All Woman and Springtime

by Brandon Jones

  The young man spoke in a loud whisper, “We are at the second tunnel now. This one is fairly short. Since we are about to enter Hanguk territory, we need to take some precautions. I need you to hand over all of your identification and any Chosun currency that you are carrying. If you are caught with it, you will be tortured and executed by the imperialists.”

  He looked around expectantly. No one moved immediately: to be parted from one’s identification was a huge offense in the North. It was almost like being asked to strip naked—a very personal thing to do.

  “You can’t go over there with it. It won’t do you any good anyway. Like it or not, we can’t go back to the North. So please, hand over your identification and your money. It is better for you if you do.” The young man spoke authoritatively.

  Il-sun reached into a pocket in her blouse and proffered her identification and a small stack of folded won. Gyong-ho followed suit; then, reluctantly, so did Cho. The young man put the materials in a shirt pocket and turned around, saying, “Follow me.”

  “But what about them?” asked Cho, pointing to the men of the group.

  “We gave it to him earlier,” responded one of the men.

  “Alright, let’s go. It’s not safe to linger here,” said the young man, disappearing into the tunnel.

  Il-sun and Gi followed him inside. Cho delayed, her forehead furrowed in uncertainty. The man who was missing his front tooth, the one called Wart, stepped forward, bowed, and opened his hand in the direction of the tunnel as if to be a gentleman holding a door open for a lady. Cho went in reluctantly. The men followed, their wheelbarrows barely able to fit inside the tunnel.

  The tunnel was distressingly low and narrow for Il-sun. Insects crawled along the close walls, and spiderwebs crisscrossed everywhere, sticking to her face and hands and getting caught in her hair. There did not seem to be enough air in the tunnel and she had to fight down waves of panic. In her imagination the integrity of the walls gave way and she was buried alive, suffocated and squeezed to death. The light of the flashlights strobed through the spaces between moving limbs, creating undulating shadows all around, making her feel dizzy and a little nauseous. To distract herself she made conversation with the young man.

  “Is this another invasion tunnel?”

  “No. Some of the laborers who were working on the other tunnel may have defected to the South by making this one. We had to widen it quite a bit after we found it. It was only big enough to crawl in before.”

  Il-sun shuddered at the thought of the tunnel being any smaller.

  “But why would anyone defect to the South?”

  Il-sun’s question went unanswered.

  Within a few minutes the tunnel dead-ended and a wooden barrier barred their way. The young man leaned hard against it and pushed. The barrier fell forward and landed with a heavy thud in a cloud of dust. Fresh air and blinding sunlight rushed into the seeming vacuum of the tunnel. Il-sun was relieved. One by one, the group emerged under the South Korean sky.

  34

  ON REFLECTION, CROSSING THE DMZ was a rather anticlimactic affair to Gyong-ho. It was almost too simple, being more of a pleasure hike than a flight from certain imprisonment, and she wondered if all barriers were ultimately like that: more substantial in the mind. Even the looming threat of land mines took on an abstract impotence under the clear, blue sky and on the well-worn path. She had half expected to be met on the Hanguk side of the border by a squadron of ferocious American imperialists brandishing guns, standing at the ready to run her through with their gleaming bayonets; she was surprised to instead step out into a peaceful, beautiful day. She had imagined the soil of South Korea to be dry and barren, life burned out of it by the hostile ravages of war and impoverishment. But the landscape she stepped into was much like the landscape she had left at the northern border: low scrub and grasses with occasional trees in a setting of dusty hills.

  The young man ordered everyone to take cover under a nearby tree as a precaution in case a helicopter or airplane were to patrol overhead. He then took a telephone out of his pocket and unfolded it. Gi had never seen a mobile phone before and marveled at it in disbelief. It looked altogether too small to house the necessary components. The young man hit some buttons, spoke into it, then folded it back up and returned it to his pocket. He turned around slowly, surveying the area.

  “We are about forty meters south of the DMZ. Welcome to South Korea,” he said with a smile.

