Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  When his mother and aunt moved the kimchi-making business to the restaurant, the house no longer smelled relentlessly of fermenting cabbage and pickles. Noa hoped he’d no longer be called garlic turd. If anything, lately, their house smelled less of cooking than the others in the neighborhood, because his mother and aunt brought home cooked food from the restaurant for their family meals. Once a week, Noa got to eat tidbits of grilled meat and white rice from the restaurant.

  Like all children, Noa kept secrets, but his were not ordinary ones. At school, he went by his Japanese name, Nobuo Boku, rather than Noa Baek; and though everyone in his class knew he was Korean from his Japanized surname, if he met anyone who didn’t know this fact, Noa wasn’t forthcoming about this detail. He spoke and wrote better Japanese than most native children. In class, he dreaded the mention of the peninsula where his parents were born and would look down at his papers if the teacher mentioned anything about the colony of Korea. Noa’s other secret: His father, a Protestant minister, was in jail and had not been home in over two years.

  The boy tried to remember his father’s face, but couldn’t. When asked to tell family stories for class assignments, Noa would say that his father worked as a foreman at a biscuit factory, and if some children inferred that Uncle Yoseb was his father, Noa didn’t correct them. The big secret that he kept from his mother, aunt, and even his beloved uncle was that Noa did not believe in God anymore. God had allowed his gentle, kindhearted father to go to jail even though he had done nothing wrong. For two years, God had not answered Noa’s prayers, though his father had promised him that God listens very carefully to the prayers of children. Above all the other secrets that Noa could not speak of, the boy wanted to be Japanese; it was his dream to leave Ikaino and never to return.

  It was a late spring afternoon; Noa returned home from school and found his snack, left out by his mother before she went to work, waiting for him on the low table where the family ate their meals and where Noa did his homework. Thirsty, he went to the kitchen to get some water, and when he returned to the front room, he screamed. Near the door, there was a gaunt and filthy man collapsed on the floor.

  Unable to rise, the man leaned the weight of his torso on the crook of his left elbow and tried to push up to sitting, but couldn’t manage it.

  Should he scream again? Noa wondered. Who would help him? His mother, aunt, and uncle were at work, and no one had heard him the first time. The beggar didn’t seem dangerous; he looked ill and dirty, but he could’ve been a thief, too. Uncle had warned Noa about burglars and thieves who could break into the house looking for food or valuables. He had fifty sen in his trouser pocket; he’d been saving it for an illustrated book on archery.

  The man was sobbing now, and Noa felt bad for him. There were many poor people on his street, but no one looked as bad as this man. The beggar’s face was covered with sores and black scabs. Noa reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin. Afraid that the man might grab his leg, Noa stepped just close enough to place the coin on the floor near the man’s hand. Noa planned to walk backward to the kitchen and run out the back door to get help, but the man’s crying made him pause.

  The boy looked carefully at the man’s gray-bearded face. His clothes were torn and grimy but the shape of them resembled the dark suits that his principal at school wore.

  “It’s appa,” the man said.

  Noa gasped and shook his head no.

  “Where’s your mother, child?”

  It was his voice. Noa took a step forward.

  “Umma’s at the restaurant,” Noa replied.

  “Where?”

  Isak was confused.

  “I’ll go now. I’ll get umma. Are you okay?” The boy didn’t know what to do exactly. He was still a bit afraid, though it was certainly his father. The gentle eyes beneath the jutting cheekbones and scaly skin were the same. Perhaps his father was hungry. His shoulder bones and elbows looked like sharp tree branches beneath his clothing. “Do you want to eat something, appa?”

  Noa pointed to the snack his mother had left for him: two rice balls made from barley and millet.

  Isak shook his head, smiling at the boy’s concern.

  “Aga—can you get me some water?”

  When Noa returned with the cup of cold water from the kitchen, he found his father slumped to the ground with his eyes closed.

  “Appa! Appa! Wake up! I have your water! Drink your water, appa,” Noa cried.

  Isak’s eyes fluttered open; he smiled at the sight of the boy.

