The Guest

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  The site of the Wŏnamni massacre was located on a thickly wooded hillside. Two storage buildings remained standing, one above and one below the slope; the exhibition itself was in a separate, newly built structure. Displayed inside were various photographs and remains. Visitors were filing through, lined up two abreast, making their way up and down the steps and listening to their guides’ comments. The buildings had once been used, as Yosŏp well knew, as warehouses for storing fruit. According to the guide, they were later used to store gunpowder during the war. There were bullet holes here and there, but the walls, charred by some past fire, had been left largely untouched.

  “‘The mothers will be too content if we allow them to stay with their children,’ said the brutes. ‘Tear them apart at once, and lock them up separately! Let the mothers go mad with worry, calling for their little ones, and let the children die crying for their mothers,’ declared the beasts. Brandishing their swords and guns, the murderers tore the children from the bosoms of their mothers, who fought desperately to keep them. They locked the babes up in a different storage building. The heartrending cries of the children calling for their mothers and the pitiable wailing of the mothers asking for their children—it was all too much. Hungry for blood, the fiendish monsters poured gasoline and straw over the heads of the surviving women and children and set them on fire, and then, as if they hadn’t already done enough, they threw in grenades. In these two storage buildings alone, 910 innocents, including 400 women and 102 children, were slaughtered in cold blood.”

  Yosŏp looked at the pamphlet he had been given at the entrance. It had fuzzy photographs of the crime scene and some written material. Included was a witness account:When I opened the storage door, I found layers and layers of the children’s dead bodies in a heap right up against the door. It was obvious that they’d all been trying desperately to get out. Some had frozen to death, others had died of starvation, and still more had been burnt to a crisp. Most of their fingernails were broken off and clotted with blood—it was plain to see that they had done everything they possibly could to try to escape their agony, up until the very last moment.

  On the hill to the right of the storage building were two burial mounds, one for the 400 women and another for the 102 children, each as high as that of a royal tomb. Two stones had been erected, one on each side, and a line of people were queued up to pay their respects.

  By the time they returned to the county hall back in town it was way past one in the afternoon. Of everyone in the group, Yosŏp was the most exhausted. Their lunch was already laid out and waiting for them in the dining hall, a treat from the party secretary. All five sat down together at the table: their host, the director of the museum, All Back, Reverend Ryu Yosŏp, and the female museum guide. Yosŏp used a cool, wet towel to wipe the back of his neck and around his eyes, then gulped down a glass of Sindŏk Spring Water. All Back, the guide from the capital, spoke first.

  “You must be hungry. It must be quite tiring for you to visit so many places.”

  Feeling a bit dazed, Yosŏp just sat there. For some reason, nobody else seemed to feel like talking. Without even a cursory smile, the party secretary raised his hands, palms up.

  “I know it’s not much, but let us eat.”

  There were two bottles of white wine on the table and, without a word, the party secretary opened one of the bottles and held it out to Yosŏp.

  “I don’t really drink. Besides, it’s only lunchtime,” said Yosŏp quietly.

  “Come, just take a glass—you don’t have to drink it. We had this brought out especially for this occasion.”

  The museum director seemed determined, so Yosŏp had no choice but to accept a glass. As soon as it was filled, the director thrust his own glass right under the party secretary’s nose.

  “Here, here, fill it to the brim, now.”

  Showing no emotion of any kind, the party secretary filled up the director’s glass and offered the same to the guide, too. The rice was white rice and the soup was fish soup. There was also fried pork, greens, vegetable pancakes, toenjang tchigae, lettuce, and sand anchovies, all tasty. Everyone ate and finished their drinks in silence. The female guide bowed good-bye and returned to the museum. The rest of the company moved to the party secretary’s office for a cup of tea. The museum director seemed to be feeling the effects of the wine. He said, “I really can’t go on doing this; it’s infuriating. He’s party secretary, so he acts all grave and dignified, stroking his beard, and I’m like a python in a dry pond, circling round and round repeating the same old story, always about dead people.”

  “Good heavens, man, if you’re drunk just go on home and take a nap. An old man should have a sense of shame!”

  As the party secretary grumbled and turned away from the director, All Back asked the director, “Are the two of you friends from the same hometown, sir?”

  “We’re more than just friends—we’ve been through everything together, ever since we were children. We know why they call man the most evil creature in the world, don’t we?”

  Shooting the director a sidelong look of disapproval in lieu of a response, the party secretary walked out of his office. Suddenly, the director of the museum turned to Yosŏp and implored, “This year I turned seventy years old—not a day less! To have survived this long, it’s a miracle, don’t you think? All these people here now, but less than two in ten are really from here, you know?”

