Escape from Saigon (10 page)

At three
A.M.
, after nearly nine hours of waiting, she heard her name called. She was rushed aboard a small plane. She collapsed into a seat, and moments later, the plane lifted into the air. Once the plane was out of range of the rockets bursting around them, she looked out a window. She could see fires burning all around the city.

“I did not even know where we were flying to,” she says. “I had no family left in Vietnam, but I had no one anywhere else, either. When I realized I had escaped, I was overcome with both joy and sorrow. I was all alone. I no longer had my daughter or my country, and I did not know if I could stand to live in the world without them.”

*   *   *

On April 29, the American embassy finally began Operation Frequent Wind, the official evacuation of Americans still in Saigon. When the American radio station played “White Christmas,” followed by the announcement that “the temperature in Saigon is 105 degrees and rising,” Americans knew to hurry to their assigned evacuation sites.

The streets of downtown Saigon were cluttered with abandoned cars, clothing, and suitcases dropped by desperate people still hoping to escape. Discarded uniforms of soldiers, who had deserted the South Vietnamese army and now were trying to blend in with the general population, littered the landscape. Rioting and looting were creating destruction throughout the city.

It had become too dangerous for planes to leave from the airport. Helicopters were the best way out. They could land on flat roofs and needed no runway to take off. One helicopter evacuation site was the roof of the American embassy. Frantic Vietnamese mobbed the walled embassy compound, begging to be evacuated. American marines had to beat them back or even threaten to shoot them so arriving Americans could get inside.

Desperate Vietnamese try to scale the fourteen-foot wall surrounding the U.S. Embassy, hoping to be evacuated by helicopter from the embassy roof

Americans, other foreign nationals, and select Vietnamese lucky enough to make it to the embassy roof were crammed into helicopters and flown to U.S. Navy aircraft carriers waiting miles away in the ocean. One after another, throughout the afternoon and evening of April 29, helicopters landed and took off from the embassy roof, filling the air with the
whup-whup-whup
sounds of their whirring blades.

*   *   *

On April 30, 1975, the world awoke to the news that South Vietnam had surrendered. The long war was over. Very early that morning, the last remaining American marines boarded the final helicopter, carrying with them the American flag that had flown over the embassy. The Americans were safely out of the city. Left behind were thousands and thousands of terrified Vietnamese who had counted on their American friends to take them along.

Several hours later, North Vietnamese tanks rolled through the silent streets of Saigon. Instead of a bloodbath, over the next few months, tens of thousands of South Vietnamese who had opposed the North were rounded up and sent to “re-education camps,” where they suffered terrible hardships. Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City in honor of the North's longtime revolutionary leader. A curtain of silence descended upon the newly reunited Vietnam, closing it off from the West.

*   *   *

Lan was taken to Clark Air Force Base, in the Philippines, then several weeks later was flown to Camp Pendleton, in California. Thousands of Vietnamese refugees were there, waiting for American sponsors who would help them start new lives in the United States. Still grieving for her daughter, Lan called the Holt office in Oregon to report that she had made it to the United States.

Then a miracle occurred. Lan learned that Holt had not yet placed Tai with an adoptive family. She was still in foster care.

“She's with a family in San Francisco,” they told Lan. “She'll be waiting for you.”

Lan will never forget the best moment of her life, when her plane landed in San Francisco in June 1975 and she ran to embrace her daughter, Tai—a heartbroken little girl, who, until that moment, had thought her mother was dead.

10

A R
EAL
A
MERICAN
B
OY

As soon as he met them, Long felt at home with the Steiners. They called him Matt. This took a while to get used to, but he willingly accepted it. The name Long would be part of his past. Now he was Matthew Ray Steiner, Matt for short.

His first night with the Steiners, he slept sixteen straight hours. When he awoke, he was famished. Mary Steiner said later that for the first few weeks, her new son's appetite was ravenous. She was a good cook, and because she had lived in both Thailand and Vietnam, she knew how to prepare foods Matt liked, though he still added hot sauce to everything.

To his surprise, he was a media celebrity. People already knew who he was because of the widely reprinted article by the reporter who had interviewed him at the Holt Center. Cards and letters from well-wishers all over the country began arriving at the Steiner home. Television and newspaper reporters came for interviews.

“Matt loved it,” recalls his mother. “It was a little harder for Dan, Doug, and Jeff to see this new family member getting so much attention, but they were good sports.”

Matt immediately took to his new brothers, especially Doug, who was fifteen. “He went out of his way for me,” Matt says. “As soon as I arrived, he gave me a toy truck and played with me. He took me under his wing.”

Ironically, it had been Doug who had voiced concerns about his parents adopting a child. “But Doug was born in South Vietnam and maybe that's why the two became close friends,” Mary Steiner says.

