-CHAPTER EIGHTEEN-

Arrested!

My left foot was still hurting, and my left leg was still swollen. I decided to travel to Saigon and see the French doctors at the Grall hospital. Would the Vietcong Security Police give me permission to travel? I had misgivings. However, I rode into town on my bicycle, and stopped at the police station. When I asked permission to go to Saigon, they immediately became very angry, and arrested me on the spot without even an explanation. They threw me into a jeep, several heavily armed policemen jumped aboard, and we raced back to my Vihara. When we arrived I had to give them the key to the door. The Policemen entered without even taking off their shoes or hats (It is gross disrespect to enter a temple like this). One of the cops went into the shrine room and immediately broke open the offering box; much to his disappointment he found only spider webs inside. Other overeager cops ransacked my desk, closet and dresser. They took my stamp collection, and all of my precious manuscripts. One sallow faced character with eyes like a frog asked where my weapons were; as if Buddhist monks were in the habit of keeping weapons. He looked under the table, and in all corners, but was unable to find anything. Next he asked for my money. I showed him my wallet, which he grabbed out of my hands. It contained fifty thousand Vietnamese Piasters, 275 German Marks, 15 American Dollars, 10 Swedish Krone, and 50 Portuguese Escudos (and perhaps a few Indian Rupees) all in all, no great fortune. The cop grinned and put the money in his pocket. A civilian was with them, I found out later that he was the warden of the prison. After the cops had finished digging around the Vihara, we went outside and they locked the door. The civilian gave me my Buddhist Rosary, which I had left on the table, saying: "You are allowed to take this." I thought: "In spite of all the evil, there is, after all, a tiny spark of goodness in them." I was taken back to the jeep, this time without being handcuffed. Some of the workers on the mountain had seen my arrest, and that was good. Soon all Vung Tau would know of my arrest by the communists. Before the trip to the Vihara they had given me a blue American shirt, ordering me to take off my yellow robe. I understood that they didn't want anyone to know that they had arrested a Buddhist monk. On the way to the Vihara I saw a Theravada monk whom I knew very well, going on his alms round. As the jeep neared him, he glanced at us, but I was not sure that he had recognized. I was happy to see this monk once more, perhaps a good omen. Back at the police station I saw my bicycle still leaning against the wall. They took me inside, and into a small room, finally allowing me to sit down. The Policeman with the "frog" eyes placed a list of all confiscated items in front of me, and ordered me to sign it. I refused, as he had given me no time to read it. Then he allowed me to read the document, but I was not able to decipher his script, so I refused once more to sign it. He glared angrily at me, and commenced scolding me in Vietnamese. Next I was taken outside, and again got into the jeep. This time the driver made a great detour around the area. I thought: "They are trying to confuse me; they do not want me to know where I am to be imprisoned." I knew, however, that the prison was only a few yards from the police station. The prison had been built by the French, and was surrounded by huge Tamarind trees, thus being practically invisible from the street. The facility consisted of many single story barracks-like buildings made of concrete. High stone walls topped by barbed wire surrounded the complex. We passed by many cell blocks, all closed by steel grilled doors. There was no sign of any other prisoners. My jailers opened a cell door which had the designation "P-2" on the door. The door was made of corrugated iron, and was secured by two iron rods to which two pair of handcuffs were fastened as a lock. The windows were barred, and closed by wooden shutters on the inside. In the large cell there were two rows of wooden planks standing on wooden supports, raised about ten centimeters above the cement floor. The boards were rough and unfinished. At the foot of each row was a long steel bar which was anchored into the cement floor. On the right side of the cell was a prisoner who had been shackled to the iron bar with handcuffs, and to the bar on the other side with leg irons. I was made to lie down next to this prisoner, and was handcuffed to the iron bar. They could not get the leg iron around my swollen left ankle, so the heretofore friendly Director lost his temper and commenced to beat me in the face and ribs. The VC Warden calmed him, telling him that the iron would not fit, so they contented themselves with shackling me by the right foot. There I lay; a prisoner of the Vietcong. I did not complain, and showed no fear. Rather I was very curious as to what would happen to me. A new phase of my life had begun, and the question was whether this was to be the last phase or not. I could not believe that the end had come, and that evil would triumph over me. I had remained in Vietnam through my own free will, although hundreds of thousands had fled. I wanted to see for myself, and experience in my own life, how people were treated under a Communist dictatorship, and I was therefore ready to face all dangers. There was a barred skylight overhead which let fresh air into the cell, but through which rain also came in. It was cool in the cell, and I was cold, and had a fever due to my swollen foot. There was a ventilator in the wall, but it had been boarded up. The other prisoner was a Filipino, and spoke perfect English. He said that he had been arrested three days before I had come into the cell. He and his wife had lived in Vung Tau, where they had a large villa. His name was Marcel Rigolo, and he had worked as a night club singer in Saigon. He went to Vung Tau on his days off to see his family. The Security Police had given him permission many times to make the trip, but three days ago they had stormed into his house in the middle of the night, and arrested both him and his wife. His wife was being held