by Julie Lee
“Bread for you, miss?”
I came back to reality. It was dark now, but I could still make out this woman’s face, as brown and lined as a dried-up riverbed, a makeshift marketplace around her. Beggars stood beside peddlers, their hands cupped toward passersby, their eyes deep in their sockets. I cringed at their oily smell.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, reaching for a loaf the length of my hand.
The woman swung it out of my reach. “No! You must pay.”
“I’m so sorry, but I have no money. Please, my brother is sick. If he doesn’t eat, I’m sure he will die.” I knew, suddenly, that this was the truth. My lip trembled.
“You think you’re special? That’s everyone’s story these days. Just look around. We’re all going to die if we don’t eat, including my children and me. So pay up if you want bread.”
“Please! Just half a loaf would be enough!” I said, dropping to my knees. I held on to the bottom of her tattered skirt, which reeked of urine.
“Get off, beggar!” The woman yanked at her skirt. When I wouldn’t let go, she kicked me in the chest, then walked away.
Beggar.
I didn’t know why it shocked me. I looked and smelled no better than them. What was I doing if not begging?
But for some reason, I felt no shame. The smell of bread still lingered in the woman’s wake. My stomach hardened. I thought of that wolf on the hillside, sniffing deeply under the door, and I breathed it in.
I got up and dusted the back of my pants. There were others with food.
One woman peddled worn cloth and shoes, which I imagined had come off the dead. Another was selling dduk and potatoes. There was even a young girl bartering kimchi and rice. But no, those were not what I wanted.
I searched the road until I found her. An old halmoni held one canned ration in the air; the others she kept in her bulging coat pockets. I remembered what the woman by the church had said—there were meats and vegetables inside those C rations. I stepped closer.
“What kind of currency do you carry? South or North Korean?” the halmoni asked me.
I froze, thinking. Should I tell her I had no money? If I begged, wouldn’t she kick me away, like the bread lady? Then I’d never get a chance at one of those C rations. I thought of Youngsoo waiting in the churchyard.
My heart starting thumping.
“Yah, are you deaf and dumb?” the halmoni asked, squinting at me.
But maybe she would be kind, like the halmoni who had shared her sweet black beans. Maybe she would be dignified, like the man who had given us the wooden cart. I gazed at her, silently, imploringly.
The woman turned and covered one nostril, then shot out a line of mucous from the other. “Yah, either pay or move away from me,” she said.
It was then that I knew what I had to do. I stopped to brush the hair from my eyes. And then my body moved on its own.
My right hand jerked forward. It dove into her pocket. Pulling. Yanking. Everything jamming in the petite pouch of her coat. Thread broke like ladder rungs.
She swayed. We grunted. I kept tugging. Until one metal can wiggled out, like a newborn. Then another. And another.
She stared at me, her mouth hanging open.
I stared back, rooted to the ground. “Sorry,” I blurted.
Then I grabbed my C rations and ran. I darted between houses, past a row of armored cars, the halmoni’s curses trailing away.
That’s when I turned my head and saw her, black against a wall—a fleeing shadow hunched over an armful of cans, hair flying wildly behind. A wolf-girl. Moving swiftly. Savagely. I hardly recognized myself.
thirty-one
When I returned to the churchyard, I found Youngsoo in the exact spot where I’d left him. He hadn’t moved an inch, and the same frown was on his face. I ran toward him, hiding the C rations inside my jacket.
“Youngsoo, you won’t believe what I got!” I said, the cold cans pressed against my stomach.
His arms were crossed. He turned his head away from me. A cough bubbled in his chest, but he kept his mouth shut and tamped it down.
I grabbed our pot, then dropped the cans on the ground. “Look! Canned rations! I think there’ll be meat and vegetables inside! When was the last time you had meat? And I don’t mean anchovies—I mean real meat!”
Youngsoo shrugged. He picked at his fingernail. Flames from neighboring campfires lit up his face.
I took a deep breath, then counted to five. “I went out and risked everything to get this food, and you have nothing to say?”
