Resistance Becomes Duty
Excerpt from "Gardens in the Midst of War" by Karen Kaiser
In this guest post from Karen (formerly Griffith) Kaiser, we see another glimpse of Saigon as the year of 1974 was winding down and North Vietnamese forces were winding up for their final terrible strike.
Her memoir is both poignant and chilling. I hope you enjoy it. ~Kat Fitzpatrick, Stories of Vietnam editor
Book description:
In the spring of 1973, a young American couple, Karen and Steve, heads to Saigon, Republic of [South] Vietnam where Steve will begin work on a contract awarded to his employer by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). They could not have known that they would soon be witnesses to history.
Naïve and unprepared for what confronts them, the couple’s resilience and determination are tested as they strive to create a life in a place so foreign and oppressive it’s hard to function. Against the backdrop of an on-going war, Steve works five and a half days a week while Karen figures out how to cope on her own.
By early April 1975, the war pushes against the outskirts of Saigon and the future of Steve’s project is uncertain. The couple has a decision to make—stay and see what happens or go. Are there still commercial flights from Tan Son Nhut, or will they be hauled off the rooftop of their apartment building by the Air America helicopter pilot who lives downstairs? Should Karen accompany the children on Operation Babylift?
This down-to-earth tale not only celebrates the adaptability of the human spirit, but also exposes the dilemma faced by so many civilian ex-pats as South Vietnam came to grips with the fact that it had lost the war.
CHAPTER 20 | SEPTEMBER & OCTOBER 1974
At the end of August, 621 miles north of Saigon, communist troops captured a series of hills at Phu Loc and installed artillery that closed Phu Bai Air Base and stopped traffic along Highway 1 between Da Nang and Hue. South Vietnam’s army recaptured the hills, but the fighting depleted its reserve forces.
[In September], my routine changed with the new job [as the school librarian at the Phoenix Study Group / American school), which consumed the mornings. After school, I flagged down a cyclo to take me back to the apartment. Hot, sweating, and tired, I puffed and shuffled up three flights of stairs. By the time I reached the landing, Muoi held the door open for me. She knew I arrived home at the same time every day and listened for my footsteps.
I dumped my bag of library work in the second bedroom/office and sat down at the dining room table where lunch waited—half a sandwich and a tall glass of diet cola with lots of ice. While I devoured the food, Muoi turned on the bedroom's air conditioner and ceiling fan. Afterward, both Muoi and I went to our separate quarters for siesta.
At four o’clock, I headed back outside and down the lane to Ky Dong Street. On the way, I passed sidewalk barbers, soup vendors, scrap-paper sellers, school kids, and women balancing poles on their shoulders with baskets of produce swinging from each end. Out on the street, I searched for a cyclo to take me to French class.
The same routine continued for a week or two. One day, I noticed three young cyclo drivers lined up with their vehicles at the entrance to the lane, all waiting to be chosen like debutantes at a ball. They all smiled at me, and then one of them pulled his cyclo forward slightly as if to say, “Pick me.” I climbed aboard, gave him the address, and he pedaled off.
Feeling the breeze in my hair and the exhaust in my lungs from the cars ahead of us, I felt like a human bumper. However, I never had a bad experience riding in a cyclo. The contrivance amazed me with its maneuverability as my chauffeur, perched high on the bicycle seat behind me, angled us smoothly through traffic and around corners.
After class, I repeated the routine to find a ride home. One day, I recognized the driver who had delivered me to the Institut sitting at the curb with his cyclo. When he saw me, he waved me over. He’d figured out I kept the same daily routine and waited for me after class. From then on, he drove me there and back every day.
A few weeks later, I went out to the street after class one day, expecting to see my regular driver and his cyclo, but he wasn’t there. An anxious minute passed before I noticed one of the other drivers from the triumvirate on Ky Dong signaling to me. He let me know in Vietnamese and broken English that my usual driver sent him. I wanted to ask why, but, of course, I couldn’t. My Vietnamese didn’t stretch that far, and neither did his English.
After dinner in the evenings, Steve updated his work diary or took care of other business, and I sewed. Creating curtains or pillow covers for the apartment or a dress for myself relaxed me. The paper dress patterns I’d brought from the States intrigued Muoi—the tailors of Saigon never used them. The fact that I knew how to sew in the first place interested her even more than the patterns. I tried to explain that, in America, women did all sorts of things that we hired other people to do in Saigon. She had no idea how differently we lived in the States.
