by Yu Young-nan
The wedding day approached. I was almost forgotten amid Mother’s worries. Everything happened so quickly that the bride’s family sent a message to say it wasn’t clear whether the carpenter could finish the wardrobe in time and to beg our understanding in case it arrived after the wedding.
A Western-style wedding had been planned for Seoul, to be followed by a traditional ceremony in Pakchŏk Hamlet. Love had blinded Brother. He wanted to welcome his bride in real style, adhering to all the niceties of social protocol. He wasn’t his usual self. I declined from going to Seoul on the ground that I hadn’t fully recovered. Instead, I watched how a grand feast was prepared in the countryside.
Early summer, 1945. Liberation still lay a few months ahead, and shortages were at their peak. Nonetheless, a woman renowned as a bridal make-up artist was brought in from Kaesŏng to adorn my sister-in-law in our regional style. She looked so beautiful under her wedding crown that I held my breath. The way her rosy cheeks and lips were set off against her pale skin put the splendor of the crown to shame. Brother wore a triumphant smile that simultaneously expressed pride in his new wife to his guests and pride in Kaesŏng’s traditions to the bridal entourage.
The scene of my sister-in-law with her crown made an indelible impression on me, and I recycled my memories for the protagonist’s wedding in my novel The Unforgettable. After the wedding, the newlyweds went to stay with the bride’s family for a few days in accordance with custom. They then settled down in Namsan-dong. My sister-in-law was unable to bring the wardrobe with her and instead just brought bundles of her clothes, as the difficulties of the era affected transport as well. But Brother and his bride, submerged in honeymoon bliss, were oblivious to the turmoil. Mother was still concerned about her new daughter-in-law’s health and spent more time in Pakchŏk Hamlet than in Namsan-dong to make life easier for her.
An unusually long, peaceful summer day from that period has lodged itself in my mind. Grandmother had gone off somewhere, and my two aunts and Mother were all alone together in Pakchŏk Hamlet, a rare event. We’d just eaten buckwheat noodles for lunch, and the three of them were chatting and making papier-mâché containers, some the size of brass soup bowls, others as big as one’s out-stretched arms.
Making containers from paper had become all the rage in our village. Any traditional paper, from books to the taut mulberry pasted on door frames, would do. Women would first soak it (in water or caustic soda solution, I’m not sure which) until it turned white, then squeeze out the liquid, add glue, and crush it in a mortar. The resulting material was as sticky as clay. They’d then apply it to containers of all sizes, working out just the right thickness, or shape the papier-mâché as they wished and dry it. After a good polish with gardenia dye or oil from cooked beans wrapped in cloth, they became sturdy, handsome vessels. They could turn out surprisingly creative in the right hands. The containers, showing off the craftsman’s talent, were used to store grain, seeds, and biscuits.
Elder Auntie got a bright idea from something she’d seen other women do; she pulled out Grandfather’s books from the outer quarters and soaked them in water to prepare material. Thanks to the stockpile of texts Grandfather had left behind, we had the best supply of papier-mâché in the village. The three sisters-in-law shared this windfall with some envious villagers, oozing satisfaction and delight as they went about their creations. Younger Auntie, quick study that she was, was applying the material to a large wooden receptacle on which the traces of a chisel were still vivid. She was hoping to highlight the grooves through the paper. Elder Auntie was pasting papier-mâché on a small wicker jar. Mother was trying to make something from scratch with no pattern to guide her, but since she kept failing, her main contribution to the gathering was amusing talk.
The chatter was primarily about Grandfather, since it was his books that they had reduced to this state. They were making fun of him for the most part, but the comments were affectionate enough that I wasn’t upset overhearing them. The containers were hardly the object of their full attention. I didn’t see why they found these reminiscences so amusing, but they roared with laughter after each one—how as new brides, they almost fainted when he entered the inner yard at the crack of dawn, loudly clearing his throat and clomping about in his wooden shoes; the time he’d saved a little bit of his beef soup, a rare delicacy, as a gesture of affection for the daughter-in-law assisting him at the table. He’d urged her to finish it, but she was at a loss about what to do because his beard had trailed in it as he ate.
