Bac Sai
Part 1 of 2
Synopsis: A physician discovers himself and the meaning of life in the pages of his tattered journal.
Bac Sai
It’s been a long day and I retire to the front porch of my home with a panoramic view of the turquoise Pacific Ocean. Its late evening and I sip a cognac which helps to steady my trembling hand. The Parkinson’s disease prevents me from performing surgery but I’m happy to serve as a general practitioner for the island’s inhabitants. The cognac and site of my daughter Aiyana and granddaughter Catie playing in the moonlit surf of French Polynesia warm my heart. A refreshing trade wind brushes the palm trees and abruptly opens the tattered journal which has recorded my life. The notebook pages I filled over the many years are a reminder of the long, twisting, and unpredictable path leading me to this paradise. I’m thankful for my journey.
My hand trembles as I read the scribbled sights, sounds, and impressions of my life. One of the first pages includes my parent’s admonition to, “Enunciate. Spit it out. You’ll never amount to anything with that stammer!” The humiliation and sadness I experienced at that moment of my youth cause me to reach for long sip of cognac to brunt the emotional pain I can still feel after these many years. As I turn the page of the notebook, a matchbook cover from the Oak Room falls into my lap and my eyes well with tears.
I had a front row seat from our pre-war penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park on the Upper East Side of New York as the innocence of the early sixties morphed into the cynical and violent late sixties. During this tumultuous decade, “I want to hold your hand” was replaced by “I can’t get no satisfaction” and “West Side Story” was replaced by the Broadway sensation “Hair”. My mother’s tailored suits gave way to paisley prints and tie dye. My father’s thin lapels and ties were discarded for Nehru jackets and silk scarves.
My parents were successful psychiatrists treating the neurotics, alcoholics, bulimics, and ego maniacs from their plush office on Fifth Avenue. They were the children of the holocaust fleeing with their parents to America with only the clothes on their backs and choosing to abandon their Jewish identification for assimilation. The fear my parents experienced as adolescents running for their lives from Germany hardened them. Although they displayed empathy with their patients, they told me life was, “Short, unfair, and only the strong survive.” I longed for the empathy and understanding they provided their patients because I never experienced it.
Drs. Singer hosted the artistic, financial, and political elite of New York at dinner and cocktail parties in our home which resembled a museum with original artwork including Pollock, Rothko, Lichtenstein, Warhol, Giacometti and others who gifted or bartered their art for psychotherapy. My home felt sterile and I longed for the warmth of the home Beaver Cleaver enjoyed.
My parents were ambitious and didn’t expect to have a baby in their thirties. I was an only child and stuttered. Although I was treated with the best speech therapy money could buy, they made me feel like a burden and an embarrassment to them. At their dinner and cocktail parties, my parents would trot me out for a quick meet-and-greet to their adoring guests then I was hustled back to my bedroom. Although they were trained to treat the emotional disorders of their patients, my parents were unable to provide for the emotional needs of their son. I never wanted for material possessions but craved their love and attention which wasn’t available. I spent hours alone in my bedroom watching television, reading, and scribbling in my journal.
I was often awakened by a shattering cocktail glass or raucous laugh emanating from a party in our sunken living room. One evening, I was awoken to a beautiful ballad sung by a young musician with curly hair who strummed an acoustic guitar while blowing into a harmonica. The guests sat around him transfixed by his lyrics and I couldn’t get the song out of my head for days. In later years, I’d awaken during the night to pot fumes and bad LSD trips. I’d peek out from my bedroom door and the antics I witnessed seemed at odds with the symbolism of the Mezuzah on my door frame.
I was teased at school because of my stuttering and would return home crying to an empty apartment. I’d run down to the lobby and into the loving embrace of Ace Rodriguez who was our doorman. Ace would assure me, “Don’t worry little man, all things shall pass. Just keep playing it cool my man.” In the cold of winter or sweltering humidity of summer, Ace was adorned like a General in a double breasted black coat with gold epaulets, black trousers with a gold stripe down the pant legs, black cap with gold trim, and shiny patent leather shoes. Ace was from Puerto Rico and had a zest for life and loved his job. He whistled the popular tunes of the day and cheerfully greeted each of the residents as they came and went. Some mornings, the specter of bullying was too much for me to bear and I would ditch school and spend the day with Ace who taught me how to handicap the horses he enjoyed playing at Belmont.
