Threatened by Morning Light

Saigon in June 1974

I am happy to welcome back the memoir writing of Karen Kaiser, the librarian at the school I attended in Saigon in 1974-75. This excerpt from Gardens in the Midst of War: Saigon 1973-1975, brings to life circumstances and memories that escaped my 8-year-old’s understanding but that surely impacted me nonetheless.

CHAPTER 18: THREATENED BY MORNING LIGHT | JUNE 1974

The People’s Army of North Việt Nam fired rockets into Biên Hòa Air Base, destroying five hundred napalm canisters but no aircraft. Runways received minor damage. Stray rockets exploded in hamlets surrounding the base, killing and wounding civilians. 

The familiar sound of the explosions carried sixteen miles to the villa on Nguyễn Đình Chiểu Street, startling Steve and me awake. 

“That sounded close,” I muttered.

“Yeah, it did. Probably nothing to worry about,” Steve reassured me. “Go back to sleep.”

But sleep wouldn’t block out the rocket fire. 

What are we doing in this place?

***

The American Women’s Association of Sài Gòn offered me the chairmanship of the Program Committee.

As such, I would be responsible for planning and coordinating monthly events for the organization. I suspected AWAS offered me the job because I was a new member. Those with more experience didn’t want it. 

Thankless job … Time-consuming… It could be interesting. 

I gave the idea a few days to gel and accepted, anyway.  

After only eleven months in Sài Gòn, I needed help building a portfolio of program ideas. I debated with myself for a few days, then decided to go directly to the top and ask the advice of Dorothy Martin, wife of Ambassador Graham Martin. 

She’s one of us, isn’t she? So why not?  Who better to advise me on the ins and outs of organizing events here?

One afternoon, I paid a visit to the ambassador’s residence. A maid answered my knock, and I asked to speak with Mrs. Martin. 

“You wait here,” the maid said, indicating the foyer. “I go tell Madame.”

The polished tile floor reflected light from the stunning chandelier overhead. Colorful artwork pulled me in. A riot of flowers spilled from a large white vase decorated with swimming goldfish.

After a few minutes, a small, elegant woman with a halo of white hair and warm Southern manners entered the room. A flicker of surprise crossed her face at her unexpected visitor, especially one she’d never met. A true diplomat, she recovered quickly.

“I’m Dorothy Martin,” she said, extending her hand. “How can I help you?”

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said after introducing myself. “I won’t take up much of your time. AWAS asked me to be Program Chairman. I’m relatively new here and need help getting started. I hope you can offer ideas on how to go about organizing events. Maybe even suggest some program ideas.” 

“All right, let’s sit and talk. Would you like tea?”

She invited me into a large, bright, high-ceilinged space furnished with cool white overstuffed sofas and chairs. Oriental antiques and art sat on carved stands around the room—hand-painted urns, gilded figurines, lacquerware. The room mesmerized and terrified me at the same time. I prayed I wouldn’t accidentally break something.

Gracious and kind, Mrs. Martin spent an hour discussing a few possibilities over tea. The meeting went well. A few days later, one of the embassy wives let me know that I had committed a serious faux pas. One does not just drop in on the ambassador’s wife and especially not to ask for help planning programs. 

The floor seemed to slip out from under me. How naïve of me. Embarrassed and confused over being reprimanded, I felt the criticism was unjustified. Mrs. Martin hadn’t appeared displeased, only surprised. She could have declined to speak with me. I took the criticism for what it was and forgave myself. 

The lease on our villa would end in little more than a month. After weeks of searching independently, neither Steve nor I had found anything but rat traps. Pressure mounted.

We explained our dilemma to church friends Jeannie and Burt Foote during dinner one night in their cozy two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. They lived on the second floor of a five-story apartment building along a quiet lane off busy Kỳ Đồng street. In the States, it would have been referred to as the third floor, but the ground floor didn’t count as the first floor.

“There’s a unit one floor up for rent … same layout,” Jeannie said. “Come, I’ll show you around our little hideaway.”

