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provided bookkeeping services for import and export companies, but from April 1975 there was no income flowing in. Everything came to a standstill so he had to limit his outgoings. Uncle Five hid thin sheets of gold, which he sold when they ran out of money. He also traded on the black market, buying things such as bicycles and household goods for a reasonable price and selling them at a higher one. It was the only way to make money without having to report to the authorities, who would have taken a share of the earnings anyway. It was a free-for-all on the streets. Uncle Five had a good man for the job—my dad.
    At nineteen years of age Dad was becoming quite a pro at buying and selling on the black market. He was well known around town and many people approached him to do deals. Uncle Five would send Dad out to buy and sell goods, but he also relied on Dad’s newfound expertise on everything to do with the black market.
    ‘We need some more money. Should we sell some gold today?’ Uncle Five would ask Dad.
    ‘I’m hearing the value of gold will go down later this afternoon,’ Dad would reply. ‘We should probably get in now. I’ll go and sell it.’
    It was crucial to secure the best price as, on average, a sheet of gold could last the family about a month if they used the cash frugally. With a household of ten people, the family had to be very careful.
    Dad’s black market business was run out of different cafés and kiosks, where he would slyly set up shop during the day. He would change locations every few days, meeting his clients in public places so he wouldn’t create any suspicion about his business. He would also make house calls, but only to people he trusted. He had one rule: he never did business at Uncle Five’s house. It was too dangerous for the family.
    Word quickly spread that Dad was a reliable seller and buyer. His specialty was scooters, for which he charged a 10 per cent commission. He would also get requests for televisions, radios and watches. Some days he would earn good money, some days not so much. This was the life he became accustomed to.

    That life was briefly interrupted when Dad was forced to join hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese men—former military soldiers and government workers—in re-education or ‘reform study’ to learn the ways of the new government. As a non-commissioned officer, Dad only had to attend a three-day class and, luckily for him, it was nothing like the atrocities of the re-education camps that millions of others had to endure in the jungles. On 11 June 1975, his first day of ‘reform study’, he rode his scooter to the Faculty of Letters at Saigon University and sat in a classroom with about forty other men.
    The first thing the Communist soldiers did was conduct a roll call and, as each name was called out, its owner duly responded. Then it was Dad’s turn.
    ‘Vo Anh Tai?’ one of the soldiers yelled.
    ‘Here,’ my father replied.
    ‘Vo Minh Tan?’
    Dad was surprised. That was the name of his brother, my Uncle Thirteen. Dad hadn’t known they were in the same re-education class. But as he looked around for the familiar face, he couldn’t see his brother in the room.
    ‘Vo Minh Tan?’ the soldier repeated.
    Silence.
    Dad started to worry now, wondering where his brother was. Why wasn’t he here? Maybe he had forgotten. As the soldiers consulted each other, looking suspiciously around the room, Dad kept quiet. He looked straight ahead, appearing uninterested, hoping the soldiers wouldn’t realise they were brothers. He didn’t want to be questioned over Uncle Thirteen’s whereabouts. Fortunately, Vo is a common surname in Vietnam so the soldiers never thought to ask Dad if he was related to the missing man.
    On each of the three days, the re-education class began at eight in the morning and finished at five in the afternoon. The men were drilled about the new government’s ways, their systems and rules, and the consequences of not