Brother's Keeper

by Julie Lee

  He put his glasses back on; his eyes were magnified and dark. “Once I turn sixteen, I’m going to enroll in the South Korean army. Then I’ll go find our father and bring him back.”

  “I think it’s a bad idea,” Yoomee said grimly. “Oppah, you shouldn’t go.”

  “I have to go. I’m the only son. What wouldn’t I do for my father?”

  Abahji’s words.

  Something constricted in my chest. “But you’re a scholar, not a fighter. What about your studies? I thought you would go back to school as soon as you and your family got settled!”

  “My studies can wait. I need to find my father.” He glanced at the students heading inside the tent, their book bags slung over their shoulders, and his gaze didn’t even linger.

  In that instant, I knew that it was never his smooth, tan complexion or good looks that I liked. It was his habit of always carrying his bag of books that had made me look for him wherever I went.

  I wanted to tell him that he was too young, that the whole idea was far-fetched and dangerous, that he needed to study, that he was more than just my friend’s older brother—he was my friend too.

  But I knew he had no choice. I would’ve done the same. So I said nothing.

  Inside the tent, a hundred-plus children of all ages sat on the floor, sharing textbooks in groups of four or more. Yoomee and I sat with three other girls, their smiles wide and welcoming. Between the five of us, we had enough pencils, paper, and textbooks to get by.

  Over the next few weeks, I caught up in my studies, making up for the year I’d missed. It was as if I had a gnawing hunger for knowledge that I couldn’t stop feeding. Curiosity led me from one topic to another, to another, to another—until I found myself reading late into the night with a kerosene lamp in the courtyard, everyone asleep inside.

  Our American teacher, Miss Foster, talked with outstretched arms and moving hands. She kept a pencil stuck in her hair and pulled it out like a pistol from a holster whenever she needed it. She had a small following everywhere she went, the younger children always clustering around like a cloud of dust. When she laughed, she tilted her head back and opened her mouth as wide as a sea bass. When she walked, her curly hair bounced up and down. I watched her, mesmerized.

  One day, in a meeting, Miss Foster looked at my grades, then wiped the chalk off her hands onto her tan trousers. She grinned at me tight-lipped, as if holding back a mouthful of pride. “You smart girl,” she said in broken Korean. “I, for your sake, will find some books.” I giggled at her funny sentences.

  But she stayed true to her word. Every week, I went home with a bag full of books and magazines—none of which were about communism, the revolutionary struggle, or the Great Leader, although I’m sure if I’d asked for one, Miss Foster would’ve given that to me too. Instead, I read about Amelia Earhart, the television set, and tectonic plates. I visited other worlds in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; The Little Prince; and The Call of the Wild. I met Ingrid Bergman and Katharine Hepburn in Harper’s Bazaar and saw shiny red Pontiacs that gleamed in the sun. I learned that people lived in rows of pretty white houses and cooked something called Minute Rice in just ten minutes. In this way, I spent my summer, always reading—under a tree, on the concrete wall, in the Gukje Market.

  On a Friday, Miss Foster pinned a map of the world onto the canvas wall for a geography lesson. She talked about boundaries and continents, currents and oceans, and how debris from a fishing boat in Japan ended up on a California coast.

  “From a Japanese fishing boat to the California coast?” I said, shaking my head. How was that possible?

  Miss Foster looked at me and nodded. “That’s right. We’re all connected. Oceans join and flow together, linking all the continents.”

  I wondered what Youngsoo would say to that—catching fish from around the world in one great sea.

  fifty-one

  September, 1951

  Autumn in Busan. I had never given autumn much thought—like so many things taken for granted—but now that it was here, I couldn’t stop staring. I lay on the stone wall at Uncle’s house, looking up at the canopy of red and yellow leaves hanging over me. When sunlight filtered through, the leaves turned to gemstones, and I imagined I was inside a palace.

  I closed my eyes. The air smelled as crisp as the day after a hard rain. I could hear Omahni washing pots in the kitchen and Jisoo wrangling with a pair of too-small pants inside the house. But it wasn’t the clanging of pots or the frustrated cries of a toddler that set my heart racing. It was a single word.