“You left,” he said, looking at the ground.
“What did you expect me to do? Swipe these cans with you on my back like a sack of potatoes? I wouldn’t have been nearly as fast.”
“Am I just in the way?” He burrowed deeper into his crossed arms. “Is that why you call me stupid?”
“I didn’t call you stupid!”
“You didn’t say it now, but sometimes you do.” He started coughing up all the mucous he’d been keeping down.
I thought of Omahni in the kitchen, shaking her head at me when I’d done something wrong. I knew that I sometimes did the same to Youngsoo. Had I always done that to him? Or did it start only after Omahni had pulled me out of school?
A flash of light shot through the night sky. Blasts rumbled in the distance. I snatched the pot and cans and stomped away.
There had to be an abandoned firepit in the churchyard, and several feet away, I found one. I set the pot beside it, then examined the metal can. It was sealed shut, with only a small key glued to its top—where was the keyhole? “How do you open this thing?” I said to myself, pounding it against the pavement.
“Yah! You’re going to ruin a perfectly good can of food!” the woman with the stew called. “Come, give it to me. I’ll show you how to open it.”
I went to hand it over slowly, not wanting to let it go. I watched her crank the key around the can, miraculously peeling away a thin strip of metal. “There you go. That’s how you open it,” she said, grinning.
“Thank you.” I stared at the sausages floating in a light red liquid. Though it nearly killed me, I added, “Would you like some?”
“No, no, that’s for you and your brother,” she said, shaking her head.
I didn’t argue. Shame burned through my skin for not wanting to share.
I turned my attention back to the firepit. The coals were still hot, so I poked the embers with a stick and blew on them until an orange glow blazed brightly. When the fire seemed hot enough, I set the pot on top and dumped the contents of the can in. My mouth watered, and I had to swallow.
A cold wind blustered through the city as our dinner cooked, and a blanket of snow began to cover all the rubble in a clean, white sheet. Though I knew what lay underneath, I thought it looked almost beautiful.
Finally, I took the pot off the heat and carried it back to Youngsoo. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Here, try some,” I said, bringing a spoonful to his lips.
Reluctantly, he opened his frowning mouth, but then burst into tears. Coughs tore from his chest.
I patted him on the back, the bones of his spine protruding. It hurt to look at him.
“Sorry, Youngsoo,” I whispered. “Sorry about leaving you and being so mean.”
I wanted to tell him that he was a good kid, that he wasn’t stupid, that it wasn’t his fault that Omahni had pulled me out of school, that nothing had ever been his fault, but I only stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes at him instead.
Through shuddering breaths, he forced a smile, though the corners of his mouth kept pulling down. A huge bubble of snot blew in and out of his nose, and we finally started laughing.
I stirred the soup, then slurped a spoonful, keeping my mouth ajar to blow out steam. It wasn’t as delicious as Omahni’s kimchi stews, but it was still good. The pink meat had a salty, pork-like flavor. “Youngsoo, really, try it. It’s good.”
Youngsoo breathed in deeply before swallowing
a piping hot mouthful. Instantly, he sputtered and coughed, then lay down and held his hand up, refusing another bite.
I didn’t understand how he could turn down this food, and I nudged him on the shoulder, but he only turned his back to me. A funny squeaking sound came from his lungs.
It was late. Campfires in the churchyard turned the cardboard houses into glowing lanterns. Youngsoo fell asleep. I covered him with a blanket, then fed the fire with sticks and trash to keep him warm.
I stared at the shimmering air above the flames. It blurred everything in sight: mounds of rubble, a woman pounding her chest in prayer, a girl curled up like she was back in the womb, an old man crying out for his wife of sixty years. I never once let my eyes wander from the wavy lines of the fire’s looking glass. Outside of it, the broken buildings and suffering people were too sharp, too clear.
We were almost there. Just a train ride away from Busan.
thirty-two
December, 1950
The next morning, Youngsoo vomited. It set my heart racing.
