by Min Jin Lee
The men ogled Kyunghee, altogether ignoring Sunja, who had by now grown used to this invisibility whenever the two went anywhere. Kyunghee, who looked smart in her midi skirts and crisp white blouses, easily passing for a schoolteacher or a merchant’s modest wife with her fine features, was welcomed in most places. Everyone thought she was Japanese until she spoke; even then, the local men were pleasant to her. For the first time in her life, Sunja felt aware of her unacceptable plainness and inappropriate attire. She felt homely in Osaka. Her well-worn, traditional clothes were an inevitable badge of difference, and though there were enough older and poorer Koreans in the neighborhood who wore them still, she had never been looked upon with scorn with such regularity, when she had never meant to call attention to herself. Within the settled boundaries of Ikaino, one would not be stared at for wearing a white hanbok, but outside the neighborhood and farther out from the train station, the chill against identifiable Koreans was obvious. Sunja would have preferred to wear Western clothes or mompei, but it would make no sense to spend money on fabric to sew new things now. Kyunghee promised to make her new clothes after the baby was delivered.
Kyunghee bowed politely to the men, and Sunja retreated into the corner of the shop.
“How can we help you today, Boku-san?” Tanaka-san asked.
Even after two months, it still surprised Sunja to hear her husband’s family name pronounced in its Japanese form. Due to the colonial government’s requirements, it was normal for Koreans to have at least two or three names, but back home she’d had little use for the Japanese tsumei—Junko Kaneda—written on her identity papers, because Sunja didn’t go to school and had nothing to do with official business. Sunja was born a Kim, yet in Japan, where women went by their husband’s family name, she was Sunja Baek, which was translated into Sunja Boku, and on her identity papers, her tsumei was now Junko Bando. When the Koreans had to choose a Japanese surname, Isak’s father had chosen Bando because it had sounded like the Korean word ban-deh, meaning objection, making their compulsory Japanese name a kind of joke. Kyunghee had assured her that all these names would become normal soon enough.
“What will you be cooking today, Boku-san?” the young owner asked.
“May I please have shinbones and a bit of meat? I’m making soup,” Kyunghee said in her radio announcer–style Japanese; she regularly listened to Japanese programs to improve her accent.
“Right away.” Tanaka grabbed three large hunks of shinbone from the stock of beef bones and oxtails he kept in the ice chest for Korean customers; Japanese did not have any use for bones. He wrapped up a handful of stew meat. “Will that be all?”
She nodded.
“Thirty-six sen, please.”
Kyunghee opened her coin purse. Two yen and sixty sen had to last her for eight more days until Yoseb gave her his pay envelope.
“Sumimasen desu, how much would it be for just the bones?”
“Ten sen.”
“Please pardon my error. Today, I’ll take only the bones. Meat another time, I promise.”
“Of course.” Tanaka returned the meat to the case. It wasn’t the first time a customer didn’t have enough money to pay for food, but unlike his other customers, the Koreans didn’t ask him for credit, not that he would have agreed to it.
“You’re making a broth?” Tanaka wondered what it might be like to have such an elegant wife worrying about his meals and being thrifty with her pin money. He was the first son, and although he was eager to be married, he lived with his mother as a bachelor. “What kind?”
“Seolleongtang.” She looked at him quizzically, wondering if he knew what that was.
“And how do you make this soup?” Tanaka folded his arms leisurely and leaned into the counter, looking carefully into Kyunghee’s lovely face. She had beautiful, even teeth, he thought.
“First, you wash the bones very carefully in cold water. Then you boil the bones and throw that first batch of water out because it will have all the blood and dirt that you don’t want in your broth. Then you boil it again with clean, cold water, then simmer it for a long, long time until the broth is white like tofu, then you add daikon, chopped scallions, and salt. It’s delicious and very good for your health.”
“It would be better to have some meat with it, I would imagine.”
“And white rice and noodles! Why not?” Kyunghee laughed, her hand raised reflexively to cover her teeth.
