Soles of a Survivor: A Memoir

ADVANCE PRAISE

"Nhi Aronheim has lived many lives: the privileged daughter of a physician in Vietnam, frightened child who escapes barefoot through the jungles of Cambodia, refugee in Thailand with only two pieces of clothing to her name, adopted daughter of an American family in the South, and now wife, mother, and writer. In Soles of a Survivor, she writes beautifully about war and its aftermath, adversities and misfortunes to be overcome, the vicissitudes of religion and fate, and, ultimately, resilience, endurance, and gratitude. Her life and her words are an inspiration."

—Lisa See, New York Times bestselling author of Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane, Peony in Love, Shanghai Girls, Dreams of Joy, and China Dolls

"Using candid and courageous language, Nhi Aronheim weaves a tale of perseverance and fortitude against the backdrop of a country torn apart by war and a mother’s desire to seek the best for her children. Part coming of age, part personal and family saga, Soles of a Survivor tells the story of a resilient, exceptional girl growing up, growing away, and becoming the woman she was destined to be."

—Cynthia Swanson, New York Times bestselling author of The Bookseller and The Glass Forest

"Soles of a Survivor is a story of awe-inspiring bravery, grit and love. Nhi Aronheim has navigated worlds within worlds—from the jungles of Cambodia to the suburbs of Kentucky and more—and she brings each one to life with cinematic clarity. Soles of a Survivor is an astounding book, one I will never forget."

—Domenica Ruta, New York Times bestselling author of With or Without You and Last Day

It’s said that refugees lead three lives: their life before being driven from their home; their life on the move, seeking refuge; and, if they survive, a new life adapting to a foreign land. Nhi Aronheim lives all those lives and more in this memoir of persistence, hope, and healing.

—Alan Gratz, New York Times bestselling author of Refugee

"Aronheim’s indomitable spirit and determination to survive what many cannot bear to even imagine is truly extraordinary. Her astounding survival, astonishing grace, and radiant gratitude are a triumph of the human spirit and tribute to the incredible strength of this extraordinary woman. Her message of strength and positivity is needed now more than ever. We must never forget the horrors that humans can exact on each other so as to learn from the past and do better in the future. Aronheim’s courageous tell-all is a vital first-person preservation of a part of history that is too-often overlooked, and a powerful reminder of the vital and wonderful part that immigrants play in American life. Soles of a Survivor is a must-read for memoir-lovers, survival-lovers, and those who believe in the power of women’s voices, and women’s stories."

—Sara DiVello, author of Where in the OM Am I?

"Nhi Aronheim’s Soles of a Survivor is a powerful, uplifting memoir. The story traces the harrowing journey of a young girl from her life as a political refugee on the run to the pinnacle of the American Dream. The book is a beacon of light for dark and trying times."

—Tiffany Reisz, USA Today bestselling author

Nhi Aronheim overcame almost unimaginable odds escaping her homeland as a twelve-year-old in 1987. This inspiring story of her harrowing escape through the jungles of Cambodia, surviving the squalid refugee camps in Thailand, and then thriving in the United States is a valuable addition to the expanding literature of the post-American war Vietnamese diaspora.

—Marc Leepson, arts editor and columnist, The VVA Veteran magazine

"Every spring, as the world itself reveals the possibility of renewal, the Jewish People gather around their Passover tables and retell the story of a miraculous journey from degradation to liberation. Our Haggadah is the guide for this annual telling. In her riveting narrative, Soles of a Survivor, Nhi Aronheim has penned a version of her own Haggadah detailing a stunning and unlikely path from the war-torn streets and jungles of Vietnam to a new life in America. As her story unfolds we learn of good people she encountered whose kindness and goodness ultimately love her into a sturdy belief in herself, even when merging the two worlds of her personal history proves complicated. Nhi’s is a story of redemption pulled from her most intimate memories. It is at once a personal and universal journal in which we learn how the author ultimately finds a home for her heart with her beloved, and a home for her soul within the Jewish community, a community she makes stronger and kinder. In its pages, the reader cannot help but feel that renewal is ever a possibility."