  “Appa is tired, Noa. Appa is going to sleep.”

  “Appa, drink your water.” The boy held out the cup.

  Isak raised his head and took a long drink, then closed his eyes again.

  Noa bent over, close to his father’s mouth, to check his breathing. He retrieved his own pillow and tucked it beneath Isak’s bushy gray head. He covered him with the heavy quilt and closed the front door behind him quietly. Noa ran to the restaurant as fast as he could.

  He burst into the dining room, but no one in the front area noticed him. None of the grown men working there minded the well-mannered boy who never said much beyond yes and no. The toddler, Mozasu, was sleeping in the storage room; when awake, the two-year-old tore through the dining room, but asleep, he looked like a statue of an angel. The manager, Kim, never complained about Sunja’s children. He bought toys and comic books for the boys and occasionally watched Mozasu while he worked in the back office.

  “Uh-muh.” Kyunghee looked up from her work, alarmed at the sight of Noa, breathless and pale, in the kitchen. “You’re sweating. Are you okay? We’ll be done soon. Are you hungry?” She got up from her crouching position to fix him something to eat, thinking he’d come by because he was lonesome.

  “Appa came home. He looks sick. He’s sleeping on the floor at home.”

  Sunja, who’d been quiet, waiting for Noa to speak up, wiped her wet hands on her apron. “Can I go? Can we leave now?” She’d never left early before.

  “I’ll stay here and finish. You go. Hurry. I’ll be right there after I’m done.”

  Sunja reached for Noa’s hand.

  Halfway down the street, Sunja shouted, “Mozasu!” and Noa looked up at her.

  “Umma, Aunt will bring him home,” he said calmly.

  She clutched his hand tighter and walked briskly toward the house.

  “You ease my mind, Noa. You ease my mind.”

  Without the others around, it was possible to be kind to her son. Parents weren’t supposed to praise their children, she knew this—it would only invite disaster. But her father had always told her when she had done something well; out of habit, he would touch the crown of her head or pat her back, even when she did nothing at all. Any other parent might’ve been chided by the neighbors for spoiling a daughter, but no one said anything to her crippled father, who marveled at his child’s symmetrical features and normal limbs. He took pleasure in just watching her walk, talk, and do simple sums in her head. Now that he was gone, Sunja held on to her father’s warmth and kind words like polished gems. No one should expect praise, and certainly not a woman, but as a little girl, she’d been treasured, nothing less. She’d been her father’s delight. She wanted Noa to know what that was like, and she thanked God with every bit of her being for her boys. On the days when it felt impossible to live another day in her husband’s brother’s house—to work through the whole day and night, then to wake up again before the sun to start again, to go to the jail and hand over a meal for her husband—Sunja thought of her father, who had never said a cross word to her. He had taught her that children were a delight, that her boys were her delight.

  “Did appa look very ill?” Sunja asked.

  “I didn’t know it was him. Appa was usually so clean and nicely dressed, nee?”

  Sunja nodded, having told herself long ago to expect the worst. The elders in her church had warned her that the Korean prisoners were usually sent home just as they were about to die, so tha
t they would not die in jail. The prisoners were beaten, starved, and made to go without clothing to weaken them. Just that morning, Sunja had gone to the jail to drop off his meal and this week’s clean set of undershirts. Brother had been right then; her husband must not have received any of these things. As she and Noa walked down the busy street, oblivious to the crowds, it occurred to her that she’d never thought to prepare her son for Isak’s return. If anything, she had been so busy preparing for his death by working and saving money that she had not thought about what the boy might think of his father’s return, or worse, his death. She felt so sorry for not having told him what to expect. It must have been a terrible shock for Noa.

  “Did you eat your snack today?” she asked him, not knowing what else to say.

  “I left it for appa.”

  They passed a small throng of uniformed students streaming out of a confectionery, eating their treats happily. Noa looked down, but didn’t let go of his mother’s hand. He knew the children, but none were his friends.

  “Do you have homework?”

