A bit later I phoned Jaime and asked him how I could help. He told me he just needed a visa to go to Vietnam, to find Annette. He was sure she was still alive. The problem was that he was a Mexican citizen with an American green card and could not easily get a visa. I told Jaime I would ask around and get back to him. I phoned the Brazilian ambassador in London and asked him for a big favor.
“Is Annette Brazilian?” he asked.
“No, Ambassador, but she is one of the biggest traders in Brazilian external debt, and everyone knows her.”
“No problem. I will make the necessary inquiries and phone you back.” He did. Jaime could pick up his visa in Switzerland. The Vietnamese ambassador in Geneva had arranged it for him. I was delighted to phone Jaime back and give him the good news. He could arrange his journey now. The journey to get Annette back.
JAIME: On Thursday morning I took a taxi to Annette’s house. I had arrived in The Hague the night before from Geneva, where I had picked up my visa to Vietnam. Ana had told me the same thing she had told Annette’s mom: “Save no expense. Do what you have to do.” At the office they had been relieved to see me go. They did not know whether to admire me for my persistence or to think I was crazy. But I was adamant. Our secretary had obtained Annette’s dental records and had put them on my desk. I had picked them up, looked at the envelope, and returned them to her, saying, “I am not going to need those.”
From Geneva I had flown to Holland and checked into Hotel Des Indes in The Hague, an old, colonial hotel overlooking the pond with the medieval buildings that housed the Dutch parliament.
Annette’s family and friends did not know what to expect. They were sitting at the window when I arrived in a taxi. I took my time. Paying the driver, waiting for a receipt. I put the receipt in my wallet, put the wallet in my backpack, zipped up the backpack, and put it around my shoulder. I got out slowly. Jeans, white T-shirt, shoulder-length hair. Not quite the look of the neighborhood, I presumed.
Her family received me warmly, hungry for news, for any information. But her friends obviously wondered what my story was. Later they told Annette that they regarded me with a mixture of curiosity, admiration, even envy. Those friends had known her for so many years. They had written her parents letters, sent them flowers, or paid them a visit or two; now they felt they were just sitting around, waiting, while I, the stranger, was taking the initiative. “Look at this odd-looking guy. He’s a colleague, flying all over the place for her. Shouldn’t we be doing that?” But they didn’t show it at the time. They took me out to a restaurant. When everyone was seated, I showed them the letter that Numachi had sent me: a seven-page fax describing Annette’s very last steps. Step by little step.
MY SISTER, EVELINE: Nothing had ever hit me this hard. My little sister. I had waited nine years for her to be born. A sister I could take to play in the garden, feed the ducks with, read stories to. After I had left home, she would come over and stay with me in my sorority house. When she was finally a student herself, she spent her holidays in my little cottage in the country, to prepare for exams and write papers. And Pasje—always together with Pasje. The long bike rides, the endless games of Acquire. They were such a beautiful couple. Not just in looks, although I did love to take pictures of them. They were so perfectly made for each other. It had just taken my sister rather long to realize that. . . . Oh, we had had such great times together, in Chile and, just the month before, in DC. My little sister. Accompanying me to grand World Bank receptions. Good-looking, smart, well-dressed. How proud I was. Always showing her off. I had given up hope that she might have survived—but if she had, what kind of animals lived in the Vietnamese jungle?
Yes, all of us had given up hope. Completely. My father had, on the basis of the statistical evidence. And the rest of us? Perhaps the uncertainty, the emotional roller coaster of not knowing, was more challenging to cope with than bracing ourselves for the final verdict.
My parents’ home was overflowing with friends and relatives, providing distraction and forcing us to keep up appearances. But late in the evenings, when we were finally left by ourselves, it would hit. It would hurt. My mother would weep and weep, quietly. My youngest brother Bernard was beside himself.
The secretary general of foreign affairs had phoned, on behalf of the minister. They were doing everything they could to help. But of course the Dutch government had closed its embassy in Hanoi, so they had to work through the Belgians. A World Bank vice president also had approached the Vietnamese authorities. He insisted his influence would be pivotal in Annette’s rescue. Who knows? Personally, I felt the Vietnamese might prefer it if there were no survivors. So they could kill a story that could damage their promising tourism sector. And then there was ING Bank, Willem’s employer. I knew the chairman personally, but ING was anxiously keeping communications limited to Willem’s family. They seemed powerless anyway, leaving it all up to Willem’s assistant.
All those contacts of mine, all those connections to power centers in the Netherlands and Washington, were totally useless when it came to doing something about a plane that had crashed in the Vietnamese jungle. With my only sister on it.
“Lost” notices in Dutch newspapers that we had gone missing and had died, November 17, 1992
Condolence letter to my boss from other traders, November 16, 1992
JAIME: I left the bereaved Herfkens household on Saturday morning. One week had passed, and my determination seemed more and more delusional. Annette’s father got angry when I promised him before I left: “I will bring back your daughter alive.” “You are an idiot,” he snapped. “Get real!” But he was very grateful too that I offered to go. In his mind I was going to do his dirty work: identifying the body if and when it were found.
