by Hwang Sunwon
Meanwhile, the young bunch at the next table were feeling no pain and jabbering away loudly. Something or other about hunting.
The first two drinks had begun to warm him, and he was tearing some strips of dried pollack for snacking when the door opened and in walked a woman. A woman in Western clothing, wearing a red sweater and a lot of makeup. Not a woman from a respectable family. His first thought was that you don’t see many women in a bar like this, especially a woman by herself, and he wondered if she had come to the wrong place. The young bunch at the next table must have had the same thought, because their conversation came to a stop and they turned their gazes to the woman.
The woman nonchalantly took a seat at the far end of the near table, her back to them, and began to rub some feeling into her frozen hands. The barmaid came out from behind the serving counter and asked, “The usual?” The woman responded with a faint nod. And that’s when it occurred to him. Maybe she was one of the women who worked at the Ch’unhyang Pavilion, just outside the alley to the bar. On their way here, at the corner of the alley, they had noticed women of the same sort as this one, accompanied by men of a different skin color, coming and going from that building, a dance hall with a sign reading FOREIGNERS ONLY. Yes, that had to be it. She worked there and was a regular customer here. And she must have been starving, the way she slurped her bowl of beef-and-rice soup and the way her long, thin neck moved.
He too was hungry by the time they finished their half kettle of yakchu. After checking with Teacher Suam, he ordered each of them a bowl of cod soup.
Seemingly for the woman’s benefit, one of the young men at the next table, speaking with a Hamgyŏng Province accent, steered the conversation about hunting in a more lurid direction. Tigers are fiercest in mating season, he began, and in lunar January, in the middle of the night when the moon is bright as day, you’ll hear them roar like nothing you’ve ever heard before, and from miles away. Dogs want to slink away and hide, and they scratch and whimper at your door; even big horses shudder.
The cod soup arrived and he was about to take a spoonful when he noticed that the young man had both hands in the air, one of them still holding a grilled rib, and was shaking his imposing frame, apparently mimicking a scared horse. Which prompted one of the others to say, “That’s not what a horse does, it’s what this does,” and he pointed to his crotch and his drink-reddened face broke into a leer.
He ate, and when he next looked up from his bowl the woman seemed to have finished her meal and was wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. Suddenly the leering man shot out of his seat, approached the woman, took a pack of Lucky Strikes from his overcoat, and offered her one. The woman momentarily considered the man, then silently accepted the cigarette. The man produced a lighter and lit it for her, winking at his buddies as if to say, “What do you think of that!” Then the young man noticed that he and Teacher Suam were watching, and with a sheepish expression he drew near and placed two cigarettes on the table in front of them.
When the young man had returned to his table, the man across from him produced an insinuating smile and said, “Women sure have it good these days. They get to do anything that strikes their fancy. Want to go for a ride in a car? No problem. They have fun with the big-noses and when they’re done for the night they’ve got chocolate, gum, canned food, you name it. They got the world in the palm of their hand, yeah.”
The woman rose. After paying she turned to leave, her expression as nonchalant as when she had arrived, showing no hint of anger or disgust toward the young men. The only noticeable difference was that the meal had brought color to her face in the short time she had been here. As soon as she went out the door the young men erupted in boisterous laughter. That woman was “really something.” Teacher Suam paid them no mind and drank the rest of his broth. He finished his bowl as well.
