Nerves were taut as the young man navigated the city streets to the edge of town—even a military vehicle could draw unwanted attention at night. The truck slowed at the checkpoint at the outskirts of the city, but they were motioned through without question. The young man tossed a familiar wave to the guard on duty, who only nodded in sleepy acknowledgment. Il-sun held Gyong-ho, who shivered disproportionately to the chill of the air. Her eyes remained blank and she still had not spoken a word.
“What’s wrong with her?” Cho asked. It was said with a mixture of concern and condescension.
“She gets like this sometimes. It usually passes in a minute or two. She must be frightened,” answered Il-sun. She thought for a moment back to what the mistress had said about the labor camp, and wondered if it was true. It would explain a lot of things.
“I hope she doesn’t blow it for us at the next checkpoint,” said Wart. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, bringing her along.”
Il-sun was happy that Gi was there. It was a shock to see the foreman and that he knew the young man; but then, the young man knew a lot of people. She wondered if the foreman was one of the people indebted to him through some kind of weakness. What kind of weakness could the irascible foreman have? He was certainly full of whiskey, but she doubted that was the only thing.
The truck coughed and wheezed its way into the countryside. The engine sounded to Il-sun like an old man complaining of arthritis or gout. The pace varied greatly with the terrain: Going uphill the truck lost heart and crawled, the engine whining at a high pitch. Going downhill it roared and picked up so much speed that Il-sun was afraid that they were going to lose control. For what felt like hours they went onward, never passing a single vehicle. Several times the young man turned onto different roads, some little more than dirt tracks slicing through otherwise undisturbed vegetation. He had said that they would go to great lengths to avoid villages and outposts. Eventually they always found themselves back on the deserted highway.
It was a clear night and the stars were magnificent. Il-sun wished that Gi could see them, but she remained unresponsive. Gi was particularly fond of the stars and, in her technical way, she even liked to talk about them. Il-sun felt excited by the adventure in spite of her nervousness—she had never been outside the city limits. Even though only uncertainty loomed before her, she was glad that she would never again have to sit in the garment factory or listen to the foreman lecture. She wondered if she would have to go to Party Youth meetings in Hanguk, or if those, too, were a thing of the past. One thing felt certain: that with the young man she was sure to be important. She imagined herself a beneficent bringer of culture and wisdom to the Hanguk people, who had for so long been deprived by their imperialist overlords.
Eventually the truck sputtered and came to a stop. The young man got out and emptied three of the jerry cans into the dry gas tank. He checked on the passengers in the back and offered them water from a plastic jug. Everyone, except for Gi, took turns going into the bushes to relieve themselves and indulged in the opportunity to stretch their legs. Il-sun was grateful for the reprieve, because the ride had been rather bouncy and uncomfortable. She hoped that the young man would offer them something to eat—her belly was grinding against itself. She knew that eventually the sensation of hunger would stop on its own and then she would not notice the lack of food for several more hours, but for the time being it was making her anxious. She knew better than to ask. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of the young man.
Before too long they were back on the road. The two passengers who had been riding in the cab exchanged places with the men who had been riding in the bed of the truck, with much grumbling and bickering on the part of the former. Il-sun felt exhausted but too excited to sleep. The rough ride would not have allowed for sleep anyway. The constant sound of the engine was starting to hurt her ears and she wished for a reprieve from it.
The truck slowed suddenly and Il-sun peered around the side of the cab. There was a building in the distance with an electric light blazing, fighting a losing battle against the looming darkness. That must be the checkpoint, Il-sun thought. Suddenly her heart was in her throat. She knew that this was the most sensitive part of the journey, and that if this went wrong, she could be lost forever in the prison camps. The other passengers seemed to tense as well. She could see soldiers preparing for their arrival. From this distance they looked like flies circling a lightbulb.
30
GYONG-HO’S VISION WAS DISTORTED, and everything moved in slow motion. The foreman had grabbed her arm, and half dragged her out of his office, through the loading dock doors and into a truck. Sound and event separated in her mind, so that she seemed to hear everything several moments after it happened. There was no sensation in her body—she had become perfectly numb. They were driving through the city, everything stretching in her peripheral vision. Suddenly they were stopped and the foreman was pulling her out of the truck. She heard a shriek, and then realized it had come from her own mouth. She was thrown into a room, and Il-sun was there. Was it really her? Then they were in the truck again, only she was in the back this time. Numbers merged with forms and became distillations of ones and zeros. Yeses and nos. Then the humming of the engine broke it all down, and she dissolved into memory.
She had run from it for several years. She had put up a good fight, but now she was cornered and worn out. There was nothing left to do but give in. The relief of giving up overpowered her fear. The footsteps behind her echoed faster and closer. She turned and embraced him.