—Rabbi B. Elka Abrahamson, president, The Wexner Foundation

"Nhi has shown all of the characteristics that define her life—toughness, resilience, compassion, and hope. Those traits come through in this record of an extraordinary young woman’s continuing journey. Vietnam and the United States will be linked in many ways for generations to come—most powerfully in the lives of people like Nhi. Soles of a Survivor is an important addition to our continuing exploration of that relationship. Even more, it is a story that should inspire us all."

—Clarence R. Wyatt, author of Paper Soldiers: The American Press and the Vietnam War and president, Monmouth College

High talent alongside high energy and strong values are a tough combination to beat …. amazing and inspiring story.

—Dr. John Roush, president emeritus, Centre College

Copyright © 2021 by Nhi Aronheim

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Brian Peterson

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-6028-8

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-6029-5

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Introduction

PART ONE: REMEMBERING

Chapter One: Beginnings

Chapter Two: The Great Escape

Chapter Three: Sink or Swim

Chapter Four: Refugee Camp

Chapter Five: Minors Center

Plates

PART TWO: MY NEW LIFE IN AMERICA

Chapter Six: Coming to America

Chapter Seven: Mary Lou

Chapter Eight: College

Chapter Nine: Family Reunion

Chapter Ten: Living Abroad

Chapter Eleven: The Cold Call

PART THREE: BECOMING

Chapter Twelve: The Chance Encounter

Chapter Thirteen: Mother, Meet My Mother!

Chapter Fourteen: Thinking about Jeff

Chapter Fifteen: Meeting the Family

Chapter Sixteen: I Do

Chapter Seventeen: New Life, New Job

Chapter Eighteen: Jewitnamese

Chapter Nineteen: Our Family Grows . . . Again!

Chapter Twenty: Life Today

Afterword

Acknowledgments

To my beloved husband, Jeff, and children, Max and Sarah, and to all my families and friends who always believed in me and helped me become who I am today.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In writing this book, I relied on my memory and have strived to be as accurate as possible by turning to photo albums and articles, and by interviewing family members and some characters in the story.

For events where I could not substantiate detail, I’ve reconstructed some dialogue based on my memory, knowing that each time we remember something, we alter our perspective slightly.

The stories in these pages are recollections and interpretations of events that shaped my life over many years. I understand that other people may recall things differently and have their own perspective of certain events.

For privacy, the following names are pseudonyms in the book: Sister Second, Brother Fourth, Sister Fifth, Koi, and Jamie.

INTRODUCTION

I’ve been told that, though I’m only 4’9", my story is immense—so I’m now sharing it with the world. With you. Several anthologies and a documentary that aired on PBS have profiled my harrowing journey as a child refugee who went on to live the American Dream.

But I’ve only told part of my story. Until now.

I’ve written my memoir because the world desperately needs more stories about tolerance, unity, and how to work together for a common good.

I’ve also written my memoir because my story isn’t much different than the story of the many millions of other refugees who’ve fled, or are fleeing, their countries for safety and opportunity.

The soles of my feet still bear the scars of my horrific escape from Vietnam—where I trudged through the jungles of Cambodia as a child with a group of strangers seeking the land of opportunity: America. My only possessions at the time were two pieces of clothing and a heart filled with hope.

My physician father worked for the US government, and the Communists imprisoned him for doing so when the war ended. To avoid the rest of our family meeting the same fate, my quick-witted mother bribed a driver to put us on a bus headed for Saigon.

At the age of ten, I struggled to survive on the streets of the fallen city until I escaped, not knowing if I’d ever see my family again. My harrowing trip through the Cambodian jungle, and eventually on a boat to Thailand, led me to an orphanage where I lived for two years until I qualified for refugee status in the United States.

Soles of a Survivor isn’t just another inspirational survival story, however. It’s about the lessons I’ve learned about humanity and diversity since arriving in the United States. After I met my Jewish beau, we married.

I now have a deeper appreciation for the parallels between the Jewish and Vietnamese cultures, and others. I eventually converted to Judaism, though the process of conversion was challenging. It’s difficult for most people, but it was particularly difficult for me, an Asian woman adopted into a Christian household.