My playground was Central Park which was conveniently located across the street from our building. Its natural beauty and variety of people stimulated me. I found surrogate parents amongst the homeless who camped within Central Park in the spring and summer. They lived on subway grates during the winter. Visiting them was like attending a Boy Scout Jamboree. The stories I heard from these homeless men gave me a world view different from my cloistered life in the Upper East Side. Many were Korean War and World War Two veterans. They were haunted by the traumas they witnessed in war but were the strong silent type of their generations whose bottled up PTSD manifested itself in alcohol, drug abuse, and homelessness. Hearing their war stories prepared me for the horror I would soon experience.
The eldest and wisest of the group was a Korean War vet nicknamed “Redbird” because his long beard was red in color and resembled a bird's tail feathers. He was missing a front tooth and wore his hair in dreadlocks. His face depicted a hard life and I suspected he may have done time and was a former junkie. Redbird’s prize possession was a tenor saxophone which he played for spare change in the park. Redbird played the sax like it was an extension of his soul and was likely a professional musician in the past. Redbird knew I was a well off, lonely kid from the Upper East Side but made me feel comfortable and protected. Redbird ignored my stuttering and was patient with me during our conversations. Redbird challenged me to think hard about “what” I wanted out of life and told me to forgive my parents inattention, “They’re on their own trip, Abby. You have your own road to travel.”
One autumn afternoon, a cold breeze announcing winter's arrival shook the trees and the band of homeless knew it was time to return to the subway grates. Redbird placed a hand carved wooden statue of a young man gazing up into the heavens into my hand. It was his parting gift to me. Redbird told me, “You can’t change your parents but you’re writing your own journey, Abby. Question everything you hear and see. Examine it from the inside out and then you’ll understand what it means to you. Goodbye my young friend.” We hugged and I never saw him again.
Chloe was the most beautiful and complex woman I ever knew. She was one of my parents patients and introduced me to the demands of psychiatry my parents practiced. I was watering the potted plants and emptying the waste baskets after school when she entered my parents waiting room for her appointment. She was razor thin, a brunette with her hair tightly pulled into a bun, wearing knee high patent leather boots, a miniskirt, brightly colored silk paisley blouse and white satin elbow length gloves. She sat, opened a copy of Vogue, lit a cigarette, and waited to be called for her appointment. There were two doors to my parent’s office. The first door was to the waiting room and the second door was a discrete exit door so patients could leave their session unnoticed. The therapy sessions lasted about an hour and I waited for her to exit. She was beautiful and I was attracted to her like a magnet. I wanted to meet her.
An hour later, Chloe exited the office agitated and approached the elevator. She opened a black alligator skin Dior handbag and was frantically searching for something. The elevator door opened and we both entered. I offered to hold her handbag as she reached inside to find her pack of “KOOL” brand cigarettes and lighter saying, “Thank you, young man. I need a cigarette. My nerves are shot. Hey, aren’t you the kid from the doctor’s office?” Yes, miss. I’m Abby. The doctors are my parents. I motioned for her lighter, lit her cigarette, and returned the lighter. “I’m Chloe, Abby” and I shook her hand covered by a satin elbow length glove.
Chloe invited me to join her for tea at the Pierre Hotel and I accepted. We were interrupted on more than one occasion by one of her elite clients stopping to say hello and I was conscious of the stares she drew from the men. I was mesmerized by her long graceful fingers with French manicured nails gripping her tea cup. Chloe wasn’t put off by my stuttering and said, “Take your time, Abby” as I gathered my thoughts and spoke. Chloe wanted to see the world from the perspective of a seventeen year old whose parents were psychiatrists and was riveted by my every word.
Chloe and I bonded over tea. We both agreed to keep our meeting a secret from my parents and not to discuss Chloe’s therapy but I pondered what demons she was battling inside her mind. She was surprisingly frank about her past. Chloe was twenty nine and a successful real estate agent who worked her way up from a typing pool into the lucrative world of high priced Upper East Side real estate sales after moving from Detroit. Chloe had a tough upbringing and was the only daughter to an alcoholic mother. They lived on welfare and Chloe alluded to sexual advances by her uncle which her mother ignored. Although Chloe was adored by her fashion conscious, trend setting global clientele, she was a lonely heart drifting from one vacuous relationship to another desperately seeking love. Although Chloe never wanted for a date, she was bored by the wealthy and powerful men who pursued her. We each longed for the love of attentive parents. Chloe exuded fragility and vulnerability and I wanted to protect her. I respected Chloe for escaping her unhappy childhood and making a new life for herself. I realized that I would have to do the same.
