Brother's Keeper

by Julie Lee

  We crouched to gather as many fallen ones as we could. Soon, a small mound of bright orange formed between us, and we quickly pulled off our mittens. I snatched one and squeezed its solid mass, full of juice and ripe pulp. Its waxy skin yielded soft and tender in my hand. I took a bite.

  The fruit burst in my mouth and squirted across my face. Youngsoo squished one open and gorged on the glistening flesh, juice running down his chin. I laughed and took another, splitting it so its sticky insides broke apart in my palms. I lowered my face and lapped the pulp and juices, my cheeks smeared with orange flecks. When was the last time I had eaten something so sweet and good?

  Youngsoo looked at me.

  I looked back.

  And we cackled in delight. We sat there like scoundrels, hovering over our mound of treasure and gorging ourselves until our lips looked bruised.

  I licked my fingers and admired the mess we had made, thinking how I could’ve never done this back home. In this strange place, I didn’t have to cut the fruit into pretty pieces. I didn’t have to serve it on a plate to my brothers. I didn’t have to hide my teeth when I ate and laughed. Here, lost in the middle of a war, crouched under a stranger’s persimmon tree, it didn’t matter who I was, and for a second, I thought I had glimpsed into heaven.

  twenty-three

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. The last of the light was fading. A cold wind swept around me, and I remembered that we still needed to get inside the house.

  I went to the wooden front door. Youngsoo clutched the edge of my coat and looked up at me. I forced a smile, then knocked hard.

  “Hello? Hello?” I called out. The cold stung my eyes, causing them to well. “We are two children without our parents. We want to spend a night inside away from the cold. Please let us in!” A blast of icy air blew across my face, and I dug deeper into my coat, touching the edge of the folded map in my pocket for comfort.

  The door opened, and brightness flooded the entryway. In the glow stood a man whose hands were calloused and weathered, his nails dark with dirt.

  I took a deep breath. That smell of grain and damp earth. That familiar silhouette, medium build. I only needed to see his crescent-moon eyes to know. My heart thumped, and I blinked to clear the bleary haze from my eyes. From behind, a high-pitched cry.

  “Abahji!” Youngsoo shouted. “Abahji!”

  I burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry, children, but you must be mistaken. I’m not your father,” the man said, his chin quivering. In the light, I could see that his face drooped like a hound’s.

  I closed my eyes, wishing that this strange man would turn into my father, wishing that he would lift me up and swing me around and hug me tightly. I opened my eyes.

  The man kept sighing apologetically, looking as though he might cry too. All at once, I felt sorry for him. I wiped my eyes and reached for Youngsoo’s hand.

  “May we please come in from the cold?” I asked, a flatness in my tone. I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

  “Of course, there’s always room for more.” He stepped away, and I gasped at the number of people crowded inside. There was hardly a place to step or sit. Everyone lay on the floor, practically on top of one another.

  I made my way to an empty space in the corner where water stains had darkened the oiled-paper floor. The smell of so many bodies, soiled and unwashed, was sour and potent. Youngsoo settled beside me. He coughed and wheezed. His nose dripped. I put a hand to his forehead; he had a fever.

  “Aigoo, orphans. So sad and pitiful,” a grandmother said. “Hurry, children, eat.” She handed me a blanket and a bowl of rice with sweet black beans.

  Orphans. I winced at the word. “Halmoni, we’re not orphans. We became separated from our parents, but our father always knows what to do. He’ll find us again,” I explained.

  “Tsk, tsk. I feel so sorry for you poor children!” the old woman wailed, beating her chest with a fist. “If you haven’t found your parents by now, dears, then you are orphans for sure!” She moaned, shaking her head. “Oh, this terrible war! Terrible war!”

  “Will somebody please tell that crazy woman to shut up?” a man hollered from the middle of the room.

  Was it true? Were we orphans?

  The truth had always been there. But hearing it aloud seared a hole in my chest. I slumped to the floor and hugged my knees.

  Youngsoo whimpered beside me.

