The Eaves of Heaven (20 page)

During the summer of 1955, Diem’s faction was preparing a referendum to overthrow Bao Dai and establish Diem, a Catholic, as head of state, in a campaign openly endorsed by the church. Dung’s father worked as a paid grassroots organizer in Diem’s political machine and later recruited his son into the group. Dung quickly became a Diem fanatic and star promoter who brought politics into our high school even though most students weren’t old enough to vote.

During the first two months of our senior year, Dung rarely attended a full day of class. He was shuttled in and out of school like an important courier, picked up and dropped off by adult drivers in shiny cars. The teachers frowned, but dared not reprimand him. The rest of us sat miserable in our stifling classroom and thought how sweet it would be to thumb our noses at the teachers the way Dung did. There wasn’t a single one of us who wouldn’t trade places with him.

He was a natural leader with a talent for winning key figures over to his side. It wasn’t difficult since Chu Van An was the most prestigious of the high schools set up for refugee boys. If some of the students and teachers weren’t pro-Diem, most of them, being northerners, were certainly anti-Communists. Dung had plenty of money, food, drinks, and even girls—party members from the girls’ schools. He made political activism hip, and we scrambled to volunteer in the campaign, march at rallies, and scuffle with Communist sympathizers at every opportunity.

In Saigon, Election Day for an interim government came like a festival. Diem swept up 98 percent of the votes amidst charges of widespread fraud and intimidation. At our school, Dung threw a lavish party at the teachers’ lounge one evening and invited the faculty, girls from our sister school, and fifty of us who had contributed the most to the campaign. In spite of the school’s strict ban on alcohol, Dung made sure there was plenty of 33 beer. The schoolmaster had no choice but to turn a blind eye. Many teachers drank and mingled with the students at the swell back-patting event with Dung as the star.

During the celebration, Dung took me aside. We went out and stood in the courtyard to sip our beers, thumbs hooked on our belts like adults. It was a splendid feeling to be on the winning side for once.

“Thong, I wanted to thank you for helping us with the speeches. They were fantastic.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just doing my bit.”

“You were a real player at that last rally. Thanks for standing with the team. We gave those Communist sympathizers a good beating, didn’t we?” He laughed and patted me on the back.

“You threw the first punch.”

“No, I didn’t.” He grinned. “I smacked that fool over the head with my picket sign.”

We chuckled, and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “We can really use a man like you. You’re one of the top students in our class. They look up to you. I want you to be one of our core team members.”

Schools at the time still practiced the French method of ranking all the students in the same year, from the top scorer to the lowest. The system created competition through segregation and effectively fostered an air of prestige and mystique around the best students. Student body council membership, club presidencies, and sports team captaincies were posts that went naturally, like prizes, to the top academics.

“Thanks, Dung. That’s fantastic. You know I’m always there for the rallies. I truly want to join, but I don’t think I can take any more time away from my family’s noodle shop.”

“A core team member must dedicate himself to the work.” He nodded solemnly. “You know, there are enough perks to offset your not helping out with your family’s restaurant. Think it over.”

Dung was referring to each core team member’s stipend and share of all the freebies and goodies the government organizers doled out to grassroots groups. Smiling, he winked and shook my hand like a real politician.

W
E
all had high expectations for Dung. Even the teachers thought he was on a stellar trajectory to government appointments. Dung had street smarts and was very adept at motivating people. As the political leader at one of the most prestigious schools in Saigon, he was also a de facto leader for all the groups from other schools. He had successfully mobilized and led Diem’s young but very visible and vociferous support group.

After the referendum to remove emperor Bao Dai from power, Dung quickly fell back into anonymity. The political organizers stopped picking him up from school. Dung’s political funds dwindled to nothing. His core team disintegrated. The months passed, and we busied ourselves with exams. Dung was still popular, but without a clear purpose, he grew irrelevant.