***
My mother’s letters, full of concern, arrived every week, the news coming out of Vietnam ratcheting up her protective instincts.
Why don’t we know any of this? If things are as bad as they say, why hasn’t anyone told us? What are we still doing here?
Saigon’s hustle and bustle didn’t change. Talk of U.S. plans to open a larger American school the following year circulated among the teachers. The expats I knew trusted the embassy’s party line that South Vietnam would survive, even without American boots on the ground.
***
Steve’s work included inventorying South Vietnam’s roads and bridges, which meant travel to provinces outside Saigon. An upcoming trip to Vietnam’s fourth largest city, Can Tho, in the Mekong Delta, required him to investigate the possibility of augmenting the one bridge across the Hau River with an expanded ferry crossing.
Even though the area was a Viet Cong hot spot, Steve and his colleague, Dick Klein, once again received USAID approval for the trip. Dick’s wife, Sally, and I assured ourselves the men would be all right, that things couldn’t be as bad there as people said. After all, why would USAID send them if they’d be in danger?
We were right … that time.
***
Before we had moved to the apartment, Steve and I discussed rehiring Patty now that we had a smaller place she could handle by herself. However, we hadn’t heard from Patty since the day she visited Steve at his office. So, we took Muoi with us.
Then, two months after the move, Muoi answered a knock at the apartment door and called me.
“Madame, lady come … see Madame.”
What in the world?
“Hello, Madame.” Patty stood on the landing dressed in the loose tunic Vietnamese women wore during pregnancy. Her shy tone and down-cast eyes revealed how tentative she felt about the visit.
Muoi retreated to the kitchen.
“Patty! What a nice surprise,” I said. “Come in.”
I took her to the living room and asked Muoi to bring tea for us.
“Did Monsieur tell you where we live?”
“Yes, Monsieur, tell me.”
“ How are you? When is your baby due?”
“Baby due four months,” Patty got right to the point. “In January, I can come back work it. Do you have work for me?”
“Patty,” I said, as gently as I could, not knowing if Muoi could overhear the conversation, “I don’t know. We would be happy for you to come back, but we have someone else now.” I felt like I was rejecting a lover who wanted another chance.
“I know … but … maybe need two?”
“I have to think about it. Okay?”
What an abysmal dilemma! The agonizing encounter tormented me that night. Sleepless, my mind churned with possibilities.
Muoi—who proved her loyalty and trustworthiness day after day, who would go out late in the evening to buy me another package of cookies when she saw I’d eaten the last crumbs—had devoted herself to us.
Muoi, unmarried and childless, had taken it upon herself to raise and educate a young orphan girl who would care for her in her old age, as was their custom. Steve and I provided Muoi’s livelihood. To let her go would be cruel. I believed it would break her heart.
On the other hand, we could have the excellent Patty back, who cooked like a dream, knew what we needed before we did, and would help bathe a kitten just because I asked her to, even though she thought cats were bad luck.
We had become attached to both of them.
Can I rehire Patty and keep Muoi, too?
In the small apartment, it didn’t make sense. The issue wasn’t cost. It was compatibility. If I’d learned nothing else from the experience of having help, it was that hierarchy ruled. Who would take charge in that situation—Patty, because she had more experience, or Muoi, who had risen to the challenges of managing the household? Muoi hadn’t been with us long, but I couldn’t betray her. Still, I didn’t want to let Patty down.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked Steve the next day.
“It’s a tough one,” he said, “but Patty can’t work right now, anyway. Let’s send word to her through Wong that she should come to see us again when she’s ready. If Muoi doesn’t work out, we can rehire Patty. If Muoi does work out, we can help Patty find another job. New guys coming in are always looking for cooks.” My husband was a practical man.
“Perfect … we won’t have said ‘no’ to Patty, and we’re still taking care of her and Muoi. I knew you could solve this. Thanks,” I said, hugging him.
***
In October, the fragile façade surrounding life in Saigon showed signs of cracking. An episode involving Wong, the Smail’s cook, shook everyone’s sense of invulnerability.
Don and Alice Smail, who had hosted us when we first arrived in Vietnam, were reassigned to a project in Indonesia. Another Jorgensen engineer, Bob Taylor, his wife, Betty, and young son, Burt, newly arrived from Maryland, took over the lease on the Smail’s villa and retained their staff, including Wong.
The family of three soon settled in. Betty played tennis and paid attention to her health. Bob, whose powder-blue safari suit belied his serious side, worked with Steve. Betty invited the project wives to a get-acquainted luncheon at the villa.
