by Sumi Hahn
One of the soldiers dared to speak. “Sir, what about the children?”
“You know the orders. There’s nothing about making exceptions for Communist children.”
A woman started sobbing, beseeching the gods. Children began wailing. Their mouths were clapped shut by their mothers, who began imploring for the little ones to be spared. The five soldiers raised their weapons. Junja wanted to scream for them to stop. Gun Joo, sensing her agitation, grabbed her hand and shook his head.
The soldier who asked about the children lowered his gun. Junja held her breath.
The Nationalist officer was lighting another cigarette. The translator looked at the American, hoping he would stop this madness. The American, not wishing to witness anything unpleasant, turned around and began climbing out of the ravine. For the official record, he would write that the day’s mission had successfully cleared a mountain enclave of Communist insurgents.
The soldier who lowered his gun dropped to his knees, head bowed. “Sir, I cannot shoot innocent women and children. Please, spare the children at least.”
“So that we create another lot of hungry, sniveling orphans?” The Nationalist officer spat out smoke. “You think these people are innocent? Fool. They’re Communists, who are trying to deceive you. Obey orders or die with them.”
The man hesitated before laying his rifle on the ground. He prostrated himself. “I beg your forgiveness, sir, but I am a Christian. I cannot kill them. Please forgive me, sir.”
The officer blew smoke into the face of the disobedient soldier. “The Christian god serves the Americans, you pious fool. These orders come straight from General Brown, who’s been going to church longer than you.” He shouted at the other four soldiers. “Strip him of his gear and put him with the group. He’s obviously a Communist agent.”
Junja began shaking so hard that Gun Joo had to wrap his arms around her to keep her still. He covered her mouth when she began to gasp.
As his comrades removed the stunned soldier’s weapons, a woman began keening. She was summoning ancestral spirits, begging for help. The old grandfather collapsed into the arms of the women behind him. The mothers and their children stood next to the icy stream, shivering with cold and dread. The mist from their breathing rose up, a white cloud.
The three witnesses pressed themselves to the floor of the cave. Gun Joo kept his hand on Junja’s mouth to quell the girl’s rising hysteria. Dong Min huddled at the back of the cave, covering his ears and closing his eyes.
The officer tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the stream and snarled at the four remaining gunmen.
“Start with that noisy bitch. Her voice makes my head ache.”
* * *
The sudden silence stung with smoke. Junja’s mouth was still covered by Gun Joo’s trembling hand, which was wet with her tears. Dong Min remained curled in a ball.
Steam rose from the bodies, which were lying in ragged heaps that looked like piles of dirty clothes. An occasional arm or foot stuck out in a random manner, as if some giant had swept up a pile of discarded human limbs and dropped them next to a mountain stream.
The four soldiers put down their weapons. The officer lit another cigarette. The translator, who had followed the American, shouted from the road. “The American officer says we need to hurry up and go.”
Gun Joo had not been able to stop himself. Counting was a compulsion, especially when he was under duress. He had counted every time the four soldiers fired their guns, even when those sounds overlapped. The shots were sharp and distinct, so he knew his counting was precise. Four soldiers had discharged their weapons a total of a hundred and four times, with pauses to reload. At least three bullets per person, with the exception of the first woman, who had been shot by all the soldiers at once. Four bullets for the wailing woman, who had cursed her murderers as she dropped to her knees and toppled forward.
Thirty-Five
As he listened to the two boys describe the massacre on the mountain, Lieutenant Lee stared at a dark spot on the wall of his tent.
“Can you describe the man giving the orders? Not the American, but the Korean officer.” The lieutenant wondered if the dark spot was a stain or a flaw in the fabric.
The man had been of average height. He smoked cigarettes. And he spoke fluent Japanese. Too many officers fit that description, and the boys had been too far away to see his face clearly.
“Sir, those men wore the same uniform we do. But I couldn’t help thinking that they were the enemy.” Gun Joo bowed his head in confession.
