My father was in uniform: camouflage fatigues, red beret, polished standard‑issue military boots. I knew the route so well that the drive there, past streets shaded by tamarind trees and low‑slung buildings, felt normal, routine. A few months before Vietnam fell to the Communists in April 1975, my father and an American family friend I called Papa Fritz took me in our black Opel sedan to Tân Sơn Nhứt airport in Saigon.
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