All Woman and Springtime

by Brandon Jones

  “I’m glad I found you before you got to the Party Youth meeting. They were going to accuse you there of high treason tonight. They want to make a public example out of you.”

  Il-sun felt faint. She had never imagined that she could be in so much trouble. “Are you sure? How do you know?” The strength was gone from her voice. She knew inside that it was true.

  “That guy at the party last night, the one we call Rooster. It turns out that he is an informer. He told his superiors about what I did last night to the photograph. I thought for sure he was okay, but I was wrong. Now everyone at that party is suspect.”

  “But what about your contacts? Can’t they step in for you?”

  “Now all they can do is buy me a little time. That is the only reason I was able to find you.” He swallowed hard, perspiration ringing the underarms of his shirt and rolling down his forehead.

  “What can we do?” Il-sun felt tears in her eyes.

  “We have to leave the country. Tonight.”

  “Leave the country? How? Where will we go?” The prospect of leaving the country, though she had romanticized the notion in the past, was terrifying in these circumstances.

  “That’s why I came to get you. We have to stay here until it gets dark. I’ve used my contacts to get a truck and some forged travel documents. I can’t tell you all the details now in case we get caught.”

  Il-sun broke down sobbing. She collapsed into his arms and cried on his shoulder.

  “Look, don’t cry. We aren’t going to be caught. It is just a precaution. I have crossed the border many times. In fact, I do it every week; it’s simple. As long as you do exactly as I tell you, then everything is going to be alright. Okay?”

  She tried to look brave, sucking in her tears.

  “Okay.”

  27

  FOREMAN HWANG WAS SITTING at his desk, looking over a pile of papers. It’s amazing how much paperwork it takes to make a person disappear, he thought. That’s the problem today: too much bureaucracy. He put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He felt tense. He looked at the paper bag under his desk. I could sure use a release . . . Not yet, there is work to be done. He bent over his papers again.

  His thoughts drifted to Gyong-ho, still on the factory floor, alone, completely focused even though she had been working nonstop for twelve hours. She is such good Party material, yet the new guard will never let her in. Stupid pencil necks have no brains, he thought. He looked again at the paper bag. No, too early. Of course, she could improve her songbun with a good marriage, then they might let her in. After all, she was only a child when she was in the camp, and only because of her parents. But who would want to marry her? He peeked at the paper bag again. Maybe just a teaser? He reached into the bag and his hand landed on a roll of magazines. He pulled back as if he had touched something hot. No, the bottle first. Always the bottle first. He put his hand back in the bag and found one of the bottles. He pulled it out and opened the cap.

  Ah, whiskey. He poured himself half a glass. He could never quite give it up. When he was someone to know, in the army, he had gotten used to it. Whiskey was like currency in those days. If anyone wants to get something done, just take old Hwang a bottle of whiskey, they used to say. He preferred the black label, but the red would do. He raised the glass to his lips, intending to take a small sip to savor it, but drained the glass instead. He poured another, this time to the brim.

  He hated his job. Stupid pencil necks placed him there after the accident. It never would have happened that way in the Great Leader’s time. Kim Il-sung, what a man! A leader like that only comes along every thousand years. The son had to go and mess the whole damned thing up! Everyone hungry, letting people get away with things, and then they pretend it’s not happening. He took a long swallow. Then another. He refilled the glass.

  I was on my way to being general! I had the songbun for it; I had the credentials. I was the one everyone came to. I was the one everyone was talking about. Then that stupid dimwit had to pull the pin.

  It was a training day; one of the rare days when they were allowed to use live ammunition. The foreman, or colonel, as he was then called, was invited along to inspect a sergeant putting his troops through the paces. First it was rifle fire, then bayonets. The finale would be a demonstration on the use of grenades. The boys looked fine. The boys looked really fine. At some point there was a commotion, and a lot of shouting. Someone screamed, “Put the pin back! Put the pin back!” The foreman turned around—the boys were scattering in all directions, running. Right in front of him was a young boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He was a dim-witted half-breed boy from near the Chinese border. The Great Leader would never have allowed someone like him in his army. It was an abomination. The boy lifted his hand as if to offer something. He looked confused. It was a grenade. The pin was in his other hand. The foreman dove away, but a moment too late. The sound engulfed him, the percussion jarred him, shrapnel tore mercilessly through his body. He felt hot all over with pain. He was sure he was dying. There was the smell of smoke and burning flesh. There were fingers everywhere. The boy was lying not too far away, his arm torn off, half his face a smoldering crater.