I wonder why they laughed so much. Was it relief mixed with a sense of hollowness now that their jitters about Brother’s wedding had passed—an elusive sense of peace amid the instability of the times, when it was impossible to predict what lay even a moment ahead? Or was it a heady sense of freedom from the authoritarianism that had weighed upon them for half their lives? I was a mere spectator, but the scene remains vivid with me and warms my heart.
Much later, whenever newspapers reported that old books or documents that merited the status of national treasures had been found in the houses of rural scholars, Mother would say with an abashed smile, “What we did was pretty ignorant.” She regretted her actions, probably thinking that similar items could have been among Grandfather’s books, but I don’t particularly agree with how she felt. Not that I take Grandfather’s books lightly. Their value as documents was important, but I think it was just as important for my mother and aunts to enjoy that sense of liberty.
Even now, I smile when I think of that occasion. They struck me as free. Cute. Like children. And it’s not easy for adults to leave behind such an innocent image. So the old books haven’t survived, and neither have the containers. But I believe that the healthy joy that Mother and my aunts felt after blowing off some stress—as people say these days—remained with them until they died. But those were the last moments of peace in Pakchŏk Hamlet. After Mother’s visits to Kaesŏng to check on Brother and his bride, she’d say in distress, “Why is her family sending so much medicine, when they haven’t even sent anything for the house? It breaks my heart that newlyweds can’t get through a single day without the smell of Chinese medicine . . .”
“Sister, you’re very odd. Just relax and enjoy the attention and respect you get when you visit. Why do you have to go sniffing around the house?” My aunts accused Mother of being oversensitive, but I had a feeling that something was wrong with my sister-in-law, which couldn’t get past Mother’s sharp eyes.
Summer was sweltering. I was anxious because I knew I could never bring myself to say I didn’t want to go back to school after vacation, considering that I was healthy. I steeled myself for an important decision, but it wasn’t easy.
Before school reopened, through, Japan fell and with its fall came Liberation. In Pakchŏk Hamlet, we learned only some three or four days after August 15 that Japan had surrendered. Uncle had reported to work at the township office on August 16, as usual, and didn’t come home for two days in a row, although that was common enough behavior on his part. There were rumors that he had a concubine near the township office, but he strenuously denied it: it was work that was keeping him busy. No one gave it a second thought, because that certainly sounded plausible. Back then, low-level government officials were pushed around mercilessly, and Auntie, who should have been most keen to the issue, didn’t care in the least.
9. The Hurled Nameplate
ONLY AFTER A GROUP OF YOUTHS BARGED INTO our house, brandishing sticks, did we learn that Japan had fallen. Strutting and chortling, the young men set about smashing our door frames and furniture. Most of them were strangers to me, but one or two were fellow villagers.
Elder Auntie had lived in the area her entire life and recognized almost all of them. Although she trembled like an aspen leaf, she maintained her dignity. “Have you all gone crazy?” She berated. “What do you think you’re doing? Tell me why you’re doing all this!”
A young man from Pakchŏk Hamlet lagged behind, unable to bring him
self to join in the fray. He told us that we’d better hide for the time being. Korea had been liberated, and we were a target of their fury because we’d been branded collaborators.
They’d already visited several other villages, he said. The youths went from settlement to settlement in a growing mob; when they wreaked havoc on a house, those from the same village would hang back and merely watch. Loyalty to families with which they’d shared well water and festivals and funerals for decades meant that much at least.
As it happened, Brother arrived from Kaesŏng just as our house was being ravaged. He’d hurried back because there’d been no news from Pakchŏk Hamlet since the world had gone topsy-turvy. He was concerned but also eager to share in the collective joy. One of the young men gave Brother a hearty welcome, even in the midst of it all. But just because one familiar face felt sheepish didn’t mean the spree of destruction was to be checked. The youths were possessed. One of them smashed our front gate into smithereens, solid though it was, and hurled Grandfather’s nameplate to the ground. The nameplate had been part of my life since childhood, having remained even after his death. Neither Uncle nor Brother had ever put up name-plates of their own.