Gradually Matt grew close to Dan and Jeff. “We had our ups and downs, as any brothers do,” Matt says, “like the time Jeff said something that made me mad and I threw a sandwich at him, making a mess on the floor. We did stuff like that. But mostly we got along fine.”

Long, now known as Matt, with his new family, the Steiners, two weeks after arriving in America

The Steiners thought Matt would know very little English and were surprised that he could handle simple communication. They also were surprised that he knew how to tie the shoelaces on his first pair of sneakers. Matt remembered the day his friend Ky had taught him this strange skill, and now he was glad that he had spent time learning it.

He eagerly wore the clothes they bought him, willing to do anything that made him look more American—though these clothes took some getting used to. “In Vietnam, I wore shorts and a shirt every day. I never wore underwear. Often I was barefoot. Now I had to wear shoes and socks and underwear, and then layer on a T-shirt, an outer shirt, a sweater, and finally a coat. I had never experienced cold weather, and had to get used to it. The first time I saw snow, I was excited and mystified. My mom explained that every flake had a unique pattern. I couldn't get over that. I spent a lot of time trying to catch the flakes so I could examine them.”

The Steiners' home was average in size but seemed huge to Matt, who had always lived in small, crowded spaces. Until he could get used to being alone in his own bedroom at night, he shared a room with thirteen-year-old Jeff. That still wasn't enough company for Matt. For the first few nights, he found his way to his new parents' bedroom, wanting to sleep on the floor by them, only to have them gently steer him back to his own bed.

Then there was the family dog, Moose, a mix of German sheepdog and collie. The few small dogs Matt remembered from his mother's village were not pets and never went into anyone's house, but Moose went anywhere he wanted. And the moment he saw Matt, he bounded over, ready to play. Matt drew back in fear. Gradually he realized that the dog just wanted to bestow sloppy kisses on him. Before long, Matt and Moose were good friends.

Matt's new brothers loved sports. They were eager to introduce him to all sorts of outdoor activities, especially golf, which everyone in the family played. Within days of his arrival, Matt knew how to hold and swing a golf club. Soon he was an avid player, practicing his swing in the big yard surrounding the Steiners' house. That yard seemed vast to Matt, who was used to city streets and playing inside a walled courtyard. He grew to appreciate all the space once he mastered his brothers' three-wheeled motor scooter. This was better than a bicycle! He spent happy hours riding it, Moose running beside him.

Matt's new brothers, Dan, Doug, and Jeff, teach him how to play basketball

His first trip into West Liberty, Ohio, was a revelation. Most of the fifteen hundred residents already knew who he was and called him by name. At the grocery store, Matt was wide-eyed. This was no Saigon street market. Instead of live ducks and chickens, meat was packaged in plastic and ready to cook. There weren't many fruits and vegetables, at least not by Vietnamese standards. Where were the mounds of rice and potatoes, and all the fresh fish? Where were the coconuts you could cut a hole into in order to sip creamy milk through a straw? And nobody bargained over prices. Americans just paid whatever the sticker demanded.

Having a mother again was the best part of Matt's new life. Before he started school, he spent all his time with her, going with her on errands and helping her around the house. Mary read to him and worked with him on his reading and spelling. She did everything she could to help him understand his new life.

Matt took his time getting to know his new father. Jim Steiner understood this need and did not push. He was a man devoted to his family and to the practice of medicine, giving of his skills to help others. He believed in living simply. He had an inquisitive mind, and he talked to Matt about everything going on in his new son's life. He always made it clear how proud he was of Matt. Over time, Matt learned to love his father deeply.

“One day Dad invited me to go jogging with him, something he did regularly,” says Matt. “I became a runner and often went out with Dad. I prize those memories.”

It didn't take Matt long to feel like a full member of the family. All the boys had assigned chores and also helped their mother in the kitchen, setting the table and doing dishes. Matt went with his parents to sports events to cheer on his brothers, who played on various teams at school.

Along with his immediate family, Matt acquired aunts, uncles, cousins, and two grandmothers. “Both grandmas were wonderful cooks, and I loved going to their homes to visit,” Matt says. “Each of them accepted me, encouraged me, took a lot of interest in everything I was doing, and made me feel I was special to them.”

They also reminded him of his grandmother back in Vietnam, and that made him feel sad. Where was Ba? What had happened to her? Matt had no address for her or any way to contact her. Often he thought about Ba when he went to church on Sundays. He remembered the gentle Buddhist prayers he had learned from Ba when she would take him to the temple to pray for his mother's soul. The Buddhist faith emphasized helping others, especially the poor and homeless. The Steiners were Mennonites, a Christian religion that stressed simplicity and service to others. Matt saw similarities between the two religions. He found comfort in the Steiners' faith and soon embraced it as his own.