Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  Sunja changed the compress on Isak’s feverish head. The nearest hospital was a long trolley ride away, and even if she could move him by herself, an all-night wait wouldn’t ensure that a doctor would see him. If she could tuck him into the kimchi cart and wheel him to the trolley stop, she could possibly get him into the car, but then what would she do with the cart itself? It wouldn’t pass through the trolley door. Noa might be able to push it back home, but then how would she get Isak from the stop to the hospital without the cart? And what if the driver wouldn’t let them board? More than once, she’d witnessed the trolley driver asking a sick woman or man to get off.

  Noa sat by his father’s legs to keep away from his coughing. He felt an urge to pat his father’s sharp knee bone—to touch him, to make sure he was real. The boy pulled out his notebook from his satchel to do his homework, keeping close watch on Isak’s breathing.

  “Noa, you have to put your shoes back on. Go to the drugstore and ask Pharmacist Kong to come. Can you tell him that it’s important—that umma will pay him double?” Sunja decided that if the Korean pharmacist wouldn’t come, she’d ask Kyunghee to plead with the Japanese pharmacist to come by the house, though that was unlikely.

  The boy got up and left without a murmur. She could hear him running down the street in his even, rapid steps.

  Sunja wrung out the hand towel she was using to bathe Isak above the brass basin. Fresh welts from recent beatings and a number of older scars covered his wide, bony back. She felt sick as she washed his dark and bruised frame. There was no one as good as Isak. He’d tried to understand her, to respect her feelings; he’d never once brought up her shame. He’d comforted her patiently when she’d lost the pregnancies between Noa and Mozasu. Finally, when she gave birth to their son, he’d been overjoyed, but she’d been too worried about how they’d survive with so little money to feel his happiness. Now that he was back home to die, what did money matter, anyway? She should’ve done more for him; she should’ve tried to know him the way he had tried to know her; and now it was over. Even with his gashed and emaciated frame, his beauty was remarkable. He was the opposite of her, really; where she was thick and short, he was slender and long-limbed—even his torn-up feet were well shaped. If her eyes were small and anxious, his were large and full of acceptance. The basin water was now gray, and Sunja got up to change it again.

  Isak woke up. He saw Sunja wearing farmer pants and walking away from him. He called out to her, “Yobo,” but she didn’t turn around. He felt like he didn’t know how to raise his voice. It was as if his voice was dying while his mind was alive.

  “Yobo,” Isak mumbled, and he reached for her, but she was almost in the kitchen already. He was in Yoseb’s house in Osaka. This had to be true because he was, in fact, waking from a dream where he was a boy. In the dream, Isak had been sitting on a low bough of the chestnut tree in his childhood garden; the scent of the chestnut blossoms still lingered in his nose. It was like many of the dreams he’d had in prison where, while he dreamed, he was aware that the dream itself wasn’t real. In real life, he’d never been on a tree. When he was young, the family gardener would prop him below that very tree to get some fresh air, but he’d never been strong enough to climb it the way Yoseb could. The gardener used to call Yoseb “Monkey.” In the dream, Isak was hugging the thick branches tightly, unable to break from the embrace of the dark green foliage, the clusters of white blossoms with their dark pink hearts. From the house, cheerful voices of the women called to him. He wanted to see his old nursemaid and his sister, though they had died years ago; in the dream, they were laughing like girls.

  “Yobo—”

  “Uh-muh.” She put down the washbasin at the threshold of the kitchen and rushed back to him. “Are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  “My wife,” he said slowly. “How have you been?” Isak felt drowsy and uncertain, but relieved. Sunja’s face was different than he remembered—a little older, more weary. “How you must’ve struggled here. I am so sorry.”

  “Shhh—you must rest,” she said.

  “Noa.” He said the boy’s name like he remembered something good. “Where is he? He was here before.”

  “He went to fetch the pharmacist.”

  “He looks so healthy. And bright.” It was hard to get the words out, but his mind felt clear suddenly, and he wanted to tell her the things he’d been saving up for her.