  “Yes, but I’ll do it when I get home, umma.”

  “You never give me any trouble,” she said, feeling his five perfect fingers in hers, and she felt grateful for his sturdiness.

  Sunja opened the door slowly. Isak was on the floor, sleeping. She knelt by his head. Dark, mottled skin stretched across his eye sockets and high cheekbones. His hair and beard were nearly white; he looked years older than his brother, Yoseb. He was no longer the beautiful young man who had rescued her from disgrace. Sunja removed his shoes and peeled off his holey socks. Dried crusts of blood covered his cracked, raw soles. The last toe on his left foot had turned black.

  “Umma,” Noa said.

  “Yes.” She turned to him.

  “Should I get Uncle?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, trying not to cry. “Shimamura-san may not let him leave early, Noa. If Uncle can’t leave, tell him that I’m with him. We don’t want Uncle to get in trouble at work. Okay?”

  Noa ran out of the house, not bothering to slide the door fully shut, and the incoming breeze woke Isak; he opened his eyes to see his wife sitting next to him.

  “Yobo,” he said.

  Sunja nodded. “You’re home. We’re so glad you’re home.”

  He smiled. The once-straight white teeth were either black or missing—the lower set cracked off entirely.

  “You’ve suffered so much.”

  “The sexton and the pastor died yesterday. I should’ve died a long time ago.”

  Sunja shook her head, unable to speak.

  “I’m home. Every day, I imagined this. Every minute. Maybe that’s why I am here. How hard it must have been for you,” he said, looking at her kindly.

  Sunja shook her head no, wiping her face with her sleeve.

  The Korean and Chinese girls who worked at the factory smiled at the sight of Noa. The delicious scent of freshly baked wheat biscuits greeted him. A girl packing biscuit boxes near the door whispered in Korean how tall he was getting. She pointed to his uncle’s back. He was crouched over the motor of the biscuit machine. The factory floor was long and narrow, designed like a wide tunnel for the easy inspection of workers; the owner had set up the imposing biscuit machine by his office with the conveyor belts moving toward the workers, who stood in parallel rows. Yoseb wore safety goggles and was poking about inside the service panel with a pair of pliers. He was the foreman and the factory mechanic.

  The din of the heavy machine blocked out normal speaking voices. The girls weren’t supposed to talk on the factory floor, but it was nearly impossible to catch them if they whispered and made minimal facial gestures. Forty unmarried girls, hired for their nimble fingers and general tidiness, packed twenty thin wheat biscuits into wooden boxes that would be shipped to army officers stationed in China. For every two broken biscuits, a girl was fined a sen from her wages, forcing her to work carefully as well as swiftly. If she ate even a broken corner of a biscuit, she’d be terminated immediately. At the end of the day, the youngest girl gathered the broken biscuits into a fabric-lined basket, packed them into small bags, and was sent out to the market to sell them at a discount. If they didn’t sell, Shimamura sold the biscuits for a nominal amount to the girls who packed the most boxes without error. Yoseb never took broken biscuits home, because the girls made so little money, and even the biscuit crumbs meant so much to them.

  Shimamura, the owner, was sitting in his glassed-in office, the size of a utility closet. The plate glass window allowed him to check the girls’ work. If he found anything amiss, he’d call Yoseb in and tell him to give the girl a warning. On the second warning, the girl was sent home without pay even if she’d worked for six days. Shimamura kept a blue, cloth-bound ledger with warnings listed next to the names of the girls, written in his beautiful hand-lettering. His foreman, Yoseb, disliked punishing the girls, and Shimamura viewed this as yet another example of Korean weakness. The factory owner believed that if all Asian countries were run with a kind of Japanese efficiency, attention to detail, and high level of organization, Asia as a whole would prosper and rise—able to defeat the unscrupulous West. Shimamura believed he was a fair person with perhaps a too-soft heart, which explained why he hired foreigners when many of his friends wouldn’t. When they pointed to the slovenly nature of foreigners, he argued how could the foreigners ever learn unless the Japanese taught them to loathe incompetence and sloth. Shimamura felt that standards must be maintained for posterity’s sake.