in another cell together with many more female prisoners. The VC claimed that they were agents of the CIA. Rigolo laughed, and said that they had also claimed that I was working for the CIA. I had known nothing of this, as I had not been charged with anything when they arrested me, only locked me up without comment. Mr. Rigolo was a Catholic, as was his wife; as a fact, most of the prisoners were Catholic, as the Vietcong had a special antipathy for the Catholics, even though some of them were members of that faith. The Chief of the watch was a Catholic, and, as I was soon to discover, treated the Catholic prisoners with preference. I didn't get anything to eat that afternoon, and had to wait until five for dinner. We each then received a bowl of dry rice with boiled vegetable matter on top. It appeared to be a sort of creeper that grew wild on the mountain, I had thought it to be inedible. Rigolo said that it was the cheapest vegetable available, and very unhealthful; everyone that ate it daily contracted a bad case of dysentery They removed our handcuffs while we ate, and put back on when we had finished. We were given rain water to drink; the monsoon season, which runs from June to November in this area, so we had enough water to drink. Also, the roof of the cell block was full of holes, evidently from shrapnel, which meant that a solid stream of rainwater fell right onto my sleeping place whenever it rained. I tried to scoot to another plank bed, and at least managed to stay out of the rain. Hopefully, I thought, they won't put any more prisoners into the cell. We remained in handcuffs and leg irons for over a week, then I was finally freed from the chains. When I had been in prison for three or four days I was suddenly taken to an interrogation room. My hands were cuffed behind my back, and, with a guard following me, I was conducted to a small interrogation room near our cell. The interrogator was not there when we entered; I was told to sit down on a small stool and wait. Soon a young man appeared. He appeared to be around 25 or 30 years old. He wore civilian clothes; long pants and a flowered shirt. He looked like a Hawaiian tourist, but still wore the typical Vietcong rubber sandals. He smiled amicably, and told me to remain seated. The guard removed my handcuffs and sat down on a metal stool a few feet away, with his weapon resting on his knees. The interrogator began by stating that we could converse in English, as he was fluent in this language, He stated with an ironic grin that he had learned English in Saigon. I suspected that he had probably worked for the Americans, or learned English at the American- Vietnamese Association. Most likely he had been a Vietcong spy. As he talked he made rapid notes on a yellow pad. The interrogation went something like this: Question: "What is your name?" Answer: "Rudolf Petri." Q: "Nationality?" A: "German." Q: "West or East?" A: "West." I answered many other questions as to my background, etc. It seems that they had prepared a questionnaire previously in the Police station. Then the interrogator asked: "Do you know why you were arrested?" I answered: "No." "It was because you were not properly registered in Vung Tau," he said. I protested, saying that I was registered in Vung Tau for the past six years, as my "Brown Book" would show. The interrogator laughed nervously, and said: "This is no longer valid; all foreigners must register anew or be penalized." I said: "Radio Hanoi had ordered all foreigners in Saigon and Gia Dinh to register, nothing was said about other cities." He did not answer, but started shuffling his papers. Suddenly he said: "You are an American, and no German! I can prove it!" I laughed and said: "I am no American, but German. I have never even been to America." "You have evidently stayed behind to spy on us!" In spite of the perilous situation, I could not help but laugh, and answered: "I don't believe that the Americans have any cause to spy on South Vietnam anymore, they were in this country long enough." He shrugged his shoulders in irritation. Perhaps this was his first interrogation; he gave the impression of unsurety, and asked more dumb questions. Altogether we conversed for about an hour, until noon. Then, as I was leaving, he said: "This is a mistake. I will speak to my chief and ask him to let you go free, perhaps in the morning." He shook my hand amicably, and I was again conducted back to my cell. Was it true? Was I to be released in the morning? Or was it only a bluff? Rigolo was very interested in my experience at the interrogation, and asked if I had been beaten. I said no, and described what had taken place. Rigolo was not interrogated, but was left alone for the entire week. Three days later I was again taken to the interrogation room. This time it was a different interrogator. I thought ironically: "They want to cross examine me and try to trap me. Trap ME? These boys are to young and inexperienced to trap me!" This interrogator wore a European suit, black shoes, and a tie. His face was brown and very ordinary. He greeted me in German, and shook my hand; then we sat down. Everything seemed to be in good order. Then the English speaking interrogator said that his chief wanted to know more about me, actually, my life story from birth to now. The interrogation was conducted in both German and English. As I am hard of hearing and have to wear a hearing aid, I had difficulty understanding the interrogator, who spoke German with a terrible accent. I had no trouble understanding the English speaking interrogator, whose English was perfect. I had to continuously ask him to repeat what he had said. He stopped suddenly, and said: " Hah! You understand English better than German. You are an American, First Lieutenant Petri, and you were in Hanoi!" What is this for stupidity? I understood that now the situation was very serious, and getting worse. They were trying to justify my arrest, which was a mistake in the first place. I answered: "I am not Lt. Petri, and am not an American. All Vung Tau knows me; I have lived here for six years, and have seldom left the city, and then only to go to Saigon." They did not answer me, but continued to ask