Lieutenant Lee stood up from the camp stool and walked to the spot that bothered him. He peered at it. It was a flaw in the fabric. He ran his fingers over the discolored bump as he spoke. “Privates, I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He let his hand drop. “In every conflict, there are always more than two sides.”
Dong Min frowned. “But aren’t we supposed to be the good guys?”
The lieutenant took off his glasses to clean them. He held them up to the light before putting them back on. “That’s the lie politicians feed soldiers to do their dirty work.”
Lieutenant Lee sat down on a footstool, reached into the file cabinet, and pulled out a small bottle. He motioned the two boys over.
Gun Joo and Dong Min looked at each other, confused. They approached timidly, wondering what the officer was going to do.
The lieutenant unscrewed the lid as he talked. “You should fortify yourselves for what I’m about to say. It probably won’t make any sense to you now, but you might understand later … if you live long enough.”
He took several swigs, grimacing at the sting, before holding out the bottle. “Here, take a swallow. It’ll help.” He wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Truth is, boys, there are no good guys in war.”
Thirty-Six
2001
Dr. Moon’s and Dong Min’s voices, which began fraying at the start of their tale, broke apart into mumbles at its terrible end. The monk handed them a plastic bottle filled with water from a spring hidden at the peak. Long shadows from the late afternoon sun striped the green flanks of the mountain.
The monk, whose face was shining with tears, surprised the two friends by taking a turn with the storytelling.
“It was springtime, and my brothers and I were staying at a temple by the sea. Long-term guests, because the mountain was forbidden, and we had nowhere else to go. “
“One morning, very early, women from the village pounded on the temple doors, hysterical. I thought that the village was being attacked by soldiers. But the screaming made no sense. The women kept insisting that the mountain was bleeding. They had been washing laundry when the water started running red.”
“Those of us from the mountain temple volunteered to investigate because we knew the secret trails to get around the blockades. We followed the bloody stream to its source. The site is not too far from here, in the foothills, near the main road. Hundreds of people drive by it every day. The stream is in a ravine, with boulders and many beech trees. One side of the ravine is high and rocky, pocked with small caves. The other side, closer to the road, is wide and flat. In the summer, grasses and ferns grow there, but in the winter the ground freezes solid. During the spring thaw, when the stream overruns its banks, water floods that flat section. It gathers behind stones until it can break free, rushing in a torrent toward the ocean.”
The monk shut his eyes. His hands trembled around the walking stick. “That’s where we found the bodies, lying in a pool of melting blood.” He swallowed, wiping away fresh tears. “My brothers and I, We pulled those people to higher ground and buried them as best we could. There wasn’t enough soil, so we had finish by covering them with rocks. That’s all we could do besides pray for them.”
The monk pointed back to the clearing in the foothills below. “The village I told you about earlier? That’s where they came from, those pitiful people. In the springtime, the mountain revealed their murder, when the ice melted, and their bloo
d ran down to the sea. I buried their bodies with my hands; you witnessed their murder with your eyes. The Mountain God wanted us to meet.”
Dr. Moon turned the monk’s water bottle in his hands. He stared down at the clearing, as if he could see the flames. A muscle twitched in his jaw before he spoke again. “After we told the lieutenant about the massacre, he gave us the order to run away. Not immediately, but during the first snowfall, so that we’d leave obvious tracks. We needed to be easy to follow.”
Dong Min added, “But we were not supposed to get caught.”
“The snow fell two days later.” Dr. Moon looked up at the sky. “My wife’s grandmother died that night. As if she knew.”
Thirty-Seven
1948
Every shade of white fell that night, the night of the first winter snow. In the beginning, the flakes fell singly and in pairs, each tiny crystal distinct. As the darkness deepened, the snow fell in clumps so large that clouds seemed to be falling piecemeal from the heavens. Whiteness clung to every surface, veiling the knobby mounds of dirt in the cabbage fields and capping the stone walls. At dawn, the snow paused, as if to take a breath, before redoubling as a scourge of ice.