  Noa had been inside the factory only once, and Shimamura had not been pleased then. About a year ago, Kyunghee was sick with a high fever and had fainted in the market, and Noa was sent to fetch Yoseb. Shimamura had reluctantly allowed Yoseb to attend to his wife. The next morning, he explained to Yoseb that there would be no repeat of this incident. How could he, Shimamura asked, run two machine-based factories without the presence of a competent mechanic? If Yoseb’s wife were to get sick again, she would have to rely on a neighbor or family member; Yoseb could not just leave the factory in the middle of the day. The biscuits were war orders, and they had to be met promptly. Men were risking their lives fighting for their country; each family must make sacrifices.

  So when Shimamura spotted the boy again, only a year after that uncomfortable speech that he had not wanted to make, he was furious. He snapped open his newspaper, pretending not to see the boy tapping his uncle’s lower back.

  Yoseb, startled by Noa’s light touch, turned around.

  “Uh-muh, Noa, what are you doing here?”

  “Appa’s home.”

  “Really?”

  “Can you come home now?” Noa asked. His mouth made a small red O.

  Yoseb removed his goggles and sighed.

  Noa closed his mouth and looked down. His uncle would have to get permission, the way his mother had to ask Aunt Kyunghee or Mr. Kim—the same way he had to ask his teacher to go to the bathroom. Sometimes, when it was sunny outside, Noa dreamed of not telling anyone and going to Osaka Bay. He’d been there once with his father on a Saturday afternoon when he was very small, and he always thought it would be nice to go back.

  “Is he all right?” Yoseb studied Noa’s expression.

  “Appa’s hair turned gray. He’s very dirty. Umma’s with him. She said if you can’t come, it’s okay, but she wanted you to know. To know that appa is home now.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m glad to know.”

  Yoseb glanced at Shimamura, who was holding up his newspaper, pretending to read, but was no doubt watching him very carefully. His boss would never allow him to go home now. Also, unlike when Kyunghee fainted, Shimamura knew Isak had gone to jail because the sexton had refused to observe the Shinto ceremony. Periodically, the police came by to question Yoseb as well as to speak with Shimamura, who defended Yoseb as a model Korean. If he left, Yoseb would lose his job, and if the police picked him up for questioning, he would lose his character reference.

  “Listen, Noa, work
will be done in less than three hours, and then afterwards, I’ll hurry home. It’s irresponsible for me to leave now without finishing my work. As soon as I’m done, I’ll run home faster than you can run. Tell your umma that I’ll come home right away. And if your appa asks, tell him that Brother will be there very soon.”

  Noa nodded, not understanding why Uncle was crying.

  “I have to finish, Noa, so you run home. Okay?” Yoseb put on his safety goggles and turned around.

  Noa moved quickly toward the entrance. The sweet scent of biscuits wafted out the door. The boy had never eaten one of those biscuits, never having asked for one.

  5

  Noa burst through the doors of the house, his head and heart pounding from the breathless run. Gulping in deep lungfuls of air, he told his mother, “Uncle can’t leave work.”

  Sunja nodded, having expected this. She was bathing Isak with a wet towel.

  Isak’s eyes were closed but his chest rose and fell slightly, punctuated now and then by a series of painful coughs. A light blanket covered his long legs. Ridges of scar tissue furrowed diagonally across Isak’s shoulders and discolored torso, making haphazard diamond-shaped intersections. Every time Isak coughed, his neck flushed red.

  Noa approached his father quietly.

  “No, no. Move back,” Sunja said sternly. “Appa is very sick. He has a bad cold.”

  She pulled the blanket up to Isak’s shoulders, though she wasn’t nearly finished with cleaning him. In spite of the strong soap and several changes of basin water, his body emitted a sour stench; nits clung to his hair and beard.

  Isak had been alert for a few moments, his violent coughs waking him, but now when he opened his eyes, he didn’t say anything, and when he looked at her, he didn’t seem to recognize her.