Chloe provided me the nurturing I craved from my parents. I told her I was jealous of the attention my parents provided their patients and felt neglected. Chloe didn’t excuse my parent’s inattention but offered an analogy, “Your parents jobs are like playing for the Yankees or the Jets. They have to invest all of themselves into their work and at the end of the game; they leave it all on the field. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you. Does that make sense, Abby?” Chloe gave me a useful tool for managing my feelings of abandonment and hostility towards my parents.
We spent the Fourth of July together on her roof top balcony with a 360 degree view of the city. I knew Chloe had her pick of lavish parties to attend and was flattered she would spend the evening alone with me. It also spoke to a detachment Chloe had with her many clients and lovers. I suspected her “demons” demanded solitude. Chloe ran to me and gave me a big hug exclaiming, “Happy Fourth of July, Abby. Welcome.”
We drank wine and patiently waited for the sky to grow dark and the fireworks to light up the city. I felt a comfortable buzz from the wine but as the first of the fireworks began to light up the sky, Chloe dropped acid which combined with the wine, provided Chloe the ability to numb her demons. Chloe loved the Rolling Stones and cranked up the volume on her stereo and the lyrics resounded,
“She’s like a rainbow...like a queen in days of old…She comes in colors…”
Chloe lit a handful of sparklers for each of us and shouted, “Let’s dance, Abby.” Chloe removed her clothing revealing sexy lace panties and bra. We danced and ran about the balcony waving our sparklers like children. Around and around we ran becoming dizzy. I felt free and careless for the first time in my life. Chloe stopped dancing and leaned dangerously over the balcony saying, “Look at the fire flies” referring to the car lights and pedestrians forty floors below. Chloe rolled over on her back and only my grip kept her from tumbling off the balcony to join the ‘fire flies”. She demanded, “Let me fly, Abby”. I pulled her safety back onto the balcony. Chloe grew limp and fainted. I carried her to a chase lounge and tried to awake her. She was breathing. Chloe, are you ok? Should I call somebody? Chloe muttered, “You’re a lovely and lucky boy, Abby. You have boundless opportunities ahead of you. Don’t waste your time with me. I’m broken.” Chloe fell into a deep sleep. Chloe always wore elbow length satin gloves and tonight one of them had unraveled to her wrist revealing razor scars running the length of her forearm. Chloe had a habit of excusing herself to visit the bathroom after our meals. I knew Chloe’s cutting and bulimia were signs of severe emotional pain but I never judged her or brought it up. Instead, we provided each other the emotional attention and intimacy we craved. I covered her with a nearby blanket and left as the last of the fireworks trailed off into the night sky.
The last time I saw Chloe was on her birthday. We met in the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel. Chloe was subject to mood swings and turning thirty placed her into a deep depression. She was sitting in her favorite secluded booth and already on her second martini. Angelo the bartender sent his waiter over with a pitcher of martinis and an extra glass for me. It didn’t matter that I was underage because I was with Chloe who he adored. I sat and moved in close to Chloe. She gave me a kiss on the cheek saying, “Hello, Abby, my darling. I apologize if I’m a drag tonight, sweetheart. I’m thirty years old, alone, and it’s all meaningless.” I assured her she had everything a woman could want including beauty, style, money, independence, and a best friend. Chloe reached for my chin with her satin glove, traced the contours of my jaw and inserted her finger tip into my mouth saying, “You’re a darling, sweet Abby but someday you’ll understand.”
Angelo approached with an elegant, petite chocolate cake adorned with a sparkler and wished Chloe, “Happy Birthday, Madame.” I gave Chloe a hug and said make a wish. Chloe closed her eyes briefly and opened them to a thin rectangular gold wrapped gift with a silver bow I placed in front of her. Chloe’s mood instantly improved as she gently opened the gift revealing the Stones album “Between the Buttons” which was autographed by Mick as a gift to me at one of my parent’s parties. Chloe jumped from her seat, ran to Angelo and asked him to play, “This song,” pointing to one of the tracks on the album. Angelo was pleased to accommodate his favorite client at the expense of the Mantovani music which was the staple of the bar.
