by Julie Lee
We walked back home, Abahji’s arms around our shoulders.
“Abahji, do all the farmers still give rice to their landlords?” I asked.
“No, but I don’t want land that was stolen from another man and handed to me. Besides, Mr. Choi wasn’t just a landlord, he was more like a father. And as sons, what wouldn’t we do for our fathers, right, Myung-gi-ya?” Abahji patted him hard on the back.
Someone yanked my shirt.
“Please!” a young woman cried, reaching up. She was so close, I could see the pores on her face.
The cap man grabbed her hand, but his arm shook, and sweat dripped down his cheeks. The chorus of complaints grew louder: Shut the door! There are too many of them! We’re going to topple! He’s not listening—push him off!
Electricity thrummed under my skin. I jumped up and latched on to the cap man’s arm, then pulled until my face turned red, until my feet skidded to the open edge, until we got that woman on board, and the door ground shut.
Everything turned dark.
No one spoke. Muffled cries from outside echoed eerily against the tinny walls. The train gathered speed, and those outside ran along the tracks, banging against the metal door as if hurling rocks at it. The boxcar bumped and swayed, and chilling screams rang from above as people fell off the roof. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut.
The train hit its stride. All banging and shrieking ceased.
I opened my eyes. Soon Seoul would be behind us.
A sliver of light trickled in through the one tiny open window. Someone’s hot, sour breath blew across my face. The scent of urine poisoned the air.
I counted the long wooden planks that ran across the length of the car ceiling, over and over, until a thud and scream from overhead made me lose my place. I wondered about the roof riders, the people running alongside the train, everyone left behind. What would become of them all?
I burrowed deep inside my coat and felt the map in my pocket. My hand stung from the scrape on top of the train; when I looked, it was pink and raw. But no matter. We were safe.
Youngsoo’s warm body leaned in close against mine. The light from the tiny window began to dim, and the steely rattle and clack of the train faded to a murmur. My head started drooping like ripe millet in Abahji’s field.
For the next day and night, I slept as if pinned to the floor, my leaden arms unable to keep Youngsoo from slumping to the ground.
thirty-three
December, 1950
It was a rotten stench that woke me.
I opened my eyes and saw a thin stream of morning light through the small window. My back and neck ached from sleeping upright against the boxcar wall.
“What is that awful smell?” a woman wearing a headscarf shouted from the opposite end of the freight car.
I looked around and spotted a dark brown stain on the old man’s baggy pants.
“Aigoo,” a husky-voiced woman cried. “Harabuji, did you soil yourself? Now everyone has to endure this nauseating smell!”
Groans filled the train.
“Shut up, all of you,” the old man said, his cheeks a slight pink.
The foul stench reeked of sickness. It smothered me in someone’s dying. I gagged and covered my nose with my coat. The old man rubbed the back of his wrinkled neck, his eyes shifting side to side as if he didn’t know where to set his gaze. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him; a harabuji shouldn’t have to sit in his own filth.
“I say we kick him off at the next stop,” the headscarf woman said.
As much as the old man stank, the idea of casting him out scared me. It was cruel. And did I smell so much better? Did any of us?
A grandmother clapped her hands once, fiercely. “Yah! Everyone, show some respect!”
“How about if he shows us some consideration and gets off the train,” a man yelled.
A small child wailed into the stifling boxcar.
“Just great. Now the baby’s giving me a headache,” someone said.
The husky-voiced woman got up and stood in the middle of the group, her eyes hard and black like watermelon seeds. “Calm down, everyone! We will not behave like animals.”
The tight space. The stench. The screaming.
Panic surged to the top of my head. I needed to get off. When would we reach Busan? Pungent smells filled my nose and mouth, suffocating me. I grabbed Youngsoo’s hand and rose toward the door, but he tugged me down. Where was the window? At the very least, I needed to see the window. My eyes darted toward the light, and I concentrated on that single ray.
The baby’s crying weakened to a whimper. He and his mother sat to my left. I tore my gaze from the window and dared to look at him. The infant was tiny, his body no bigger than napa cabbage. He coughed—wet and crackly.