  Il-sun put her arm around Gyong-ho. She was pleased to have made it across the border safely. Gyong-ho, however, could feel no relief: She was terrified of whatever lay ahead. Cho lit a cigarette, her eyes shifting nervously from side to side.

  Within a few minutes Gi heard the sound of an approaching vehicle and saw its dust as it navigated a circuitous road in their direction. The men of the group stiffened and made furtive glances toward the tunnel, assessing how quickly they could get back into it. The young man stood there calmly, wearing his sunglasses and smoking.

  A vehicle unlike any Gi had ever seen before pulled up to where the young man was standing. It was long and sleek, with darkened windows. It had a pointed snout, as if its makers could not decide whether to make an automobile or an airplane, and it had a large, square door on the side. To Gi it looked like it might have come from outer space, but the young man referred to it as a minivan. It was two-tone blue and had a large dent near the rear. Two strangely dressed men, both Korean, got out of the van and greeted the young man. He returned their greeting, and it was clear by their informality that they had met before.

  One of the men was quite tall, with shaggy hair, and wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his face sported several days of thin stubble. From his demeanor and the way he interacted with the other men, Gi could tell that he was the one in charge. The other man was average in height, though next to the tall one he appeared short. It was an illusion augmented by the fact that he was very overweight. Gi had never seen a fat person before, and she could not stop staring at his round profile. Both men dressed with what appeared a planned haphazardness. They were both wearing trousers of rough denim. The tall man had on a T-shirt that was printed with the image of a screaming, long-haired man holding a guitar. The fat one was wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt. It was hideous attire and she wondered why anyone in his right mind would leave his house looking like that. Then she remembered: These were the impoverished and backward Hanguk. Perhaps they could not afford more sensible clothing.

  The three men were having an animated conversation; Gi could not make out the words. The young man pointed toward his group and the other two men looked over, their eyes lingering on the women, and nodded in acknowledgment. The fat man handed over a wad of bills. They looked like green imperialist dollars; Gi had seen pictures of them before but had never actually held any. The young man counted. He looked displeased, and pointed to the group again and said something. The other two men shook their heads decisively. Then their voices rose and Gi could just make out some of their conversation.

  “I brought you three,” the young man said.

  “We never discussed a third one. That changes everything,” replied the tall man.

  The fat man was turned away from Gi, and his comment was lost in the wind.

  “But I can’t take anyone back with me. You know that.” The young man was almost whining.

  “I’ll tell you what, because we have done such good business in the past, I’m willing to cave in a little bit here,” said the tall one, sounding annoyed. “We’ll give you one hundred for the skinny one, but that’s it.”

  “She’s worth a whole lot more, and you know it,” said the young man, holding his ground.

  “Supply and demand, Gianni. Supply and demand.” The wind had died down and the fat one’s voice could be heard. “The demand here is low but the supply is high, so the price comes down. But I guess they don’t teach you capitalist economics up there, do they?”

  “Do you see any other buyers?” said the ta
ll one. “Either take the hundred or you can take the skinny bitch back with you.”

  The young man looked thoughtful, not yet ready to be defeated. “I had to stick my neck out to bring her here. One hundred is too low, but I’ll tell you what: give me one hundred fifty’s worth in whiskey and we can have a deal. I know you pay less than that for the whiskey, so one hundred fifty in whiskey really only costs you one hundred, or even less. You break even on the whiskey but you profit from the girl. And I’m happy because I have more whiskey than I would have had in dollars, and it goes farther in the North. You see? That way we both come out ahead.”

  The men looked at each other and then nodded. “You learn fast, Gianni,” the tall man said with a smile.

  Gyong-ho looked nervously toward the tunnel, wondering if she was fast enough to run back across the DMZ before the men caught her. She did not understand the conversation, but she knew that something was dreadfully wrong. It sounded as if they were negotiating a price for her; but that was absurd.