Wong’s dishes never disappointed. I arrived anticipating a memorable meal and a pleasant afternoon. Too many minutes passed after my knock before a visibly distraught Betty opened the door. There would be no luncheon that day, she told me.
The night before, South Vietnamese soldiers had come in the wee hours demanding to see Wong. When Wong roused himself and shuffled to meet them, he was arrested for desertion and taken away. The connection to Patty disappeared with him. We would never see Patty or Wong again.
A subtle but conspicuous shift in mood settled over the city. The usual rumble of traffic coming from Ky Dong Street sounded more like a hum. Temple bells made the only sound at the pagoda across the lane; the chorus of children’s voices was silent.
***
Steve’s work diary
21 October 1974: Dropped by Lew’s office this morning … He related that Mr. Jorgensen had asked if I could be transferred to another job as soon as possible. He [said] Mr. J did not identify the job. Lew showed me [the] telegram he had received … asking about my status. He read the telegram. I did not look at it.
The puzzling conversation between Steve and Lew Chittim made us wonder about our status and raised a multitude of questions. Steve hadn’t asked to be reassigned, but he knew Lew was more his adversary than his colleague. Was Lew sabotaging him?
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I told him I intend to stay here until the work is finished,” Steve said. “That’ll probably mean at least another year. Besides, I’d need more information before I’d agree to another move. I will talk to Roy Jorgensen when we’re on home leave.”
***
The International School in Bangkok, Thailand, a sister school to the Phoenix Study Group, employed a children’s librarian named Betty Van Dyne, an American. I corresponded with Betty for a few weeks, and she invited me to visit her at the school. I accepted eagerly and planned a four-day visit to Bangkok over a long weekend when the PSG would be closed to celebrate Confucious Day.
The week before the trip, I developed, not for the first time, an infection that left my sinuses so congested that I could hardly breathe. Determined to go anyway, I packed my bags. The morning of my departure, Steve asked Mr. Pho to take me to Tan Son Nhut Airport on their way to the office.
***
Steve’s work diary
31 October 1974: Took Karen to the airport to go to Bangkok. Gave her instructions to stay there in case something happens.
***
The incident with Wong and the battle at Phu Bai finally pushed “pause” on the normal life we’d constructed in that chaotic city. Leaving felt like an escape, but from what? A nagging uneasiness that I could not name hung on the fringes of my mind.
I’ll be back soon, no worries.
I kissed Steve goodbye, untroubled by his instructions, believing nothing would happen because it never had. Nothing disrupted Saigon’s busy life.
***
Steve’s work diary
31 October 1974: We [Pho and I], of course, had problems getting to work. The police have blocked off all of downtown to avoid people demonstrating. Therefore, this caused large traffic jams. The police would not allow people to enter the area. We were lucky in that we were able to talk our way through.
***
Demonstrators brandished signs and shouted slogans that Pho translated for Steve, “They don’t like the government.”
Police allowed no one through the area, but Pho eventually convinced an officer to let them pass. When they finally got to the office, Steve discovered he was one of many who had problems getting to work. Few others had arrived.
Later that night, the American Radio Service reported that the mob was part of a protest rally led by Tran Huu Thanh, a Catholic priest, to confront government corruption. Skirmishes between the protesters and police resulted in injuries to policemen and civilians alike.
Confidence in the government deteriorated, and President Nguyen Van Thieu needed help filling his cabinet for lack of qualified individuals willing to serve. Some anti-government activists called for President Thieu’s resignation.
Closely linked to the issue of corruption was the issue of censorship. The press that reported the corruption came under scrutiny. Saigon’s police attacked Vietnamese and American journalists and thousands of supporters, who were protesting the police confiscation of offensive newspapers, a practice that proved costly to publishers. The government justified its methods by saying the country was at war and cracked down on citizens who possessed documents deemed detrimental to national security.
***
Air Vietnam flight 706 took off from Da Nang bound for Saigon, but one of the passengers had other ideas. Hijacking the flight and demanding to go to Hanoi, he jeopardized the lives of the 75 souls on board. The pilot, attempting to land at Phan Rang Air Base, 200 miles north of Saigon, overshot the runway. He executed a go-around maneuver to set up a second approach, which also failed. All 75 aboard perished in the ensuing crash.
If you want to read more of Karen’s stories about the year leading up to the Fall of Saigon you can buy her book on Amazon.
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