me questions. Even though they had many articles about me from Indian and Ceylonese newspapers dating from 1963, I had to relate the circumstances of my visits to Prime Minister Nehru and Madame Bandaranaike over again. I think that, in spite of the evidence, they had already tried and convicted me of being an American agent. Someone brought tea, and I was given a cup; then the interrogation continued. The German speaking interrogator said that he had studied in Frankfurt, and attended the German Police Academy there. The interrogation lasted the entire afternoon. Both of the men were friendly, and laughed a lot. The German speaking interrogator commenced to refer to me as "Du." I told him that this was only permissible among close friends. He laughed, and said: "Well, aren't we friends?" I said: "You must prove that." "How", he answered. I said: "First, give the guards orders not to handcuff me, you know that I am no criminal." He looked at me in amazement, and then to his colleague, who laughed. He called to the guard, and gave him orders not to handcuff me anymore, to give me medicine for my stomach trouble, and even to give me a blanket. The guard said that there were no more blankets, and that the medicine had run out. The two interrogators shook my hand as if we were the best of friends, and left the room. The guard, a very mean person, appeared amazed. When we went back to the cell he no longer carried his rifle at the ready, but under his arm like a broomstick. I told my fellow prisoner what had taken place; he was astounded at the humane treatment, and couldn't believe it. The Vietcong were world famous for their brutality, and rightly so. I was not blinded; I would not let myself be influenced by their apparent good nature, rather I was alert. I had my opinion about the seeming friendliness of the interrogators. They probably wanted to get as much information as possible out of me, as easily as possible. When this course failed to produce results, they would use harsher measures, as once the Gestapo had tried to do to me in Cologne. At the next interrogation only the English speaking interrogator took part. He once again went over my whole story, trying to entrap me by asking different questions, which I parried without effort. The result was that his interrogation was completely negative, and caused him embarrassment. He asked more questions, probably trying to make a good impression on his superiors. He didn't laugh anymore, but was still courteous. He had evidently lost his enthusiasm. When he left he didn't shake my hand as before. New prisoners were brought into our cell: three Vietnamese soldiers from different units. One was pure Vietnamese, the other two mixed with American Negro. All were very muscular, and, as we discovered, had belonged to the Special Forces which had not yet surrendered. They had hidden in the Jungle around Dalat, and hitch hiked to Vung Tau, where they and four others in another cell had been captured by the Vietcong. None of us had blankets, although it was now very cold in the cell. I did not receive any medicine for my stomach or foot. We were not allowed to wash or bathe for an entire month. I found that our cell was reserved for the most serious cases. The people in the other cells received better treatment, had blankets and mosquito nets, and most of them were not chained. During my morning trips to the toilet I could see that most of them were not even handcuffed, and were able to walk around the cell at will, or converse with each other. Some were even playing cards and other games. Others were handcuffed like in our cell. The handcuffs were "Made in USA," as were the chamber pots, which were actually American steel helmets. The cell housed more than sixty prisoners; the walls were filthy, the cell had no windows, only a skylight. The toilet, which was outside, had only a steel screen door. Mice and rats infested the space under the wooden sleeping rack, and raced back and forth over the dirty concrete floor. Many of the prisoners had been starved until they were walking skeletons, and had terrible sores all over their bodies. I heard that sooner or later everyone gets these sores, as they are caused by lack of vitamins and malnutrition. I also saw some young boys in this cell, and later discovered that they had been arrested because the authorities had found copies of American magazines, "Time" and "Life" in their homes. The possession of any American book or Newspaper was strictly forbidden by the conquerors, and anyone caught with one was arrested and imprisoned. The boys knew no English, and certainly could not read the magazines, but this fact did not help them, and now they sat in prison. The guards were careless now, and let me go to the toilet alone; therefore I had the opportunity to talk to the other prisoners. I discovered that the largest part of the prison population was made up of former soldiers; officers and NCO's of the South Vietnamese Army. There were supposedly some high ranking officers in another cell. The oldest prisoner in P-1 was over seventy-five, a white haired gentleman whose only crime was that he had been a minor official in the Thieu regime. There were other types in the cell, such as thieves, pimps and homosexuals, black marketeers, and so forth. There were also three millionaires who had attempted to flee the country and been caught. There was little hope for them. Some of the prisoners, mostly these who had money or rich relatives, were allowed to receive packages from the outside twice a week, usually on Monday and Thursday. They didn't get much, most got only a plastic bag containing a couple of bananas, or some dried fish. The people on the outside were almost a bad off as the prisoners; food was getting scarce. Most of the time the prisoners divided the packages among their friends. Those who were unable to supplement their diet like this (myself included) were soon reduced to walking skeletons. In P-2 (my cellblock) we did not have permission to receive packages, or even to send or receive mail, although letters were often smuggled out, as the guards were not above accepting bribes; they were making a good profit from the rich prisoners