Three years after we immigrated to Norway and were somewhat settled in employment for us and schooling for the kids, I organized a family trip around Europe by car. My old Ford, both old and small, would not survive a 7,000 mile trip nor accommodate a family of eight. I rented a brand new, eight-seat car, with air conditioning and tinted windows. I did not want anything to get in the way of our first big trip visiting countries I had dreamt of but never thought one day would be visiting in person. I shared the driving with my elder son who just turned seventeen and newly obtained his driver’s license. My wife and my oldest daughter were in charge of tracking the map and monitoring directions.
During the first week we greatly enjoyed new lands that we had barely known from books. After a day of crossing peaceful Sweden and Danmark, we got to Hamburg, a big city in northern Germany. Germany was still split in two countries during that time, and our arrival at the borders felt tense. Fully armed police, wearing steely looks on their faces, reminded me of Hitler in a weekly miniseries on Norwegian TV. As I had just escaped from the war and imprisonment in my home land, and was granted a chance for resettlement in a country that awards the Nobel Peace prize to mankind, I certainly would not want any suffocation from Hitler’s homeland. Consequently, after Hamburg, I made a turn for The Netherlands. The Netherlands is a land with legendary characteristics: its below-sea- level altitude, the longest dam in the world, which is also a freeway crossing the Zuiderzee inlet. Driving on this dam gives one the impression of crossing the sea. This is also a country known for its tulips, windmills, and picturesque canals.
The next day we went to Luxemburg, and then finally France. This final destination was the highlight of the trip. I planned half the time of the trip, almost all the two remaining weeks, for the country that I hated as a child when learning history, but that I loved when studying literature. The Eiffel Tower on the romantic Seine, the old Notre Dame de Paris, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Luxembourg Garden where lovers meet, etc.
After a week in Paris, we headed to southern France to visit Nice on the shore of the Mediterranean, near Cannes, where filmmakers and actors and actreeses meet every year, and not too far away, Monaco with casinos and romantic love stories of princesses . Ten days spent in this region somehow lifted my mood from memories of past misery and headaches happening daily on this trouble-laden earth. Leaving Nice, we headed back to Paris before returning to Norway. The summer air was hot. My wife and daughters suggested driving during the night to get some fresh air and also to look at night lights from cities we passed. Glancing at the map, I decided we could make a stop at Grenoble and then make a turn onto Geneva, Switzerland. That would give us a chance to visit the famous place where the infamous treaty was signed to bind my country in misery. As if back on the battlefield of yore, I gathered my family to assign combat orders. We would not take highway 85 but would take a small road heading to Grenoble. I personally double checked the map and left the driving to my son.
We left Nice at 7:00 p.m. Over three hours from the departure point, I found out it was a mistake to take this short cut. We were passing some woods and vast wheat fields without seeing any human beings. While dozing off and on, I suddenly noticed smoke from the front of the car. I immediately waved to my son to stop and hurried the family out of the car. Smoke clouded the front of the car. My heart stopped. For years, in Viet Nam as well as in Norway, all I could do with cars was taking the wheel and filling up the tank. I knew nothing else about mechanical work. After the smoke diffused somewhat and the cap no longer felt hot, I lifted it and told my son to shine a flashlight on the engine. I did all that for formality’s sake, for I knew nothing about how engines work. Looking around a bit, I noticed something amiss. At last I knew what was missing: the timing belt was no longer there. All water had evaporated to the last drop. Seeing me walking back with the flashlight, my wife and daughters who were resting near the wheat field sat up. Upon my announcing that “the platoon” was going to spend the night there, my wife gave me a good scolding, the like of “it was no wonder you guys were defeated in the war, and don’t you dare blame it on the Americans who you said abandoned you, etc.”
