White Christmas in Saigon

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘But the list isn’t comprehensive, Mrs Anderson,’ her casualty assistance officer said reassuringly. ‘Not all the POWs are being released at once. It’s going to be some weeks before all the men are returned home.’

  By the end of the month there was still no news, though it was reported that another large batch of prisoners was going to be released in the first or second week of March.

  ‘I’m going to do the rest of my waiting in the States,’ she said decisively to Mike. ‘He could be released at any time and without any warning. The casualty officer says that all the men are being flown via Clark Air Base in the Philippines to Travis Air Force Base in California. I want to be there when he lands.’

  She was in her room at the Continental packing her suitcase, when the telephone rang and reception informed her that an army officer was on his way up to her room to see her.

  Gleefully she replaced the receiver on its rest. If he was coming with the news that Kyle was among the men being released in the next week or two, then she would be in the States in plenty of time to greet him. She had a seat booked on a flight leaving Tan Son Nhut in ten hours’ time. She slipped a photograph of Kylie into her valise, unable to imagine how Kyle must be feeling. He had been a prisoner for nearly six years. One of the men who had been among the first batch of prisoners to be released had been a prisoner for seven years.

  There was a short knock at her door, and she ran across the room to open it. ‘There’s no need to tell me I need to pack my bags,’ she said with a wide smite to the thick-set army officer facing her. ‘I’m already in the middle of doing so.’

  He gave her no answering smile. Instead, he said stiffly, ‘May I come in, Mrs Anderson? I’m afraid I have bad news for you.’

  She stepped back into the room, her heart beginning to beat fast and light, her throat tightening. He took off his cap, holding it in the crook of his arm, saying unhappily, ‘Perhaps you would like to sit down, Mrs Anderson.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered softly, ‘Kyle is dead. That is what you have come to tell me, isn’t it? He’s dead.’

  The officer nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Anderson. It happened in late 1966. He died under torture in Hoa Lo.’ He hesitated, and then added with deep sincerity, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Anderson. Intensely sorry.’

  Nineteen sixty-six. It was so long ago that she could barely comprehend it. She doubted if Kylie had even been born by then. She said with difficulty, ‘And his body? Is that being returned to the States for burial?’

  The officer nodded. ‘I have all the details.’ She looked so pale that he was terrified she was going to faint. ‘Before I give them to you, could I get you a drink? A whiskey, perhaps? Or a brandy?’

  When he had gone she had telephoned Mike at the orphanage with the news. ‘Kyle’s father has asked that Kyle be buried near their home, in a local cemetery in Boston. I’m going to fly there on tomorrow’s flight as arranged. I don’t know exactly when the funeral is going to take place and so I don’t know when I’ll be back. Trinh doesn’t have a telephone, and there’s no way I can get in touch with her before I leave. Will you tell her for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gently, wishing that she didn’t have to fly to the States alone, wishing that he could be with her. ‘And, Serena …’ It was a hell of a time to choose to tell her, but he couldn’t help it. He had to tell her. He had been crazy never to have told her before. ‘I love you.’

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line, and then she said, so softly that he had to strain to catch the words. ‘I know, Mike. I love you too.’ And with tears for Kyle streaming down her face, she had replaced the telephone receiver on its rest.

  It was snowing when she arrived in Boston. She knew that Kyle’s parents would want nothing to do with her, and she had no intention of forcing her presence on them. She spoke to Kyle’s father on the telephone, telling him that she would be attending the funeral service, but would not be coming to the house first to leave for the church and the cemetery with other family mourners. Neither would she be returning to it after the service. Royd Anderson had barely been able to bring himself to speak to her. ‘It’s your fault,’ he had said harshly, his bitterness as raw as it had been on her wedding day. ‘It’s all your fault. Goddamn you!’

  She arrived at the church in a taxicab, her wool coat tightly belted against the harsh wind and still-falling snow. The church was full of mourners, and as she entered she was aware of heads swinging in her direction; of a sea of whispers; of countless hostile stares. She ignored them all, walking with self-composed dignity down to the front of the small church. Kyle’s mother and father were seated in the left-hand front pew, their eyes fixed on the flag-draped coffin that lay before the altar. Neither of them looked towards her as she took her place in the right-hand pew.

  The army chaplain conducting the service gave her a slight nod of his head, acknowledging her presence and her status as Kyle’s widow, and then asked everyone to join with him in singing Rock of Ages.

  Serena was aware of nothing but the coffin. She knew that immediately after his death in Hoa Lo, Kyle’s body had been buried in a weedy plot across the Red River from Hanoi. Now, beneath the American flag, it lay encased in bronze. There were still flecks of snow on her hair, and her face was stinging with cold. It was impossible to think that it was Kyle lying only a few feet away from her. Even after all this time, it was impossible to think of Kyle as being dead.

  As the last notes of the hymn died away, the chaplain began to read the twenty-third Psalm. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’

  She remembered seeing a young marine in Saigon sporting a flak jacket emblazoned with the words ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.’

  ‘… Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,’ finished the chaplain.