Once installed, Diem initiated a swift campaign to eliminate the remnants of the Communist party in the South. Within a few months, tens of thousands of South Vietnamese farmers suspected of being Communist sympathizers were rounded up and interrogated. Many were jailed or sent to re-education camps. Although the U.S. had already signaled to the world that it would renege on the Geneva Accord and cancel the scheduled election to reunite the country, the South Vietnamese still hoped for a miracle, believing the Americans and Diem would yield to international pressure. Public protests cropped up in Saigon and other major cities where Diem couldn’t exercise drastic measures due to the presence of international bodies. As the July 20, 1956, deadline for the general election drew near, the political atmosphere in Saigon was intensely charged. Every week there was at least one major demonstration. With the foreign press on hand at every event, Diem couldn’t use police force, so groups such as Dung’s were summoned to stage counter-protests.

Suddenly Dung was back in the local limelight. This time he received even stronger support from the student body because we suspected that most South Vietnamese were likely to elect Ho Chi Minh simply because they disliked Diem and his cronies. As refugees and survivors of Communist atrocities, we felt it was our duty to educate the public about the real faces of the Communists. Despite looming graduation exams, we plunged into the campaign. Every time anti-government groups staged a protest, Dung and his organizers sounded the battle cry and we would pile into the waiting convoy of trucks to be transported to the demonstration site. The trucks were always loaded with snacks and drinks, as well as an ample supply of rocks, bottles, and sticks. We were ready to brawl at a moment’s notice.

Swollen with pride and purpose, we became messengers of true knowledge. We stormed the town in government cars, loudspeakers blasting slogans, tossing leaflets out the windows, howling with a glee that had nothing to do with politics. We plastered Diem’s chubby face on windows and walls. Without realizing it, we became Diem’s little henchmen.

Like rival gangs, we clashed with any group that opposed us, fighting in the usual places, Ben Thanh Market or the municipal theater, at either end of Le Loi Boulevard. The casualties were numerous, but that thinned neither our ranks nor theirs. The demonstrations and the ensuing fights intensified as the Geneva Accord deadline neared. Our opponents were desperately appealing to the international media and foreign diplomats. Our mission was to silence them.

We beat each other silly, vying for the world’s attention.

I was too young to realize that it would make no difference.

I
T
was early June when Dung received emergency summons to organize a counter-protest. His political handlers sent a convoy to pick us up from school. We piled onto the flatbed trucks, jammed shoulder to shoulder like cattle, excited at the prospect of a good fight. Thu distributed armbands, strips of fabric torn from a yellow cloth, so we wouldn’t mistakenly attack our own members in the heat of battle. Cam, Dung’s second lieutenant, chanted slogans over the loudspeakers. Swaying from side to side, we clung to each other, howling and hooting as the trucks caromed across Saigon to the city center. Above us, a blistering sun.

The trucks dumped us in front of the municipal theater, where several of our associate groups had already gathered. A thousand demonstrators and counter-demonstrators packed the plaza, with twice as many spectators gathering nearby. The cacophony of chants between the two factions sent thrilling shivers down my spine. Dung howled and lobbed a bottle high over the heads of the crowd into the center of the protesters. We poured from the trucks and merged with our faction. Our side began to encircle the protesters. As usual, the police stood far off, pretending not to notice that fighting had broken out.

Our mission, as rehearsed many times, was to neutralize the protesters. When they started moving toward the Hotel Majestic at the corner of Tu Do Street and Ben Bach Dang, Dung led the core teams in an attempt to block their path. With the South Viet Nam flag draped over his shoulders like a cape, he charged the marchers, brandishing a long stick. For a small guy, he had a lot of guts and never failed to lead the paid members into the thick of a fight.

I saw Thu moving away with another group to attack the protesters from the flank. He shouted at me, but his words were drowned out by the cacophony. I waved him onward and joined up with another group. The fight was gaining momentum.

It felt like heat, but a sense of madness had descended over us. Bottles, rocks, shoes, sticks, boxes—anything small enough to be thrown—were hurled in all directions. Nearby spectators were pounded with barrages of debris. Suddenly the gap between our side and theirs closed, and I found myself throwing punches. There were no single opponents; we struck at whoever was in front of us.