Both men laughed with pleasure, understanding her joke, since rice was costly even for them.
“And do you eat kimchi with that?” Tanaka asked, never having had such a long conversation with Kyunghee. It felt safe for him to talk with her with his assistant and her sister-in-law present. “Kimchi is a bit spicy for me, yet I think it’s nice with grilled chicken or grilled pork.”
“Kimchi is delicious with every meal. I will bring you some from our house next time.”
Tanaka reopened the paper packet of bones and put back half of the meat he’d just returned to the case.
“It’s not much. Just enough for the baby.” Tanaka smiled at Sunja, who was surprised that the butcher had noticed her. “A mother must eat well if she’s to raise a strong worker for the Emperor.”
“I couldn’t take anything for free,” Kyunghee said, perplexed. She didn’t know what he was doing exactly, but she really couldn’t afford the meat today.
Sunja was confused by their conversation. They were saying something about kimchi.
“This is the first sale of the day. Sharing will bring me luck,” Tanaka said, feeling puffed up like any man who could give something worthwhile to an attractive woman whenever he pleased.
Kyunghee placed the ten sen on the spotless money dish resting on the counter, smiled, and bowed to both men before she left.
Outside the shop, Sunja asked what happened.
“He didn’t charge us for the meat. I didn’t know how to make him take it back.”
“He likes you. It was a present.” Sunja giggled, feeling like Dokhee, the younger servant girl back home, who’d joke about men whenever she had the chance. Though she thought of her mother often, it had been a while since she’d thought about the sisters back home. “I’ll call Tanaka-san your boyfriend from now on.”
Kyunghee swatted playfully at Sunja, shaking her head.
“He said it’s for your baby, so he can grow up to be a good worker for the country.” Kyunghee made a face. “And Tanaka-san knows I’m Korean.”
“Since when do men care about such things? Mrs. Kim next door told me about the quiet lady who lives at the end of the road who’s Japanese and married to the Korean who brews alcohol in his house. Their kids are half Japanese!” This had shocked Sunja when she’d first heard of it, though everything Mrs. Kim, the lady who raised pigs, told her was shocking. Yoseb didn’t want Kyunghee and Sunja to speak with Mrs. Kim, who also didn’t go to church on Sundays. They weren’t allowed to speak to the Japanese wife, either, because her husband was routinely sent to jail for his bootlegging.
“If you run away with the nice butcher, I’ll miss you,” Sunja said.
“Even if I weren’t married, I would not choose that man. He smiles too much.” Kyunghee winked at her. “I like my cranky husband who’s always telling me what to do and worries about everything.
“Come on, we have to buy vegetables now. That’s why I didn’t buy the meat. We should try to find some potatoes to roast. Wouldn’t that be good for our lunch?”
“Sister—”
“Yes?” Kyunghee said.
“We’re not contributing to the house. The groceries, fuel, sento fees—I’ve never seen such prices in my life. Back home, we had a garden, and we never paid for vegetables. And the price of fish! My mother would never eat it again if she knew the cost. Back home, we scrimped, but I didn’t realize how easy we had it—we got free fish from the guests, and here, an apple costs more than beef ribs in Busan. Mother was careful with money, the way you are, but even she couldn’t have made the
kinds of delicious things you make on a budget. Isak and I think you should take the money he makes to help with the food budget at least.”
The fact that Sister and Brother wouldn’t allow Isak and her to pay for a single thing was difficult to accept, and it wasn’t as if they could afford to rent a place separately. Besides, even if they could have afforded to do so, it would have hurt Sister’s feelings deeply for Isak and Sunja to move out.
“I’m sure you ate much better and more filling things back home,” Kyunghee said, appearing sad.
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. We just feel terrible that you won’t let us contribute to the enormous expenses.”
“Yoseb and I won’t allow it. You should be saving money for the baby. We’ll have to get clothes for him and diapers, and one day he’ll go to school and become a gentleman. Won’t that be something? I hope he’ll like school like his father and not dodge books like his uncle!” The thought of a baby living with them made Kyunghee smile. This child felt like an answer to her prayers.
