Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  “You saved my life. I would have died if you had not taken me in and nursed me. You’ve gone far beyond what an innkeeper does for his guest.”

  “My husband died of this thing. You’re a young man. You should live a long life.”

  They continued to walk, and Yangjin did not seem interested in turning around. She stared at the light green–colored water. She felt like sitting down; she was so tired suddenly.

  “Can she know that I know? May I speak with her?”

  “You’re not shocked?”

  “Of course not. Sunja seems like a very responsible young woman; there must be some reason for this. Ajumoni, this must feel very terrible now, but a child is a gift from God.”

  There was no change in Yangjin’s sad expression.

  “Ajumoni, do you believe in God?”

  She shook her head no. “My husband said Christians were not bad people. Some were patriots who fought for independence. Right?”

  “Yes, my teachers at the seminary in Pyongyang fought for independence. My oldest brother died in 1919.”

  “Are you political, too?” She looked concerned; Hoonie had told her that they should avoid housing activists because it would be dangerous. “Like your brother?”

  “My brother Samoel was a pastor. He led me to Christ. My brother was a brilliant man. Fearless and kind.”

  Yangjin nodded. Hoonie had wanted independence for Korea, but he believed that a man had to care for his family first.

  “My husband didn’t want us to follow anyone—not Jesus, not Buddha, not an emperor or even a Korean leader.”

  “I understand. I do.”

  “So many terrible things are happening here.”

  “God controls all things, but we don’t understand his reasons. Sometimes, I don’t like his actions, either. It’s frustrating.”

  Yangjin shrugged.

  “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to his purpose,” Isak said, reciting a favorite verse, but he could see that Yangjin was unmoved, and it occurred to him that she and her daughter could not love God if they did not know him.

  “I am sorry that you are suffering. I’m not a parent, but I think parents hurt with their children.”

  The boardinghouse keeper was lost in her sadness.

  “I’m glad you had a chance to walk a little today,” she said.

  “If you don’t believe, I understand,” he said.

  “Does your family observe jesa?”

  “No.” Isak smiled. No one in his family observed the rituals for the dead. The Protestants he knew didn’t, either.

  “My husband thought it was unnecessary. He told me so, but I still make his favorite foods and prepare a shrine for him. I do it for his parents and my own. His parents thought it was important. They were very good to me. I clean their graves and the ones for all my dead babies. I talk to the dead although I don’t believe in ghosts. But it makes me feel good to speak with them. Maybe that is what God is. A good God wouldn’t have let my babies die. I can’t believe in that. My babies did nothing wrong.”

  “I agree. They did nothing wrong.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “But a God that did everything we thought was right and good wouldn’t be the creator of the universe. He would be our puppet. He wouldn’t be God. There’s more to everything than we can know.”

  Yangjin said nothing but felt strangely calmer.

  “If Sunja will talk to you, perhaps it can help. I don’t know how, but maybe it might.”

  “I will ask her to walk with me tomorrow.”

  Yangjin turned back, and Isak walked beside her.

  8

  After Isak finished the letter to his brother, he rose from the low table and opened the narrow window in the front room. Isak pulled the crisp air deep into his lungs. His chest didn’t hurt. Throughout his life, everyone around him had talked about his early death as a certainty. He had been sick as an infant and throughout his youth with serious ailments in his chest, heart, and stomach. Consequently, little had been expected of his future. When Isak graduated from seminary, even he had been surprised that he was alive to see such a day. Oddly enough, all the talk of his inevitable death hadn’t discouraged him. He had become almost inured to death; his frailty had reinforced his conviction that he must do something of consequence while he had the time.

  His brother Samoel, the eldest son, was never ill, but he had died young. He had been beaten badly by the colonial police after a protest and did not survive the arrest. Isak decided then that he would live a braver life. He had spent his youth indoors with his family and tutors, and the healthiest he had ever been was when he attended seminary while working as a lay pastor for his church back home. While alive, Samoel had been a shining light at the seminary and their home church, and Isak believed that his deceased brother was carrying him now, no different than how he had done so physically when Isak was a boy.

  The middle Baek brother, Yoseb, wasn’t religious like Samoel or Isak. He had never liked school, and at the first opportunity, he had struck out for Japan in search of a different life. He had taught himself to be a machinist and now worked as a foreman of a factory in Osaka. He had sent for Kyunghee, the beloved daughter of a family friend, and they were married in Japan. They didn’t have any children. It had been Yoseb’s idea for Isak to come to Osaka, and he had found him the job at the church. Isak felt certain that Yoseb would understand his decision to ask Sunja to marry him. Yoseb was an open-minded person with a generous nature. Isak addressed the envelope and put on his coat.

  He picked up his tea tray and brought it to the threshold of the kitchen. He had been reminded numerous times that there was no need for him to bring his tray to the kitchen, where men were not supposed to enter, but Isak wanted to do something for the women, who were always working. Near the stove, Sunja was peeling radishes. She was wearing her white muslin hanbok beneath a dark quilted vest. She looked even younger than her age, and he thought she looked lovely as she focused on her task. He couldn’t tell if she was pregnant in her full-bodied chima. It was hard to imagine a woman’s body changing. He had never been with a woman.