The Stones lyrics filled the bar startling the patrons and attracting them to the beautiful and stylish woman dancing alone to the lyrics while hugging the album jacket. Her mascara was running down her face from the tears flowing from her eyes. Chloe removed the clip from her hair bun and her long brunette hair fell to her shoulders. Chloe was lost in her own universe. The bar remained silent as Angelo increased the volume and the lyrics to the song whaled:
“She would never say where she came from…goodbye Ruby Tuesday who could hang a name on you…when you change with every new day still I’m gonna miss you…she can’t be chained to a life where nothings gained…catch your dreams before they slip away…lose your dreams and you will lose your mind…Goodbye Ruby Tuesday…”
The song ended and the bar erupted in applause. Chloe ran to the ladies room clutching the album cover. I never saw her again. Chloe provided me with a respect for my parent’s work and insight into the challenges they faced as they fought the mental illness of their patients. They couldn’t help but carry the enormous challenges of their work home with them those many years. Chloe was correct in saying my parents work required them to “leave it all on the field”. I would never forget Chloe and her advice prepared me for the challenges I would experience in the years to come.
I graduated from high school and was admitted to City College but never enrolled. I took Redbird’s advice and nothing made sense to me anymore. College and life with my parents just wouldn’t work for me. It was time to leave home and strike out on my own. I packed a bag and was readying to hitchhike to San Francisco but my draft notice derailed my plans. I didn’t care. My parents were mortified that I would be fighting in Vietnam and implored me to stutter during my physical examination in hopes of being labeled unfit for military service. They offered me prescription medications which would dull my cognitive abilities and fail the psychological testing. I found it ironic they would now embrace my speech impediment because it was useful but it was also the first time in my life they displayed love and protection for me. I ignored their suggestion and didn’t fill the prescription. My parent’s political connections couldn’t get me a draft deferment and I received orders to report to the Army’s induction center.
It was a day of physical examinations and written tests. Based upon my aptitude tests and maybe some political “string pulling” from my parents political connections, I was selected for medic school and ordered to report to Fort Sam Houston after completing basic training. I would be in the Army for two years. Medic school would change my life forever.
LBJ escalated the number of troops sent to Vietnam so basic training was like an assembly line designed to graduate as many “boots” as possible and get them into Vietnam quickly. It was eight weeks long and I was stationed at Fort Knox Kentucky. My fellow recruits were teenagers representing every race, religion, and ethnicity from every corner of the country and in between. The minority kids shared one thing in common. They were poor. About eighty percent of our class was drafted. The remaining twenty percent were volunteers. The common denominator of my basic training class was that my fellow recruits were largely the children of the working class or poor. These young men didn’t have the money for college and a deferment. The lucky draftees were already working. The poor were hanging out waiting for their draft card or a jail sentence.
Our Drill Instructor was a career Army Master Sergeant nearing retirement who saw action in World War Two and Korea. Master Sergeant Pike was a big white man with a Texas drawl and reminded me of the homeless veterans I met in Central Park. He had an empathy about him which confounded me. He was never cruel or abusive and demonstrated a sarcastic wit and sense of humor. Throughout basic training, he emphasized tactics designed to keep us alive more than kill. He was a professional warrior and concluded Vietnam like Korea was a political conflict, not a noble battle between good and evil like World War Two. We respected Master Sergeant Pike who had become a father figure to us. The night before our graduation, Master Sergeant Pike ordered us to attention, removed his DI hat and said, “I wish to congratulate each of you on graduating basic training. Remember to keep your heads down and write home often. There will be no heroes, just survivors. Good luck and God bless each of you.” We pitched in for a new stereo system and Master Sergeant Pike’s eyes became teary when he was presented with our gift.
Medic school was different than basic training. It was ten weeks long and was held at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. My classmates were former ambulance attendants, hospital orderlies, and fireman before being drafted. We shared a respect for human life and many held unfavorable views about the war. We wanted to save lives and not take lives. Training consisted of basic first aid, CPR, giving shots, drawing blood, suturing, starting IV’s, using splints for broken bones, treating gunshot wounds, conducting amputations, treating head wounds, shock, burns, dislocations, and seizures. We were also trained in the hospital which involved a lot of bedpans and enemas. The ten weeks of medic school flew by fast and I was assigned to the 15th Medical Battalion (Airmobile) of the First Cavalry Division.