Now I relish being a Vietnamese Jew.

Soles of a Survivor shows it matters less what religion we’re part of, as long as we radiate goodness to those we meet. For example, I honor and greatly admire the Christian family in Kentucky that adopted me, when I had nothing to offer them but love. Thanks to their support and devotion, despite overwhelming barriers, I graduated high school as class valedictorian in just three years.

While in college, I had the opportunity to return to Vietnam with a film crew and reunite with the family I never thought I’d see again. A second trip to Vietnam with my legal guardian brought my two mothers face-to-face.

It wasn’t a storybook ending.

Life isn’t like that, at least not most of the time.

When we went to Vietnam, my birth mom—who at one time only wanted the best for me—showed signs of jealousy during the visit and considered me too Americanized.

Maybe she’s right.

I’ll leave that for you to decide.

As I’m writing this, I’m reminded of one of the five toilets in my current home. It has fancy features such as a heated seat, automatic lid opener and closer, sprayer, and dryer. I am awed and deeply grateful regarding how far I’ve come, from the days I had to immerse myself chest deep in a pool of sewage trying to hide from soldiers.

I can also now afford to cover my scarred feet with any shoes I desire.

But my shoes aren’t who I am.

Neither are my scars.

My heart is.

This book is an invitation, from my heart to yours.

I’m filled with gratitude for all I’ve been fortunate to accomplish and become in this great country. I hope my story inspires and empowers you. And I hope that, like me, through your challenges, you, too, will find healing and joy.

There is light at the end of every tunnel.

PART ONE

REMEMBERING

CHAPTER ONE

BEGINNINGS

Mom, I told you, you can’t serve pork. I’m marrying a Jewish man and serving pork will offend him and his family! I shrieked, my Vietnamese accent hardly noticeable anymore. Jews don’t eat pork because it’s considered unclean.

You can’t have a southern wedding without a roasted pig! my Christian, Georgia peach adoptive mother replied.

I adored my adoptive mother and was more than grateful that she offered to plan my wedding in just four months and host it on her eight-hundred-acre farm in the Virginia boonies. I knew my mother meant well and for somebody raised in the South, tradition was everything, but pork was out of the question. It would offend my new Jewish family and friends who came down from the New England area—not the way I wanted to start my married life.

No pig and no pork! That’s final! It was probably hard for her to understand how a beloved tradition could be construed as offensive, but she finally relented, albeit under protest, and pig was off the menu.

Back in 2000, not only were Asian-Jewish marriages extremely uncommon, but most of the one hundred and forty farm folks she invited to our wedding had likely never met a person of Jewish descent—or somebody who was Vietnamese, for that matter. All of them were coming to our wedding as a show of support for my parents. They would bring homemade pies and other wonderful desserts, no doubt all looking forward to seeing our out-of-town guests’ reactions on the hayrides that my parents organized around the property.

We weren’t going to have a preacher or a rabbi perform the ceremony. At the time, a reform rabbi would not even consider marrying an interfaith couple like us. I, however, did agree to the Jewish tradition of breaking the glass, signifying our breaking down the barriers between people of different cultures and faiths. This tradition also implied that our marriage was as fragile as glass and we should treasure every single day together as if it were our last. That was a tradition I could be in total agreement with.

My soon-to-be husband never pressured me into converting to Judaism and I loved him for it—he knew using that tactic with me had no chance for success and would probably push me away. He did request that I agree to teach our children about Judaism and the Jewish faith and traditions.

Yes, I said. "Under one condition—it must be Jewish and Vietnamese!"

It wasn’t that I opposed the idea of converting to Judaism; rather, conversion had to be real, from the heart. Otherwise, it would be empty and meaningless. My husband-to-be completely understood.

Within months after our wedding, I honored my commitment to learn as much about Judaism as I could so I’d know how to raise our family when the time came. I read many books about Judaism and asked my newlywed husband about his faith, culture, and tradition. His typical reply was, I’m sorry I don’t know the answers. Growing up, I often skipped religious school to go to 7-Eleven to buy snacks and candies. I know I am a bad Jew.