  “Noona.”

  My eyes flew open, and I sat straight up.

  When had I last heard someone call me Noona? I knew. It was on that day. The final day. He had called me Noona for the last time. Bewildered, my eyes darted in the direction of the voice. That was when I saw him.

  Jisoo.

  Sitting beside me.

  Holding up his too-small pants for me to see.

  “Noona,” he said, again. “My pants too small.”

  How had he gotten up here? Then I saw the clay jars beside the wall. Omahni had positioned them from largest to smallest like steps.

  His belly button poked out underneath his shirt. When had he grown so much? When had he learned to say those new words? Every time I walked past him, he always sat alone, just a silly baby engrossed in trying to get his foot into a sock or pull a shirt over his head. It struck me that in those moments, he was trying, always trying, to grow up, and I had never even noticed. Had anyone?

  “How could you lose him?” Omahni asked, frowning. She stepped into the house carrying a basket of persimmons. They were still slightly green, picked too soon. “I asked you to watch him because Abahji and I were busy!”

  “He was here a second ago. In that corner, playing with socks! Like always,” I said, putting my hands to my lips. I couldn’t have lost him. He couldn’t be very far.

  But what about the well in the courtyard? Could two-year-olds climb into wells? Something hit me in my gut. I ran outside.

  He was there beside Youngsoo, crouched in the grass, their heads leaning toward each other. An intricate village of twigs and rocks sprawled out before them. I let out a long breath.

  “Jisoo, put this one on top of the tower,” Youngsoo said, handing him a short stick.

  “He’s too little. He won’t understand. He’ll break it,” I warned.

  But Jisoo held the stick between two small fingers and placed it gingerly on top.

  “Good job,” Youngsoo said.

  Jisoo beamed.

  I went back inside to finish sewing the hole in Abahji’s shirt, my mind on maps and books, not thinking of my littlest brother at all.

  Jisoo tugged on my arm. He looked up at me with wide eyes, his small hands still clutching his pants.

  All at once, a horrible thought popped into my head. What if he didn’t remember Youngsoo when he grew up? He might have grown out of his baby clothes, but he was still little. So little. I couldn’t let him forget.

  “Yes, of course, I’m your noona, too,” I said.

  I climbed down, then lifted him off the wall. Jisoo stared at me with that look of admiration or love or a little of both that happens when looking up at your noona. Then I did something I’d never done before. I held him steady when he stumbled, pulled him up to try again, and helped my little brother get his pants on, one leg at a time.

  fifty-two

  February 1, 1952

  One week blurred into the next. Holidays came and went. Birthday celebrations made a few of us a year older.

  Jisoo was now four, and in two months, I would turn fourteen. Youngsoo would’ve been ten. I could hardly think beyond homework and friends and exams. And before I knew it, the air had turned from autumn cool to bone cold. Winter was here again.

  I touched everything in the lacquered box. It felt good to have something to hold in my hand instead of just memories inside my head—which were already beginning to fade, despite my best effor
ts. What had he always said about going to America—that he would be my captain or my shipmate? Which fish had he almost caught before he tipped over and fell into the river? What was he wearing the night we left home? I pressed the river rocks against my cheek, so cool and smooth and real, like a drink of cold water. How could more than a year have already passed? It felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago. I put everything back and closed the mother-of-pearl lid, then returned the box to the small shelf Abahji had built into the wall of our new house. Auntie had sadly helped us pack our bags when we first announced our plans to move out, and she got quiet on the day we said goodbye. Uncle had to remind her that our new house was only thirty minutes away.

  Last month, we had visited Youngsoo’s grave for his one-year anniversary. Last week, we’d started sharing stories about him without crying. And today, we would all gather for a celebration, for today was graduation day.

  The house was quiet. Abahji had gone to work, and Omahni was already tending to chores while Jisoo was at Uncle’s house, keeping Auntie company because she missed him too much. I slid open the door to the room I shared with Jisoo.