  I tried to recall the sweet smell of sticky rice and sesame oil in our house, the sound of Omahni shaking out our quilts, our father’s stories of America and its outlandish promises. The memories were already cloudy, as if it had all been a dream. “Abahji,” I whispered. “Who will look after us now?”

  I bowed to the halmoni for the rice and black beans, then gave everything to Youngsoo. I told him to eat all of it, and when he did, I exhaled in relief.

  “And what about you? Don’t you have to eat?” a teenage girl asked, sitting across from us. Her hair hung loosely in a ponytail. Omahni would’ve tsked at her tan skin and small eyes—a plain face, a peasant’s face. But the girl leaned over and closed my hands around a small mound of anchovies wrapped in a cloth.

  “I’m not hungry, but I’ll take it for my brother,” I said. “Thank you.”

  The girl tilted her head back and laughed. “If you’re going to take it, you must eat some for yourself! This is no place for martyrs.”

  I flushed.

  “I know your type,” she continued. “You’re a good girl. You always do as you’re told. There’s nothing wrong with that…just know your worth, too.”

  No one had ever said that to me before. Looking at her again, she didn’t seem so much like a lowly peasant—just an ordinary girl, like me.

  Her ponytail swished to one side. She studied Youngsoo’s feverish face and said, “You’re no good to him if you don’t take care of yourself, too.” She opened my hand, unwrapping the anchovies. “You’re a courageous girl. Eat some. You deserve it.”

  I accepted the food, but my face crumpled with emotion upon hearing those words. The girl’s kindness broke me, and when I tried to say thank you, my voice turned ragged.

  I opened the cloth and slipped a tiny, salted anchovy between my lips. My throat swelled with gratitude, and I could hardly swallow. I looked over at Youngsoo, who lay on the floor, his face hot with fever, and tried to pass an anchovy to him too, but he shook his head. After a few more bites, I wrapped the rest for later.

  That evening, I sat and listened to the adults discussing their travel routes south.

  Which way will you go? Through Kaesong? Across the Yellow Sea? No one seemed worried anymore about border guards—only about staying ahead of the battle line. If we got stuck behind the front, we’d be trapped under communist control again, maybe forever. And if we got stuck in the fighting…

  “Noona, we’re almost there, right?” Youngsoo nestled deeper into his blanket.

  “Yes, we’re almost at the border. As soon as we cross over, we’ll be in South Korea.” The words felt strange against my tongue.

  “Then we’ll be safe?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I said, my voice wavering. But what if—after all this—the Reds swept across the border and took over the South anyway? There would be no safety. Not even in Seoul. And our parents would have died for nothing.

  Youngsoo exhaled, then hardened his voice. “They’re still alive, Noona.”

  Abahji. Omahni. Jisoo.

  “I know, I know. Get some sleep.”

  I curled into a ball, my limbs heavy. Could I really lead us the rest of the way? Worry darkened my mind. I lay there wondering about the land across the border. What kind of life awaited us?

  twenty-four

  December, 1950

  Dawn had not even broken when my eyes flew open. The house felt emptier, stiller, colder.

  “Wake up. We need to go,” I whispered into Youngsoo’s ear.

  Many people had already left, abandoning possessions too cumbersome for the rest o
f the journey: pots, blankets, utensils. There was little time to waste, but I scavenged through the mess, gathering a spoon, two small pots, and rice, wrapping everything in a blanket.

  I stood over Youngsoo, who looked at me with glassy eyes. “Noona, everything hurts. I can’t walk out there in the cold.”

  Panic fluttered in my chest. “You have to. We have no choice. I’m not strong enough to carry you.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. If you don’t…I’ll leave you behind, I swear. Now get up!”

  Youngsoo’s eyes widened. “Don’t leave me!”

  I sat down and covered my face. “Of course I won’t leave you, idiot.” I sighed shakily.

  A second later, I felt a small hand on my back.

  “Noona, you can go,” he said, blinking and swallowing hard.