You are such an idiot when it comes to knowing about your heritage! I guess I’ll have to learn from someone else and you can join me if you like, I replied after getting frustrated with his regular responses.

I signed up to take the Intro to Judaism class and my husband agreed to attend with me, which I really appreciated. And then something amazing happened. As I got deeper and deeper into the teachings, I was amazed—astounded, really—that there were so many similarities between what the Jewish people had gone through and what the Vietnamese people had to endure. It seemed that in addition to dealing with continuous oppression, prejudice, and tyranny, the Jewish people had also developed a great work ethic despite all their trials and tribulations. They dedicated themselves to the education and nurturing of their families no matter what the cost, and they stuck together as a people, never forgetting where they came from. They were also immigrants who endured the worst persecution and suffering imaginable, people who wandered endlessly for years in the wilderness—never giving up hope that someday they would enter the Promised Land and begin their new and better life. Their history is one of loss, hope, resilience, and survival against all the odds.

And so is mine.

* * *

Imagine not knowing what year you were born, or how many brothers and sisters you actually had. That was the reality of life in Vietnam in the early seventies.

My birth certificate claimed I was born on February 24, 1975, but my mother was adamant that I was actually born two years earlier, in 1973. I have sixty-six first cousins on my father’s side of the family, many of them old enough to be my parents. Many of them I never met. Large families were common, and often, instead of being creative with names, parents would call their kids by numbers based on their birth order. It might be out of superstition, but families would always call the firstborn Second and continue from there. So my dad, whose real name was Tao, was called Tenth, being the second youngest of ten children. For many parents with numerous kids, having their children’s birth recorded was not high on the priority list, which was why it took my mother almost two years to get around to doing it.

My earliest memories take me all the way back to when I was about two years old. My family and I lived in a beautiful countryside house in a prestigious area of a town known as Ha Lam, located in Central Vietnam, near Da Nang. I can vividly recall the beautiful lake that surrounded our entire compound. It was a jewel, and colorful water lilies and lotus flowers in full bloom gently floated on the lake’s tranquil surface. While I had no concept of what heaven looked like back then, I was certain that it couldn’t compare to the fairy tale setting I saw every morning when I awoke.

We had no television, radio, or telephone to keep us entertained, so we would run out to the rice paddy fields each morning to gather up mud to create clay toys to play with that day. When that got old, we would cut down baby bamboo stakes and create flutes out of them. My siblings and I would spend our afternoons playing around those beautiful big evergreens that surrounded the lake like a protective fence, shielding us from the realities of a country being torn apart by death, despair, and war.

We were taught at an early age that whenever we heard the sound of airplanes, no matter how distant the sound might be, we were to race home and hurry into our bomb shelters. Ours was located next to our pharmacy. It was a dark, damp place, with its thick concrete walls and low ceilings. But it was also perfect for playing hide and seek, something my siblings and I did often. Still, we were mindful to run to the shelter whenever we heard the distant whir of an airplane; if you didn’t, you could be blown to bits by American bombs. Even in fairy tales, there was always a dark side that could appear at any moment.

* * *

We were the most prominent family in the region. My father, a well-respected physician, worked in private practice. He was also employed by the American military, taking care of the injured American soldiers. His private medical practice and pharmacy sat on our property right next to the main house. My beautiful, petite mother, with her long dark hair, pretty smile, and flawless skin, was ten years younger than my father and worked beside him as his nurse.

I had two older brothers and two older sisters—and maybe more. My mother had suffered three miscarriages, and I would occasionally wonder about these other lost siblings I could have had. During this time, Vietnam had a polygamy system whereby men could have multiple wives to show off their social status. Father had two official wives and numerous mistresses, who also bore him children.

My siblings and I sometimes asked why Mother would marry Father, knowing she would be his second wife.

I had two choices, she replied. Either marry a farmer and work long hard days on a rice paddy field for the rest of my life, or marry a handsome, successful doctor who I not only learn from but also have a higher social status. I have so much more freedom and opportunities than I would if I had been a farmer’s wife. She shrugged. So being wife number two to a doctor is far better than being wife number one to a farmer. It was not, perhaps, the fairy tale response one might expect, but I understood her reasoning.