  The foreman lived through his injuries, but his career did not. He was told that a lame military commander gave the troops the wrong image. They placed him as the foreman of the factory instead. It was the best they could do, they said. Apparently he had hidden enemies. Never would it have happened in the Great General’s army!

  He drained another glass. He felt very tense. He needed a release. The whiskey was working: It was time. He reached into the bag with a timid hand and pulled out the bundle of magazines and unrolled them on his desk. Yes! Yes! This is what I need, he thought. On the cover was a shirtless man in army fatigue trousers. His body was well defined, muscles tensed like a cat ready to pounce. So what if he is an Imperialist blondie? His blood stirred. He opened the magazine hungrily. He perspired as he saw the photographs of young men, all in army fatigues, all undressing. As he turned the pages the young men wore fewer and fewer clothes until finally their stiff male organs were revealed, oiled and in full view, like well-maintained rifles. His body responded to his excitement and he felt the familiar stiffening between his legs. He rubbed his organ through his trousers and opened the other magazines on the desk, spreading them out so that he could see all of them at one time. He was starving for it.

  Then he snapped to his senses. It was too much. I have to stop this behavior! In a single movement he rolled the magazines up and stuffed them back into the bag, and poured another whiskey. What a dirty habit! He would never do it again, he promised himself. He would burn the magazines and never ask for more. He was a pervert. His father would have been so disappointed.

  He forced himself to focus again on his paperwork. It would be easier now, after the whiskey. He shuffled the papers, added names, signed at the bottom, sealed them with a rubber stamp. Everything was almost in order.

  He thought about Gyong-ho again. What a waste of potential! It was so unfair that such a good Party candidate should fall by the wayside while other spoiled and thankless weaklings were able to take the oath. If only she could marry—

  The solution exploded right in front of him. I should marry her! I have good songbun; maybe not what it used to be, but still fully respectable. She will attend classes, she will become a leader in the Party riding the tails of my songbun. He would do it for the Great Leader, for the glory of Chosun. He would marry her, a woman, and expel his dirty fantasies, exorcise his dirty habits. Maybe they would even have children. Why not? I am not yet too old, and she is certainly young enough. But would she want to? Of course she would want to do it! What better offer would she ever have, being a castaway orphan, and not a very pretty one? I must tell her my decision at once!

  The foreman stood up quickly and had to steady himself on the desk. He had had more whiskey than he realized. He made his way to his office door and opened it. The sound of a lone sewing machine ch
ugged into the night. He stepped out of his office into the near blackness of the factory. Gyong-ho was sitting at her station, illuminated by a single lightbulb.

  “Song Gyong-ho!” the foreman bellowed. It came out more loudly and sternly than he had intended.

  Gyong-ho started, shocked out of some dark reverie. She stood and lowered her head. “Yes, comrade foreman, sir.”

  “Comrade Song, please come into my office. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The foreman disappeared into his office. Gyong-ho reluctantly followed. When she entered his office, he was standing at a window behind his desk, looking out. He had the flammable smell, similar to Il-sun that morning. She noticed the glass of amber liquid on his desk.

  “You might be surprised to know that I don’t hate you,” began the foreman, his speech slurred. That did not come out quite right, he thought. “I know you think I do, but I don’t. I am hard on you, yes, but I don’t hate you. The Great Leader is hard on all of us, asking that we make sacrifices, but he does it because he loves us. Do you understand?” He turned around and sat at his desk, appraising Gyong-ho. She looks almost like a boy, he thought. Almost like a boy. “I am hard on you because I see the light in you. You are the perfect citizen.” Yes, she will make a very fine wife. She will dress in army green and keep her hair short, just for me, he thought. She will love me. “I have decided to marry you, Gyong-ho.”