  For a second, I saw it in my mind—walking out the door without him, light and quick on my feet. I took a deep breath, then wiped my face against my sleeve. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll never leave you.”

  Nearly everyone had gone by now. Only the elderly lingered by the stove.

  “Take my bullock cart,” one of the grandfathers said suddenly. His face looked as soft and lined as kneaded dough. “I’m not able to push it any longer. This journey is too much for my aching bones. I plan to stay here in this old house. I’ve lived my life, but you, children, must go. Push your brother in the cart.”

  I looked out the window and saw a sturdy wooden cart—not too big, not too small, just the right size for me to push. My heart leapt. I knew I should politely refuse his offer, at least once, but I was too afraid to let it go.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” I said, hardly able to speak. I bowed deeply.

  “Hurry, now. Take the cart,” the old man said, shooing us with his arm. “The Reds are coming.”

  Omahni tossed an armful of pine bark into her wooden cart, then stuck a knife into a tree and peeled off another layer. Rice was short this winter, and we gathered bark to fill our bellies. After Omahni stripped and steamed it, it was slightly sweet, but it would never be my favorite food.

  I sneezed, and felt my head swell and my nose clog.

  “You’ve caught a cold,” Omahni said, hacking through layers of bark.

  The air nipped. A wintry wind chilled me to my bones. I shivered.

  “Go back home,” she insisted. “I can handle the rest.”

  I didn’t move. When was the last time Omahni had ordered me not to help?

  “Go!”

  I jumped. “Yes, Omahni.” I folded my arms to keep warm. My sleeves were too short, the elbows thin and bald. I had worn this same jacket since I was seven.

  Omahni slipped off her coat and tossed it to me. “Here, take it.”

  “But you’ll freeze, Omahni. I have a jacket.”

  “Eh, but it’s too thin. Just take mine and put it over yours. It’s a long walk home.”

  I draped it over my shoulders; it was still warm, and I sank into it. “I’ll send Youngsoo back with your jacket once I get home.”

  She glared at me. “Don’t even think of doing that. He’s too little to make it here alone. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

  I left, the cold wind on my back. I looked over my shoulder and saw Omahni’s slight figure crouched by the towering pine trees. The wind blew and bent her like a thin plank. Was she really that small—my mother, the one who kept planets in orbit and the universe in order?

  When I opened the door, a gust of wind rushed to greet us as if it had been waiting on the doorstep all night for our return. I cringed and tucked my chin inside my coat.

  The cart was by the side of the house. I spread a blanket inside and told Youngsoo to climb in. He curled up, and I covered him with a quilt, tucking the bundle of pots and utensils in the corner.

  I grabbed the handles and looked at him. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess so,” he said, sniffling.

  twenty-five

  December, 1950

  Over the next week and a half, a forest of skinny pines closed in. They surrounded us at every turn, each tree the same as the next. We had long lost the trail left behind by others, and I began to wonder if we were traveling diagonally instead of straight. Or if we were lost.

  But I continued pushing the cart, trudging through valleys and stopping at abandoned houses along the way. We had no other choice. Youngsoo’s cough had filled his chest, but I could hardly hear his constant wheezing through my own sniffling, my own clogged ears.

  What Youngsoo and I talked about during those strangely quiet days of travel still lingers in my mind. He told me that sometimes he wished he weren’t the first-born son.

  “Too much pressure,” he said. “Everything depends on me. But I’m not smart enough to live up to something like that.”

  I never knew that he felt that way, but I understood.

  He kept talking, coughing, talking about his wish to grow up like Grandfather, to be as adventurous as him, as responsible, to make a lot of money in America so that he could buy a big house for our family.

  “I think you are like him,” I said.

  Thunderous blasts drew nearer and nearer, but we ignored them, tamping down the spring-loaded screams ready to catapult from our throats.

  As I pushed the cart, he told me about the time older boys teased him on his way back from gathering pine tree bark—poor man’s food. And how he’d lied and told them it wasn’t for our family but for the lame-footed boy who lived across the village.

  “I’m sure you’re forgiven,” I said.