  “So that’s three hundred plus the usual cigarettes and whiskey for each of the two girls, plus an extra one hundred fifty, in whiskey, for the skinny one, right?” recapped the fat man.

  “Right,” replied the young man. He nodded toward the men from his own group, who stood and rolled the wheelbarrows to the van. They began unloading boxes from the back, supervised by the fat one. The young man and the tall one walked over to the women sheltered under the tree.

  “Ladies, this is Mr. Choy. You are going with him and his friend now. You must do as he tells you.”

  “But aren’t you coming with us?” Il-sun asked, her eyes wide and her skin draining of its color. She must have been hearing the conversation as well.

  “No. I have a business to run back home. Mr. Choy will take care of you from now on.” He would not look directly at her.

  “I don’t understand,” Il-sun whined. “You can’t go home! They’ll put you in a prison camp for sure!”

  “It seems that I was wrong. Rooster isn’t an informer after all. I’m too important up there for anyone to want to arrest me anyway. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Then I’ll come with you! I can help you!” The pleading in her voice was painful to hear.

  “Explain it to her, Cho; I’m sure you’ve figured it out. I have work to do.” He turned and walked back toward the van.

  “We’ve been sold, teacup. Gianni sold us out.”

  PART II

  35

  GIANNI STOOD IN THE sunlight, his dark glasses giving his face an impassive look. He stood with his weight on one leg, hand on his hip, holding a cigarette and watching as the other men hefted boxes and cartons into wheelbarrows. Gyong-ho had a feeling that he would not be one of the ones rolling a heavy wheelbarrow back across the DMZ. He was a cockroach waiting for a giant shoe.

  Il-sun sat looking stunned, disbelief rippling in waves across her face. “But I’ll make a good wife,” she said under her breath to no one in particular. “I’ll make a very good wife.”

  Gyong-ho sat, shocked and afraid. Was it only yesterday that she was fantasizing about moving into a private apartment with Il-sun? How far away that seemed. For how long would that be postponed? Could it be forever? My God, is this for forever? Panic coiled inside her chest. A bargaining voice began chattering inside her desperate mind, trying to claw its way back across the DMZ. I’ll be a better citizen. I’ll work harder. I will love the Dear Leader more! What did it mean to be sold? What would be demanded of her, wherever she was going? She imagined being ground up in the wheels of the ravenous imperialist machine, toiling in a mine or breaking her back tilling the infertile South Korean soil. Wherever she was headed, the outlook was not good.

  Mr. Choy stood in the shade near the women and watched the goods being unloaded from the van. Once the wheelbarrows were full, the men bowed to each other and closed the rear hatch. The ones with the wheelbarrows disappeared into the tunnel under Gianni’s watchful eye. Gianni then stepped up to the mouth of the tunnel and turned, giving a perfunctory wave to Mr. Choy and the fat man. He glanced briefly at the women under the tree, but upon seeing them his head jerked reflexively the other way. His body stiffened and his face betrayed a moment of regret. But just as quickly his face hardened. He turned and scurried into the tunnel.

  After securing the wooden cover and placing a pile of branches to hide the tunnel entrance, the fat man joined Mr. Choy under the tree. The men stood over the women, looking down on them.

  “Welcome, bumpkins, to the Republic of Korea,” began Mr. Choy. “I am Mr. Choy, and my associate here is Mr. Lee.” His speech was accented and informal. Gyong-ho had never heard a Hanguk person speak, and she was surprised by how differently he spoke her language. Mr. Choy’s voice was smooth, if a little high-pitched, for such a tall man. “I believe we can have an amicable arrangement between us, providing you do as you’re told and don’t make trouble. If you make things difficult for us, we will make things difficult for you, understood?” The women did not respond other than to stare terror-stricken at the man. “Let me outline the basics for you: First, you are here in the Republic of Korea illegally. You have no official papers, so if you go to the authorities they will hand you over to the Americans; and I think you know what they will do to you if that happens.”

  Gi shuddered. If it was anything like the labor camp, she knew all too well.