I told the women of the family to get in the car and lock it, in case there were wild animals nearby. Turned out the women had a sharp tongue but were scared stiff. They obeyed my order immediately. My son and I walked ahead to see if there were any households in the vicinity. All was dark and calm. Around 1:00 a.m., even though I was half asleep, I heard a noise. It sounded like the humming of an engine, coming nearer and nearer. In a little while I saw a light coming from the wheat fields. A tractor! Who would be tillign the land at that time? Before my silent question was answered, the tractor stopped in front of us. In the dim light I saw a young man, probably a Frenchman, step down and approach us. I felt reassured as he did not look like a bad guy. He asked us in French, articulating each word as if he was afraid we would not undertand him if he spoke faster:
– Did you have engine problems? Do you need any help?
Although I took French as the first foreign language in school, it had become rusty with time. Having understood a few words, I spoke, gesticulating with signs to make myself clearer:
–Our timing belt broke and we ran out of water.
–Where are you from?
–We’re from Norway. We’re not from France. We were our way back from Nice when we ran into engine problems.
The man said it was too late for us to continue the journey. As his house was nearby, he offered to tow us to his place to pass the night. We could figure out what to do the next day, he said. I gladly accepted the offer. He gestured for us to get back in the car.
The tractor pulled the car with my family in it. It took about ten minutes to get us to the man’s place. I could discern a few big buildings under some big trees. The man led us to a large room and provided some mattresses and blankets. A little while later he brought in some bread, cheese, and a hot pot of coffee, then bid us good night.
We were not comfortable at this strange place, but exhaustion prevailed, and when we woke up it was broad daylight. The clock on the wall showed ten past eight. I opened the window to look out and realized that it was a good size farm. I hardly had time to wake my wife and kids when there was a knock on the door. The kind friend of last night showed me where the lavatory was and told us that he would be back in 45 minutes to treat us to breakfast.
When we sat down at breakfast, the man introduced his wife and two young children to us. The wife was a pretty woman, joyful, always smiling. She talked and made hand signs to my children.
–Are you people Vietnamese? The man asked while bringing the coffee cup to his lips.
–Wow, how do you know, as there are lots of Chinese, Koreans, Thais, and Japanese in the Scandinavian countries? I answered him with a question instead.
–I can’t speak Vietnamese but I understand a few words. My grandmother was Vietnamese. My mother was also born and raised in Vietnam. When my mother was still around, she was very homesick of Vietnam and told us about beautiful places over there. She particularly mentioned a city named Đà lạt. She said it was an enchanting place and that it had quite a few perfect places for lovers. Bless her soul, she passed two years ago, in a car accident together with my younger sister.
After breakfast, the man showed us the library. There was a big Vietnamese map on the wall. He pointed to Đà lạt that his mother often talked about to him and his sister when she was talking about her motherland.
We felt closer to this young man with some Vietnmese roots. He asked his wife to show us the dairy farm and fetch some fresh milk for us to try. In the meantime he would run to town to get a timing belt for us. My daughters were thrilled when shown by the hostess how to milk the cows. Then we were taken to a vineyard.
When we returned, the young man already fixed the car and was doing a test run. Upon seeing us, he gave a big smile and showed a thump-up. He turned off the engine and turned the key over to me. I was trying to reimburse him for the cost of the belt, but was interrupted by his invitation to spend a few more days at his farm. It had been a long time since he met some people from his motherland. The hospilatility of the young man, the beautiful countryside, and fresh milk and good wine were temptations enough, so my wife and daughters winked to me, signaling consent. I told the man that we could stay another night. We needed to hit the road by noon the third day.
It was a cool night after dinner. The man invited us to stroll over to the orange grove on the hill slopes. We felt as if we were setting foot on some fairy land. Orange trees on straitgh rows, laden with golden oranges, spread their fragance in the air over the whole area. In the middle of the orange grove was a little park with all sorts of flowers. Across from the park, on the crest of the hill was the family cemetery. We were invited to walk over to visit the gravesite of his parents and his younger sister. The three graves were simple but had a solemn beauty. On each gravestone was a picture of the deceased in a glass frame. I paid my respect in front of each grave, folding my arms and read silently the names engraved on the stone. When I came across the name of the mother “JACQUELINE CUVÉRO GAULTIER”, I startled a little. The name sounded somewhat familiar. She passed when she was 50. I took a long look at the picture. And I was thinking of someone.