  Sunja rushed to get his tray.

  “Here, please let me take that.”

  He handed the tray to her and opened his mouth to say something but wasn’t sure how.

  She looked at him. “Do you need something, sir?”

  “I was hoping to go into town today. To see someone.”

  Sunja nodded like she understood.

  “Mr. Jun, the coal man, is down the street and will be headed to town. Do you want me to ask him to take you?”

  Isak smiled. He had been planning on asking her to accompany him, but he lost his courage suddenly. “Yes. If Mr. Jun’s schedule permits it. Thank you.”

  Sunja rushed outside to get him.

  The church building had been repurposed from an abandoned wood-frame schoolhouse. It was located behind the post office. The coal man pointed it out to him and promised to take him back to the boardinghouse later.

  “I have to run some errands. And I’ll mail your letter.”

  “Do you know Pastor Shin? Would you like to meet him?”

  Jun laughed. “I’ve been to a church once. That was plenty.”

  Jun didn’t like going to places that asked for money. He didn’t like monks who collected alms, either. As far as he was concerned, the whole religion thing was a racket for overeducated men who didn’t want to do real work. The young pastor from Pyongyang didn’t seem lazy, and he had never asked Jun for anything, so he was fine enough. That said, Jun liked the idea of having someone pray for him.

  “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t be mad because I don’t want to be a Christian. You see, Pastor Baek, I’m not a good man, but I’m not a bad one, either.”

  “Mr. Jun, you’re a very good man. It was you who led me to the boardinghouse on the night when I was lost.
I was so dizzy that evening, I could barely say my own name. You’ve done nothing but help me.”

  The coal man grinned. He wasn’t used to being complimented.

  “Well, if you say so.” He laughed again. “When you’re done, I’ll be waiting for you across the street at the dumpling stand by the post office. I’ll meet you over there after I finish with my errands.”

  The servant of the church was wearing a patched men’s overcoat that was far too large for her tiny body. She was a deaf-mute, and she swayed gently while sweeping the chapel floor. At the vibration of Isak’s step, she stopped what she was doing with a jolt and turned. Her worn-down broom grazed her stocking feet, and she clutched on to its handle in surprise. She said something, but Isak couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “Hello, I’m here to see Pastor Shin.” He smiled at her.

  The servant scampered to the rear of the church, and Pastor Shin came out of his office at once. He was in his early fifties. Thick glasses covered his deep-set brown eyes. His hair was still black and he kept it short. His white shirt and gray trousers were well pressed. Everything about him seemed controlled and restrained.

  “Welcome.” Pastor Shin smiled at the nice-looking young man in the Western-style suit. “What may I do for you?”

  “My name is Baek Isak. My teachers at the seminary have written to you, I think.”

  “Pastor Baek! You’re finally here! I thought you’d be here months ago. I’m so pleased to see you. Come, my study is in the back. It’s a bit warmer there.” He asked the servant to bring them tea.

  “How long have you been in Busan? We’ve been wondering when you’d stop by. You’re headed to our sister church in Osaka?”

  There was hardly any chance to reply to all his questions. The elder pastor spoke rapidly without pausing to hear Isak’s reply. Pastor Shin had attended the seminary in Pyongyang near the time of its founding, and he was delighted to see a recent graduate. Friends who had been at the seminary with him had been Isak’s professors.

  “Do you have a place to stay? We could fix a room for you here. Where are your things?” Shin felt gleeful. It had been a long time since they’d had a new pastor stop by. Many of the Western missionaries had left the country due to the colonial government’s crackdown, and fewer young men were joining the ministry. Lately, Shin had been feeling lonesome. “I hope you will stay awhile.”

  Isak smiled.

  “I apologize for not calling on you sooner. I’d intended to come by, but I was very ill, and I’ve been recuperating at a boardinghouse in Yeongdo. The widow of Kim Hoonie and her daughter have been taking care of me. The boardinghouse is closer to the beach than the ferry. Do you know them?”

  Pastor Shin cocked his head.

  “No, I don’t know many people on Yeongdo Island. I shall come see you there soon. You look well. A bit thin, but everyone is not eating enough lately, it seems. Have you eaten? We have food to share.”

  “I’ve eaten already, sir. Thank you.”

  When the tea was brought in, the men held hands and prayed, giving thanks for Isak’s safe arrival.

  “You’re preparing to go to Osaka soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, good.”

  The elder pastor spoke at length about the troubles the churches had been facing. More people were afraid to attend services here and in Japan because the government didn’t approve. The Canadian missionaries had already left.

  Although Isak knew of these sad developments, he felt ready to face the trials. His professors had discussed the government’s opposition with him. Isak grew quiet.

  “Are you all right?” Shin asked.

  “Sir, I was wondering if we could talk. Talk about the Book of Hosea.”

  “Oh? Of course.” Pastor Shin looked puzzled.

  “God makes the prophet Hosea marry a harlot and raise children he didn’t father. I suppose the Lord does this to teach the prophet what it feels like to be wedded to a people who continually betray him. Isn’t that right?” Isak asked.

