Who Ate Up All the Shinga?

by Yu Young-nan

  Her attitude took me by surprise. I was quite cheeky and teased her as a “watermelon”: hard-shelled right-winger on the outside, Red on the inside. Although she tried not to let on, it was clear that Brother’s desertion made her miserable for a long time, and she grew more tiresome than when she’d been doing everything in her power to get him away from the leftists. Not even motherly love was immune from being sucked into the ideological struggles of the day and becoming nightmarish. I’d rather not dwell on this ugly period.

  Today the school where Brother taught stands within Seoul itself and near a subway line. Given transportation in the late 1940s, though, commuting wasn’t a real option. He stayed at a boarding house near the school and cycled home once a week, arriving on Saturday afternoon and leaving again early Monday morning.

  Although the school wasn’t an agricultural institution, its holdings included a considerable number of fields and paddies. On payday, along with his salary, he received enough rice to last for a month. Brother would ride home proudly, rice bag strapped to the back of his bike. Sometimes potatoes or sweet potatoes were thrown in as a bonus. Back then, staples accounted for a high portion of a family’s expenses; this new contribution immediately stabilized our finances and gave Brother newfound confidence. He gradually shed the shadows that trailed him and became a typical head of household, with all the requisite qualifications.

  The first thing Brother did when he came home on Saturdays was hurry to the public bath in front of our house. It wasn’t just because it was next door. He’d wind up coated in dust as he cycled home through the city streets, and his devotion to his son made it impossible to cuddle him in that state. After bathing, he’d change into a loose, comfortable outfit and become completely engrossed in playing with his little boy. Meanwhile, my sister-in-law would send adoring looks at the pair as she cooked, delicious smells wafting from the vegetables and fish sizzling in the kitchen. I felt isolated from their circle of three, but not in a way that triggered jealousy.

  I, too, relished the peace that had returned to my family after so long. I felt a languid sort of joy, as though I were soaking in a soothing hot pool. Only Mother seemed odd. One might have expected her to be the most relieved of all, but not so. Her attachment to the past that Brother had disavowed surfaced spasmodically. Pouring the grain he had brought from school into the rice chest, she’d sigh, “Our gullets are gang lords.” She implied that Brother wouldn’t have defected if he’d been free from concern about feeding his family. Maybe Brother’s drunken outburst had turned into a thorn that pricked her now and then. Or maybe the peace and self-sufficiency we were enjoying for the first time in so long was so precious that she feared losing it. She herself seemed aware of this; every once in a while, she’d sound me out.

  “Your brother is acting like a real Commie now, isn’t he? What could be more Red than ‘wokking’ like a dog, day in, day out, to keep your family from starving?”

  Her tone was enthusiastic, obsequious even, as though she were excusing him not to me, but to some evil eye that had witnessed Brother’s desertion. Her deliberate mispronunciation of “working” as “wokking” was strange. She spoke impeccable standard Korean, but the way that word grated suggested that she did it intentionally. When she referred to the South Korean Workers Party, she always gave it an ugly ring, stressing “Wokkers.”

  But I think she meddled in Brother’s ideological beliefs only because they were against the law, not because she had any real understanding of the Communist Party. In fact, her lack of sophistication led her to a generally favorable impression of Communism, which explains why Brother’s decision to leave the cause troubled her more than Brother himself. Mother equated conversion with betrayal, and although she couldn’t bear the thought of a fugitive son, she must have found a traitor more distasteful. She’d up and move houses in a spasm—a clever trick she’d hit upon to cut off Brother’s contacts, without having him branded a turncoat. Her fear of breaking the law surpassed any aversion she ever had toward Communism.

  This mention of betrayal calls to mind a more recent incident, some forty years after the one I’m describing. Before my mother passed away, a leg injury kept her virtually housebound. Although a devout Buddhist, she could no longer make temple visits. Her only hobbies were watching television and reading. She liked to look at the books I owned when she came and stayed with my family. After I embraced Catholicism, she came to enjoy Bible stories written for novices and books of meditation designed to nurture faith. She said they were very good and even kept some at her bedside to reread. I once asked whether she had any interest in converting. Not only me, but all her grandsons and their wives had become Catholics long ago, and she’d never objected when, one after another, we took on a new religion. My suggestion almost felt belated.