  “But it was worse than that,” he confessed. “When they called the lame-footed boy a beggar, I laughed and called him one, too.”

  I was quiet for a second. “We all do things we regret sometimes.”

  He sniffled once, then nodded, his small head poking out from under the blanket.

  One day, he told me that he thought it might be his birthday. “I wish I had noodle soup to celebrate,” he said. It was what we always ate on birthdays—the noodles represented long life.

  I paused to think. His birthday was December 20. Today could very well be that day. “Happy birthday, Youngsoo. That means you’re nine now.” I reached down and hugged him, sorry that I had no noodle soup to offer.

  He only nodded, too exhausted to say another word, like a wind-up doll that had suddenly run down.

  A bright flash lit up the dim morning sky as if it were midday, exposing the jagged mountaintops around us. Gone were the plains and lowlands of the west. The land had become truly mountainous, and I worried we had gone too far east.

  I pulled out the map and examined the line of the Taebaek Mountains to the east of Pyongyang. We hadn’t gone that far, had we? Was it possible we were in the foothills? My hands were raw and blistered from gripping the barrow’s handles, and the paper quivered in my grip; I refolded it and put it back in my pocket. The explosions were even closer now—I could feel them underfoot. As the ground trembled, I imagined a stomping giant hurtling toward us.

  I moved to push the cart, then froze. Something was creeping across my waist and back. It tickled intensely, and I scratched long and hard. Maybe it was a strand of hair. I lifted the edge of my shirt to check—and screamed.

  Youngsoo sat straight up. “Noona, what’s wrong?”

  “Sesame seeds!” I cried in disgust.

  “What?”

  “There are sesame seeds in the seams of my clothes!” I tried brushing them away, but they were stuck. Puzzled, I checked my pants—and that’s when I saw the seeds moving, scurrying across my waistband.

  “Lice!” I screamed.

  All at once, my entire body turned into an impossible itch. I writhed and scratched like someone possessed. I imagined the tiny bugs creeping down my back, up my neck, into my hair. I yanked off my coat and beat it on the ground.

  “Noona! Stop!”

  I looked at Youngsoo. His lips trembled. He stared at me as if I’d gone mad.

  “What about yo
u? Do you have any lice?” I flung open his blanket, tore off his coat, and lifted his shirt—then drew in a sharp breath. “My God!”

  Nits were buried in the creases of his clothes, and red sores dotted his skin. But more than that, it was a bag of bones I saw curled up inside that cart. Underneath all the layers, Youngsoo was wasting away. I could even see his thin chest pulsing, nothing but skin and rib cage separating his heart from the air.

  Worry paced inside my head. I had to do something.

  I pulled the cloth satchel from my pocket and unwrapped it. The fishy scent of anchovies filled my nostrils; there was only a palmful left. My stomach rumbled, but I slipped a few into Youngsoo’s mouth. He chewed slowly. I fed him another and another until only a few slivers remained.

  I couldn’t look at him when I slid the last ones between my lips and licked the salt off my fingers. Then I remembered what that ponytailed girl had said, and I ate because I needed it too.

  It was dusk. Sleet blew horizontally into my face. My hands were red and throbbing, and my body stung with lice bites. I couldn’t push the bullock cart anymore.

  “Youngsoo, get on my back.”

  I left the cart against the side of a hill, thanking it under my breath for granting my brother some rest. Then, slowly, he climbed on, as light as air. I strapped him to my waist with a blanket and hugged the bundle of foraged items. His frailness weighed heavily on my heart.

  We didn’t have any food left, and now itchiness rivaled hunger and coldness, all hard to ignore. What if the next abandoned house didn’t have rice? How long could we go without?

  I was too busy thinking and scratching to notice them heading toward us—two dark figures through the white valley.

  twenty-six

  Closer and closer they came. South Korean soldiers in dark green fatigues.

  I wasn’t sure where they’d come from. Maybe we were close to the thirty-eighth parallel and they were part of a regiment fortifying the border. All I knew was that there was nowhere to hide.