  There was another hymn, and then the chaplain spoke of Kyle, of how he had been a fine, upstanding young man, a son of whom, since infancy, his parents had been nothing but proud; of how patriotism and love of his country had led him to his terrible death.

  It wasn’t the Kyle that Serena recognized nor, she was sure, was it one that Kyle himself would have recognized.

  Pallbearers in army uniform moved forwards and lifted the casket, carrying it out of the church and on to a waiting hearse. Serena and Kyle’s parents followed immediately in its wake, the rest of the mourners walking behind them.

  The trip from the church to the cemetery was short. Serena wished that she could reach out and take hold of Mrs Anderson’s hand, but the elder woman was gripping her black handbag tightly, her body rigid, her red-rimmed eyes steadfastly refusing to acknowledge Serena’s presence.

  The snow was still falling as they stood at either side of the open grave. Serena wondered where Chuck was, why he wasn’t there, and was ashamed at the relief she felt at his absence.

  She joined mechanically in the Lord’s prayer, snow and tears mixing saltily on her cheeks. Then a bugler played taps and a uniformed officer took the flag off the coffin, folding it reverently and handing it to her. She was aware of Mrs Anderson’s grief-stricken, harrowed face, of Royd Anderson glowering at her with unconcealed loathing.

  Her tears continued to fall. She and Kyle had been such heedless children when they had met and eloped. For her, life had taken shape and substance and she could barely recognize the headstrong, thoughtless girl she had once been. If Kyle had lived, no doubt, he, too, would have changed and matured. But he had not lived. He had died an early, agonizing, unspeakable death in Hoa Lo, and her heart hurt with grief.

  Slowly she raised the flag to her lips and kissed it. It was not a patriotic gesture, as it would have been if she had been an American. It was, quite simply, her last good-bye to Kyle. Then she walked to where Kyle’s mother was standing, and with heart-tou
ching dignity, she handed the flag to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ his mother said quietly.

  Royd didn’t say anything. His face was as harsh and taut as if it had been carved from stone.

  Serena turned away from them, the snow lying heavy on her hair, and on the shoulders and upturned collar of her coat. It was over. All that remained was for her to return to Saigon, where Trinh would be waiting for her.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When the peace treaty was signed in Paris, Gabrielle immediately made contact with the North Vietnamese official who had been feeding her tiny scraps of information ever since the summer of 1970.

  ‘Will my husband be released with the Americans?’ she demanded, her red-gold curls incandescent against the sleek, night-black mink coat that had been her Christmas present to herself.

  The official’s face and tone of voice was as expressionless as always. ‘Your husband is not an American, neither is he being held as a prisoner of war—’

  ‘But he is a prisoner!’ Gabrielle interrupted fiercely.

  ‘He is not an American and he is not officially a prisoner of war,’ the North Vietnamese repeated implacably. ‘Because of your family connection to Comrade Duong Quynh Dinh, and because of the respect in which his memory is held, you have been given information that would normally have been forbidden. You know that your husband is alive. You know that he is being held with captured puppet troops. That is all that I can tell you, Comrade. When there is new information, then you will be informed of it.’

  There was no new information. On 12 February several hundred haggard but jubilant Americans were flown out of Hanoi to the Philippines and then on to Travis Air Base, California. In March the last American troops left South Vietnam and more prisoners were released from Hanoi. A handful of civilians, some of them journalists, who had also been held prisoner by the North Vietnamese were also released. Gavin was not among them.

  Gabrielle returned to the North Vietnamese Embassy. Her contact there was as immovable as ever. ‘I have told you everything that I can, Comrade,’ he said, repeating verbatim what he had told her previously. ‘Your husband is alive. He is being held with captured puppet troops—’

  ‘The Peace Accords state that all South Vietnamese POWs are to be released, as well as American POWs,’ Gabrielle interrupted tautly. ‘Have they all been released yet? If not, when they are released and returned to the South, will Gavin be among them?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Comrade,’ the official said heavily. ‘When I have information I will give it to you. Until then, cháo ba.’

  Bitterly disappointed, Gabrielle walked away from the embassy and headed back towards Montmartre, wondering for the thousandth time where it was exactly that Gavin was being held. Over the years she had managed to glean that the prison he was being held in was small, and that it was in a rural area. That was all. No matter how hard she had pleaded, no further information had been forthcoming. The Americans who had been released had come not only from Hoa Lo, but from three other prisons in Hanoi, from six prisons within a fifty-mile radius of Hanoi, and from a prison camp situated in the northern mountains, five miles from the Chinese border.

  As she reached the place Blanche and the Moulin Rouge, she wondered if the northern camp could possibly be the camp where Gavin was being held. It was known to the Americans merely by the nickname Dogpatch, and though it was quite possible that it was both small and rural, for Gavin to be imprisoned there he would have had to be marched or transported by the North Vietnamese nearly the entire length of North Vietnam. She couldn’t imagine them going to so much trouble when there were other prison camps nearer the point where he had been arrested. And her contact at the North Vietnamese Embassy had been adamant that Gavin was not sharing his imprisonment with captured Americans, but with captured South Vietnamese troops.