  “Well, yes, among other things. And the prophet Hosea obeys the Lord’s request,” Pastor Shin said in his sonorous voice. This was a story he had preached on before.

  “The Lord continues to be committed to us even when we sin. He continues to love us. In some ways, the nature of his love for us resembles an enduring marriage, or how a father or mother may love a misbegotten child. Hosea was being called to be like God when he had to love a person who would have been difficult to love. We are difficult to love when we sin; a sin is always a transgression against the Lord.” Shin looked carefully at Isak’s face to see if he had reached him.

  Isak nodded gravely. “Do you think it’s important for us to feel what God feels?”

  “Yes, of course. If you love anyone, you cannot help but share his suffering. If we love our Lord, not just admire him or fear him or want things from him, we must recognize his feelings; he must be in anguish over our sins. We must understand this anguish. The Lord suffers with us. He suffers like us. It is a consolation to know this. To know that we are not in fact alone in our suffering.”

  “Sir, the boardinghouse widow and her daughter saved my life. I reached their doorstep with tuberculosis, and they cared for me for three months.”

  Pastor Shin nodded with recognition.

  “That is a wonderful thing they did. A noble and kind work.”

  “Sir, the daughter is pregnant, and she has been abandoned by the father of the child. She is unmarried and the child will not have a name.”

  Shin looked concerned.

  “I think I should ask her to marry me, and if she says yes, I will take her to Japan as my wife. If she says yes, I would ask you to marry us before we go. I would be honored if—”

  Pastor Shin covered his own mouth with his right hand. Christians did such things—sacrificed possessions and their own lives even—but such choices had to be made for good reason and soberly. St. Paul and St. John had said, “Test everything.”

  “Have you written to your parents about this?”

  “No. But I think they would understand. I’ve refused to marry before, and they had not expected me to do so. Perhaps they will be pleased.”

  “Why have you refused to marry before?”

  “I’ve been an invalid since I was born. I have been improving the past few years, but I got sick again on the journey here. No one in my family expected me to live past twenty-five. I am twenty-six now.” Isak smiled. “If I’d married and had children, I would have made a woman a young widow and perhaps left orphans behind me.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “I should have been dead by now, but I am alive, sir.”

  “I’m very glad of it. Praise God.” Shin smiled at the young man, not knowing how to protect him from his wish to make such a grand sacrifice. More than anything, he was incredulous. If it hadn’t been for the warm letters from his friends in Pyongyang attesting to Isak’s intelligence and competence, Shin would have thought that Isak was a religious lunatic.

  “What does the young woman think of this idea?”

  “I don’t know. I have yet to speak with her. The widow told me about her daughter only yesterday. And last night before my evening prayers, it occurred to me that this is what I can do for them: Give the woman and child my name. What is my name to me? It’s only a matter of grace that I was born a male who could enter my descendants in a family registry. If the young woman was abandoned by a scoundrel, it’s hardly her fault, and certainly, even if the man is not a bad person, the unborn child is innocent. Why should he suffer so? He would be ostracized.”

  Shin was unable to disagree.

  “If the Lord allows me to live, I shall try to be a good husband to Sunja and a good father to this child.”

  “Sunja?”

  “Yes. She’s the boardinghouse keeper’s daughter.”

  “Your faith is good, son, and your intentions are right, but—”

  “Every child should be wanted; t
he women and men in the Bible prayed patiently for children. To be barren was to be an outcast, isn’t that right? If I do not marry and have children, I would be a kind of barren man.” Isak had never articulated this thought before, and this surge of wanting a wife and family felt strange and good to him.

  Shin smiled weakly at the young minister. After losing four of his children and his wife to cholera five years ago, Shin found that he could not speak much about loss. Everything a person said sounded glib and foolish. He had never understood suffering in this way, not really, until he had lost them. What he had learned about God and theology had become more graphic and personal after his family had died so gruesomely. His faith had not wavered, but his temperament had altered seemingly forever. It was as if a warm room had gotten cooler, but it was still the same room. Shin admired this idealist seated before him, his young eyes shining with faith, but as his elder, he wanted Isak to take care.

  “Yesterday morning, I had begun the study of Hosea, and then a few hours later, the boardinghouse ajumoni told me about her pregnant daughter. By evening, I knew. The Lord was speaking to me. This has never happened to me before. I’ve never felt that kind of clarity.” Isak felt it was safe to admit this here. “Has that ever happened to you?” He checked for doubt in the elder pastor’s eyes.

  “Yes, it has happened to me, but not always so vividly. I hear the voice of God when I read the Bible, so yes, I suppose I understand what you felt, but there are coincidences, too. We have to be open to that. It’s dangerous to think that everything is a sign from God. Perhaps God is always talking to us, but we don’t know how to listen,” Shin stated. It felt awkward to confess this uncertainty, but he thought it was important.

  “When I was growing up, I can remember at least three unmarried girls who were abandoned after becoming pregnant. One was a maid in our house. Two of the girls killed themselves. The maid in our house returned to her family in Wonsan and told everyone that her husband had died. My mother, a woman who never lies, had told her to say this,” Isak said.

  “This sort of thing happens with greater frequency these days,” Shin said. “Especially in difficult times.”