It was the first time in a long while that he had indulged in a tasty meal. In this satisfied state he watched as another party rushed in out of the cold, and then he and Teacher Suam rose. He reached into his pocket intending to pay, but Teacher Suam was immediately at his side, grabbing his arm. “Absolutely not.” And before he knew it, Teacher Suam had produced his wallet. The bills he took from it had been folded several times over, probably tucked away for emergency use. The use of such funds to pay for a meal made him wonder if the teacher was treating him because of the favor he had asked—in other words, out of a sense of reciprocity. If so, then he understood. Wasn’t this very same idea of reciprocity involved in his hunch that even if he spoke with the registry head’s superior about Teacher Suam things might not work out? And hadn’t it occurred to him that things might not work out because Teacher Suam lacked adequate “reciprocity funds”? And his own inability all these years to advance beyond junior clerk—wasn’t that because he had failed to take the proper reciprocal steps? But no, no, he couldn’t allow his relationship with Teacher Suam to be like that. He shouldn’t even consider it. Teacher Suam produced that money thinking he had no better way to spend it than on me, and he’s treating me as if I’m his own son or his nephew. As if to reinforce this thought, he lit his Lucky Strike from the brazier and offered it to Teacher Suam, who had paid for the meal and was ready to leave. In turn Teacher Suam offered him his Lucky Strike. He politely declined several times, as was customary in the presence of an elder, but finally relented, accepting a light from the teacher.
The short winter day had come to a close, and as they walked out of the dark alley he felt the drinks and the hot meal of soup and rice—so rare in his recent experience—mitigate the cold, to the point that his ears registered the sound of music. Yes, from there. As he turned his attention to the Ch’unhyang Pavilion, something flew through the air and dropped with a thunk onto the frozen ground half a dozen paces in front of them—an empty tin can. Immediately from both sides of the street shadowy figures, three or four of them, rushed toward it. The next moment they had dispersed whence they came. There was another thunk as another tin can landed on the frozen ground. He realized that this one had been thrown from a second-floor window in the Ch’unhyang Pavilion. Again the dark figures rushed out, and again they dispersed. A closer look revealed that each of the figures was clutching a can and licking it.
A sound and an image surfaced in his mind—a long, drawn-out whistle, announcing the arrival of the passenger train from Seoul, and then the thin legs of boys running, each wanting to be the first to meet the train. Among those legs were his own. It was cherry blossom season, and the passengers had come to New Masan to view the flowers. It was a long passenger train, unlike the local trains, which had only a few passenger cars at the rear. The whistle was not the shrill screech of the local but a long, drawn-out tweee that was more pleasing to the ear. Every day during cherry blossom season the children from Old Masan eagerly awaited that tweee. Once it sounded, they scampered up to the tracks, knowing that the passengers on this train were going to drop something through the windows for them: numerous wooden lunchboxes, a gift, as it were, from the people of Seoul. The children fought over those lunchboxes, and each child who got one would scour the inside for any stray grains of rice.
Wooden lunchboxes and tin cans. Cherry blossom season and the dead of winter. Boys barely in their early teens and shadowy figures who looked to be adults.
In front of the Ch’unhyang Pavilion he and Teacher Suam went their separate ways, Teacher Suam saying he would visit in two days’ time. The music seemed to lead him off into the distance. It was a poignant image, the more poignant for the gay music. Tomorrow I’ll take care of him for sure.
When he could no longer make out Teacher Suam he turned away. He remembered his cigarette and drew on it. It was still burning. That was the good thing about Western cigarettes. The wind was sharp. With that realization everything faded into nothingness, including Teacher Suam’s request. He raised the collar of his worn-out overcoat against the cold. His only thought was that he needed to get home.
And now he told himself
that if he hadn’t seen that woman the previous evening, his eyes wouldn’t have been drawn to the chronic STOWAWAY PROBLEM article in that piece of newspaper he’d used to roll his cigarette, and if he hadn’t noticed the article he wouldn’t have recalled the woman. He took one last drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. If the woman from last night was like the women in the article, what guarantee was there that she wouldn’t try to go back to Japan as a stowaway? Or wouldn’t be caught and subjected to a summary trial and sentenced?