  To my astonishment, serious displeasure appeared on Mother’s face. She scolded me furiously. How could her own daughter say such a thing? No one had ever doubted that she’d serve but one husband when she was widowed at age thirty. No one had even pitied her. I immediately, albeit with some difficulty, stifled laughter at her absurd comparison. How could religious conversion possibly be like fidelity to a deceased spouse? But suddenly incidents from days gone by that I didn’t want to remember came flooding back. It dawned on me that her proud, tenacious chastity had discomfited us at unexpected moments. It lurked viciously behind the cozy family harmony that Brother had labored to achieve.

  After that encounter, I never again entertained the idea of urging Mother to convert. I never even saw her reading Christian books again. She obviously thought that she’d lose face in front of me if she, a Buddhist, showed interest in books espousing belief in Jesus. Mother was tiresome. But we most resemble our families in those aspects we most dislike about ourselves. Just as Mother feared losing face before Brother and me, I, too, struggled to maintain dignity before her. I had the most trouble when it came to the books I’d written.

  The first thing I did to prepare for one of Mother’s visits was put my own books on top of the bookcase, spines turned inward. When she entered my study to look for something to read, she could easily have asked, “Where are all your own books?” But she never did. I had the vague impression that she might have gotten hold of them through other channels, but I never gave her one. Irrational as it sounds, I felt reluctant to reveal potentially embarrassing aspects of myself to her, even if I exposed them to the rest of the world like an exhibitionist.

  When I was serializing a novel in a newspaper, it wasn’t easy to keep what I’d written from Mother’s eye. The best method for both of us was to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary; she and I were adept at reading each other’s mind without a word. After one of my books came out in the Dong-A Daily, a magazine reporter pressured me for a joint interview with my mother. I turned her down. Our relationship was not such that I could dismiss her flatly, however. I tried to get out of it politely by saying that she’d need Mother’s agreement. But soon I heard that she’d received Mother’s permission, although it hadn’t been easy.

  My mother then lived in Hwagok-dong, so I accompanied the reporter to her home. Mother answered the questions put to her with aplomb, although it was her first interview. Inwardly, I couldn’t have been prouder. As a wrap-up question, the reporter asked whether Mother had read my serialized novel.

  “We subscribe to that paper, too.”

  Mother, assuming a haughty expression, began by stressing that it wasn’t my work that made her read the newspaper. I smiled bitterly. The answer was vintage Mother. The reporter then prompted her for her impressions of the novel. My heart shriveled. I’m usually dauntless and critics’ comments, good or bad, roll right off me, but Mother’s next remark, pointed and cold-hearted, stung me for a long time to come.

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d really call it a novel.”

  My heart thumped, and my face burned. It was like standing in front of a bonfire. I nursed my resentment by pledging never to make such a hurt
ful remark to others.

  Enough digression. Let me bring my meandering back to when we lived in Tonam-dong, behind the public bath.

  In my eyes, the nervousness that occasionally percolated to the surface in Mother was unreasonable. There was nothing to be afraid of. As far as I was concerned, Brother had finally found his niche. Our years in Hyŏnjŏ-dong had left a deep impression on him, and he simply had to stay true to his roots, because he felt indebted to that neighborhood and its residents. An innocent sense of justice might have spawned his leftist sympathies, but he was too weak and fond of comfort to put his beliefs to the test. While the people of Hyŏnjŏ-dong were making gruel out of bean dregs, not having enough to eat their fill, he’d invited me out for a Western meal to celebrate getting into school, and he saw to it that his tubercular fiancée had a private hospital room.