“Mother sent me three yen in her last letter. And we have money we brought and Isak’s recent earnings to help. You shouldn’t have to worry about expenses so much or selling kimchi to support two extra mouths—and soon, three,” Sunja said.
“Sunja-ya, you’re being disrespectful. I’m your elder. We can manage just fine. Also, if I can’t talk about my wish to earn money without you jumping in about wanting to contribute, then I can’t talk about my pipe dreams of becoming the kimchi ajumma of Tsuruhashi Station.” Kyunghee laughed. “Be a good little sister and let me dream out loud about my business where I’ll make so much money that I can buy us a castle and send your son to medical school in Tokyo.”
“Do you think housewives would buy another woman’s kimchi?”
“Why not! Don’t you think I make good kimchi? My family cook made the finest pickles in Pyongyang.” Kyunghee lifted her chin, then broke down laughing. She had a joyous laugh. “I’d make a great kimchi ajumma. My pickled cabbage would be clean and delicious.”
“Why can’t you start now? I have enough money to buy cabbage and radish. I can help you make it. If we sell a lot, it would be better for me than working in a factory, because I can watch the baby at home when he’s born.”
“Yes, we would be really good at it, but Yoseb would kill me. He said he’d never have his wife work. Never. And he wouldn’t want you to work, either.”
“But I grew up working with my mother and father. He knows that. My mother served the guests and did all the cooking, and I cleaned and washed—”
“Yoseb is old-fashioned.” Kyunghee sighed. “I married a very good man. It’s my fault. If I had children, I wouldn’t feel so restless. I just don’t want to be so idle. This isn’t Yoseb’s fault. No one works harder than he does. Back in the olden days, a man in his situation could’ve thrown me out for not having a son.” Kyunghee nodded to herself, recalling the numerous stories of barren women that she’d heard as a child, never having considered that such a thing could happen to her. “I’ll listen to my husband. He has always taken such good care of me.”
Sunja could neither agree nor disagree, so she let the statement hang in the air. Her brother-in-law, Yoseb, was in actuality saying that a yangban woman like Kyunghee couldn’t work outside the house; Sunja was an ordinary peasant’s daughter, so working in a market was fine for her. The distinction didn’t trouble Sunja, since she agreed that Kyunghee was a superior person in so many ways. Nevertheless, living with Kyunghee and speaking so truthfully with her about everything, Sunja also knew that her sister-in-law was heartbroken about what she could not have and might have been far happier trying her luck as a kimchi ajumma.
Regardless, it wasn’t her place to say. All this was what her brother-in-law would call “foolish women’s talk.” For Kyunghee’s sake, Sunja brightened up and linked arms with her sister-in-law, who seemed to drag a little. Arm in arm, they went to buy cabbage and daikon.
16
Kyunghee didn’t recognize the two men at her door, but they knew her name.
The taller one with the pointy face smiled more frequently, but the shorter one had the kinder expression. They were dressed similarly in workmen’s clothing—dark slacks and short-sleeved shirts—but both wore expensive-looking leather shoes. The taller one spoke with a distinct Jeju accent; he dug out a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his pants.
“Your husband signed this,” he said, flashing her the formal-looking document. Part of it was written in Korean but much of it was in Japanese and Chinese characters. On the upper right-hand corner, Kyunghee recognized Yoseb’s name and hanko. “He’s late on his payments.”
“I don’t know anything about this. My husband’s at work now.”
Kyunghee thought she might cry and put her hand on the door, hoping the men would leave. “Please come by later when he’s home.”
Sunja stood close by her, her hands resting on her abdomen. The men didn’t look dangerous to Sunja. Physically, they resembled the lodgers back home, but her sister-in-law appeared flustered.
“He’ll be home late tonight. Come back then,” Sunja repeated, but much more loudly than Kyunghee had.
“You’re the sister-in-law, right?” the shorter one said to her. He had dimples when he smiled.