DAYS BLENDED TOGETHER, one being very much the same as the next. Gyong-ho became a fog of reeducation, confession, hunger, soreness, and fatigue. She had been in the camp for two years—she was ten years old—already forgotten to herself, a loyal daughter of the Dear Leader whom she had disappointed so completely, who was smiling on her even as he punished her. It was for her own good. The routine was constant, numbing, and severe. It was so constant and numbing that the day when her name was called during morning reeducation, she did not at first recognize it as her own. She no longer identified herself as an individual, and as it dawned on her that the tall, shadowy man in the doorway was in fact calling her, she was shocked back into herself. She stood and her feet obediently went to him, carrying the rest of her body reluctantly with them. Faces turned to her, already having done their grieving, passively curious about whether she would ever return.
The man, walking behind her, took her to a place she had not seen before. The building was more substantial than the rest, made of concrete block. It was long and narrow, with small windows high on the walls, and they entered through one side of it. The man brought with him his very own atmosphere of dominance, like the world itself was his alone to punish. He had no face. No soul. He told her to walk to the end of the corridor. His hard soles echoed loudly behind her, the sound of his long stride pushing her forward faster than her natural pace. He directed her into a small, dirty room.
The room was damp and cold. There was a wooden table and a chair, and nothing else. The door clicked shut behind her. She was told to sit on the chair with her hands on the table. He stood behind her, his shadow casting darkness over her. He asked her questions, she answered them. He disliked her answers, and asked them again more loudly. He issued some warning, but she could not hear what it was. He asked questions; she answered them, yes and no. Yes and no. He told her to stand. She stood, hands still on the table. He told her to remove her shoes. She kicked them off her feet. She was standing in a pool of water, her feet aching with cold. He ordered her to remove her clothing, which she did. She had never been naked like this before, in front of a man. She flushed with shame. He asked questions. Warm liquid ran down her leg. He laughed. He asked questions over and over. She responded yes and no, yes and no. He showed her a long metal rod with a rubber handle. He pressed it into her ribs and a painful shock passed through her body. She convulsed uncontrollably. He asked his questions again. She screamed her answers
between sobs, yes and no, until she was no longer sure which was which. His questions came faster and louder, he shocked her when he was displeased. He grabbed the back of her neck with a gloved hand and forced her forward onto the table. He pushed the tip of the metal rod into her rectum, asking questions. She cried out, screaming yes and no at random, begging him to stop. He turned on the device and she convulsed.
The world slowed down—maybe someone had turned time itself off. A pleasant numbness settled in her bones. She looked at the window and could instantly see three hundred thirty-six water spots. The number was as clear as the spots. There was a line of seventy-eight ants on the windowsill, each an individual and yet still a part of the seventy-eight. She broke through a barrier in her mind and numbers poured in, permeating everything. Numbers interacted and danced inside her head, mingling and reproducing, dividing and multiplying effortlessly. Shapes in her vision broke down into simpler shapes, their angles and sides forming relationships that made them all numerically comprehensible. The wall slid across her vision and her shoulder hit the floor painfully. Her vision faded into black.
31
THE YOUNG MAN ENGAGED the engine cautiously, approaching the checkpoint slowly. His instructions to the passengers had been clear: Do not speak unless directly asked a question, respond as briefly as possible, and refer everything back to him. The passengers pretended to sleep. Il-sun tucked Gi’s head into her arm and drew a blanket over her empty, staring eyes.
The truck came to a stop under the single bright streetlight outside the building. It seemed an isolated outpost, with no village apparent nearby. Of course, it would be difficult to see a nearby village at night if they were rationing power, as they most likely were. The building was a small, square, concrete block structure with a tin roof. There was a barricade across the road, with two soldiers standing at attention on either side of it, and a sign that told all motorists to have papers ready.
Il-sun could hear boots on the asphalt, approaching the driver’s side door. She heard a greeting of familiarity from the soldier, and a friendly exchange with the young man. There was laughter. It sounded like they were indulging in some good-natured ribbing. Perhaps this would go easily after all. The engine revved and it seemed that they were about to move forward.
“Stop!” A voice shouted from somewhere near the concrete building. “What is this?” The engine died down again.
“Just routine, sir. A workforce brigade on their way to relieve some troops,” shouted the officer standing by the truck.
“Have you seen their papers?”
“All is in good order, sir.”
“Have you searched the vehicle?”
Il-sun tensed. If they were forced out of the truck it wouldn’t take a very keen eye to discover their ruse. They did not look very soldierly.
“No, sir,” came the reluctant reply.
“We have to keep sharp, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier’s voice hardened as he once again addressed the vehicle. “Alright, everybody. You heard the man. Everyone, out of the vehicle. Come on.” He clapped his hands twice to stir them all to action. Il-sun turned cold, yet a film of perspiration appeared on her forehead. Gyong-ho showed no signs of being aware of her surroundings.