  Needless to say, Brother wanted to give his son, the apple of his eye, a secure upbringing. It made no difference that the organization he’d belonged to condemned this longing for security as petit-bourgeois. Brother and his change of heart were as transparent to me as Mother was. I may have had no worldly experience whatsoever, but I at least had the arrogance of my youth.

  In 1950, I turned nineteen. I was part of the only graduating class for whom high school’s golden final year lasted just nine months. Starting with Liberation in August 1945, and continuing until 1949, we followed the American academic calendar, with the school year beginning in September. Under the Japanese, the year had begun in April and ended in March. In 1950, however, in a transitional measure to bring the end of the school year back to March, the calendar was shortened by three months, and we finished in May. My high-school class was the only one to have had the good fortune of a May graduation. When I see university entrance examinations falling in the dead of winter or admission ceremonies and graduations held on chilly early spring days, I realize how lucky we were.

  That May was particularly beautiful. Unlike nowadays, flowers didn’t bloom seemingly at random. Leaves, like blossoms, came out only in May, the season of lilacs, peonies, roses, and wisteria. The school compound was redolent of flowers and buzzing with bees. For the first time in all my years of education, I made the honor roll and received an award at graduation. Mother, Brother, Sisterin-law, Uncle, and Auntie all came to the ceremony to celebrate. I was elated, although I acted blasé. I had aced the exam to enter the Korean Department of Seoul National University’s College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. At the time, pure academics were stressed, perhaps a remnant of Japanese imperialism, and SNU’s College of Liberal Arts stood at the top of the ladder, billing itself the “college of colleges.” Only after the war did trends move in favor of more applied studies.

  Having passed the entrance exam without putting any effort into it, my arrogance became irrepressible. I was floating. Few students went on to college back then, so there were no cram schools. After a couple of practice runs, we were left to our own devices in studying for the exam. All I did was borrow a book of potential questions, thanks to Chong-suk’s generosity. The book, printed on pulp paper, was quite bulky and unwieldy. Another friend was waiting her turn, so I concentrated on the book for just three or four days. It seemed to neatly sum up what we’d learned. I don’t know what happened to the book after we were done with it. It might have been sold at Chong-suk’s family’s bookstore, just as with the novels we shared. My family could have afforded a copy for me, but I think adolescent vanity about passing the exams while pretending not to study pushed me not to ask.

  The entrance exams were held at the end of April when the College of Liberal Arts was at its most beautiful. This area has since become Marronnier Park, and College Stream has been covered over, but then it flowed all the way from the entrance of Tongsung-dong to Ihwa-dong. A row of dazzling forsythias lined one side of the stream. Cherry blossoms were strewn giddily about campus, and chestnut trees were in bloom. Since streetcars were the only public transportation, I’d exit the main college gate, cross the street, pass the School of Medicine, and head for Wonnam-dong via the University Hospital front gate.

  I adored the path connecting the School of Medicine and the University Hospital. Maybe it was the enchanting daydreams the scenery encouraged in a late teenager, or maybe it was the way the trees, flowers, grass, and warm breeze of the path quickened my pulse, but its attraction couldn’t be explained away simply as natural beauty.

  What most captivated me in preparing for college was a sense of impending freedom. Leaving high school meant that escape from all types of restrictions was in the offing, but above all, liberation from my mother. Without marriage, I otherwise couldn’t even dream of escaping her control, and to say I hadn’t fantasized about it would be a lie. It was my dream of dreams, my most cherished desire. And now the reality of personal liberation lay just around the corner. How to use such tremendous freedom? Every option had its attractions. I could put it to good use or bad, treat it prudently or squander it. I would conspire with this freedom in everything I’d do. For me, this dream was more splendid than the May sunshine that brought the roses and lilacs and peonies into bloom.