I left for the airport with Jasper and Miebeth, Willem’s brother and sister. They believed, like everyone else, that they were going there to face the daunting task of identifying the bodies once they had been found. They did bring dental records. I brought Annette’s hairbrush.
I took good care of Jasper and Miebeth. I got the royal treatment from KLM airlines and arranged to have them upgraded. They thought I was quite the hero. I liked them; we were bonding.
We got off in Singapore and from there we flew Garuda Indonesia to Ho Chi Minh City. The Indonesian stewardess offered little porcelain statues as a first-class token. Jasper and Miebeth each chose one for themselves. I picked two—one for Annette.
CAGED MONKEY
The next morning they put me back in the old minivan, my ambulance. On my own this time, without my friendly companion. The military man is still there, next to the driver. He doesn’t bother to tell me where we are going. Every movement makes my injuries hurt. I am uncomfortable and claustrophobic. I am constantly begging for water. The men are engaged in conversation. They do not seem to listen or care.
We drive through endless green hills. Suddenly, without any explanation, we stop. At least twenty children are peeping into the van through all the windows. All wearing those iconic conical hats. They are climbing over each other to get a glimpse of me. Unable to move, I feel like a caged monkey.
We drive on, through what seems to me the kind of nowhere that could be anywhere. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I am looking at a face. A white face with light eyes. A young woman with straw-blond hair is bending over me, looking very worried. And speaking Dutch!
Perspectives
PASJE’S ASSISTANT, CAROLA: The time of the accident made a profound impression on all of us who were involved. I was in my twenties when I started working in Vietnam, a strange country with a completely different culture. When Willem went on his short holiday with Annette, I had only worked for him for two months, but I had enjoyed every minute of it. I loved his warmth, his sense of humor, and his quiet guidance in dealing with the Vietnamese and doing business over there. After the accident, I was all of a sudden left to my own devices.
On Sunday morning the hotel in Nha Trang called and
told Hung that Willem and Annette had not yet arrived. Hung was Willem’s “assistant,” appointed by the government as our watchdog. He had made the hotel reservation for Willem. Hung called Vietnam Airlines. They said something was wrong with the flight that Willem and Annette were on, that we had to come to the airport to look at the passenger list, as their names were unclear. I was shocked. The day before, Saturday morning, I had flown back from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, and when we flew over Nha Trang I had this strong sense of Willem and Annette. It had felt strange, but I had not paid any further attention to it.
At the office of Vietnam Airlines we were told that they were extremely worried indeed. That the plane had gone missing at sea, and that they were searching for the wreckage. They told us that the chance of anyone surviving was nil. The names of Willem and Annette were on the list—spelled incorrectly but unmistakably their names.
I called ING Hong Kong to inform them and discuss the situation. They had a close relationship with ING Vietnam and with Willem. They called the families of Willem and Annette, and then the families called me. The calls were very emotional. They were so sad. So sad. But always warm at the same time.
The number of people who called grew every day. Other family members of Willem and Annette, their friends, people from several ING and Banco Santander offices, people in Vietnam who knew Willem. All offering their help to search, to make money available, to fly over, to be there. There was one person who called twice every day, in the morning and in the evening, asking whether Annette had been found yet: Jaime. He said that he was Annette’s closest colleague, with whom she worked those long hours. Jaime did not believe that Annette was dead. He was convinced that she was alive, walking through the jungle, looking for a phone booth, worrying about Santander’s portfolios. He wanted to come over and go looking for her.
The week passed and the plane still had not been found. I was asked to go to Willem’s hotel room to pack his and Annette’s belongings. I had never met Annette, but through Willem’s stories, my telephone calls with her family, and the daily conversations with Jaime, I had a picture of a very strong woman. Willem was always jokingly calling her a woman of the world. Successful, making lots of money, always traveling first class. And very independent. He told me that he had often proposed to her. “I think I have finally got her,” he had said, with a twinkle in his eye, just before her visit. In a strange way, her stuff confirmed everything. Stylish clothes, brands from all over the world, small sizes (arrrghh).
Then, on Saturday morning, a week after the crash, we got a phone call from Vietnam Airlines. They had found the plane in the region of Khánh So’n. There was only one survivor, and it was Annette. They said she was doing really well. She had a few scratches, a broken tooth, nothing else. They were going to send a helicopter with doctors from Nha Trang to fetch her. They said I could come along if I could get to Nha Trang on time. They had a plane leaving in one hour.
I called Chris, the “local” Dutchman. He had lived in Vietnam for many years. He knew Willem and had offered to help several times that week. Chris knew everyone, and everyone knew Chris. I asked Chris to help me with all the things that had to be done: informing the families, informing ING, setting everything in motion to get her out of the country, and opening our office on Monday if I was not back in time. I rushed to the airport. My flight to Nha Trang was not delayed, but when I finally got there I heard that the helicopter had taken off without me and had subsequently crashed in the same jungle! There had been six doctors on board. All dead. I was flabbergasted that they had taken off without me. I felt angry and at the same time very grateful that I had missed them. The accident was never made public. The Vietnamese authorities kept it out of the press.