“The baby’s hungry,” said the husky-voiced woman, taking a seat behind the mother.
“But he won’t eat.” The mother’s face twisted in worry. She offered him a slice of sweet snow pear, but he sucked on the end for only a few seconds before gasping for air. The mother thumped his back, a deep crease down the middle of her forehead.
The canned food. I had nearly forgotten. I pulled one of the C rations out of my coat pocket. “Here, you can give the baby some of this.” I held it out to the mother.
She examined the label. “I have some of that already. He won’t eat it either,” she said, her eyes damp.
“Oh.” I was so sure I could help. I looked at the baby. He was probably only three months old. How unlucky to have been born in the middle of a war.
Youngsoo sat crumpled against the wall, his face pale. It was no way anyone would normally sit, and I felt an urgency to do something, anything.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Well, you have to eat.” I twisted the key around the can, peeling away the thin metal edge. The lid popped off. More sausages in a light red liquid. I dipped my pinky and tasted the juice—sweet and tart. I fed a sausage to him, and he nodded that it was good.
“These sausages remind of Ahjuma’s husband and his fat fingers,” I said, holding one up to the light.
Youngsoo choked and coughed, hardly able to catch his breath, and I wondered whether laughing was worth all that trouble. It took him five minutes to settle down.
“Noona,” he said finally, looking up at me, his eyes dark and steady. “I don’t think what Ahjuma’s husband said was true. Sons aren’t better than daughters. No one’s better than anybody.”
I smiled faintly. But what Youngsoo believed didn’t matter. Everyone else thought it was true—Ahjuma’s husband, Joonie’s mother, even Omahni. Everyone, except that ponytailed girl. But she was only one person—and just a tan-skinned peasant girl, like me.
The train rumbled along the tracks for hours before stopping at a small village station.
“A bathroom stop,” someone murmured.
“Anyone need to use the toilet? If so, looks like this is where you get off,” the cap man by the door shouted.
I had hardly eaten or drunk for the past few days, yet still I felt the urge to go. How could I, though? What if the train left without me? What if someone took my spot? I looked around. Not a single person in the car moved to leave, not even the harabuji. There were a few grumblings, but no one forced the old man off.
The cap man slid the door shut. Only the sound of someone peeing into a metal bucket echoed against the walls.
By morning, my bladder was full and my head pounded. The baby had cried through most of the night but finally quieted.
“What’s wrong with him?” Youngsoo asked, leaning his head against me.
“You heard what they said. He’s hungry.”
Youngsoo grew silent and stared at the baby’s tiny body.
“How’s he doing?” the husky-voiced woman asked, nodding toward the child.
The mother stared off into the light coming from the tiny window, the baby’s face pressed into her padded coat. A puddle of ur
ine flowing from the direction of the old man soaked her long skirt, but she didn’t flinch. “The baby’s fine. I’m sure of it,” she said, a distant look in her eyes.
“Someone pass me the bucket,” the headscarf woman said. I watched as the urine pail sloshed its way across the boxcar to her. She snatched it, then hitched up her skirt and squatted in front of everyone. I looked away.
“I’m next!” a boy around Youngsoo’s age shouted.
My face felt hot. I had to relieve myself too, but not in front of a crowd.
“Empty it out the window, then pass it to me after you’ve finished,” an older man said.
Sweat poured from my head. I couldn’t hold it for another second. The scrape on my hand throbbed. But there were men, boys, and girls my age, all close enough to watch. Tears squeezed out from the corners of my eyes.
“I’ll take it after you, sir,” I said, squatting on my haunches.
PART III
BUSAN
thirty-four
January, 1951
The train’s clanking slowed, and my body lurched forward.
I opened my eyes. The cap man sat straight up. Everyone froze. There was a hissing sound followed by a whistle.
And then the train stopped.
The door slid open and a searing light flooded the boxcar. I shielded my eyes and squinted. Where were we now?
The bustling sounds of a city rushed in.