  The possibility of release from Mother’s clutches burst upon me suddenly in the spring of 1950. One weekend, Brother made a rather exaggerated show of exhaustion upon cycling home from school. My sister-in-law was already pregnant with a second child and suffering from morning sickness. Despite the burning desire for offspring in our family, for her to carry a second child so soon, before the first had even turned one year old, put a strain on both mother and baby. Just yesterday, we’d been thrilled with Brother’s position as a teacher at a countryside school, but now we were showing signs of listlessness with our staid life, in which the only change to be expected was the addition of new family members. Brother spoke up nonchalantly as the dinner tray was brought in.

  “Looks like a house at the school will be available soon. It’s bigger than ours and comes with a vegetable patch. Might be nice to spend time there . . .”

  Mother immediately picked up where he had trailed off.

  “Are you saying it’s ours for the asking? The school’s official residence?”

  I couldn’t help but smile at Mother, who wanted to turn this house at the school into an official residence, but I hardly thought moving there could become reality.

  “Sure. It’ll be vacant soon, but no one is applying for it. I just mentioned it because the principal asked today if I’d be interested. It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “What?”

  At this resolute, all-too-simple decision, everyone stopped eating and stared at Mother.

  “After three years of boarding house meals, your bones go hollow. You’re getting run-down already, and it’s only been six months or so. It makes me nervous.” She then turned to my sister-in-law: “That goes for you too. It’s not easy for a young couple to live like this.”

  “But Mother, what about Wan-suh?” Brother tilted his chin toward me.

  “If she gets into university, she can go from Uncle’s. They’ll all like that.”

  Mother could speak confidently because of how Uncle and Auntie doted on me. I felt just as close to them. Elder Uncle now had a son and three daughters, and at one point, Younger Uncle, still childless, tried to bring one of the girls from the countryside to raise. For over a year, Uncle and Auntie lavished enormous affection on my cousin, but she missed her mother and the countryside so much that she had to be sent home. I’d seen their heartbreak from close quarters and tried to be nicer to them. They showered their devotion on me, as though I were the only one they could lavish love on. And although I was overjoyed at the prospect of boarding with them, our special relationship had nothing to do with it. My focus was on breaking away from Mother. That was enough.

  Uncle’s house had a room for me. When we lived with them, I had a room to myself, but at home I still shared with Mother. Although we had a spare room, we left it empty to save on firewood.
I wanted to use it in the summertime, but I was afraid of hurting Mother’s feelings and couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject. For the same reason, I took extra care not to let on how thrilled I was about moving out. No matter how good Uncle and Auntie were to me, they still weren’t immediate family. I held a rice cake in each hand, admission to university and freedom, and it wasn’t the case that I could choose only one, as the saying goes. The thought that it’d be all or nothing had kept me in a high state of tension until exam day.

  As soon as the house at Brother’s school had been brought up, Mother wanted to see it. I went with her. We took a streetcar to the Yŏngch’ŏn terminus and then had to wait a long, long time for a country bus to Kup’abal. Walking from Kup’abal to Koyang Middle School was no picnic either. There had been a long drought that spring, and the clay path sent up clouds of dust. In a flash, my black shoes looked as though they belonged to a peasant. Gazing down at them gave me real empathy for what Brother went through.

  The house was already basically vacant, containing just some furniture abandoned by its previous tenant, a teacher who’d resigned due to illness. It wasn’t much to look at, but Mother made a half-hearted tour, first going over to the vegetable patch.

  She squatted there, holding the position for a long time. I thought she was peeing and faced the other way. Eventually I turned around again and discovered that she was playing with the dirt, like a child. When her eyes met mine, the humble, bashful smile she flashed made me think of a potato flower.

  “I want to move here right away. The soil is as fertile as can be. Imagine, letting such good earth go to waste!”

  The warm spring sunshine was the sort to make you drowsy. Vegetables were sprouting in nearby gardens, but this patch lay fallow. My pulse quickened as I imagined coming home on weekends and dashing toward Mother, arms raised high, while she weeded. I pictured her amid waving leaves of peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, squash, sesame, and all sorts of greens. The vegetable patch meant that I wouldn’t just be going home, but home to the countryside. The image stirred me as much as my vision of impending freedom. The two would fit together perfectly.