When we were back at the house, I asked to see pictures of his parents when they were young. The man gladly showed us his family albums. My wife and daughters were busy looking at the wedding photos and admiring wedding dresses. I focused my attention on an older album of black and white photos that turned yellow with time. When I looked at the mother’s photos when she was young, especial one in which she was wearing short hair styled after the famous French singer Sylvie Vartan during her prime time, a cold sweat surged through me. Could it be she? Impossible! I suppressed the thought silently.
During the senior year in Võ Tánh High School in Nha Trang, I was not a brilliant student but nevertheless made it to college, the kind of bottom rank student barely making it to please my father, who raised me as a single father all my life.
During my first months in Saigon, I did not know anyone except a distant second cousin who was previously married to a French man. After his demise, she lived with her children of French & Vietnamese descents in the back of the phở shops Tàu Bay, Tàu Thủy on Lý thái Tổ Street. I did not know that the neighborhood had quite a few French-Vietnamese children, of both white and black races, who were fully cared for by the French government, from their daily living to education. Most of them were French citizens and were enrolled in French schools in Sài gòn or Đà lạt. I frequented this neighborhood on weekends. As a lonely new boy on the block without connections, I was glad my seond cousin introduced me to this group of youths. They were nice and carried themselves as French people. The eldest son of my second cousin, the leader of the group, assigned a young blonde girl with short hair and pretty eyes to teach me how to dance and be my dance partner at parties. I called her by the name the group gave her: Sylvie Vartan. I knew that they gave her the name of the French singer in jest and it was not her real name.
As a country boy with limited financial resources, I was not comfortable within the group and only joined them with my cousins a few times. Then I entered Thủ Đức Military Academy. On ensign day, I felt sad for not having family and friends come as did other cadets. My family and friends were in Nha Trang, no one was in Sài gòn. In the end I thought of the three children of my second cousin and invited them to attend the ceremony to pin the Alpha ensigns on my shoulder boards and to join the party afterwards. All three showed up at the ceremony and took along Sylvie Vartan too. They were all impressed with the academy and the military ceremony. They took a picture with me wearing my new Alpha ensigns.
Subsequently, during short leaves from the academy, I dropped in to visit them a few times. On graduation night, they also came. They then took me back to Sài gòn and threw a party in my honor, set up at Sylvie Vartan’s house. Her family did not live in the Lý Thái Tổ neighborhood but in a private, beautiful villa on a big street in Tân Định.
I did not see anyone from her family that night. I did see, however, a picture of her father taken with her mother in their younger years, and her current family picture, featuring her mother with her Vietnamese husband, another sister of mixed blood like Sylvie, and two other half siblings. Her mother was a beautiful woman, and her stepfather was a man with ample means, I guessed.
The party broke up at two in the morning. When saying goodbye, I was not sure whether it was because I did not know when we would see each other again, or because I was thinking of my uncertain future fighting in the jungles in the near future, I was almost in tears. Sylvie also looked at me with teary eyes. When guests were fetching coats and shoes, Sylvie took me to the back of the house, gave a photo of herself as a souvenir and all of a sudden, gave me a kiss on the cheek.
On the plane to my new combat post, I was thinking of her and pulled out her picture from my bag. She had lovely hair, and really looked like Sylvie Vartan. She wrote a short phrase on the back of the picture: “To you, with all my heart”. She also signed “Sylvie Vartan”, the nick name friends gave her.
As I thought of the unexpected kiss of the night before, I touched my cheek again and smelled a discrete fragrance. I smiled and thought, “indeed, as romantic as the French”.