in P-1. A guard received 125 Piasters a day for food, 1,000 Piasters being the equivalent of one dollar at the time. The prisoners received only 50 Piasters a day for food. So, we only got weeds and rice twice a day, and rarely a few slices of carrot or a microscopic fish. The lack of vitamins was becoming apparent; I felt very weak, and could not walk without my cane. My hair turned all white, and my beard grew wild. I looked like a walking scarecrow. In Asia there is a great deal of respect paid to the aged, much more so than in the west. This, I thought, was probably the reason I had not been beaten, although this did not prevent some of the guards from waving their pistols under my nose and threatening to shoot me. They were probably trying to frighten me as they were now doing to Rigolo, who was showing signs of a breakdown. A month after his incarceration he began to act strangely; I, as stated before, had been allowed to keep my rosary when I had been arrested. To concentrate my thoughts, I continuously passed the rosary through my fingers and recited Buddhist mantras in Sanskrit and Pali. I prayed for my fellow prisoners. Suddenly Rigolo started praying; he made the sign of the cross before and after eating, and said the Paternoster, trying to convince the guards that he was also religious. An Attorney that had lived on my street was placed in our cell. He and his entire family had been arrested one night, for no apparent reason. (Actually, most of the prisoners had no idea why they had been arrested, most being grabbed in the middle of the night.) Mr. Muoi, the Lawyer, was also a Catholic. He commenced to pray along with Rigolo. Now we had the three soldiers in another corner of the cell, Rigolo, Myself, the Lawyer and a new comer that did not appear quite right. I was of the opinion that he had been put in our cell by the secret police to spy on us. I did not speak to him. The others, all Catholics, formed a clique and stayed apart from me. The Lawyer had a connection with the guards; he immediately started receiving packages from the outside which he shared with the others. He ignored me, but Rigolo urged him to share his bounty with me also. Once in a while I got a small piece of banana or a sliver of fish...well, better than nothing. I could see that the Lawyer was egotistical and greedy, and most certainly one of the corrupt lawyers one finds in Vietnam. Prison is the right place for these leeches, but even here they find advantages and loopholes. The "spy" was a good friend of the chief guard, and even received cigarettes. He was not chained, and had a good wool blanket. This plot was too obvious. A few days later he was removed from the cell and didn't return. As I said before, Rigolo, who was up to this point a very quiet person, started to preach for hours on end, and to berate all within earshot. He waved his arms, and complained that everyone was talking about him, and that he was going to be shot. The guards had decided that he was to be eliminated, and were even now making arrangements for his execution, It was clear to us that the poor man had snapped. Would it happen to us also? Hopefully not, I at least had enough will power to withstand the persecution. I tried to accept everything that happened with calmness and equanimity, even torture and death threats. Often I thought of the wise words of the Blessed One; they gave me the strength to hold out. One verse in particular helped enormously: Patiently we will take all upon us When others discredit or scold us. We are grounded fast in our teaching, We therefore take all with sublime equanimity. This path was in no way easy for me, as one can imagine, but I overcame my misgivings and trod the path with courage. What comes comes. I was ready for anything. Rigolo started to rave, cry and scold from morning to evening. The guards came in many times, and chained him up only to release him later for "good behavior". This calmed the confused man down for a while, a day or two, but then he started all over again. I asked him once: "Who are you talking to?" He answered: "To God." "And does he answer you?" I asked. "He doesn't answer at all, he doesn't care about us, not even about Catholics. I said my mind, I accused him; why does he allow them to keep me in this prison, I who have done no wrong, either political or otherwise. God is not right. How can he let this happen, that Atheists control the Government, a Government that tries to stifle religion, and they do not believe in God!" Then he started screaming: "Let me out, I am innocent!" I tried to talk to him, but with no success; the man was completely gone. I don't think he was actually insane, only suffering a breakdown from the stress and uncertainty of prison life. Thus it is with people who do not show an interest for spiritual development or religion in their life. He had had everything, fancy cars, a villa, etc, and lived the good life in spite of the war surrounding him. For such people, the end was heavy indeed when it finally came. Used to luxury and comfort, they could not withstand privation, and soon broke down. The Lawyer, however, had himself under better control, although his situation was quite hopeless. Soon they took the chains from Rigolo again, whereupon he started raving once again, and beating on the door. The guards stormed in, unfortunately the three worst of the entire crew; they beat Rigolo in the face. He laughed and turned his other cheek, as Jesus had taught. The guards saw red! They beat him again and again in the face, one even kicking him in the head, but he only laughed. His madness was apparent in his wild eyes. The watch chief came in; he carried an AK-47 on his back; another VC followed on his heels. Now the usually quiet and friendly chief was enraged. He did not strike Rigolo, but threatened to shoot him on the spot unless he quit screaming and carrying on. One of the guards suggested that they take him to the bunker, and there give him "corrective action." Ah, I thought, so they have bunkers here where people are tortured and executed. Some of the prisoners were not even put in a cell, but simply eliminated. I had talked to eyewitnesses of these gruesome deeds.