The space offered good-sized rooms, although far fewer than the villa. There was even a small room off the dining room that could be a place for ironing or sewing. It was charming.

“What do you think?” Steve asked, raising his eyebrows at me to emphasize the question. “Will this do?”

“I like it,” I said. “It’s the best we’ve found.  Who do I talk to?” 

“That would be Monsieur Allard, the owner,” said Jeannie. “He lives next door. He’s not always in town, but you can stop by his house. You might catch him. By the way, how’s your French? He doesn’t speak English.” 

Oh, boy! Renting this apartment depends on how much I want it. Am I brave enough to do this on my own?

The next day, I found myself in the lane off Kỳ Đồng street again. M. Allard’s bungalow was easy to identify. Masses of bougainvillea vines spilled over the walls, dropping their luminous magenta blossoms like confetti. Oddly, the gate stood open. The unmistakable citrusy-sweet scent of Frangipani’s porcelain-like white flowers drew me into the garden like a siren’s song. A tall jackfruit tree, its exotic, knobby green fruit hanging in clumps like enormous grapes, shaded the front porch where a cat sunned itself. 

Have I left Saigon? Am I in a Disney movie?  

I moved slowly through the garden, taking in the scents and visions surrounding me. When I returned to the dusty streets outside, I wanted to remember the most exotically beautiful place I’d ever seen. 

M. Allard opened the door before I had a chance to knock. He had that elegantly casual look perfected by the French, and I stared into the handsome face of a tall, fifty-something gentleman with dark hair progressing to gray. 

I introduced myself and asked about the apartment. With the manners of a cultured aristocrat, he invited me into a large front room filled with plants and antiques. Light filtered through Bahama shutters. Fans whirled. With a gesture and a slight bow, M. Allard offered me a seat, then signaled a servant to bring us tea. I wanted to get right to the point, but clearly, pleasantries had to be observed before we could talk business. 

He asked how I liked living in Sài Gòn, how long I’d been in town, if I was married, how I spent my time. I mentioned Jeannie and Burt to let him know that I hadn’t just wandered in off the street. 

After we’d finished our tea, M. Allard and I walked next door to see the apartment—seven small rooms, tile floors, no telephone. The front door opened into a dining room with a table, six chairs, and a buffet. To the left, almost hidden from view, an arch opened into the unfurnished living room, tucked out of sight like a treasure. 

Through the galley kitchen, to the right of the entrance, a back door opened onto a catwalk with a spiral staircase at one end that led to the maid’s quarters behind the building. 

French doors accessed a narrow balcony protected by a thick wire screen at the end of the dining room. A clothesline crisscrossed one end. From the balcony, I had a view of rooftops and trees. I could make out the Presidential Palace to the south if I stood on my toes. 

Opposite the front door, double doors set in a second archway provided privacy for the two bedrooms and bath beyond. A small room next to the kitchen would become a place for Muoi to iron and for me to sew. Plain white walls begged for character, and I couldn’t wait to begin supplying it. 

We returned to M. Allard’s bungalow and completed the transaction. I left with a new home leased on a month-to-month basis. The space would work, and the unit looked well maintained, although dated, adding to its charm. 

Elated, I couldn’t wait to tell Steve about my success in managing a small conversation and renting an apartment in French. I felt almost like a native Saigonaise. Almost. 

“We got the apartment,” I told Steve. “Lots easier for Muoi.” I babbled on and on in excitement, describing all the rooms and plans for decorating the place. When I finally stopped to breathe, Steve had news for me.

“Patty came to see me at work today,” he said. 

The amazing Patty, our first cook. She always said she’d return to work for us if we moved into a smaller place.

“How did she know where you work? What did she want?”

“Don Smail told their cook, Wong, we were moving to the apartment. Wong’s a friend of Patty’s, and he passed along the office address to her. She wants to come back to work for us … and she’s pregnant. She thinks she’ll be ready to start work again in January.”

“Wouldn’t it be great to have her back? But do we need two maids in the apartment? What about Muoi?” 

“Let’s wait ‘til we get there to decide. I told Patty to contact us when she’s ready.”