“Are you okay?” I asked, wiping his mouth with the edge of his blanket. But he could only cough. I patted his back, my hand shaking. “You probably just gagged because of all that coughing.”
I stood up and looked around. There was no one here to help us. Most of the fires had sputtered out in the night, and smoke rose like ghosts across the churchyard. Almost everyone was gone. My breath was white, and I shivered.
More explosions boomed. The loudspeaker crackled the same instructions to head to the train station. I wondered if the woman’s voice barking orders on the other end was a recording; I hoped she was real, because then we wouldn’t be completely alone.
“We’ve got to get on that train,” I said, gathering our things and hoisting Youngsoo onto my back.
Rays of morning light cut across the barren roads, and wind-whipped embers swirled in the air. There were street signs, and eventually, other refugees emerging from broken buildings and making their way to the station. I followed them, past debris and shattered storefronts and crumbling concrete, to a big building that had collapsed in on itself.
This couldn’t be it.
A woman ran past, and I grabbed her sleeve. “Where can I find the train station?” I asked.
“Are you blind? You’re standing right in front of it,” she said, her eyes darting wildly.
My heart dropped. The station was nothing but a mound of rubble. Were we ever going to get out of this city?
“Now let go of me!” she said, yanking her sleeve away. “The Reds are getting closer!”
Her urgency sent fear pulsing through me. But it wasn’t until I ran to the side of the building that I heard them: Move it! Watch where you’re going! It’s the last train!
The words stopped me cold.
Last train of the day? Last train forever?
What does it matter? The Reds could get here today!
I looked at my bloodied shoes and socks. Two hundred miles to Busan.
If we didn’t get on now, we’d never outrun the bombs and guns, never survive that much walking. Ai! Why hadn’t I gotten up earlier? Was this why the streets and churchyard were so empty? Because today was the last chance to escape the city? I tightened Youngsoo’s legs around my waist and ran toward the tracks behind the station.
Throngs of people surrounded the only train left—the last train leaving Seoul. They swarmed in and out of every carriage like ants through the eye sockets of carrion. I hurried closer, the roar of the crowd intensifying—then took a deep breath and barreled into the crush.
Bodies closed in on me like floodwater. I tunneled through the mob, stumbling over tracks, over soft flesh underfoot. My eyes flashed downward—I saw an arm, a leg, a back—all part of the unfortunate few who had tripped and fallen. I reached down to help someone, a girl, but the stampede swept me away.
Suddenly we were flush against the train. “Is there room for two?” I yelled, moving up and down the line of cars, squirming through the press. Could anyone even hear me?
But my cries didn’t matter—a swarm of people teetered up to the edge of every open door. The train was full.
I looked up. Roof riders were clambering to the top of the train, and my mind started racing. There was no space inside, so what choice did we have? We would be roof riders too. I climbed the rusty ladder on the side of a boxcar, Youngsoo clinging to my back.
Mounds of people covered the rooftop. From up here, the scene below writhed and pulsed like something out of hell. Underneath us, a mother frantically screamed for her son whose hand had slipped from hers, the crowd pulling him down until he vanished completely.
I hurried forward, tripping over legs and feet. A teenage girl searched the flat top for something, anything, to fasten her blanket to—one end was knotted around her ankle, the other end to nothing. My stomach twisted as I realized that the rooftop was as dangerous as that mangled bridge by the Taedong. Once the train gathered speed, we would fly right off—Youngsoo first, with his willowy arms and spindly legs.
I turned around.
“Noona, where are you going?”
“We need to get down! We need to get down!” I said, rushing back toward the ladder.
I stumbled over a woman, my foot catching and my hand scraping against her wooden crate. Youngsoo flew off my back onto a pile of luggage as I fell. The woman pushed my head, and I shoved her back, struggling onto my knees. “I need to get my brother!” I shrieked.
Youngsoo scrambled toward me, like a crab winding sideways, his arms and legs like pincers. For a second, I flinched, wanting to run from him as much as I wanted him to reach me. But I waited, and when he clamped onto my back, I got up and lurched toward the top of the ladder.