  His words were a fist, a punch to her stomach. She collapsed forward, catching herself on the desk with both hands, her breath short. The way he stated it, stripping her of volition, stripping her of her humanity, she was a beast he had bought at auction, each day a day closer to slaughter. She felt fear, but something else stirred there too. It was anger. She was doubled up over rage, boiling but tightly capped in her stomach. There was nothing to do for it—every possible action was equally useless. Except suicide. She could end her life. In that way she could have control.

  The foreman stood up, looking at the bent form of Gyong-ho, uncertain how to read her response. Suddenly he was in the early days of his career, still a sergeant. Those were really the best days. And nights. All the men bunked in close quarters, the smell of their overworked bodies permeating the nights, permeating his dreams.

  He walked around Gyong-ho until he was directly behind her. She was still bent forward, hands on the desk, her backside sticking out. “Stand up, soldier!” he commanded her.

  She did not, or could not, respond.

  “Stand up, soldier, or it will be latrine duty for you!” He shouted even louder. He was traversing time to a place when he felt truly powerful; maybe even happy. His body felt a stirring of excitement. “Stand up, or face the consequences, soldier!”

  Gyong-ho had left her body. She was counting pencils, and pieces of paper, and dust motes. She was lost in the orbiting swirls of dust glinting in the electric light. She was lost in planetary forces and numbers too big to comprehend.

  “I warned you, soldier!” The sergeant reached around Gyong-ho’s waist and found the string holding her trousers up. He untied it and pulled her trousers down to her knees. He stood back and admired her backside. “Almost a boy,” he said, not meaning to say it out loud. “Almost a boy.”

  Gyong-ho heard the faint sound of a zipper and the rustle of fabric behind her. She heard the labored breathing of the foreman as he stepped nearer. She could smell his smoke, his body odor, and his flammable breath. She heard him grunt in frustration. She felt something soft being tapped against her buttocks, lightly at first, and then with greater and greater urgency.

  The sergeant was the foreman once again, standing in his pitiful office, pain shooting up his leg, his lifeless prick in his hand. He looked at the bare buttocks in front of him, distinctly feminine and repulsive.

  “You would make a terrible wife!” he roared in anger, grabbing Gyong-ho by the shoulders and throwing her to the floor. When she looked up, the foreman had turned his back, pulling at his zipper.

  “Pull your pants on. We’re leaving.”

  28

  IL-SUN WAS STEEPED IN regret. She was sitting on the floor in the dimly lit shack, her back to the wall, fear slithering in a ball inside her stomach. Since the sun had gone down, most of the people from the party the night before had arrived. The woman, Cho, had a look of nervous concentration etched into her face, ignoring a cigarette burning in her tight claw. She was far less crass when she had not been drinking. The men of the group seemed at ease, but men always had more to prove by wearing masks of bravery. The air was tense, and the inhabitants of the shack were mostly quiet and keeping to themselves. The young man had left, saying he had some arrangements to make. He assured her that he would be safe, but she still worried. Mostly she was sad that she would not get to say good-bye to Gi—Gi would be devastated. She worried that Gi would not have anyone to talk to. She was going to have to leave the orphanage soon, with no one to look after her. She wished she had been a better friend.

  She thought of the orphanage mistress and winced. Now she would not have the chance to apologize to her. Maybe there would be a way to send a message, to her and to Gi, to let them know she was safe. That thought perked her up a little. The young man seemed capable of anything, so perhaps sending a message would not be too much to ask. Il-sun also worried about leaving the country. Chosun was the most powerful and prosperous nation in the world; how would they endure in the poor, oppressed, imperialist South? Cho had said they were going to Hanguk, but maybe she was only guessing. The young man certainly had not said anything. China would be the more logical choice.