I charged, screaming. I’m not entirely sure why I found it so hard to put up with what he’d done, given how blithely I’d stood by when Grandfather’s books were reduced to containers. This was the first violence I’d ever witnessed, but I wasn’t frightened one bit. I felt I wouldn’t mind battling to the death. If Brother hadn’t shown up, I can picture myself having bitten someone and then fainting. When I was younger, my uncontrollable temper had led me to faint on more than one occasion.
Brother dragged me to the back of the house and up the hill behind it, while Auntie and Grandmother pounded the ground, wailing. Several of the young men, flustered, were trying to calm them down. They did not look as though they were genuinely intent on hurting anyone. Still, Brother’s behavior stunned me. With breathtaking naïveté, he politely asked them to mind the safety of their elders and led me off. Once we were up on the hill, I screamed at him, “What makes us collaborators? We didn’t even take a Japanese name! It’s like pigs wallowing in shit complaining about muddy dogs. Who do they think they are? Tokuyamas, Arais, Kimuras . . . and they dare to smash a house of the Pannam branch of the Pak clan?”
Brother looked down helplessly as our house was ruined. Eventually, the angry mob had enough and withdrew. He stroked my shoulders, trying to make me understand, but I was determined to argue. I don’t remember in detail what he said, but basically he explained that the Tokuyamas and Arais had experienced persecution, suffering, and humiliation, while we’d been privileged. He’d been too ashamed to hold his head high before the young men of the village, but would feel less shame now that we’d been the target of their anger.
Finally, I fell silent, stricken with grief. Brother hadn’t persuaded me, but as my futile rage subsided, a sense of emptiness swept over me. I was devastated to see our home ravaged. How we’d loved that house! Brother encouraged me to let it all out in tears before we went back down.
The destruction that day came from the sudden release of pent-up energy that accompanied the lifting of repression. In other words, the spirit of carnival rather than the organized violence of revenge was at work. After the young men made the rounds of several villages, they calmed down. Our fellow villagers were very sympathetic and cooperative. They helped to make our house livable once more, helping us fix broken doors and furnishings. All this was before partisan politics—the Democratic Youth League, the self-defense corps, leftists, rightists—distorted people’s inherent good-heartedness.
Uncle returned. As gossip had it, he’d been keeping an eye on events from his concubine’s. He took a look at our house and commented that things wouldn’t have come to this pass if he hadn’t become the director of labor affairs, although he’d had no alternative but to accept that notorious position. Uncle’s lone contribution was to lament water that had passed under the bridge. When someone who earns a living by pushing papers around has that taken away from him, he’s useless. Far more helpful were the villagers who hammered even a single nail into our door frames.
Discontent was brewing in our household. And misfortune never arrives unaccompanied: my sister-in-law started vomiting blood. Brother took her to Seoul, and Mother and I hurried to Kaesŏng. We couldn’t just leave the Namsan-dong house vacant, and, in any case, we had to get ready to move back to Seoul too. Younger Uncle and Auntie had been renting a room, so nothing prevented them from returning to the capital quickly. They soon followed Brother. Uncle was full of high hopes, saying the times held all sorts of promising business opportunities.
As Mother cleaned the house that Brother and his wife had abandoned so hastily, she muttered to herself, sighing and shedding tears. The bride’s furniture hadn’t arrived yet. Nothing, in fact, suggested that the home belonged to newlyweds. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I could sense in the clutter the duress that Brother and his wife were under, as though the house had been a hideout for fugitives. We kept finding Chinese medicine and natural herbal remedies, one bundle after another. And as if it wasn’t disgusting enough to contend with the dried remains of enormous centipedes, longer than my outstretched hand, maggots were feasting on them.