-CHAPTER NINETEEN-

Attempted Suicide

I suffered greatly from not being able to shower, and the stink in the cell became unbearable as the temperature climbed to over 40 degrees centigrade. The ventilator was now working, and ran day and night. This was thanks to the lawyer, who had taken the blanket left by the informer, and insisted that the fan run continuously. I protested that I had a cold already, but that didn't bother him in the least. Another example of inflated ego. I was terribly chilled, and had a high fever. The next morning I collapsed. Unconscious, I was loaded onto a stretcher, and transported to Le Loi hospital by jeep. There I was placed in an un- barred room in which two other patients lay: an old man and a school boy. Medics came, among them was an English speaking nurse, and a medic that spoke French. They examined me, gave me shots and pills, and then left. As it neared noon time I thought they had forgotten me, as I only got something to eat after repeated requests. A friendly nurse finally brought me a bowl of rice soup, bread, and a little sausage. This was beautiful, although not nearly enough for a starving man. That evening I had much the same to eat. I stayed in the hospital for a week. A Vietcong in civilian clothes patrolled the corridor; he carried a pistol in his pocket. They once brought in a man that had been badly beaten; he was covered with blood. They put him in the bed next to mine. As soon as they left he sprang to his feet, ran to the window and jumped out. I turned my face to the wall; I didn't know anything. Unfortunately they caught the escapee again, and he was put in a more secure room with bars on the windows. We have not seen him since then. Later I dreamed that I had escaped, something that I would definitely tried had I been twenty years younger; I dreamed that the way to freedom beckoned me. Then, suddenly, I was in the middle of a jungle somewhere in Cambodia. Farmers gladly gave me food and showed me the way to Thailand. I arrived in Thailand after a week of adventurous travel, but only in the dream, sadly. After I had recovered I had to leave the hospital, and was brought back to the prison. There I heard that two young prisoners had escaped. We were all happy for them in P-2, but the prisoners in P-1 were infuriated, as the guards stated that if the escapees were not caught, their fellow prisoners would lose all of their privileges, and be chained up again. One of the boys was caught somewhere in the country, brought back to the prison, and beaten unmercifully by the guards. Then, when he was taken back to the cell, we heard screams and the sound of blows; he was being beaten by his fellow prisoners. The other boy was caught that afternoon; he had not gone far. The same fate awaited him as his fellow escapee. They would certainly not try to escape again. The Vice Commandant of the Security Police gave the order that all prisoners in P-1 were to learn revolutionary songs and sing them in the evenings. They sang something in which every other word was Ho Chi Minh. So, a personality cult was forming, much the same as we see in Russia and China. How absurd and ridiculous this sounded. The people had no idea! The songs, many of which were set to French melodies, were accompanied by hand clapping. One of the prisoners, most certainly one of the collaborators, led the songs. We had these "Watchers" in our cell also; prisoners who, due to their size and aggressiveness, were picked by the guards to watch over the other prisoners. They were required to keep watch over us and inform the guards of all that took place in the cell. They were like the "Kapos" that the Nazis used in the concentration camps. These Kapos, Vietnamese, and without exception Catholic, did everything possible to ingratiate themselves with the guards at the expense of their fellow prisoners. All of the prisoners hated them, a fact that didn't disturb them in the slightest. One group of stronger prisoners, mostly former soldiers, worked outside the prison, for which they received some extra rice daily. The rest of got only two meals (such as they were) a day. I found a small slit in the wooden shutter through which I could observe a portion of the long, narrow courtyard. Directly across from our cell were two other cells and the bathroom. In front of this was a cistern and a massive watertank in which water from the roof was collected. The other cells were frequently left open, and once I saw a woman in handcuffs in one. She was between thirty and forty years old, and very beautiful. She had no leg irons on, and was free to walk up and down in the courtyard. I wondered what ridiculous charge had led to her imprisonment; probably only her beauty and intelligence had convicted her. The courtyard was surrounded by a high wall, which one could reach by climbing onto the water tank - a possible escape route, but, alas, with my bad leg I hadn't a chance, not to mention being so weak from a bad diet. The tower was later covered by barbed wire, and a watch tower built. I tried to see if it was manned, but could not. I often saw a Vietcong Policewoman clad all in black stalking down the courtyard. She wore the black pajamas of the country side, and carried an East German carbine. She had cut notches in the stock to represent her kills, and I later found out that they were all Americans and Koreans that she had "liquidated." They often left our cell door open now, so fresh air would come in. Once the VC Police woman came to the door, but she did not enter. She was unarmed. I was sitting on a plank just inside the door. She stopped, twisting her long braided hair, and looked at me searchingly. Her eyes glowed with hate, and her lips, tightly pressed together, trembled. She evidently thought that I was an American, as did every one else in the prison. No one had told the guards that I was German. That changed with the next interrogation, however. The interrogator clapped me on the shoulder and said: "We know that you are not an American, but German. Still, you are a West German, and they have helped the Americans against our country." I replied: "I have never lived in West Germany, but was in Sweden in 1944, as you well know." The interrogator shook his head and said that I would soon be let out of prison. "Soon" never came; I stayed months longer in the primitive prison. Luckily, our cell did not have rats and mice. We were also not troubled with lice and fleas. Once the guards sprayed DDT on the walls, giving us all headaches for the next few days. My neighbor started raving again, and cursing his imaginary god. Many times I tried to talk to him and calm him down. He would listen with interest, calm down for a while, and then commence to rage again. Once I recited a