The young man jumped out of the truck and began shouting, as would befit a man of higher rank ordering his underlings. “That’s right. You heard him. Out of the truck. Wake up! This is the Great General’s army, let’s look alive!” He looked in the bed of the truck and gave a hard, wide-eyed nod toward the lump of Gyong-ho. Il-sun understood the gesture to mean to keep her hidden.
The men in the cab jumped out of the truck and stood at attention. Il-sun remembered that they had all spent some time in the military, so this would come more naturally to them. She figured that the safest course would be to follow their lead. She peeled herself away from Gyong-ho and, trying to be inconspicuous, covered her under a pile of blankets. Maybe they would not look there.
Everyone was out of the truck and lined up at attention. The young man stood in front of them, his tight and confident posture making up for the poor fit of his clothes. He was playing the role perfectly by drawing attention to his professionalism and away from his appearance. Il-sun opted to do the same, and made her face into the image of soldierly efficiency.
The soldier shined a flashlight into the cab. He was very young, maybe twenty years old, with lopsided ears; and his easy-going nature ran contrary to the nosy job of vehicular searches. He scanned the surfaces of the cab very quickly, then turned his attention to the bed. Again, his search was quick and perfunctory. The commanding officer, a man in his mid-thirties, was standing in the doorway of the building with his arms folded.
“The truck is clean, sir,” the young soldier declared.
“No, no! You aren’t doing it right!” shouted the officer. “You need to look under and inside things. Feel the cushions for any suspicious lumps, things like that. If you are at all suspicious, then take your knife and open the upholstery.” Then he added quickly, “But you better be certain before you do that to any official vehicles.” This was clearly more of an educational exercise than a serious search, and for the moment anyway, his attention was on correcting the young soldier rather than on inspecting the ragtag group standing at attention.
“Yes, sir.” The young soldier started over, looking again in the cab.
“We don’t get many vehicles this way,” said the officer to the young man, sounding apologetic. “I have to keep my men trained.”
“Of course, sir,” said the young man. “Are you new to this post? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Just transferred. I must have pissed somebody off.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks, sir.”
“Worse.”
The young soldier pressed on the seats, opened the glove box and ran his hand along all the surfaces inside the truck. He peeked under the seat, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. “I found something, sir,” he said with a tone of pride.
“Very good. What is it?”
“A carton of foreign cigarettes, half empty.”
“Bring them to me. And their travel papers.”
“Yes, sir.” The young soldier glanced for a moment at the young man, looking guilty, then handed the articles to his superior.
The officer first looked at the papers, sifting through them casually, then looked toward the group, counting heads to be sure he had the same number of papers as there were travelers. He was not bothering to read the documents, only concerning himself with having the correct number. He still had not observed the travelers very closely. He walked toward the group and addressed the young man.
“Did you know about these?” he asked, indicating the cigarettes.
“Yes, sir!” The young man put emphasis on the word sir.
“Are they your cigarettes?”
“Yes, sir!”
“At ease. You don’t need to shout. I can hear you just fine. How did you manage to get a hold of a carton of fancy cigarettes?” His query sounded more friendly than threatening.
“They were a gift, sir. For driving a dignitary, sir.” The young man did not waver in his act. Il-sun was impressed.
“I was just curious. I’ve never had a fancy foreign cigarette before. Do you mind if I try one?”
“Help yourself, sir,” the young man said, nodding toward the carton.
“Do you have an open pack? I only want one.” The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a pack. He knocked the butt of the pack to extract a cigarette, and handed it to the officer. The officer sniffed at it, inspecting the paper, the clean, square ends, and the filter. “Do you have a match?” The young man withdrew a box of matches, and struck one for the officer. The officer took three thoughtful drags, looking vacantly toward the streetlight, consumed by the smoking experience. He then ripped the filter off and tried a drag without it. The subordinate soldier looked on, as if waiting for a trial verdict
. Finally, the officer handed the partially smoked cigarette back to the young man, the vacant look on his face replaced by a look of certainty. “It’s a bit like smoking air, isn’t it?”
“Sir?” asked the young man, unable to hide his confusion.
“I mean, they’re a bit weak, aren’t they? People talk these up like they’re so special, but to me it’s a little too much like breathing. I prefer real Chosun cigarettes, even rolled in newspaper, to that crap. I want to feel ’em burn.” He wasn’t being condescending, just honest. His informal tone relaxed the young man.
“I guess everyone has different tastes,” offered the young man.
“What a boring world this would be if everyone were just the same, eh?” The officer smiled and chucked the young man on the shoulder.
“I agree with you, there,” said the young man, slipping seamlessly from subordinate to charming.
“Right,” said the officer, coming out of his reverie and back to business. “How is that search coming, soldier?” Il-sun tensed again. She had thought that maybe that business had passed. “Anything unpatriotic or otherwise antirevolutionary back there?” He was bored and his tone was facetious. The search, for him, was over.
The soldier, missing the officer’s nuanced dismissal, snapped to attention and went back to the truck.
All Woman and Springtime Page 11