Grandmother opened her eyes as soon as the first white flake touched the ground. She sensed the cold blanketing the house and took a shuddering breath. Beside her, Junja lay deeply asleep.
The old woman pushed herself off the floor, muffling a groan. While she was bedridden, she had been visited by feverish visions that struck hard and then receded. Her husband, giving her a bouquet of yellow canola blooms. The boys, splashing each other under the cascades of Cheonjiyeon Falls. Her daughter toddling on the bright sand. Mother, threading a needle with a strand of red silk. Father writing with a wooden brush. In between those hallucinations, when her senses returned, she had been aware of Junja’s growing despair but was unable to rouse herself to comfort the girl.
The wind knifed through the room. Grandmother shivered and then went rigid, willing the cold away. There was barely enough heat left inside her to do this work.
She moved in the darkness, without any light, her house as familiar as her body. She broke the film of ice on the water with one crack of the ladle and filled the small cooking pot with water. The kindling burst into flame without any effort, so she thanked the spirit of the hearth for that grace.
She hesitated, then threw all the remaining grain into the pot as she muttered a blessing. The effort came at a price. She doubled over as an invisible blade seemed to strike her in the gut. She closed her eyes, whispered a prayer, and continued moving as moisture beaded her forehead.
She stirred the porridge, trembling, using every bit of strength she could muster. She gathered all her memories together, even the ones she had tried to forget. As she remembered everyone who had been lost, her tears salted the pot.
For a moment, she shook with panic as doubt tried to break into her heart. Oaths had been sworn and promises made, but the hearts of men were weak compared to the whims of the gods.
The knife in her gut seemed to twist. She gasped, doubling over. When she closed her eyes, she saw her fears for what they were and forced herself to stand straight. She pushed the darkness away with a shiver as she whispered another prayer. She thanked all the gods by their names before placing the lid on the pot.
As she walked to the room where Junja lay sleeping, the wind struck the old woman again. This time, she sank to her knees. She crawled to her granddaughter’s side and managed to kneel before the sensation ebbed out of her limbs.
Grandmother stroked Junja’s hair as she held her hand. She could feel the girl’s pulse, a steady beat under her fingers. Blood of my blood, she thought. She remembered her first touch of the child, warm and slippery from her daughter’s womb. The infant Junja had smiled up at her before squalling loudly of hunger.
She rested her palm on Junja’s warm forehead. The girl’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as the old woman’s breathing began to grow shallow.
When Junja opened her eyes, the brightness was blinding. She had to blink several times before she could see her grandmother kneeling beside her, haloed by light.
“Junja, try to remember, what did you see in your sea dream?”
The girl smiled. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Halmung.”
As she held her grandmother’s hand, Junja remembered her dream.
* * *
When Gun Joo and Dong Min arrived at Junja’s house, a candle was flickering. They looked at each other, confused. Lieutenant Lee had warned them that the girl would not be expecting them and might be difficult to convince.
Gun Joo whispered. “Hello? Is someone awake in there?”
Snow whirled inside as Junja opened the door. She was fully dressed, wrapped against the cold. She ushered the two boys in while making sure no one was watching.
Gun Joo and Dong Min stumbled into the warmth of the kitchen. Two bowls were set out, and steam rose from a pot.
“Eat all of it,” Junja instructed.
Gun Joo was stunned. “Did Lieutenant Lee t-t-tell you what we’re going to do?”
The girl shook her head. “My grandmother did.” She was wrapping a length of cloth around her leather boots to secure them to her feet.
“She woke up?” Dong Min was already spooning the porridge into his mouth as quickly as he could.
“Briefly, just before she died.” The girl appeared calm as she searched through a wooden box for any small valuables she might have missed.
Dong Min looked stricken. “Are we still going to follow the lieutenant’s plan? Without, uh … you know …” His hand waved through the air.