Sunja said nothing, trying not to appear surprised by the fact that he knew who she was.
The taller one continued grinning at Kyunghee. His teeth were large and square and rooted in pale pink gums.
“We’ve already spoken to your husband, but he hasn’t been responsive so we thought we’d drop by and visit with you.” He paused and said her name slowly: “Baek Kyunghee—I had a cousin named Kyunghee. Your tsumei is Bando Kimiko, nee?” The man placed his wide hand on the door and pressed it in slightly toward her. He glanced at Sunja. “The fact that we’re meeting your sister-in-law just doubles our pleasure. Right?” The men laughed heartily together.
Again, Kyunghee attempted to scan the document held before her. “I don’t understand it,” she said finally.
“This is the important part: Baek Yoseb owes my boss a hundred twenty yen.” He pointed to the number 120 written in kanji in the second paragraph. “Your husband has missed the last two payments. We’re hoping that you’ll get him to make them today.”
“How much are the payments?” Kyunghee asked.
“Eight yen plus interest per week,” the shorter man said; he had a strong accent from the Kyungsangdo region. “Maybe you keep some money at home and can pay us?” he asked. “It comes out to about twenty yen.”
Yoseb had just given her the food money for the next two weeks. She had six yen in her purse. If she gave that to him, they’d have no money for food.
“Is a hundred twenty yen the whole amount?” Sunja asked. The paper didn’t make any sense to her, either.
The short man looked a little worried and shook his head.
“By now, it’s almost double if you include the interest. Why? Do you have the money?”
“As of today, the total would be two hundred thirteen yen,” the taller man said. He’d always been good at doing sums in his head.
“Uh-muh,” Kyunghee exclaimed. She closed her eyes and leaned her body against the doorframe.
Sunja stepped forward and said calmly, “We’ll get you the money.” She spoke to them the same way she would’ve spoken to Fatso, the lodger, as to when he could expect his wash to be ready. She didn’t even glance in their direction. “Just come back in three hours. Before it gets dark.”
“We’ll see you later,” the taller one said.
The sisters-in-law walked briskly toward the shopping street near Tsuruhashi Station. They didn’t linger in front of the fabric shop window or pause at the senbei stall; they didn’t greet the friendly vegetable sellers. Rather, their bodies moved in unison toward their destination.
“I don’t want you to do this,” Kyunghee said.
“Father told me about people like this.
If the entire debt isn’t paid off immediately, the interest gets higher and higher, and you’ll never be able to pay it all back. Father said that you always end up owing a great deal more than you borrow. Think about it—how did a hundred twenty yen become two hundred thirteen?”
Hoonie Kim had witnessed his neighbors lose everything after borrowing a small amount of money to buy seedlings or equipment; when the moneylenders were through with them, his neighbors would end up giving them all their crops on top of their initial loans. Sunja’s father had loathed moneylenders and had warned her often about the dangers of debt.
“If I’d known, I would’ve stopped sending money to our parents,” Kyunghee mumbled to herself.
Sunja looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone on the busy street who glanced in their direction. She was trying to figure out what she’d say to the broker.
“Sister, you saw his sign in Korean, right?” Sunja said. “That would make him Korean, right?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know anyone who’s ever been there.”
Following the Korean signs posted on the facade of the low brick building, the women climbed up the wide stairs to the second floor. The pawnbroker’s office door had a curtained window, and Sunja opened it gingerly.
It was a warm, breezeless day in June, but the older man behind the desk wore a green silk ascot tucked into his white dress shirt and a brown woolen vest. The three square windows facing the street were open, and two electric fans whirred quietly in the opposite corners of the office. Two younger men with similar chubby faces played cards by the middle window. They glanced up and smiled at the two women.
“Welcome. How can I be of service?” the pawnbroker asked them in Korean. His hometown accent was hard to place. “Would you like to sit down?” He motioned to the chairs, and Sunja told him she’d prefer to stand. Kyunghee stood next to Sunja and refused to look at the men.