As I joined my combat unit, the war on the highlands became fierce, when the Fulro montagnards uprising killed Vietnamese officers and government officials and occupied a few posts, especially in Quảng Đức and neighboring towns. When my unit was backing up the intense battlefield of Quảng Nhiên in Ban Mê Thuột, we received order to move to Phụng Dực Airfield and use civilian planes by Air Vietnam to land in Nhơn Cơ, an abandoned airfield 30 km from Quảng Đức currently controlled by the Special Force green berets. A green platoon leader just fresh out of school like me was no match for a situation of half us-half enemy battle never analyzed in military text books. I was at a loss. In the end, however, the Dân Thắng campaign achieved its success. My unit did not even fire a shot. The montagnard leaders, seeing themselves surrounded in all directions by our forces, in addition to being persuaded by our negotiators, ordered their men to drop weapons.
Stationed in a remote province, with people scattered in villages consisting mostly montagnards, young soldiers like me were lonely to tears. We all yearned for a transfer out. Nevertheless, my battalion was ordered to stay to protect the Đạo Nghĩa Development in a valley near the Cambodian border. Đạo Nghĩa was one of the developments founded by President ngô Đình Diệm to resettle immigrants from the north in 1954, and at the same time to serve as a strategic post.
I had served two years after graduation. Life of a soldier in a highland post was all hard work and loneliness. One day while on a watch in the middle of the jungle, among chippings from birds and howlings from monkeys, I could not help remisniscing my school days and thinking of faces of people I knew. Now and then I thought of the French-Vietnamese girl and pulled out her picture to look. I still did not know her real name. But it was not necessary. To what use? There was a wide gap between her and me. I was just a soldier, of humble origin, meeting death any moment. She was a girl of French descent, beautiful and aristocratic. We became acquainted; she liked me a little, a kind of romanticized encounter of a lady excited to meet a commoner. That was all.
After two years in Quảng Đức and a few battles, I was awarded a few medals and promoted to company captain. I was the youngest among company captains and the one with the least battlefield experience. My battalion commander remarked, “You still look like a college student even after two years in combat” before I led my company on a “solo” trip down to the low lands to lend support to Lâm Đồng Military Sector.
As soon as my convoy crossed the Lâm Đồng border, I received order from the military sector commander to go straight to Đại Ngà Bridge area to maintain security for the Corps of Engineers to mend bridges on National Route 20, from Sài gòn to Đà lạt, destroyed by mine by the VC two nights ago.
Upon arrival, I coordinated with a platoon of regional forces who had already been there and a unit of engineering corps just transferred down from Đà lạt to assign forces where needed. The company headquarter and the heavy weapon platoon, however, were posted on a tea plantation that was on a good altitude for defense and firepower support. Below from the plantation was the Đại Ngà Bridge, the longest bridge that was recently destroyed.
After the corps of engineers built some temporaty bridges, traffic flow resumed. As traffic had been held up a few days before, quite a few buses from Sài gòn showed up on their way to Đà lạt. As it was summertime, the Saigonese were heading to Đà lạt for summer vacation. For security, all buses entering the military zone were required to unload passengers to have their papers checked. The checkpoint was a wooden shack put up by the corps, manned by my company troops in coordination with three local police. Every day I went to inspect the bridge and usualy took a break at this checkpoint.
One afternoon, as the sun was setting, I was about to retun to my post when a string of buses arrived. “These must be the last buses from Sài gòn,” the policeman said to me. Among passengers who disembarked the buses to walk through the makeshift barbedwired gate, I noted a blonde girl in a dark gold skirt. When she showed her ID for inspection and looked up to the policeman, I recognized the face and ran out:
–Well, hello Sylvie Vartan. What brought you here?
My question was uttered on the spur of the moment. I then turned to the policeman, “the person is my family.“
The policeman returned the ID in French that he hardly understood.
The girl brightened with a smile on her face:
–You are Ninh, aren’t you? We have not seen each other for a few years. I come to Đà lạt to take my young sister to Sài gòn for her school. She is at Lycée Domaine de Marie.