He could hear the judge asking, What is your name? And the defendant answering, I was born Kim So-and-so, before Liberation I went by the name Hanako, and since Liberation I’ve been called Anna. What is your age? Twenty-five. Your place of residence? I was born in Masan, before Liberation I lived in Japan, and since Liberation I’ve been in Seoul. Your occupation? Before Liberation a waitress, since Liberation a dancer. You returned after Liberation? That’s correct. If the reason you returned home was that you missed your homeland, then why did you attempt to stow away? No answer. Are you aware that stowing away is a crime? Yes. If you knew it was a crime, then why did you do it? Again, no answer—as if to say, “I think you can answer those questions yourself.” I’ve heard many reports of disasters involving stowaways; how can a frail woman in the dead of winter think of doing such a thing? The defendant is silent, but her nonchalant expression indicates that she long ago dispensed with any thoughts of the past or future.
The mention of stowaway disasters reminded him of a book he had read in middle school containing a story about a slave ship. The slaves were blacks from Africa, some three hundred of them. Even now he recalled vividly that the slaves had not been treated humanely; they had been crammed into a hold where the headroom was less than thirty inches. Slaves kept suffocating, slaves kept falling ill. Those who appeared hopelessly ill were thrown overboard. There was no one to look after them. And there was no one to look after the women stowaways either.
The verdict: Be grateful that there are laws to protect the defendant! It is my duty, though, to carry out the sentence according to the dictates of the law. I hereby fine you the amount of one thousand five hundred wŏn. I have no money. In that case I remand you to the workhouse, where you shall serve a sentence of thirty days.
He crushed out his cigarette, which had burned down to his fingertips, and muttered mechanically, “It’s never going to end.”
The next moment he shivered and everything faded away—the woman, her sentencing, the newspaper article—everything except the worry foremost in his mind: how would he and his family get through the rest of the winter?
January 1947
MY FATHER
I’ve heard various stories about the March 1 Independence Movement; some of them more than once, from my father. But when I finally considered jotting something down about them, I thought I should refresh my memory, and with that in mind I decided to pay him a visit. On my way to the Samch’ŏng-dong home I tried to recall this story and that one, stories I had heard him tell. . . .
The first story that came to mind took place when my father was twenty-seven. One early-winter day he and An Sehwan went to what was then known as Pyongyang Catholic Hospital to visit Namgang Yi Sŭnghun. Teacher Namgang was not ill but had had himself admitted on the basis of a nonexistent malady so he would have a place to meet privately with his comrades. Teacher Namgang had asked An to find a few young men who would commit themselves to the independence movement, and Father was one of them. At the time he was teaching the upper grades of Sungdŏk School. The task given him by Teacher Namgang for March 1 was to distribute the Korean flag and copies of the Declaration of Independence to the throngs of people who would come to Pyongyang for the March 3 funeral for King Kojong. He then was to lead these people in cheers of “Mansei!” (It had been decided that in Pyongyang the funeral ceremony would take place on the athletic field at Sungdŏk School.)
The first thing Father did was select activist students from the upper grades and station them at various places downtown to distribute the declaration and the flag. He told them not to hesitate, if detained by the police, to say that they were acting on the instructions of a teacher named Hwang, and he added that the tolling of the bell at Changdatchae Chapel would be their signal to begin. This plan proved successful. At Sungdŏk School, meanwhile, other selected students each took responsibility for a row of people, and the distribution was so well coordinated it took place virtually in the blink of an eye. Then the Declaration of Independence was read aloud, after which everyone began shouting “Mansei!” at the top of his lungs. Plainclothes police were present but didn’t dare lift a hand. The assembly then split up into several groups who went downtown by various routes. By then downtown had erupted in a sea of “Mansei!” cheers. But the following day Father found himself in jail. When I first heard this story about Father I was in middle school, and I was quite moved—probably more so at that age—by the scene I imagined of the students on March 1 hearing the tolling of the bell and bravely running down this street and that, each holding close to his chest the Korean flag and a copy of the Declaration of Independence.