  “You’re working at a restaurant now? Are you cooking there?” Isak began to cough and couldn’t stop. Pindots of blood splattered on her blouse, and she wiped his mouth with a towel.

  When he tried to sit up, she placed her left hand beneath his head and her right over his chest to calm him, fearful that he might hurt himself. The coughs wracked his body. His skin felt hot even through the blankets.

  “Please rest. Later. We can talk later.”

  He shook his head.

  “No, no. I—I want to tell you something.”

  Sunja rested her hands on her lap.

  “My life wasn’t important,” he said, trying to read her eyes, so full of anguish and exhaustion. He needed her to understand that he was thankful to her—for waiting for him, for taking care of the family. It humbled him to think of her laboring and earning money for their family when he wasn’t able to support them. Money must’ve been very hard with him gone and with inflation from the war. The prison guards had complained incessantly of the prices of things—no one had enough to eat, they said. Quit complaining about the bugs in the gruel. Isak had prayed constantly for his family’s provision. “I brought you here and made your life more difficult.”

  She smiled at him, not knowing how to say—you saved me. Instead, she said, “You must get well.” Sunja covered him with a thicker blanket; his body was burning hot, but he shivered. “For the boys, please get well.” How can I raise them without you?

  “Mozasu—where is he?”

  “At the restaurant with Sister. Our boss lets him stay there while we work.”

  Isak looked alert and attentive, as if all his pain had vanished; he wanted to know more about his boys.

  “Mozasu,” Isak said, smiling. “Mozasu. He saved his people from slavery—” Isak’s head throbbed so intensely that he had to close his eyes again. He wanted to see his two sons grow up, finish school, and get married. Isak had never wanted to live so much, and now, just when he wanted to live until he was very old, he’d been sent home to die. “I have two sons,” he said. “I have two sons. Noa and Mozasu. May the Lord bless my sons.”

  Sunja watched him carefully. His face looked strange, yet peaceful. Not knowing what else to do, she kept talking.

  “Mozasu is becoming a big boy—always happy and friendly. He has a wonderful laugh. He runs everywhere. So fast!” She pumped her arms to imitate the toddler’s running, and she found herself laughing, and he laughed, too. It occurred to her then that there was only one other person in the world who’d want to hear about Mozasu growing up so well, and until now, she’d forgotten that she could express a prideful joy in her boys. Even when her brother- and sister-in-law were pleased with the children, she couldn’t ignore their sadness at their lack; sometimes, she wanted to hide her delight from them for fear that it could be seen as a kind of boasting. Back home, having two healthy and good sons was tantamount to having vast riches. She had no home, no money, but she had Noa and Mozasu.

  Isak’s eyes opened, and he looked at the ceiling. “I can’t go until I see them, Lord. Until I see my children to bless them. Lord, let me not go—”

  Sunja bowed her head, and she prayed, too.

  Isak closed his eyes again, his shoulders twitching in pain.

  Sunja placed her right hand on his chest to check his faint breathing.

  The door opened, and as expected, Noa had returned home alone. The pharmacist couldn’t come now but promised to come later tonight. The boy returned to his spot by Isak’s feet and did his sums while his father slept. Noa wanted to show Isak his schoolwork;
even Hoshii-sensei, the hardest teacher in his grade, told Noa that he was good at writing his letters and that he should work hard to improve his illiterate race: “One industrious Korean can inspire ten thousand to reject their lazy nature!”

  Isak continued to sleep, and Noa concentrated on his work.

  Later, when Kyunghee arrived home with Mozasu, the house felt lively for the first time since Isak’s arrest. Isak woke briefly to see Mozasu, who didn’t cry at the sight of the skeletal man. Mozasu called him “Papa” and patted his face with both hands, the way he did when he liked someone. With his white, chubby hands, Mozasu made little pats on Isak’s sunken cheeks. The toddler sat still in front of him briefly, but as soon as Isak closed his eyes, Kyunghee removed him, not wanting the baby to get sick.