Life as a medic resembled that of a firefighter. When the bell rang, we ran for the helicopter and flew into battle encountering sheer terror as we found ourselves landing in the middle of a fire fight. I’d jump from the helicopter and run or crawl from wounded soldier to soldier assessing who required the most urgent care. The screams and cries from the wounded shook my soul and most of these boys cried out for their mothers. I often wondered if I would have cried for my mother or Chloe. Morphine was my first treatment to calm these kids. I’d bandage, suture, intubate, and whisper to the dying, “It’s ok to let go, man”. We loaded the wounded onto the helicopter and lifted off for the mobile surgical hospital or “MASH” unit. We called the lift off a “dust off” because of the whirling dust created by the blades of the helicopter.
The MASH unit was nothing more than a large tent sectioned off into treatment and surgery wards. Although it appeared like chaos inside the tent, each physician, nurse, orderly, and soldier showed determination and empathy for the wounded. I was proud to be an American medic because whenever possible, the Army treated everybody including GI’s, civilians, and even the enemy. The MASH unit was filled to capacity and all of the doctors were busy treating the injured American soldiers. I was busy moving from cot to cot caring for the wounded. I came upon a stretcher placed just inside the opening to the MASH. On it laid a dying teenage Viet Cong soldier who had nobody but me to care for him. It was that day I discovered my path in life. His torso was riddled with shrapnel which opened his abdomen and scrambled his organs about. He was bleeding to death but there was no blood to spare for a transfusion and his wounds were fatal. He was semiconscious because anesthesia was in short supply but I gave him what morphine I could scrounge. I placed each organ back into its proper anatomical position knowing I couldn’t save his life. A fresh cool breeze blew open the canvas doorway to the MASH and the dying teenager raised himself with every ounce of strength left in his body saying, “Bac Sai. You try save me. You be good doctor, someday”. He seized up, his eyes rolled back inside his head, and he died. I gently laid him back onto the stretcher. A nurse passing by placed her arm around my shoulder and said, “Bac Sai means doctor, Abby.”
I was a good Medic and it gave me the personal satisfaction I never before enjoyed. My stutter was gone. On more than one occasion, a doc told me, “The trauma work you did in the field saved this kid's life.” The Chief of Surgery was Dr. Abner. I’d watch him move from operating table to operating table working with urgency, skill, and passion. He was a large Black man and the surgical instruments looked like toothpicks in his bear-like hands. Dr. Reginald Abner was an Army Colonel and made a career in the Army. He was the son of Black sharecroppers from Mississippi. He was drafted into the Army during the final months of World War Two which was his ticket out of the Jim Crow South. Although the Army was desegregated, Black soldiers were assigned to infantry regiments seeing the brunt of the war or low level support divisions such as cooks. Dr. Abner was assigned to an all Black Medic school created to train Black medics to treat Black soldiers because White soldiers harbored prejudice at being treated by Black medics. Dr. Abner saw a great deal of action treating Black troops but as his skills increased, and reputation as a life saver spread throughout the Army, he soon was treating White soldiers and officers at the best field hospitals in Europe and Asia. Dr. Abner completed college and medical school while in the Army. Although he was a world class surgeon, he realized that his skills would be unappreciated as a Black civilian surgeon in America.
After an eighteen hour shift, Dr. Abner invited me to share a cup of coffee during an early morning monsoon rainstorm. He told me, “My surgeons tell me you got the hands for surgery, kid. Ever consider medicine as a career?” Dr. Abner sized me up as a privileged kid and was impressed by my dedication to saving lives and medical skills. I told him my parents were both psychiatrists and although I considered medicine, I didn’t have the patience to complete four years of undergraduate pre-medical coursework and four years of medical school. He told me, “I was a poor kid from Mississippi and felt the same way. Think about it, kid. By the way, change your name because the unit can’t keep us straight.”