  A blue dress hung on the dresser knob.

  I held it against me. It was too small for Auntie and too youthful for Omahni. Without anyone around, I slipped into it, poking my head through the square-shaped neck. It fell right on my knees, the shortest hemline I’d ever worn. I buttoned the front and smoothed the bodice; it fit snugly around my waist. When I twirled, the skirt billowed out in the shape of a bell.

  The door slid open.

  My head snapped up.

  Omahni set a bucket of water on the floor. “Ah, I see you found the dress I made. The fabric is a heavy cotton. I bought it at the Gukje Market. It’s pretty, isn’t it? It fits you.”

  I nodded slowly, my lips slightly parted, turning over in my mind the incredible notion that Omahni had sewn this dress for me.

  “But how can we afford this?” I said.

  “We can’t. But if you don’t have any teeth, then you live by using your gums,” Omahni said, repeating an old proverb. “It’s for your graduation. Don’t worry; we’ll make do.”

  A new streak of gray swept along the side of her hair.

  “Come, let me get out your tangles.” Omahni grabbed a pearly comb that Auntie had given her and ran it through my hair. I couldn’t remember the last time she had combed it.

  When she finished, she set the small mirrored vanity in front of me. “Here, see yourself.”

  I looked, mute with bewilderment, and saw a strange girl staring back at me with a hint of knowing in her somber eyes. A slight rosiness tinged my cheeks and lips. I touched my face lightly.

  Omahni stooped to pick up her bucket, and when I turned to look, it was as if I’d caught her essence in a snapshot—hard-working, tireless, devoted to her children, always ready to make another run to the well. It was this image that would stay with me, even years later, sitting inside a church with family and friends and pressing her pearly comb to my heart.

  Before the last of my mother’s long skirt flapped out the door, I called out, “Omahni, thank you.”

  But she continued walking, her singsong voice bouncing like a kite finally catching its wind: “Hurry, get ready for your graduation! Sora-ya, daughter of mine!”

  fifty-three

  By the time we arrived for the graduation ceremony, the tent bustled with activity. Omahni, Abahji, and Jisoo made their way toward the back benches while I sat in the section for students near the front.

  Yoomee plunked down beside me, wearing her red pleated dress from back home. Even though the edges had frayed, and she tugged on sleeves that now fell short, I’d always envied her for having that fancy dress. When I told her, she said that she had always envied my good grades. Which led to confessions of how much we’d once hated each other. We couldn’t stop laughing.

  Commencement began with the student choir singing “Arirang” and “Land of Hope and Glory.” I listened to speeches about parents and children, sacrifices and dreams. And in between the words, I remembered the names of those lost to war, too painful to say aloud, but rising like ghosts nonetheless.

  A hush fell over the room once Miss Foster began calling us, one by one, up front to receive our certificates, and I sat up straighter in my seat. We were boys and girls of different ages, some from the city, some from the country. Some of us were proper with long braids. Others had cowlicks and smudged faces. We shuffled in our fathers’ too-big shoes, or stepped lightly in store-bought heels. We bounded toward the stage with huge grins. We took tiny steps, our chins quivering. But we were all here, hoping for something better. And I clapped long and hard until I heard my name.

  “Pak Sora.”

  Yoomee jumped up and cheered as I rose and walked to the front, and it struck me that I had dreamed of this moment for years. But it was not at all as I imagined. From where I stood in the front, I could see everyone at once, smiling back at me. They were happy for me. Even proud.

  It took me by surprise, and I tried hard to keep myself from coming undone.

  Omahni, Abahji, Uncle, and Auntie rose from the bench, their eyes glistening clear and bright. Jisoo, perched on Omahni’s hip, waved furiously. Mrs. Kim sat in the back, clutching her husband’s handkerchief, while Myung-gi, dressed in a handsome blue suit, stood beside her. I let my gaze linger on him—so broad and tall now—and thought of the time when we were ten and twelve, reading under a tree, uncomplicated friends. I couldn’t believe that he would be deployed in just a few days. I bit my lip hard, blinking fast.