Throngs of people walked up and down the platform; a man carrying two large oil drums shuffled and sloshed his way to his next delivery. Terraced hillsides stood out in the distance.
“We made it! We’re in Busan!” the cap man shouted, his shiny face glowing.
Everyone gathered their belongings, talking in animated voices. But the young mother gave a piercing scream, her baby limp in her arms. She groaned from the gut, from somewhere deep and dark. The husky-voiced woman lowered her head and prayed, and a few others stopped to help the mother, but nothing could console her. She rocked back and forth, faster and faster, her horrible moan unending. We passed her and her baby on our way out, and I swallowed hard. Youngsoo clung to my back, trembling, as I climbed down from the train.
People poured out of the freight cars. A few lowered themselves from the top. I sighed in relief that some of the roof riders had made it, but the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground and slamming into tunnel entrances kept sounding in my ears. I knew I would never forget it. My knuckles turned bony and white as I clenched my fists; I had to shake my hands loose.
Men and women dropped to their knees and kissed the ground. One woman strode past, holding papers with the address of her destination; another looked dazed, stopping and turning, unsure where to go next. I was grateful that Omahni had a brother in Busan. What had Abahji said to Mr. Kim about finding Uncle Hong-Chul’s house?
Just a few miles from the Busan station. South of the Gukje Market. He’s got a fish stand there, house number 8818.
A gentle breeze rustled my hair, and I took a deep breath. The air smelled different here, like rotting seaweed and fish. It didn’t help my sudden anxious queasiness. “What’s that awful stench?”
“What stench?” the cap man said, laughing. “That’s the smell of the ocean, the scent of freedom!” He jumped down from the boxcar, swung a bag over his shoulder, and went whistling on his way. I watched him go, a small tug in my chest. He was gone before I could thank him for saving us.
I shifted Youngsoo higher on my back, following the crowd out of the station into the city. People bustled in the streets. There were wide roads, sidewalks, and clusters of houses with clay-tile roofs. A line of three-story brick buildings stood in the distance—not a single portrait of Kim Il-sung or Stalin hanging from any one of them. I passed a trolley, women carrying baskets on their heads, and shoeshine boys polishing the boots of American GIs. It had been a long time since I’d seen Americans.
“Excuse me, mister,” I said to a passing stranger wearing a fedora. “How can I get to the Gukje Market?” I set Youngsoo down; he had to lean against a skinny electrical pole.
The man shook his head and looked at us as if we were two worms turned inside out on sticks. I tucked the hand with the fleshy pink scrape behind my back; even Youngsoo tried to hide the bloody bottom of his pants with his blanket. “I’m assuming you two just came into the Busan train station,” the man said, finally.
I nodded.
He reached into one of the pockets of his wool coat. “Here, catch,” he said, tossing me a bunch of coins. “If you go back to the station, you can get on a bus to the Gukje Market. It’s only about a thirty-minute ride.”
“Thank you so much!” I said, bowing. I couldn’t believe we’d be at Uncle’s house in less than an hour. Every hope that had been simmering below the surface came bubbling up. Abahji, Omahni, Jisoo. Clean clothes and warm beds. Delicious foods. And more than that, no more running; we were as far south as we could go.
We went back to the station and found a bus to the Gukje Market. An old woman in the front seat clucked her tongue at the state of us, muttering “Aigoo.”
I sat by the open window, Youngsoo leaning against me. This was far more comfortable than the freight train. The bus started rolling, and a cool breeze blew in—not nearly as icy as the winter winds back home. We stared out the window, our eyes weaving back and forth over the sights: shorn hillsides, jeeps and trucks, steep roads crowded with shops.
“Noona, look!” Youngsoo pointed past a row of houses.
Something blue shimmered between them—like sky, only deeper. I leaned my head out of the window, staring. The buildings blurred past, fewer and fewer, until finally, I had a clear view.
The ocean.
It was alive, churning and roaring against the rocks. A massive blue sprawling out as far as I could see. Nothing could contain it. We were only a hundred feet away, close enough to taste it in the back of our throats.