A man grabbed the collar of my shirt and I hammered my fist into his face. I had stopped thinking. My fists were fighting all the fights the child-me had been unable to fight. I was defending this last stand of freedom. An animal of fury rose inside of me. It howled in my ears, sent jolts of energy through my arms, made rocks of my fists.

Something cracked against my back. I turned. A middle-aged man had struck me with his picket sign. A roar rolled from my throat. I smashed my elbow into his face. I pounded him until he fell, then turned to another enemy.

Power surged through me in rapid, violent pulses; I reveled in a chaos that was swathed in yellow and red ribbons.

A rock struck a glancing blow off my head.

I heard a dull hum—a sound that reminded me of the sea. Then I was leaning against a wall, my head throbbing. The fight swept onward; the street was strewn with broken placards and trampled signs. It seemed unfortunate to me that our faction was mostly northerners and theirs was mostly southerners. I liked southerners. They were easygoing and hospitable. They had warmly received us northern refugees with open arms, making us feel welcome in their neighborhoods. I doubted we would have given them the same treatment in the North had the situation been reversed.

A girl slumped down on the curb near me. There was blood on her face. It stained her white
ao dai.
Too bad the dress was ruined, I thought. She had the round dark face of a southern girl. She was sobbing like a child, inconsolable.

I slipped off my armband and let it fall to the ground. I wanted to say something to her, but I didn’t know what to say. And I was ashamed, though I did not know why.

A deafening explosion—a bomb. I felt the thump in my chest. Up the street, a clearing appeared in the crowd. Gray smoke permeated the air with the bitter tang of gunpowder. Screams rose and swelled into a long keening crescendo as the crowd turned and fled. They fled empty-handed, dispersing in all directions. Some bolted into stores nearby. A wave of people rolled back toward the theater square. They pushed and shoved, tripping over each other, with terror on their faces. Discarded on the streets were banners, placards, and weapons. Opponents ran shoulder to shoulder, the fight forgotten.

Panicking, I struggled against the instinct to flee along with the crowd. Where were my friends? Torn, I stood still, my back against the concrete wall amid the pandemonium. A young man stumbled past, supported on both sides by friends. His shirt was soaked red.

The street cleared within moments. Blood and bodies marked the blast area. The injured wailed and moaned. Someone raised a bloodied arm beckoning for help. A few managed to get to their feet and limped away. Bystanders lingered at a distance, not daring to approach as if fearing another explosion.

The police finally emerged and walked through the carnage. They didn’t offer assistance to the wounded but instead began cordoning off the area.

I recognized Cam staggering out of the blast area and grabbed him by the shoulders. He was covering a wound on his arm with his good hand, blood dribbling down his right side.

“Where’s Dung?” I asked.

Cam looked dazedly at me. I repeated the question, and he nodded in the direction of the blast. “Over there.”

“Is he alive?”

Cam shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. The bomb was right on top of him.”

“What about Thu and the others?”

“I…I have to go.” Cam sobbed, his face blanching as he hurried away.

Ambulances arrived, followed by a fire crew. I waited to see if I could recognize Dung when the paramedics carried him to the ambulance. More police came in patrol cars and began grabbing people for questioning. That was when all the bystanders started running.

N
O
one claimed responsibility for the first-ever bomb to be unleashed on demonstrators. The homemade device had injured more than fifty people.

Dung had shrapnel in his chest, abdomen, arms, and face. He lost one eye and was lucky to be alive. Dung never recovered from his injuries. The Geneva Accord deadline passed while he languished in the hospital. Dung failed his graduation exam and faded from view.

“Y
OU
want to see my eye?” Dung said.

Before I could decline, he removed his sunglasses. His chubby face swelled over the empty socket like rising dough, narrowing the hole. The lazy eyelid fell down and reduced the opening to an eerie black slit. It was his winking eye.