Last train. The words kept looping inside my head.
Arms shaking, I climbed down and started sprinting alongside the tracks, ducking and pushing through the crowd. “Is there room in here?” I shouted into a boxcar.
“No! We’re full!” a woman yelled back.
A charge of panic shot through me. I ran faster.
“Any room in here?”
“No!”
“How about here?”
“No!”
Always no. I howled in frustration.
The train started rolling. I blinked. Was it my imagination?
No. Slowly, slowly, it went. Slipping past my reaching fingers. Outpacing my stumbling feet. Youngsoo tightened his grip around my neck.
Then, from somewhere, a man’s cry: “That’s the end! That’s the end! We are full!”
All at once, doors closed up and down the row of boxcars. A loud roar rolled off the crowd in a wave.
In the half second that followed, the throng on the platform swept forward like a storm. Hard pushing and shoving. My shoulder mashing against the side of the train. I was getting carried off my feet. One slip and fall, and I’d be crushed under the rolling wheels.
“Help!” I screamed into the boxcar in front of me.
This was it.
The end.
All that my life would ever be.
“Squeeze in! We need to make room for these children!” someone shouted overhead.
A hand reached down. It was a young man in the doorway of the car above, a newsboy cap slanted over his eyes. He grabbed my arm. I clamped on. And with one guttural cry, he hoisted us up, lifting high until we slithered on board.
I slumped onto the floor; Youngsoo spilled off my back. We were saved.
Inside, there were no seats, only the sliding door and one tiny window. The bodies of strangers pressed up against me. An old man reeking of urine started leaning on my shoulder.
The man with the cap held his hand out to a mother and her son.
“Shut the door already!” screamed a woman clutching a baby to her chest. Her eyes darted back and forth over the mob rushing for the train, pouring out of the concourse, covering the station yard. I saw them, too. From here, the crowd looked like black ink spilling toward
the freight car. I couldn’t stop shaking. We had no more room.
But the man with the cap gritted his teeth and kept the door open, extending his arm to desperate strangers.
“Shut the door, cap boy! We’ll suffocate with too many people! Who made you gatekeeper of the train!” a man hollered from the back.
The crowds started climbing the car like fast-growing ivy. Some pushed inside, frantic to claim their space. A scream started bubbling in my chest. I wanted the cap man to shut the door, give us room to breathe, leave the rest behind—even though I’d been on the other side just a second ago, on the ground, reaching. The cap man looked at me, but I didn’t know what to do. Should we shut the door? Let more people in? I yanked on my hair and let out a sharp cry. Why was it so hard to do the right thing?
“We’re going to do the right thing,” Abahji had said, tying a sack of rice and swinging it over his shoulder. “Come follow me.” Myung-gi and I looked up from our books, bleary-eyed, waking from our story world into the blinding light of this one. We were ten and twelve, reading under a tree, uncomplicated friends.
“Even Myung-gi oppah?” I asked.
“Yes, especially Myung-gi. I need him to help me carry another sack of rice,” Abahji said.
We followed Abahji across the field to Mr. Choi’s house. Abahji knocked on the wooden gate.
Mr. Choi answered, his eyes more sunken than the last time I’d seen him. “Eh, Pak Sangmin, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“To give you two sacks of rice.” Abahji set the bags by Mr. Choi’s feet.
“You don’t have to give me rent. I’m not your landlord anymore. You know that,” Mr. Choi said. His voice shook with an old man’s tremor. “That piece of land belongs to you and the state now. Under the new law. A glorious law,” he added tightly.
“I can’t let you and your wife go hungry after all that you’ve done for us over the years.”
“What did we do?” Mr. Choi asked, his face softening.
“Please, accept the rice,” Abahji said.
When Mr. Choi wiped his eyes and smiled, my heart pinched. “Thank you, Sangmin-ah. You’ve always been like a son to me,” he said, dragging the rice bags inside the house.