In the months following our coffee break, Dr. Abner would call for me to stand next to him during surgery while he patiently explained the procedure and sometimes asked me to assist in some minor way. Dr. Abner convinced me to become a surgeon. I scrounged a bottle of bourbon and requested an appointment to speak with Dr. Abner who had finished a long shift and welcomed a drink. “What’s on your mind, Dr. Singer?” he playfully asked. I leveled with him that I was mature beyond my years and the thought of sitting in class with kids fresh out of high school for four years and another four years of medical school wasn’t appealing but wanted to become a surgeon. Dr. Abner replied, “Are you aware there are combined undergraduate and Medical programs permitting completion in seven years, Abby?” Knocking off even a year of school was a revelation to me. Dr. Abner continued, “You make an application directly to medical school, complete the premedical coursework, and move quickly into your medical education. Sound interesting?” I said, yes and Dr. Abner replied, “Where do want to attend Medical School, Abby?” I replied, I want to go home to New York. Dr. Abner took a second shot of bourbon and said, “Here’s my advice, Abby. Write a well thought out essay explaining why you would be a great doctor and recount your experiences in Vietnam. I’ll see what I can do.” He raised his glass and said, “Here’s mud in your eye.” I raised my glass to meet his and proclaimed L’Chaim. Dr. Abner repeated, “L’Chaim”. I spent the night typing my letter relying on Redbird’s rhetorical approach as my outline. My letter was titled, “I Must be a Doctor” and I placed it inside Dr. Abner’s mail pouch.
The months sped by and my tour of duty was coming to an end. I didn’t want to re-enlist and didn’t have a clue what I would do when I returned home to “the world”. I came off a fifteen hour mission and landed with the last of our injured for the day. I headed off to the canteen for chow. A letter was dropped in my lap by the company clerk with a return address of a New York City medical college. I hurriedly opened the letter to find a single page letter accepting me to medical school pending completion of a list of premedical courses. The Dean of Admissions of the medical college included a handwritten note on my acceptance letter saying:
“Dr. Abner’s recommendation is the gold standard, Abby. Welcome to medical school!”
Dr. Abner was transferred to the Army hospital in Japan. I never saw him again and wanted to thank him. I heard he retired from the Army and my attempts to find him over the years led to a rural Mississippi medical clinic which had closed due to lack of funding.
I received an Honorable Discharge and left Vietnam for home. As my plane landed at JFK, my first stop was the men’s room where I changed out of my uniform and into civilian clothes. I couldn’t handle the gauntlet of protesters awaiting returning soldiers. Although I respected their right to protest the war, I believe they would have admired the work we performed for soldiers and civilians alike. I left my duffle bag and uniforms in the restroom and kept only my discharge papers and memories of my mentors, comrades, and patients in Vietnam.
I rented a small apartment in Greenwich Village a few blocks from campus and began the pre-medical coursework which would require three years of intensive study and devotion. The Village changed while I was in Vietnam. The trendsetting musicians, filmmakers, and writers had left for Hollywood. They were now “California Dreamin”. I went to Central Park to visit Redbird but he was nowhere to be found. A prominent sign was posted warning “No Camping Permitted”. Chloe wrote me several times in Vietnam and her writing was increasingly morbid. I hoped she was still seeking treatment and longed to see her. I contacted the real estate agency where she worked to learn she had “accidently slipped” from a balcony and fell to her death. I knew better. Chloe committed suicide.
I was a determined and passionate student studying around the clock with time only for weekly dinners with my parents. The dinners were uneasy and consisted mostly of small talk. My parents still couldn’t relate to me as a son although they were proud of my achievements. My experiences in Vietnam made it impossible for me to relate to them or anyone who hadn’t shared the Vietnam experience. I completed the premedical coursework consisting of chemistry, biology, physics, genetics, and calculus with high marks.
As I began my first year of medical school, I found my classmates were over-achievers who entered medical school straight from college. They lacked my maturity and experience. I couldn’t relate to them. The medical school class was mostly male and white. One of the few women was Kate. She was raised on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. After graduating from nursing school, Kate was commissioned as an officer in the Air Force and served as a nurse at the Clark Air Force base hospital in the Philippines and saw a lot of action as a nurse. She was in her late twenties and had a wholesome, innocent beauty about her but we had no romantic chemistry. Kate was on a mission to become a physician and I could use her help. Because of our shared military experience, we agreed to become study partners.
(Continued in Part II.)