Junja’s voice was choked. “There’s no time for me to bury her. None of that matters anyways, because she’s already had her funeral rites.”
The two boys looked at each other, confused. The girl was making no sense. Rites without a burial? Dong Min shrugged as Gun Joo reached out to comfort the girl, who turned away to hide her tears.
She sniffed before speaking again. “Do you have room in those packs for food?” The boys took the two bundles she held out.
“Are you warm enough?” Junja frowned at their thin wool overcoats.
Gun Joo stamped his feet. “We’ll warm up once we start walking.”
The three of them left the house with quilts wrapped around themselves. The boys carried dried sweet potato, barley, dried seaweed, and bean paste in their packs. Junja’s bundle held a small iron pot, dried fish, a candle, and a bag of salt. Around her neck hung a small pouch with a pearl, a hairpin, and a lighter.
The three of them crept along the winding path around the village, which the soldiers trod during guard duty. Enough moonlight shone for them to find their way without losing their footing, but the soft snow did not dampen the sound of their shoes crunching over the frozen leaves. The noise filled the boys with terror, yet Junja felt calm, as if she were experiencing events in a dream. She knew it was bitterly cold, but the sensation did not penetrate her body.
She glanced at Gun Joo. He was anxiously surveying their surroundings, hand ready on his holster. When he noticed her looking at him, he smiled, a brief flash that blinked out as quickly as it appeared.
They reached the main road as the sky began to brighten. Junja turned to Gun Joo, her voice a murmur.
“It’s snowing hard. All our tracks will be covered. What should we do?”
Gun Joo glanced behind them, worry plain on his face.
Dong Min scooped up snow and ate some as he groaned. “I’m so hungry, I’d kill for a bo—”
A blackbird shot up into the sky.
Without thinking, Junja pulled both boys behind a large boulder with a scrubby tree growing next to it.
“Did you hear that? Someone said he was hungry. The sound came from over there!” A man’s voice, startling in its proximity.
A sudden gust of wind pulled the end of Junja’s head wrapping loose and held it aloft above the boulder. Just like a flag s
ignaling their location.
Horrified, she yanked the cloth back down, heart thudding.
“Did you see that? Above that tall rock?” A second man spoke.
“I saw it too! Something rose up and then vanished.” A third man, who sounded scared.
“It’s a Communist—let’s do our job and start cleaning this place up.”
“Are you stupid? Why would a Communist be floating above a rock?”
“Didn’t you hear what it said? It’s a hungry ghost! And it wants to kill someone!”
“I don’t believe in such ignorant superstitions.”
“Then go investigate by yourself.”
“You’re the one with the gun.”
“Which means I’m in charge. And I’m not wasting bullets on a ghost.”
“That was no ghost. It sounded just like a person.”
“Don’t you know anything? Hungry ghosts sound just like you and me.”
“They’ll eat our souls if we don’t give them food!”
“If we don’t bother it, it can’t hurt us.”
Two gunshots ripped through the night, interrupting the argument.
“Did you hear that?”
“Sounds like they’ve started without us.”
“Let’s go back to the village before we miss all the action.”
* * *
Junja, Gun Joo, and Dong Min stayed crouched behind the boulder until their legs turned numb. When they finally emerged, the snow had ceased falling, and the sky was bright. The footprints left by the three soldiers could easily be seen. Anyone tracking the missing boys would now be led astray.
Dong Min studied the road. “We should leave before they come back.”
Gun Joo looked at Junja. His voice was gentle. “Lieutenant Lee told us you would know where to go.”
A blackbird cried out, pitiless. “Gaw, gaw, gaw.”
The forest closed around them, drawing them deep inside its shadows. Junja’s feet moved quickly, though her heart lagged far behind. Her sorrow felt like a stone in her chest, and she wondered if she lived only to ache. Since the loss of her mother, the blows had kept falling, one right after the next. She would leave this place, she promised herself, while she ran as fast as she could.