These two men, Teacher Namgang and An Sehwan, I had seen in person. Teacher Namgang passed away when I was in middle school, year four I think it was. His will made it known that he wanted his cremated remains to rest in the specimen room of the school he had established, Osan Middle School—but even a request such as this was met with rejection from the Japanese administration, and that made our young student hearts boil over in anger. I saw Teacher Namgang during the one term I studied at Osan Middle School as a first-year student. At that time, even though he had been succeeded as principal, he came to school without fail every other day. Small of stature, with white hair and beard, he always wore traditional attire. He also had sideburns, about an inch long. You might almost say he was pretty. Quite a few times I wondered that a man’s appearance could become so graceful as he aged.
And Teacher Namgang had a way of making what he said genuinely interesting. Now and then he would use assembly period to say that he intended to establish a two-year college at Osan, a place for young men and women, and what a thrill that gave us.
But when this gentle teacher got angry, it was unbelievable. Once, during a school intergrade sports competition, the teacher in charge of scoring mistakenly placed the fifth graders higher than the fourth graders in the final standings. The students at this school were already notorious for boycotting classes, and everybody was talking about how this incident would lead to a boycott as well. It was a situation in which none of the teachers dared open his mouth. And then Teacher Namgang appeared. He gathered the students and launched right into them: “You rascals, if you intend to boycott, it has to be for an important reason—a boycott over a scoring mistake is just plain stupid!” This wasn’t so much a scolding by a teacher to his students as it was grandfatherly or fatherly advice. The students could no more have oppose their teacher than they could have their father or grandfather—and this was not the first such instance.
As for An Sehwan, I can remember the rare occasions he visited our home when I was in my first two years of middle school. I’m pretty sure he had visited us before. But by the time I had started middle school he was not always in his right mind—the outcome of the various tortures he’d suffered in jail. Summer and winter alike, he went around in the same auburn-colored coat. That coat is clearer in my memory than his face—though it’s equally clear to me that in spite of the damage to his psyche, his face was neither wicked-looking nor frightening. The coat was worn out, as you might expect. When he arrived at our home he simply came inside rather than asking first if the master was in. He liked pickled garlic, and whenever he appeared, my mother always served him this dish. He was a man of few words. As soon as Father saw him he would inquire after his family, and would receive in reply a simple “They’re getting along.” I don’t believe I ever saw him initiate a conversation. His home was in Sun’an. When his mind was reas
onably clear he would go home, but when he was not himself he would leave, and at those times it was always our house to which he came. He would enter and seat himself without a word, accept the meal tray that Mother prepared for him, and then disappear as silently as he had arrived. I can’t recall when it was that he passed on. I would have to ask Father in more detail about this gentleman.
But as you might suspect, the stories that really interested me during my boyhood were the ones about my father’s imprisonment. I was forever hearing bits and pieces of these stories. And whenever I heard them, something invariably came to mind—the straw hat, or rather the half of it that remained, that occupied a shelf in our dark, cramped storage room until I was in third or fourth grade.
That hat was woven during the year and a half Father spent in Sŏdaemun Prison in Seoul. The stories also involved Pak In-gwan, a minister who, like Father, was imprisoned after the March 1 movement (and who I believe might still be living in a locality called Kiyang). One story was that Father’s job in prison was to weave those hats, and upon his release he was given five wŏn that he had earned in this way. Of that amount, he gave two wŏn to a fellow prisoner released the same day, for travel expenses, and by the time he arrived in Pyongyang only seventy chon was left. Another story concerned the prisoners who glued cigarette packets together. They used the glue sparingly and then ate what was left over. And then there was the story about how pairs of men shared the same bedding, which scarcely covered both, and when in winter they were awakened by the cold, each man would try to cover the other before himself. And the story of how Father and Pastor Pak had such a bad case of scabies that no amount of itching would help, and when they squeezed out the discharge from the bumps, they would help each other with the hard-to-reach places, and the cell was so cold that the squeezed-out discharge practically froze.