Part 53 (2/2)

I understood that Mr. Anh was establis.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.sacres. 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 dictators.h.i.+p, would you live there?”

Interesting question. I replied, ”If an American dictators.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suming 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 pa.s.s 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 cla.s.sroom. 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 ma.s.sacre either. You want to read about ma.s.sacres, 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 c.o.ke 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 gla.s.ses, but barely anyone wore gla.s.ses 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.

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