There was no other helicopter available in the country, so I was told that Annette would be transported by jeep. I asked again how she was: “Fine, just a few scratches.” I went to a hotel in Nha Trang to wait for her, assuming that she would arrive the same day. That evening a Vietnam Airlines official told me they had been informed that Annette had to stay in the jungle. In a hospital, he assured me. She was too weak for further transportation and needed rest. What? Too weak? I panicked. She couldn’t die now! I protested, to no avail.
The next morning I was informed that Annette was on her way. They had to drive the jeep very slowly because of her condition. I flipped. My God! Were they mad? Didn’t their army have a helicopter? The French consul arrived. He was there to identify the body of the French passenger. He was kept in the dark by the same people and was also furious. We joined forces and threatened to call the international press if they didn’t handle this matter with more professionalism. The atmosphere changed.
From then on, government officials kept us continuously informed. Annette remained in the jeep, though. The only helicopter they could get would have to come from the north, and that would take too long.
I had no idea what to expect. After eight days in that jungle, Willem dead, what sort of state would she be in? I only knew her from stories and, bizarrely, from the contents of the suitcase of her belongings that I had packed. A woman of the world.
She was so very different when I finally met her. Like a fragile little bird. Totally dependent on other people. Her jaw was hanging at an angle; she could hardly talk. Her face and arms were full of wounds and insect bites. Some parts were swollen. She was almost dead. And in pain, in such terrible pain. A stretcher had been arranged to get her on the plane. When they tried to put her on it, she screamed with pain. Oh, my God, she is going to break, I thought. I wasn’t the only one, and someone was sent to the market to buy a mattress, to put that on the stretcher. That worked better. It turned out later that she was really broken in pieces. Except her eyes. Those feisty blue eyes. Those were constantly busy registering everything around her. They registered me too. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” When I said I would fly back with her to Ho Chi Minh City, they became even feistier. No way, they told me. “No way,” she said. “I am not going on any plane.”
She simply refused to go. “Not again,” she kept saying. I told her that she had to. In order to live. That she had no choice. Eventually she gave in. She pulled herself together with her last bit of strength. Once we were on the plane, she even made conversation. Although her jaw was broken, what she said was quite coherent. She said, wearily, that this should have been her honeymoon. She complained that the insect bites were itching. She told me that she had stopped smoking.
We landed and Annette was raced off to a hospital. Chris was there and went along in the ambulance. I waited at the airport for Annette’s parents to arrive. The next person I saw was Jaime. He hugged me and just said, “I told you so.” Then he jumped into a taxi to the hospital. He didn’t have the patience to wait for the rest.
HO CHI MINH CITY HOSPITAL
I am in the Cho Ray Hospital in Ho Chi Minh City. They put me on the floor among other victims of what turns out to be a bus accident. They are all moaning noisily. Two European men approach me. One is talking loudly on his cell phone, in French. He seems agitated. He introduces himself as a doctor and then quickly returns to his phone call. The other man is Chris, a local Dutchman Pasje has befriended. He is calmness personified. He tells me Willem’s brother and sister have come to Vietnam and that my parents are on their way. I can hardly believe it. “We are going to get you out of here,” he says, in a soothing voice. “You just have to hold on a bit longer.” Two male nurses pick me up from the floor. I feel faint and only vaguely register the chaos and noise, people everywhere, camping out in the corridors. The nurses carry me up the stairs to a semiprivate room.
And there he is! Jaime. As always, in his white T-shirt and blue jeans. Looking at me full of relief, fear, expectation. I can’t believe my eyes. How is that possible? I worry about our trading positions. The first thing I say is “What the fuck are you doing here? Who is minding the business? Where is MYDFA, Brazil?” He looks perplexed.
Jaime tells me how he le
ft the Netherlands with Willem’s brother and sister two days earlier, not yet knowing what had happened to the plane. He was told by Chris when he arrived in Vietnam that Willem was dead and I was alive. Chris convinced him to stay put, not to try to go to Nha Trang. Although I am happy to see Jaime, I know Jasper and Miebeth are waiting. I want to tell them how Pasje died. Despite everything, I still feel responsible and very much in control. Miebeth comes in alone. We look at each other. “Willem is dead,” I say. “He had a little smile on his face.” She bends over my bed and hugs me.
We are interrupted by two nurses, who take me away for X-rays. It feels like torture. They put my broken hips on thick metal plates. When they walk out of the room to take the pictures, I scream in pain and fear. Fear of being left alone, without water. How feeble is my psychological state! So different from the one in the jungle.
Meanwhile my parents and my sister have arrived in Vietnam. My mother enters the room. When I see her face, I just let go. I finally cry. “Did you come all the way here for me? Pasje is dead.” I do not remember anything after that.
Perspectives
MY BROTHER FREEK: At four o’clock in the morning I was woken up by the phone. It was the manager of ING Hong Kong telling me there were indications that Annette might still be alive. He was waiting to receive confirmation. I did not quite know how to react. “Why don’t you call me when you have it,” I suggested, and went back to sleep, not daring to believe it was true.
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