That new information presented an impossible choice. We planned to move in early July and bring Muoi with us. Maybe by then, I’d know what to do.

To celebrate our new home and Steve’s thirtieth birthday, I organized a surprise party for him. All our friends came to share cake. It was our last party in the villa.

The small group of American women in my class at the Institut français met for lunch at Restaurant Ramuntcho, a cozy French bistro on Lê Lợi street. Commanding the middle of the street opposite the restaurant stood a large, crudely executed monument depicting two Marines engaging an enemy in combat. Expats nicknamed it the “Push Me, Pull You” statue. It served as a landmark for the restaurant. 

“Push Me, Pull You” war memorial statue, Sài Gòn 1974

(Photo credit: Bill Mullin, Flickr Pro)

Our group included Tini, wife of the Director of the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce; Sara, an American married to the Commerce Attaché at the American Embassy; Jean, an American missionary here with her husband, Steve, and children; and Linette, wife of an Air America pilot. We asked to be seated on the second floor in the less crowded dining room, where larger tables accommodated all of us. 

“Nice place,” said Linette. “I’ve never been here before. What’s good?”

“Langoustines with Chantilly cream are my favorite,” I told her. “But everything’s good here. We like the relaxed atmosphere.”

“When are you moving?” Sara asked me.

“First of next month. Steve hired Bekins to pack everything,” I told her.

“Did you have to pay a year in advance?” asked Jean. 

“No, month-to-month,” I answered.

“Smart move,” Jean said. “Honestly, we’re beginning to wonder how much longer we can stay.”

“Does Tony hear anything at the embassy about those explosions in the night?” I asked Sara. 

“My husband doesn’t talk about work. Unfortunately.” She answered. “I wish I had something reassuring to tell you.”

The space served no other diners until two well-dressed gentlemen arrived and settled at a table near the stairs. I recognized one of the men as the owner of the restaurant. His companion seemed familiar in a distant sort of way. He wore a black suit. His bald head almost glowed with sweat, yet he projected a confident, self-assured image. From their demeanor, I could tell they had serious business to discuss. 

Suddenly it clicked. The bald gentleman looked exactly like film star Yul Brynner, who may be best known for portraying the King of Siam in The King and I opposite Deborah Kerr.

My camera sat on the table, but I hesitated to use it. I’d need a flash and didn’t want to risk intruding on their privacy. After all, he had chosen to sit upstairs, away from prying eyes. 

“Don’t look now,” I whispered across the table. “I think that’s Yul Brynner over there.” Of course, everyone looked.

“I’m going to find out,” said Linette. She stood up and walked toward the powder room, pausing at the table by the stairs.

“Excuse me,” she said, “aren’t you Yul Brynner?” 

“No,” he replied sarcastically, “I’m Shirley Temple.”

And just like that, one of my favorite film stars fell from grace. Later I read that Mr. Brynner had been in Sài Gòn to finalize the adoption of a Vietnamese orphan, his daughter, Mia. 

L – R: Tini, Jean, Karen, Linette, Sara, Restaurant Ramuntcho, Saigon, 1974

***

The Defense Attaché to South Vietnam, Major General John E. Murray, criticized the Pentagon for reducing military aid to South Việt Nam and predicted that without more support, the country could never survive a major attack. He believed the U.S. should “write off South Việt Nam as a bad investment and [a] broken promise.” 

CIA Station Chief Polgar and Ambassador Martin believed the Army of the Republic of [South] Việt Nam to be in good shape. Others in the embassy thought the opposite. The Army was in serious trouble.  

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this essay, please like, comment, share, or subscribe. These free weekly “Stories of Vietnam,” offer a historical and personal glimpse into the Vietnam Era as we approach the 50th Anniversary of the End of the Vietnam War.

I am the author of For the Love of Vietnam. I lived in Saigon when I was eight years old, the daughter of a CIA official involved in propaganda. My book tells the story of my family’s experiences there as well as my father’s evacuation of 1000 at the very end of the war. Kat-Fitzpatrick.com.