–My post is in the tea plantation on that high hill. I pointed my finger toward the plantation. It’s a beautiful plantation, probably owned by a French man. Please come visit. I will find the next bus for you to go to Đà lạt later.
After a moment of hesitation, she agreed. I escorted her to the bus and told the driver:
–This person is my family. She will stay for a while and go to Đà lạt later.
The young driver nodded and smiled knowingly.
She stayed with me that night. She probably knew that the bus she was on was the last one for the day. There would be no more buses to Đà lạt that day as I promised her, without my knowing that I was unintentionally telling a lie.
She was a beautiful flower in the dark jungle. I did not know what she said to the French owner. He set a room for her and invited us to dinner. The dinner was prepared French style, with some red wine that he ordered from France. After dinner, I took a stroll with her around the plantation. We held hands and walked blissfully in the moonlight. We could hear each other’s heart beats. She told me about her dreams: to return to her fatherland, visit his grave and her grandma who was still there with her aunts. Not only was her paternal country a beautiful place, it was also a country with romantic music and songs. We sat. We could hear the murmuring of water coming from a small creek. She asked me to stop and helped me sit down at the foot of the hill on the green grass. Across from the creek was a large meadow spreading to the horizon.
–Did you notice something unsual?
As I was at a loss, she pointed to the row of trees on the other side:
–We are in the middle of summer, but there were yellow leaves falling down. Don’t you see?
She lovingly moved closer to me and asked if I knew the poem Les Feuilles Mortes by Jacques Prevert.
–I learned that poem in my French literature class, but I have forgotten most of it except a few lines. It was a beautiful and touching poem.
Unknowingly I had changed pronouns to more intimate second person’s. She softly sang Les Feuilles Mortes. Then she slowsly recited a few verses:
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit Et “le vent” efface sur la “plaine” Les pas des amants désunis. (But life separates those who love each other Very slowly, without making any noise And “the wind” erases on the “plain” The footsteps of disunited lovers.)
I pointed out that she had changed the words in the poem. She did not reply, instead embraced me tightly and kissed me a long kiss. In my passion I noticed something cold on my cheeks. My touch told me it was tears.
She held me and sobbed. She said she had quite a few friends, but she was most impressed with me, since the day she saw me in military uniforms. She found in me something different from other French young men that she knew. She found in me an image of her father. He was in the armed forces, went far away from his country, and died an early death, leaving behind her mother and her and the younger sibling. “Wasn’t it a sad fate for mixed-raced children?” she asked the question a few times.
She did not spend that night in the luxurious bedroom set up for her by the plantation owner. She moved to my poncho tent. We had tea and talked all night. She invited me to go to Đà lạt with her for a few days so that she could make arrangements for her sister and we could visit enchanting attractions in Đà lạt.
The next morning I radioed my commander of the Lâm Đồng Military Sector asking for three days of leave and the use of the Sector’s jeep, with the excuse of “spending time with my fiancée who was coming to Đà lạt”. I made it more melodramatic by elaborating that as I was busy with combat the whole year, the two of us did not have a chance to be together. The kind-hearted commander gladly granted me permission after telling me to give a thorough briefing to my number two to take over my duties.
The three days in Đà lạt was the most wonderful time in my military career. After assiting her with required procedures for her younger sister, we booked into the Palace on the slope of a hill near Lake Xuân Hương, not too far from the Hòa Bình downtown area. During the day we bathed in Cam Ly Waterfall, visited Lake of Sighs, rode horses at Sân Cù, paddled boats on Lake Xuân Hương. At night we enjoyed dinners with char broiled veal and wine and went to Thủy Tạ and sat and talked until the late hours. The next day we left town. After enjoying coffee at Tùng’s coffee shop, we headed for the Prenn Waterfall. She showed me the way to a hotel on the mountains owned by a French innkeeper. After checking in, we walked to the Prenn Waterfall not too far below. She gently tugged me to guide me to the water to bathe in the pool.