Buddhist verse: If god has power over all, And brings life to all earth, If he gives here luck, here pain, Lets evil be done and ignores it, And people carry out his wishes, Then god is covered with guilt. And this verse from the Jatakas (Rebirth stories of the Buddhas former lives): Is god the ruler of this Earth And the father of all beings, Why is misfortune part of it? And not only gladness, honesty and Wholesomeness? Why are there lies, deception and evil? And conceit, injustice.....etc. Rigolo gasped. He had not thought that Buddhism was different from other religions, but thought it was something like Islam, as both religions were named as heresies by the Catholic church. I explained the universal law of cause and effect, or Karma, to my fellow prisoners; what we sow in past lives or now, we are sure to reap in this life or the next...or the next. Rigolo listened attentively, and found that everything I said was true, but still did not understand much. A few hours later he railed against his god once more. A few days passed. The fluorescent lights in our cell were on day and night. As I was accustomed to sleeping in near total darkness, they interfered with my sleep. One night, as I lie awake on my plank, I glanced over to Rigolo's bed. I noticed suddenly that blood was flowing down his arm onto the concrete floor. I was immediately wide awake, ran to the door and beat on it with my cane to attract the guards. It appeared that Rigolo had attempted suicide. He was lying still on his plank bed, and was breathing heavily. The blood pulsed from the severed artery in his left wrist. The guards stormed into the cell with their rifles at the ready; others followed them with drawn pistols. One of the younger policemen screamed at the lawyer, saying that he had tried to murder Rigolo. The lawyer cringed and yelled that he had nothing to do with it. Another guard asked the lawyer if I did it. Before the lawyer could answer, Rigolo opened his eyes and said: "No one is to blame, I did it myself! Let me die! Get out of here!" Then three "nurses" in black pajamas came into the cell. They administered first aid to the stricken Filipino. Rigolo didn't die, but recovered very rapidly; he was robust and healthy anyway. He had cut the artery in his wrist with a fragment of a broken water glass, but not deep enough to do any real harm. He and I had been given water glassed by the young guard just last week. Before that we had to drink from our rice bowls. Now, all glasses and other sharp objects were taken away from us, and our tin bowls, knives, forks, etc were stacked up in the hallway when we weren't using them. It was three months before we were allowed to have them back. I was becoming very sick, and had lost a lot of weight. One day I passed out again. I was immediately taken back to the hospital, and stayed there for a week this time. A Vietcong Doctor in civilian clothes ordered that I be given a thin rice soup; so little that I immediately protested. He laughed meanly, and went out. He should have been in one of Hitler's concentration camps, he would have fit in well. I wanted to get out of this pig sty! It was not a hospital, not fit for animals. On my bed was a filthy and torn sheet, which must have been white before the "Liberation." I did get a blanket, as the nurses saw that I was cold, and also a mosquito net thanks to a friendly nurse. I was in a different section this time, and the English speaking nurse was not here, which I regretted. I saw her occasionally, and she greeted me from afar. Once, when I could walk again, I met her in the hallway. We sat on a bench and talked for a while, but a Vietcong guard soon appeared; he laughed at me, drew his pistol and held it behind his back. He stood about three meters from us, and glowered. The nurse whispered that he did that any time he caught her talking to a patient, whether on his own initiative, or because of orders she didn't know. Any way, he couldn't understand either French or English. Many of the nurses still serving had husbands, brothers or other relatives in the prison. Many people had been secretly arrested, and many were never seen again. I discovered that most of the hospital equipment, including blankets, surgical instruments, drugs and medicines had been stolen from the hospital by patients and personnel that had fled the country. The doctors had taken all the instruments with them, and the Vietcong had no way of replacing them. Everything was being used up, and there was no hope of getting resupplied. Russia and China had done little to help their fellow Communists, not near as much as they could have done. They had their own problems. No Communist country has ever approached the living standard of the Capitalist countries of the West. There must be something wrong with their "Socialist" systems. Back in the prison, we began to see more women through the slot in our window. There was a small baby, perhaps only a few months old. The mother had two other pretty daughters with her. The children had no idea of what was happening here; they played in the courtyard completely unconcerned. The women walked up and down in the courtyard; better to put up with the heat rather than the stink in the cell. I learned that there were 45 women and girls in the prison, most of whom had been arrested for trying to flee the country with their families. They had been caught by the Chinese near Hainan Island, and forced back into Vietnamese waters, where the Vietcong gunboats were waiting for them. Most of these men, women and children had been in prison since the first of May: the day that the Vietcong took over the country. Rigolo saw his wife. She was a tall, thin lady with white hair. Her hair had turned white in prison! What had that poor lady been through? Two Catholic Nuns, small, old and fat, had also been imprisoned. We learned that they had been arrested when they had tried to change their Piasters for North Vietnamese money. The Vietcong had declared a general curfew that day. The Nuns had gone from Vung Tau, with the Lady and her daughters, to their convent which was in a small hamlet outside Vung Tau. As they reached the convent they were arrested by the Vietcong and imprisoned. They had been in the prison for two months. All of the banks in Vietnam had been closed; only the National Bank and the Bank of America in Saigon were still permitted to operate, and only for foreign trade. All of a sudden a guard came into the cell, and gave me a plastic bag containing bread, sugar cane, sweet potatoes and lettuce. I was astounded, and even more so when the guard handed me a letter in Esperanto from my friend Professor Simonet! He had managed to come all the way from Saigon to the prison gate. That was courageous. He wrote that