  She crossed the place Blanche and began walking briskly up the steeply winding rue Lepic. She and her parents and le petit Gavin no longer lived in the tiny, cramped apartment in the rue Rodier. In the past few years her reputation as a nightclub singer par excellence had soared, and to her delight her bank balance had soared accordingly.

  If she had wanted to, she could easily have bought an apartment in a smart residential area, but when it had come to buying an apartment of her own, which she could share with her family, she had chosen to remain in Montmartre. Although she never felt a true Montmartroise in the way that when she was in Saigon she felt a true Saigonese, when she was in Paris, Montmartre was her home and she could not conceive of living anywhere else.

  She loved the village atmosphere of the hill, the magnificent plane trees in the place émile Goudeau, the green benches on the sidewalks, the small shops and the constant beehive of activity. She loved the translucent light that never seemed to be any different no matter what the season. The spacious apartment that she had bought was situated in a small street not far from the place du Tertre, on the crown of the hill. From the bedroom and living room windows was a magnificent view down to the boulevards of Pigalle and across the city. It was an apartment that her mother loved and that they were all exceedingly comfortable in.

  She wondered how she was going to break the news to her parents and to le petit Gavin that for the next few weeks, possibly even the next few months, they would be living there without her. If Gavin was not being released with the Americans, then he would eventually be returned to Saigon. And she was going to be there when he was.

  She walked quickly upwards towards Sacré-Coeur, her high-heeled black leather boots beating a tattoo on the cobbles, her mink coat fastened high and snug around her throat. She had stayed away from Saigon far too long. First her affair with Radford had ensured that she remain in Paris, and then her escalating career had ensured that she stay. Now her career was established, and Radford was no longer her lover.

  The shops and frenzied activity of the lower reaches of the street were behind her, and the atmosphere was now that of a French provincial village. She turned the corner towards the church, a small frown creasing her brows.

  The decision to end the affair had been hers, but she had not found it an easy decision to make nor an easy decision to live with. Between herself and Radford there was a rapport and a physical attraction so strong that she had needed all her considerable emotional strength in order to be able to tell him that it was over. And she had found the strength because she had known that she was on the verge of betraying Gavin irrevocably. She was on the verge of falling in love.

  Radford had refused outright to allow her to escape from him totally, and they still saw each other frequently, but no longer as lovers. Now she had to decide whether or not she would say a final good-bye to him before leaving for Saigon.

  In the place du Tertre winter tourists strolled from souvenir stall to souvenir stall and admired the work of the only artist hardy enough to have set up an easel. One of the stalls had a display of T-shirts, and with a surge of amusement she saw that one of them was decorated with Radford’s picture. Over the last two years her success as a singer had been dazzling, but Radford’s success, coupled with that of the band, far exceeded hers.

  He had become a cult figure, a sex symbol on par with Mick Jagger and Jimi Hendrix, and he revelled in the female adulation and hysteria that he excited. His Aston-Martin DB Mark 3 had given way to the latest Ferrari. He had bought a magnificent 18th-century house at Neuilly, as well as a London flat and a New York apartment. He had everything in the world that he wanted except one thing. And that was she.

  Common sense told her that she shouldn’t get in touch with him before leaving Paris, but common sense had never played a large part in their relationship. She would see him again, to say a final good-bye. After all, when she returned to Paris, she would be returning with Gavin. It would be too late for good-byes then. Radford would be in her past, where he would belong.

  ‘…and so it is time for me to go back to Saigon,’ she said at the family dining table that evening.

>   Her father, who took less and less interest in anything other than his daily game of boules, grunted noncommittally.

  Her mother’s eyes flew wide open with alarm. She knew, as they all did, that just because American involvement in Vietnam was at an end, it did not mean that a long-term peaceful solution to the conflict there had been found. The present truce between North and South would not last long. Fighting would break out again as the North sought to unite Vietnam into one country. And when the fighting did break out again, it would be as fierce and as terrible as anything that had gone on before.

  ‘Oh, chérie, is that necessary?’ Vanh began, and was interrupted by her grandson.

  ‘I think that is a magnificent idea, Maman!’ he said, forgetting all about the food on his plate as he looked across at her, his face radiant. ‘When can we leave? Can we leave before the next school term starts? Can we leave this week?’

  Gabrielle suppressed a grin as her eyes met his. He was six and a half years old now and gave her so much happiness that she found it impossible to look at him without smiling. Now she said, hoping that she looked and sounded like a responsible, stern mama, ‘School is very important, Gavin. And Saigon is not a very pleasant place in late March. It will be humid and smelly and—’

  ‘And I want to go with you, Maman,’ he finished simply, his eyes, so like his father’s, burning hers. ‘A little part of me is Vietnamese, is it not? And I, too, want to be there when Papa returns.’

  Looking at his mop of tousled hair and his snub nose with its scattering of freckles, and the gap in the middle of his front teeth that made his grin so winning and mischievous, Gabrielle felt her throat constrict. ‘Of course you do, mon petit,’ she said thickly, ignoring her mother’s silent plea that she say nothing further. ‘And of course you will come with me.’