icy mask. On the radio, the same female voice we had heard earlier that morning shakily announced the coming of the Communists. Their arrival was like an attack of locusts in a rice field, fast and uncontrollable.
SAIGON WAS IN its last free hours. The smell of chaos filled the air, and confusion was written all over the faces of the people on the street. Groups of armed convicts were breaking into houses, screaming up and down the streets, and shooting into the sky. Furniture flew onto the street, blocking the traffic. Discarded items were set on fire, either by accident or purposely; the smoke and flames added to the terror. Soldiers ran in all directions, tossing their rifles into trash bins, and stripping off their uniforms as if they were on fire. Some children who had lost their parents huddled on a street corner, crying. Above their heads, fire was consuming a coconut tree, and sparks of flame rained down on them. From the car window, they looked as if they were being burned alive in some sacrificial ritual.
We did not get far. The streets were blocked by hordes of desperate people, all with the same futile intention of getting to the airport. Just as we reached the freeway, a painful truth dawned on us: we weren't going anywhere. As far as we could see, the highway was clogged with civilian vehicles and military tanks. The hellish shriek of panic was dreadful in the hot air. People were abandoning their cars, running over each other, jumping on top of one another, climbing onto anything within their reach in order to move forward. Dead bodies lay in contorted positions, grinning horribly at the living. A few steps away from our van, a pregnant woman lay dead near the sidewalk. Her stomach had been ripped open by many hasty footsteps, and next to her lay her dying fetus, moving weakly under a dark mob of curious flies. A pool of dark blood beneath her dried slowly under the harsh sun. My mother quivered and recoiled in her seat, pulling us closer to her.