he was doing all that was possible to secure my freedom. He said that the Vietcong Security Police had given him a written statement which said that I had been arrested because foreign contraband had been found in my possession; no word of my alleged connection with the CIA, or that I was the American Lt. Petri. These fables were all merely lies to support my incarceration. My friend had answered the Security Police stating that foreign items were not proscribed by the government until October, and therefore my arrest for their possession was not legal. The professor had also written to the German Ambassador in Hanoi, and the new government in Saigon. New prisoners were brought into our cell. First came a fifteen year old boy, who looked much older. The guards shackled him to the iron pipe, and made him wear handcuffs. It was a long time before the boy would speak, and we were all anxious to know why he had been arrested. After a few hours, he began to speak in a whisper; he had gone to the market place with an older friend, and had been stopped by a Vietcong patrol. The patrol had found a pistol under his shirt. They had beaten him severely with the pistol, and taken him to the prison. His chest and head hurt him, but he had no open wounds. The two boys could count on years in prison. The boy said that he and his friend (who was in the next cell) had been on the way to deliver the pistol to the police station, but the Vietcong did not believe them, thinking them to be anti communist guerrillas. The young man spoke fluent English, and said that he was a high school student. Now his career was over. Here in prison he would not learn anything of value. Later another man, a sailor, was brought into the cell. He had tried to smuggle weapons to Singapore to help the Communist underground there. The Vietcong did not believe his story either. Then came three Catholic guerrillas, wood carvers by trade. Strangely, the guards let them bring their tools into the cell. Soon they started carving wooden plaques and name tags for the guards, to curry their favor. They carved continuously; mostly religious scenes, girls and designs. Soon their handcuffs were removed. One, the tallest of the three, seemed to be the leader of the group. He was the best carver, possibly the teacher of the others. Another seemed to have a great deal of French blood. He was the quietest of the three. They were apparently all homosexuals. Actually, there were quite a few of that persuasion in cell 1. I was transferred there after Christmas of 1975, as I was going to be released on the 27th of December. On this day I was interrogated again, and the interrogator, a fanatic, arranged that I was not released.

-CHAPTER TWENTY-

My Condition Improves

The tall wood carver and his accomplices were also transferred to P-1, along with a young boy. P-2 was over filled with new prisoners, mostly anti-Communist guerrillas, or those thought to be so by the Vietcong. This wood carver had the ambition to be a "watcher" so he could throw his weight around. He picked me as his first victim. As we sat in two rows near the rice pot, I reached in and took a piece of burnt rice. The carver jumped up and struck me a blow on the right shoulder, knocking me to the floor. I said nothing, but got to my feet and grabbed my cane, not to hit him, but to pound on the door and alert the guards. They came. I demanded to speak to the Director; they immediately sent for him. He came into the cell demanding angrily to know what was going on. Calmly I told him what had happened, and remarked that I would not endure such treatment from a prisoner, when the guards themselves would not strike me. This attitude impressed the Director, and he grabbed the carver by the neck and boxed his ears soundly, ordering him to apologize to me immediately. He fell to his knees and begged me with folded hands to forgive him. This I immediately did. The Director ordered him to be put in handcuffs for one month. From then on I had peace. No one dared bother me. The rumor spread that I was a "States Prisoner", and a VIP. This was probably true, as I was undoubtedly being used as a political pawn by the VC. The German Embassy in Saigon had closed, and, as they told me in the last interrogation, there was now a provisional Embassy of the German Federal Republic (West Germany) in Hanoi, although there were only two diplomats stationed there. I demanded that they let me contact the Ambassador, and they acquiesced by letting me write a letter to him. But, as I later learned from the Charge D'affairs, Dr. Peter Truant, the letter was never posted. P-1 was so crowded that we lay together like sardines. Some had mosquito nets, I did not. Many slept three or four to a net, a condition that was much abused by the homosexuals. Altogether, it seemed to me that these people were quite content to be here among so many young men. Once a young boy dressed up as a buxom dancer one night, much to the delight of the other prisoners. There was much carrying on, catcalls, whistles, and lewd comments. The situation soon degenerated into a free-for-all brawl, which was broken up quickly by the watchers. Two heavily muscled blacks (half American, half Vietnamese), a Cambodian, and the accused murdered of the Mayor of Vung Tau comprised the "Watch." They were responsible to the guards for peace and order in the cell, and were held responsible for any escape attempts. Rigolo was also transferred to P-1, and was two sleeping places away from me. On my right was a young official of the former regime, a Catholic. On the left was the young man that had been caught with the pistol, whose name was Phuong. Many officers of the defeated Army were on our side of the cell. The highest ranking among them was a Captain, who was also a Buddhist. He was quiet, friendly, and very respectful. He, and another officer, gave me two or three bananas every Monday and Thursday when their packages came. Directly across from me was a former millionaire. He spoke good French, as he had graduated from a French school. He had tried to escape from Vietnam, but was captured off the coast of Vung Tau. He had been in prison since the first of May. He was quite friendly, but tried to corrupt me, as he saw that I was suffering from malnutrition, and was only skin and bones. One day he drew near me and whispered in my ear, that if I accepted his god he would help me, and let me into his group of cronies. I laughed and refused, replying with "Man does not live by bread alone." I noticed that he considered himself some sort of "Feudal Lord," and had gathered a group of "servants" around him which he kept well fed. Soon young Phuong joined his group and moved to the other side of the cell. Most of us had a terrible fungus infection