When my parents got married, Mother didn’t want to share a house with Father’s first wife and kids. She wanted her own home and her own kids. So, Father shuttled between the two houses and set up his medical practices in the towns where the two wives lived. He spent one week with us and one week with his first wife, which made it challenging for patients to know when he was available. Back then, there were no telephones, so if you needed a doctor, you just headed out to his office, hoping he would be in. Father was the only doctor in the region, so sometimes people trudged long distances to get his help at our home only to realize that he was with wife number one that week. In that case, they had to travel again to another town, waiting to see him. Eventually, nearby towns developed a system to inform each other what town Father was in that week.

* * *

Patients came from all around and by the first light of day were already lined up outside our property, waiting for Father to treat them. Sometimes, it was something relatively simple, like a bad cold, and the patient would make a stop at the pharmacy for some cough syrup after being examined by Father. Other times, though, it was more serious, and in some cases, fatal. One afternoon, a woman showed up at the clinic, begging Father to rescue her dying son, who had been struck by lightning. He was a few years older than I was at the time, and his mother kept pleading through her tears, Save him! Please save him!

But there was nothing Father could do.

I’m sorry, I can’t save your son, he told the boy’s hysterical mother. In her grief, she seemed unable to hear him, and instead kept repeating her unanswerable plea. I’m sorry. His entire body is fried, Father said again.

The boy’s mother bowed in front of Father, wailing, as if she were able to express her anguish fully enough, it might somehow bring her son back. Father had no choice other than to just walk away because there truly was nothing he could do for the boy.

More often than not, though, Father was able to help the many patients that came to see him. I found this fascinating, and sometimes I would climb the large shade tree outside of Father’s office and watch through the window as he performed surgery or delivered a baby. Some of the things I witnessed seemed quite strange, like when he stuck needles in certain places on a patient’s body. I didn’t know what acupuncture was and found it incredible that no one ever seemed in pain when he did this. Even more shocking was when I once saw him remove a woman’s breast—I knew nothing about cancer and had no idea why he would do such a thing.

Later, I would learn that if his female patients couldn’t afford his services, he’d tell them about other ways to pay him, which explains why, in addition to his five children with my mom, and ten with his first wife, he sired so many others out of wedlock.

* * *

In spite of the raging war, my family lived fairly well considering what was going on all around us. I was fortunate enough to have a live-in nanny named Chieu, who fed, bathed, cooked, and took care of me whenever my parents weren’t around. She was such a kind, loving woman, and I completely adored her. She was probably around forty, and she had thick, dark hair she would often wear in a bun. She played with me when my sisters and brothers wouldn’t, and kept me occupied when my parents were busy tending to patients well into the night.

Our home was always a bustling, busy place, not just because people were ill and needed care from my father, but because we had the only water well in our village. The well was located in the front yard, outside of the main house. It was about six feet in diameter and had a circular wall, about three feet high, surrounding it. So, not very tall, and it is quite fortunate and rather incredible that a child never fell in. A cat did once, and the well had to be drained, which meant the entire town had to come help. Using nothing more than a piece of rope to secure themselves, some of the braver adults formed a chain of people and handed up bucket after bucket of water until it was empty and the well could be cleaned. Quite a bit of work, but it’s what needed to be done if people wanted clean water.

There was no electricity in our village, so at night, many people would often sit outside, the adults talking while the kids ran in packs, playing games in the dark of night. By far, my favorite time of year was the Mid-Autumn Festival, or Tết Trung Thu. A celebration of the rice harvest in the middle of the eighth lunar month, this festival also celebrated the children. For us, Tết Trung Thu meant staying up past our bedtime, carrying carp-shaped lanterns under the glow of a full moon, and eating as many mooncakes as we could. These soft, sticky treats were filled with sweet-bean paste or lotus-curd paste, and were sometimes made in the shape of animals. The mooncakes the adults feasted on were usually round and baked in molds with elegant, intricate patterns, making each cake look like its own piece of art.

These were happy, idyllic times, and they were about to come to devastating halt.

* * *

On April 30,