Youngsoo and I looked at each other and shook our heads in disbelief; it was the open sea from our dreams. My heart ticked faster.
We passed a port. Gray warships, several stories high, floated like steel mountains. How did they stay afloat? I stuck my neck out farther, the wind whipping my hair. One large ship moored at the pier had the flag of the United States at its stern—red, white, and blue flickering in the wind. American soldiers walked along the wharf, a familiar swagger in their stride. I waved out the window, shouting “Tootsie Roll!”—the only English words I knew. Some of them waved back.
The bus turned inland again, and I pulled myself inside. We drove by wooden-fronted houses, restaurants with sun-bleached signs, a concrete police station, a middle school with an iron clock and blue-glass windows. Students wearing uniforms crowded the sidewalk, loads of books in their arms. One girl had tan skin and long, wavy hair, like me. “Youngsoo, are you seeing all of this?”
He coughed and nodded, his eyes red and his nose drippy. I tightened the collar of his jacket, then closed the window. “Don’t worry—now that we’re in Busan, you’ll get better soon,” I promised.
The bus slowed to a stop.
“Gukje Market!” the driver shouted.
“We’re here!” I said, grabbing Youngsoo’s hand. “We finally made it!”
thirty-five
Gukje Market. It was the kind of place where you couldn’t think.
Colorful signs wrestled for attention. Merchants called out their prices; customers bargained them down. Here, no one was afraid of being called capitalist bourgeois pigs. The chatter was as loud as a thousand squawking birds.
Youngsoo and I slowed as we walked past small wooden storefronts on a narrow dirt road, staring in wonder at the clothes, dishes, and foods set up on crates and blankets: mounds of white yam, heaps of thick carrots, racks of rice bowls, bolts of white linen, folded Western pants.
“Hey!” a teenage boy shouted. He wore a tattered coat. Aside from being cleaner than us, he didn’t look much better off. “You need shoes?” He pointed to the only
pair of women’s sandals on his blanket. “How about some kitchen things?” His stack of pots and ceramic bowls were mismatched and chipped. When I didn’t answer, he held up a framed black-and-white newspaper clipping of a white woman with rolls of shiny hair. “You like Grace Kelly? She’s a famous American movie star. Pretty, like you. I’ll give you a good price!”
I shook my head; I couldn’t believe he had a framed picture of an American, as if that movie star were as important as Kim Il-sung himself. “No, thank you. But could you tell me where Kang Hong-Chul’s fish stand is?”
“Kang Hong-Chul?” he asked. “This isn’t some tiny village where everybody knows each other’s names. Do you know how many people are in this city—including all the new Northerners?” He laughed. “Sorry. There are probably a hundred people with that name!”
“Thank you,” I said politely. Youngsoo and I walked on.
How strange it felt to be in a busy marketplace! The air was different here, not the same as by the bus station, and I had the peculiar feeling that something was off.
I watched a man hang a wooden sign—FRUITS AND VEGETABLES—above his small storefront, hammering it in with nails. His wife hugged him from behind, while a little girl squealed, “Apah! Apah!” at his heels.
And then I knew. Here, people were no longer running; they were setting up shop. Instead of screaming, there was haggling and selling. No explosions roared in the distance. No shots rang out from behind. Yankee soldiers strolled the stands, ogling the pretty girls and punching each other in the arm as if they were silly schoolboys. I breathed in the bustle, and sighed in relief.
Boys played chase up and down the road, and Youngsoo tugged my arm, as if he wanted me to stop them long enough for him to join. (Which he couldn’t; we both knew that.) But when I looked closer, I saw that as they wove through the crowd they cut slits in women’s bags, stealing money. A gang of bigger boys, dirt-smudged and barefoot, knocked over a woman’s apple stand, grabbed handfuls of fruit, and ran off, the edges of their shirts drawn up and cinched into lumpy bags. Another crew grabbed handfuls of dried squid before scattering in all directions, hopping around like hot oil in a pan. Youngsoo sat on an empty crate, laughing at their antics.