on our bodies that itched constantly. Everyone was continuously scratching themselves. I had the infection on my hands, and on the left and right sides of my waist; also my arms and buttocks were covered with sores. Only my torso and face was free. Every two days the nurses came in and smeared us with a red liquid similar to iodine. This helped for a while. We also received shots against Beri Beri and Cholera. Most of the time we had no medicine, neither shots or pills. A Taiwanese, very tall and thin, had a terrible case of scabies. He also had a large boil the size of his fist on his back, below the rib cage. It was a long time before the medics consented to operate on it. The man was made to kneel on the floor, and the boil was simply cut off then and there with a knife; no anesthetic was used. The Taiwanese did not even whimper, although the operation and cleaning of the wound afterwards must have been very painful. The nurses were unconcerned, no doubt they had seen much worse. We didn't have a dispensary or operating room, most of the treatment was given on the rough wood table, which was usually filthy and covered with soot and rust from the pots and pans. They now allowed me to sit outside in the courtyard, and even to walk around a bit. Other prisoners also had this privilege, but not many. At last we were also allowed to shower once a week; not really to shower, but we gathered around the cistern and poured water over ourselves from a bucket. The water was cool, and refreshing. We could also wash our clothes. Once a month we received a microscopic piece of soap, which was used up with one washing. The guards had taken the handcuffs off the woman in the next cell, and she washed clothes for them. Unbidden, she took my clothes and washed them along with the others, even though she was a Catholic. Probably Catholic in name only. A very beautiful young girl, with long black hair and a graceful manner was placed in the cell next to the bathroom. We couldn't see her, as she was handcuffed to the bar day and night. The rumor was that she had torn up a red and blue Vietcong flag, her neighbor had seen her and turned her in to the authorities; she was immediately arrested. We admired her courage, and everyone tried to find a way to talk to her, but the guards were alert and would not permit it. We saw the other ladies, and the nuns; many were well dressed, as they had put on their best clothes for their escape from the country. One woman stood out among the others; she was richly dressed, and had a very noble bearing. In actuality, she was a member of the former ruling family, the Emperor Bao-Dai. The rumor was that she had been one of the former president's mistresses; possible, but unlikely. It must have been a blow to her pride to have to carry a full chamber pot, which was actually an old steel helmet, every morning. The ladies toilet was in another courtyard, so the female prisoners always had to pass our cell on the way there. Since the first days of my imprisonment I had been allowed to use the ladies toilet; in Vietnam, as in many other far eastern countries, there are no separate toilets for the sexes. I was allowed to use the toilet once a day, usually in the early morning. One day a young VC, a boy of sixteen or so, was on watch. He sat behind a table with his rifle on the ground and his head on the table sound asleep. As I stopped and looked at him, he jumped up angrily and pointed his rifle at me screaming "Get Back!" I think he was afraid that I was going to take his rifle, or was ashamed that I had caught him sleeping. Luckily the chief of the watch came behind me, and allowed me to proceed. In the courtyard there was only one weak light; ideal situation for an escape, but I didn't try because of the impossibility of running on my bad foot. I was told by a guard that the Government had decided, commencing on the 14th of January, 1976, that I was to have 500 Piasters a day as a food allowance. As I have said before, all prisoners received only 50 Piasters a day, and the guards 125. I was to receive 500? Unbelievable. What were they up to now? The guards and my fellow prisoners were astounded from this order from "above." They grumbled that I got this concession because I was a white man, or because of being a priest, or even a Vietcong agent! The next day, at four in the morning, I received my first ration; a huge bowl of vegetables, a piece of meat, and two boiled eggs. Unbelievable but true. The whole cell assembled to watch me eat, which was very painful for me. It was a lot to eat, really, but I was so starved that I ate every scrap, and my stomach rebelled from this assault. That evening I again received a bowl full of vegetables, meat, and a boiled egg; three eggs a day. The next day was the same, then it suddenly ceased. I heard from a guard that the Commandant had received no money to feed me, and the food had to be purchased at a restaurant. For two days I got nothing, then on the third day the food started again, but this time much less; only one egg, no meat, but only a bone with a few scraps adhering to it. It was clear that someone, another prisoner or guard, had "fished" in my bowl, and would continue to do so. The guard glared at me angrily, but I didn't react. I suspected the young cook, as his expression betrayed him. He was a homosexual, who curried favor with the guards to keep his job. Among the VC there were also homosexual types. One was so bold as to continually grab the male prisoners by the testicles; he tried this with me twice, but I gave him to understand in no uncertain terms that I was not interested in his games. Another of the same type once showed a red cloth that he had inside his new khaki jacket. It was an amulet to dispel demons! He showed it to me to see if I understood the mystic symbolism. Some monk had drawn in ink a four cornered square with the Buddha Vairocana inside, which is called Vaya in Vietnamese. Around this was a row of Chinese, Thai, and Sanskrit letters: I could only read the Sanskrit. It was the famous Mantra Om Mani Padme Hum. The VC, only sixteen years old, told me that he had worn this talisman during the jungle fighting, and believed it to have protected him and kept him from being injured. He was a Buddhist, but knew nothing about his religion. Many of the Vietcong were nominal Buddhists, and most of them wore Buddhist amulets around their necks, even small statues of the Buddha. The same VC told me how easy it was to kill the big Americans, and how, on the other hand, it was difficult for the Americans to shoot the small VC. Other guards told me that they had seen many American prisoners in underground bunkers in North Vietnam, and some had been even sent to China, where they were working in mines.