  She tried to cheer herself up with more positive thoughts. Maybe she and the young man would be married. He knows how to drive, so he can get a job as a driver, she thought. There are not many jobs more prestigious than that. They will certainly need skilled people like him, wherever we are going. As a driver he would have status and money. And she could work as a seamstress, until they had children, of course. We will have each other, which is the important thing.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, she heard the young man’s scooter pulling up outside. He came into the shack bearing a large bundle. Il-sun ran up to him and threw her arms around him, squeezing tightly. He stiffened under her touch, and she realized that maybe such a display was embarrassing for him in front of his friends. She would have to remember that in the future.

  “Everyone, put these on. The truck will be here soon,” said the young man, dumping the bundle onto the floor. It was an assortment of army fatigues. “We will be posing as an army workforce, dispatched to one of the border towns to the south. If anyone asks, we are a relief team helping to build a new factory for the glory of the Dear Leader. It is better to leave the talking to me.

  “We will be stopping at one checkpoint on our way. That’s the most dangerous part of the drive, and there’s no way around it. I already have clearance through the checkpoint just outside the city, so we won’t have to worry about that one. Since we are driving at night, just pretend to be asleep. All the guards know me, so there shouldn’t be any problems. But keep your mouths shut anyway. That goes double for you, Cho.”

  Cho shot him a dirty look.

  So Cho had been right; they were headed to the South. Il-sun felt a stab of disappointment—she had felt a twinge of hope that if they escaped to China, she could be reunited with her brother. But then, she could not hold on to the belief that he was still alive. At least the language is the same, and we won’t have to put up with the dirty Chinese, Il-sun thought. Maybe we can join a reunification movement in the South, and show the poor Hanguk the superiority of Chosun ways.

  They dug through the pile of clothes. They were ill-fitting and rough. Il-sun hoped that they would not have to get out of the truck at the checkpoint, because their bodies and these clothes were conspicuously mismatched. A vehicle rumbled to a stop outside, and the room went quiet.

  “Relax, everyone. It’s just our truck,”
the young man assured them.

  A door slammed, and muffled shouting came through the walls, followed by a short shriek of pain. Even the young man tensed at the unexpected sound. Seconds later, the door to the shack flew open and a middle-aged man with a limp stumbled in, leading a skinny girl gruffly by the arm. He threw the girl into the center of the room, and Il-sun had to step back as a powerful wave of odor from the man assaulted her. It was the foreman and Gyong-ho.

  “Gi!” Il-sun exclaimed, running to her friend. Gi’s face was white, her eyes completely blank. Il-sun held her close.

  The foreman handed a stack of papers to the young man. “You can have this cunt, too,” he managed to say, barely able to stand, pointing to Gyong-ho.

  “I don’t have papers for her. She can’t come,” said the young man, leafing through the stack the foreman had given him.

  “You’ll take her. That’s an order, soldier!”

  “You’re drunk, old man. I can’t take her if I don’t have papers. It’s too risky.”

  The foreman drew a pistol from inside his shirt and pointed it waveringly in front of the young man. “Take her or I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot all of you!” he threatened, raising his voice and wheeling around. “She was my wife once, when she was a boy. I can’t stand the sight of her. Take her!”

  “Put the gun down, Hwang. You’re not making any sense,” said the young man. He seemed unruffled. He looked thoughtful and calculating, and a smile tugged on the corners of his lips. “Okay, old man. I’ll take her.”

  “What are you doing?” hissed the man called Wart through his missing tooth.

  “This will work out in our favor,” replied the young man, speaking mostly to himself.

  29

  IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT when Il-sun, Gi, Cho, the young man, and four of the other implicated partygoers piled into the flatbed military truck. The young man was in the driver’s seat, accompanied in the cab by two of the men. The others climbed onto the bed of the truck. The young man gave them blankets to protect against the night chill, but nothing to pad the hard wooden truck bed. It was going to be a rough ride. Also in the truck bed were two full military-style duffle bags containing their civilian clothes and six jerry cans of fuel. Conspicuously absent was the man called Rooster, who had turned them in. He had seemed somewhat quieter than the rest of them, Il-sun recalled. Everyone was dressed in army fatigues, except for Gyong-ho, who was still in her factory uniform.