  They held me up with their applause, keeping me afloat with the strength and support of a village.

  When I walked off, Omahni and Abahji wove through the crowd, rushing to hug me. And we stood there, the three of us, arms wrapped around each other like the petals of a camellia bud, tightly bound but ready to bloom.

  Families came together inside the tent, laughing and talking. Fathers embraced girls in blue dresses. Mothers clutched their blushing sons. High-pitched squeals shot out as younger boys and girls played chase, circling their parents. Folk songs played on a radio, singing of youth, love, and growing old. Young women on line at the refreshment table swayed to the music. And I took it all in—this tangle of color and dance and light.

  By early evening, a soothing hum fell over the crowd as families prepared to leave, prolonging their goodbyes with another sentence, another laugh, and a final bow. I got a plate of sweet rice cake and headed toward my family standing in a circle.

  “When will you come to visit?” Auntie asked Omahni and Abahji.

  “Oh, so now you miss them. Before you couldn’t wait for them to move out!” Uncle teased, knowing it wasn’t true.

  Auntie slapped him hard on the arm, and everyone laughed.

  Jisoo sucked his thumb and clung to Omahni’s leg. I picked him up and twirled around and around until he cackled with delight: “Noona! Noona!” When I set him down, he smiled at me with sleepy eyes ready for a nap.

  “Omahni, I’m going to stop by the beach before heading home,” I said.

  “Okay. Just be home before six. The Kims are coming for dinner,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before then to help.”

  She looked at me and smiled.

  The school wasn’t far from the shore. On certain days, it was close enough for the fog to roll in from the sea, dampening the trees and turning their bare branches into black brushstrokes. I walked down tranquil streets lined with small houses, past the sounds of playing children and the occasional barking dog. The air was cold and reminded me of arriving in Busan with Youngsoo.

  It wasn’t long before a cool, salty breeze rustled my hair, and I breathed it in, that scent of freedom. Shimmering waves lapped against rocks. Pink and orange swirled across the horizon. I could see it: pure, white clouds reaching across the sky like an outstretched arm offering me any fish in the sea. He was here—beside me, above me—my brother, the finest fisherman
I’d ever known.

  I took off my shoes and walked onto the empty beach. Waves roared and tumbled toward me, clawing at broken shells before being sucked back out to sea. I stepped past the foamy white edge, and imagined that the water against my feet had journeyed all around the world, touching the shores of America and back.

  The freezing temperature caught my breath, but I took one step, then another, wading deeper, past my ankles, past my knees, the currents towing hard. I thought of all the rivers we’d crossed—the piercing cold shooting through my bones; his hand in mine, pulling each other through. And even of the river back home, sparkling under the afternoon sun and gently flowing out, somewhere, into the ocean before me.

  I could feel it. The tides pulling. The ground moving. The ebb and flow of memories. Next year, I’d be in ninth grade. Four years after that, university. And after that, I could only imagine.

  I closed my eyes, ready for the waves to come, ready for the tug on my feet, ready for the moving waters, washing in and out and away.

  Author’s Note

  At its core, Brother’s Keeper is a family tale, perhaps not unlike your own. Sora dealt with sibling rivalry, an exacting mother, and everyday misunderstandings—all within the setting of an increasingly oppressive North Korea and a devastating war. Like many Korean War refugees, Sora strove for freedom with courage and compassion, both for herself and her family, never giving up hope for a better future.

  Although this book is fiction, many of the details and events from Sora’s journey did occur in history: city bombings; refugees scaling broken bridges; canoes sinking; frozen rivers used as bridges; violence at the Imjin crossing; cardboard houses; abandoned homes overflowing with strangers; and that infamous train ride to Busan on the Gyeongbu Line, from which many rooftop riders fell to their deaths.

  Much of the research for this book came from interviews, memoirs, texts, and rare color photos in John Rich’s Korean War in Color: A Correspondent’s Retrospective on a Forgotten War. It is also partly based on the story of my mother, who was a fifteen-year-old living in North Korea when the war began.