  “We will protect you from that fate,” Mr. Choy continued, “as long as you do what we say.

  “Second, if you try to run away, there is no one who will help you. You will likely be murdered or end up being turned over to the military, who will torture you for information about your Dear Leader.”

  Mr. Choy paused to allow it all to sink in. Understanding and denial pulled at Gyong-ho in a well-matched tug-of-war, and her face contorted under the strain. This could not be happening; and if it were, then surely it would all be over by tomorrow.

  Tomorrow!

  “We have to be at the factory tomorrow!” Gi burst out.

  Mr. Choy looked at her, a malicious smile spreading across his face as he pinned her down with his eyes. He said nothing, but his silence communicated everything clearly. They would not be going back to the factory tomorrow.

  “You saw that we paid Gianni a large sum for the pleasure of your company,” Mr. Choy continued after the silence had a chance to sink in. “And you can probably guess that we didn’t do that just to be friendly. So here’s the deal: We will consider the amount that we paid for you to be a loan, to be paid back by you—with interest, of course. Also, we will give you a place to live, food, and clothing. You must pay for all of that as well.”

  “We can’t pay for these things. We have no money,” said Cho. Defeat was starting to show on her face.

  “That leads me to the next thing: You will be working for us. How much you get paid depends on the kind of work that you do. Your wages will go toward paying down your debts to us. Once your debts are all paid off, then you will receive cash for your work, which you can then use however you want. If you work for us long enough, we’ll even help you get official papers, but not until your debts are paid.”

  “What kind of work?” asked Gyong-ho.

  “The kind that only women and boys do, I think,” quipped Cho. The meaning was lost on Gi, but the men understood.

  “You’re pretty quick, for a Northerner,” said Mr. Choy. “We can get into the details of that later, once you’re settled in. Suffice it to say, I think you will find it easier than whatever you were doing back home for your Dear Leader. Now get in the van. We have to leave.”

  The women sat, unmoving.

  “I’m not asking; I’m telling you. Get in the fucking van. Now!”

  Still the women did not move. The shock was too much.

  Mr. Lee grabbed Il-sun by the arm and forcefully hoisted her up. She shrieked in surprise and pain. This snapped Gi and Cho out of their daze, and they stood.


  “The pins,” said Mr. Lee brusquely.

  “I almost forgot,” said Mr. Choy. “Ladies, please hand over your Kim Il-sung pins. As if you don’t already look obviously Northern, the pins just scream out, ‘Look at me, I’m from North Korea!’ Besides, I can fetch a little profit by selling them to collectors. Whatever I make from them will help to pay off your debt.” Mr. Choy held out his hand.

  Cho unfastened the pin on her lapel without a second thought and handed it to Mr. Lee. Gyong-ho and Il-sun, however, looked down at their own pins thoughtfully. The Kim Il-sung pin was to be worn by everybody, without exception. Gi suspected that even the Dear Leader himself, Kim Jong-il, wore one. It was a small red pin that had the smiling face of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, printed on it. It was unheard of to be asked to remove it. To be caught out-of-doors without wearing one was potentially punishable by imprisonment—it was that important. The pin had magical ideological properties and could defend its wearer against the scourge of imperialist doctrine. It was a form of protection, even if only from the consequence of not wearing one. She was afraid that if she took it off, she would be at risk of catching some grave, and possibly terminal, mental infection. Or at the very least, she would be sent back to the gulag.

  “It’s just a pin,” Cho said. “It won’t be of any use over here.”

  As much as that made sense, Gyong-ho could not make her hands move to take it off. What if Mr. Lee told Gianni, who then told the orphanage mistress, who would have to report it to the head of the Party Youth? If she took it off, everyone would know. Wouldn’t they? Finally, her hand moved as if struggling against some great force, shaking as she fumbled with the clasp. Here was another barrier, another DMZ, where the mental hurdle was so much greater than the physical one. Even as the pin slid out of her blouse, she was already thinking of how she would explain this at the next self-criticism meeting.