Mother disposed of it all, hands shaking, face drained of blood; “Did I bring up my son just to witness this?”
I had trouble understanding Brother. He must have known his wife’s condition better than anyone. Even though the strain of newly married life was said to be catastrophic for the tubercular, he’d rushed into the wedding as though driven, instead of helping her recover first. Neither Mother nor I ever learned why, but who can confidently claim to understand the overwhelming passions of youth? It was possible that Brother hadn’t told us not because he wanted to hide his motives, but simply because he couldn’t explain them himself.
The first foreign troops to occupy Kaesŏng were American. I went out to watch as they entered the city. Their relaxed marching style astonished me—chomping gum loudly, winking at women, hoisting children in the air. What kind of military discipline was this?
Around this time, we began to notice posters on the street walls. They contained words I’d never heard before, marvelous words like “liberty,” “democracy,” and “citizenry.” Slogans ran rampant. Some advocated punishing pro-Japanese elements and national traitors, while others expressed political sentiments such as “We absolutely support so-and-so” and “We’ll oppose so-and-so to the death.”
Brother’s wife had been admitted to Severance Hospital. He sent a message telling us to move to Seoul as soon as we sold the house. Mother went first to take in the situation. Upon her return, she acted with even more urgency, saying that the scene had been painful to watch. My sister-in-law was being nursed by her own mother, but she was old and in bad health herself. Mother said we should take care of Brother’s wife because she was a member of our family now. Mother, of course, must have been distressed about Brother and the way he clung to his bride, anguishing over her health.
While we were preoccupied with her illness, Younger Uncle was busy making the most of his talents. He’d taken over the house of a Japanese acquaintance and said he could help us out if we wanted to buy a property like it. He pressed us to sell the house in Namsan-dong, even if we had to practically give it away, and to hurry to Seoul.
Around the time we sold the house, the American forces suddenly pulled out of Kaesŏng. The explanation was that they’d initially entered the city because there had been an error in drawing the thirty-eighth parallel. Soviet troops arrived. Before the Americans came, I’d often heard arguments about whether it would be better to have American or Soviet soldiers around, for the thirty-eighth parallel passed so close to Kaesŏng that it was hard to predict which side would occupy it. No one remotely imagined the binding power that abstract line would come to have.
The American soldiers, in contrast to their boisterous entran
ce, slipped away unnoticed. But when the Soviets arrived, the world suddenly turned menacing.
Rumor had it that they commandeered any watch they spotted, with some sporting more than ten on their wrists. A word derived from Russian, dawai, came into vogue. People turned it into a verb and started bandying the term about, saying that a marketplace had been dawaied, that vegetable patches had been dawaied, even that women had been dawaied. Supposedly foreigners couldn’t tell the age of Korean women, so the Soviets went so far as to violate the elderly.
Mother was generally indifferent to this atmosphere of fear, perhaps because she had so many worries of her own. She made it sound as though everyone were overreacting. The railway was near our house, and day by day the number of people who trudged south along it grew. At that point, people could still move back and forth across the thirty-eighth parallel as they wished, so it was before anyone from the North headed across specifically for freedom. Most of the travelers were Koreans, whom dire poverty had driven to scatter to Manchuria and beyond, returning home. They had no choice but to walk, because after the Soviets’ arrival, southbound trains from Kaesŏng had been discontinued. No one knew why. All the wayfarers looked tired and hungry. The lucky ones had at least managed to catch a train as far as Kaesŏng; others had made the entire journey on foot.
The rail system was in utter chaos. We were told we’d have to walk the entire way to Pongdong Station in order to get a Seoul-bound train. Frequently, I saw women whose husbands or sons had been conscripted standing around and watching the human procession all day long. Sometimes they stopped travelers to ask where they had come from and when they’d left.
Quite a few Japanese moved among the crowds. When their identity was exposed, some spectators would curse them or spit on them, saying they deserved their misery. The hardships experienced by Koreans coming home to a liberated country were every bit as arduous. Scenes of anarchy were part of the daily fabric of life.