We held each other tight in the cold water coming from the mountains. She took my hand and we ran into the woods to tease the monkeys, a bear, and even a tiger in the zoo. Then she hid, playing Jane for me to be Tarzan to come to her rescue. Then she roared and burst out laughing in the woods.
In three days, she gave me the happiest time and never asked for anthying in return. On the last day, I took her to Domaine de Marie to meet her sister. She was pensive and did not say a word durng the whole ride. At the entrance, she asked me to stop, turned around, and kissed me a long kiss. I heard her sobs. I was trying to say something, but she put a finger on her lips, telling me not to utter a word, and told me to stay in the jeep waiting. In about twenty minutes, she reappeared, put in my hand a small piece of paper, then ran away to the back of the school. She scribbled hurriedly on the piece of paper: “Thanks and farewell. My sister and I will go to Sài gòn tomorrow morning. Please stay at your post. Do not wait for me nor look for me. We might meet again sometime, somewhere. Kisses!”
I rushed out of the jeep, not knowing what to call her by, but she had disappeared behind the school. From the jeep I looked in pain at the school. All was quiet except the rustling of leaves from the trees in a straight row standing silently in front of the school.
I drove back to my post drowned in a deep melancholy. There was nothing but an utter void in me.
That whole night I wandered about on the hills, sitting alone by the side of a small creek, watching yellow leaves falling and sailing along the water, sparkling silver lights under the moonlight. At midnight I returned to the old tent, made a new pot of tea, but did not touch it.
I fell into a deep sleep without knowing. When I woke, the sun was shining high above. I hurried to drive to the checkpoint. I sat there the whole day but I did not see her.
Two days later, while changing, I turned my pocket inside out for the wash and suddenly found her French ID issued by the French Embassy. I remembered the policeman giving her ID to me but I forgot to return it to her. Now I knew her real name: Jacqueline Cuvéro.
Fortunately the ID had her address. I returned the ID to her by post. I enclosed four verses from her favorite poem Les Feuilles Mortes:
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle Sourit toujours et remercie la vie (Fallen leaves are collected with a shovel Memories and regrets too But my silent and faithful love Always smiles and thanks life)
I held my breath waiting for a reply, but none came. I wrote several more letters, none answered. Three months later, I took a seven-day leave and went to Sài gòn. Before going to look for her at her home, I stopped by my second cousin’s house and asked one of her sons to accompany me. They told me that the two sisters had immigrated to France two months ago. It was not known if they would return to Vietnam.
After wandering around Sài gòn for two days, I caught a bus to go to Nha Trang to visit my father. Every day I roamed the beaches, looking at the waves erasing my foot prints on the sand, and thought of her.
I returned to my unit just as the company received order to leave Lâm Đồng to go to Phan Thiết, providing reinforcement to the Bình Thuận Military Sector, and coordinating on a joint march with a new US calvary unit that just arrived in Vietnam to liberate the Lê Hồng Phong Sanctuary set up by the Vietcong.
Since that day, on the name tag sewn onto the pocket flap, a small type “Jacqueline” was embroidered in gold right below my name. My troops asked why I carried a female name. I made up a lame excuse that I was an admirer of President Kennedy’s wife.
The next morning my family was going to leave the enchanting Gaultier Farm for Norway. The host and hostess and their children were chasing turkeys. They wanted to treat us to a traditional French dinner. I wandered around the farm, in search of her traces.
In the afternoon, while my wife and children were in the living room watching a movie on TV, I slipped out alone and headed to the orange grove and the cemetery.
I sat alone in front of her grave for a long time, living again the time when she was with me at the tea plantation near the Đại Ngà Bridge where we roamed all over the area, on the lake, at the Prenn Waterfall, and in the woods of Đà lạt.
A rustling wind came. A few yellow leaves slowsly fell down onto her grave.
My hand caressed her picture, and I whispered:
Et la chanson que tu me chantais Toujours, toujours je l’entendrai. ! (And the song you sang for me Always, always, I will listen.)