  When Yoseb returned home, the house grew somber again, because Yoseb wouldn’t ignore the obvious.

  “How could they?” Yoseb said, staring hard at Isak’s body.

  “My boy, couldn’t you just tell them what they wanted to hear? Couldn’t you just say you worshipped the Emperor even if it isn’t true? Don’t you know that the most important thing is to stay alive?”

  Isak opened his eyes but said nothing and closed his eyes again. His eyelids felt so heavy that it was painful to keep them open. He wanted to speak with Yoseb, but the words would not come out.

  Kyunghee brought her husband a pair of scissors, a long razor blade, a cup of oil, and a basin of vinegar.

  “The nits and lice won’t die. He should be shaved. It must be so itchy for him,” she said, her eyes wet.

  Grateful to his wife for giving him something to do, Yoseb rolled up his sleeves, then poured the cup of oil over Isak’s head, massaging it into his scalp.

  “Isak-ah, don’t move,” Yoseb said, trying to keep his voice normal. “I’m going to get rid of all these itchy bastards.”

  Yoseb made clean strokes across Isak’s head and threw the cut hair into the metal basin.

  “Yah—Isak-ah.” Yoseb smiled at the memory. “You remember how the gardener used to cut our hair when we were kids? I used to holler like a crazy animal but you never did. You sat there like a baby monk, calm and peaceful, and you never once complained.” Yoseb grew quiet, wanting what he saw in front of him not to be true. “Isak-ah, why did I bring you to this hell? I was so lonesome for you. I was wrong, you know, to bring you here, and now I’m punished for my selfishness.” Yoseb rested his blade in the basin.

  “I will not be all right if you die. Do you understand? You cannot die, my boy. Isak-ah, please don’t die. How can I go on? What will I tell our parents?”

  Isak continued to sleep, oblivious to his family encircling his pallet.

  Yoseb wiped his eyes and shut his mouth, clamping down on his jaws. He picked up the blade again, working steadily to take off the bits of gray hair remaining on his head. When Isak’s head was smooth, Yoseb poured oil over his brother’s beard.

  For the remainder of the evening, Yoseb, Kyunghee, and Sunja rid him of nits and lice, dropping the bugs into jars of kerosene, only stopping to put the boys to bed. Later, the pharmacist came to tell them what they already knew. There was nothing a hospital or a doctor could do for Isak now.

  At dawn, Yoseb returned to work. Sunja remained with Isak, and Kyunghee went to the restaurant. Yoseb didn’t bother complaining about Kyunghee going to work alone. He was too tired to argue, and the wages were badly needed. Outside the house, the street was filled with the morning bustling of men and women heading to work and children running to school. Isak slept in the front room, his breathing fast and shallow. He was clean and smooth like an infant—all the hair from his body shaved.

  After Noa finished breakfast, he laid down his chopsticks neatly and looked up at his mother.

  “Umma, may I stay home?” he asked, never having dared to ask for such a thing, even when things were awful at school.

  Sunja looked up from her sewing, surprised.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  He shook his head.

  Isak, who was half-awake, had heard the boy’s request.

  “Noa—”

  “Yes, appa.”

  “Umma told me that you’re becoming a fine scholar.”

  The child beamed but, out of habit, looked down at his feet.

  When Noa received high marks in school, he thought first of his father.

  Yoseb had told the boy several times that his father had been a prodigy, having taught himself Korean, Classical Chinese, and Japanese from books with scant tutoring. By the time he went to seminary, Isak had already read the Bible several times.

  When school felt difficult, knowing that his father was a learned man had strengthened the boy’s resolve to learn.

  “Noa.”

  “Yes, appa?”

  “You must go to school today. When I was a boy, I wanted to go to school with the other children very much.”

  The boy nodded, having heard this detail about his father before.

  “What else can we do but persevere, my child? We’re meant to increase our talents. The thing that would make your appa happy is if you do as well as you’ve been doing. Wherever you go, you represent our family, and you must be an excellent person—at school, in town, and in the world. No matter what anyone says. Or does,” Isak said, then paused to cough. He knew it must be taxing for the child to go to a Japanese school.

  “You must be a diligent person with a humble heart. Have compassion for everyone. Even your enemies. Do you understand that, Noa? Men may be unfair, but the Lord is fair. You’ll see. You will,” Isak said, his exhausted voice tapering off.

  “Yes, appa.” Hoshii-sensei had told him that he had a duty to Koreans, too; one day, he would serve his community and make Koreans good children of the benevolent Emperor. The boy stared at his father’s newly shaved head. His bald pate was so white in contrast to his dark, sunken cheeks. He looked both new and ancient.

  Sunja felt bad for the child; he’d never had a day with both his parents and no one else. When she was growing up, even when there were others around, it had been just the three of them—her father, mother, and her—an invisible triangle. When she thought back to her life at home, this closeness was what she missed. Isak was right about school, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Soon, Isak would be gone. She would have given anything to see her father again, but how could she go against Isak’s wishes? Sunja picked up Noa’s satchel and handed it to the boy, who was crestfallen.

  “After school, come home straight away, Noa. We’ll be here,” Isak said.

  Noa remained fixed to his spot on the floor, unable to take his eyes off his father for fear that he’d disappear. The child hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his father until he returned. The ache of missing him had surfaced in his small, concave chest, and he felt anxious about the pain that was sure to return. If he remained home, Noa felt certain that his father would be okay. They wouldn’t even have to talk. Why couldn’t he study at home the way his father had? Noa wanted to ask this, but it was not in his nature to argue.

  Isak, however, didn’t want Noa to see him like this anymore. The boy was already afraid, and there was no need to make him suffer any more than he already had. There were many things he hadn’t told the child yet about life, about learning, about how to talk to God.

  “Is it very hard at school?” Isak asked.

  Sunja turned to look at the boy’s face; she’d never thought to ask him this.

  Noa shrugged. The work was okay, not impossible. The good students, who were all Japanese, the ones he admired, wouldn’t speak to him. They wouldn’t even look at him. He believed that he could enjoy going to school if he were a regular person and not a Korean. He couldn’t say this to his father or to anyone else, because it was certain he’d never be a regular Japanese. One day, Uncle Yoseb said, they would return to Korea; Noa imagined that life would be better there.

  Carrying his book bag and bento, Noa lingered by the front door, memorizing his father’s kin
dly face.

  “Child, come here,” Isak said.

  Noa approached him and sat on bended knees. Please God, please. Please make my father well. I’ll ask this just once more. Please. Noa shut his eyes tightly.

  Isak took Noa’s hand and held it.

  “You are very brave, Noa. Much, much braver than me. Living every day in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage.”

  Noa chewed on his lower lip and didn’t say anything. He wiped his nose with his hand.

  “My child,” he said, and Isak let go of his son’s hand. “My dear boy. My blessing.”

  6

  December 1944

  Like most shops in Osaka with nothing to sell, the restaurant was shuttered frequently, but its three remaining workers showed up six days a week. Food had virtually disappeared from the markets, and even when the rations arrived and the shops opened for half a day to long lines, the offerings were unacceptably sparse and undesirable. You could wait six hours for fish and come home with a scant handful of dried anchovies, or worse, nothing at all. If you had high-level military connections, it was possible to obtain some of what you needed; of course, if you had a great deal of money, there was always the black market. City children were sent alone to the country by train to buy an egg or a potato in exchange for a grandmother’s kimono. At the restaurant, Kim Changho, who was in charge of procuring food, kept two storage bins: one, which could be safely inspected by the neighborhood association leaders, who liked to make surprise visits to restaurant kitchens, and another, behind a false wall in the basement, for food bought from the black market. Sometimes, customers—usually wealthy businessmen from Osaka and travelers from abroad—brought their own meat and alcohol to the restaurant. The men who used to cook in the evening were gone now; Kim made up the whole of the evening staff; it was up to him to cook the meats and wash the dishes for the occasional customer.