  “There was a lot of shifting after the war,” retorted the guide halfheartedly.

  But the old man was getting worked up now.

  “They were punished by Heaven, you see, ’cause they did it to each other. All the rice paddies and vegetable fields, they were all completely ruined, choked with weeds like some sort of haunted house.”

  Trying to help the director understand the situation, All Back said indirectly, “This is the Reverend’s hometown, as well.”

  As the guide’s words sank in, the director staggered up from his seat, glaring at Yosŏp.

  “And you’re a minister? You believe in Jesus?”

  With that, the old man cleared his throat and spat on the floor. Stalking out, he added, “I don’t drink with big-nosed bastards!”

  There are always witnesses.

  The female guide returned and informed All Back that all necessary preparations were complete. The latter stood up and asked Reverend Ryu Yosŏp to come to the reception room. Without an inkling as to what was going on, Yosŏp did as he was told. The room was spacious, with sofas lined up along the walls and a long, low table in front of each seat. The center of the room was empty except for a silk carpet embroidered with magnolias. Judging from the white screen that hung on the right wall, the space must have been designed to hold different kinds of meetings. Already in the room, sitting across from the screen, were a man, four women, and the party secretary. As Yosŏp walked in, they all got up and applauded. The female guide introduced them.

  “The comrades here are all survivors who witnessed the tragic events we were discussing earlier. They are gathered here today to share the full truth with you.”

  At first the “witnesses” seemed a bit nervous; they all began their stories rather cautiously. As they went on, however, their anger and sorrow gradually increased and, as if possessed, their voices grew louder—some even shed tears. Still, Yosŏp knew only too well that their testimonials were all fabrications. He himself had been there, in that same place at that same time. True, the tragic events themselves had probably taken place. A nightmare is real, but how light, how colorless the words that must be used to convey it after one wakes up! Words that had been repeated hundreds, even thousands of times, over and over again—they fluttered in the air, distorted and charred like the pages of a burnt book. Their original typeface, the messages they were once meant to convey, had long since turned to ash.

  Their words flitted past, like short sentences typed out on a keyboard, typing away Yosŏp’s past and future. They all said “the American troops,” bu
t Yosŏp knew for a fact that the troops had simply been passing through. They were never stationed in Sinch’ŏn; they were in a rush to get further north. Both Yosŏp and his brother Yohan knew for a fact that during those forty-five days, before the arrival of the U.S. troops and after their departure, most of the military strength in the area had consisted of the security forces and the Youth Corps—all Korean.

  Kim Myŏngja. Currently employed in sales at Pyongyang Department Store. Eight years old at time of incident. First-grade student at local elementary school. Father was supervisor of People’s Military Committee. Father was tortured, covered in gasoline, and set ablaze. Wriggling and twitching, he howled like a beast, flopped to the ground, and was consumed by the flames like a piece of cloth. Myŏngja was one of six children. Missed chance to retreat north due to road blockage. Family members left behind in village were taken to enemy campsite, where large bonfire was burning. Drunken, they beat her mother and tore off her clothes. Calling the children “red brats,” they picked them at random and threw them into the fire. Mothers who tried to jump in the fire to save their children were shot. For one week Myŏngja was locked in a warehouse designated for children. They were given no water. The younger children cried from hunger. The infants’ cries soon grew weak. It was December, dark and cold. The children were so starved that roundworms in their stomachs crawled up into their mouths. The famished children chewed them up. Mothers, ready to face the last, screamed for water. The enemy brought buckets filled with sewer water. The children’s tongues ripped and bled from licking the spilt water with their tongues. Mothers fed children with urine they’d collected. American soldiers came and checked the girls’ faces with flashlights, shouting, “Sexy, sexy.” Big Sister was dragged away. A female teacher from the elementary school was dragged away. They did not return. Harrison decided mothers and children would enjoy being together. He gave orders to separate them and let them die of worry, crying for each other. Mothers and children were torn apart and locked up in different warehouses. Children cried, crawling around on the concrete floor, asking for mothers. Their knees and elbows were scraped, bleeding. Children continued to cry for water. Guards brought bucketfuls of gasoline. Laughed as children dipped their shoes in gasoline and drank out of them, writhing in pain afterwards. Set inside of warehouse on fire. Children who did not burn died of suffocation. Many children died by the air shaft when the monsters threw in grenades. That night, climbing on top of the children gathered by the wall, Myŏngja got up and out of the air shaft, made a narrow escape, and survived.

  Chu Ch’angwŏn. Currently a farmworker. Brought up as orphan. Five years old at time of incident. Shoved his face into a palm-sized hole in the wall. Miraculously rescued but crippled from grenade splinters.

  Ch’oe Kyŏngnyo. They stripped her mother naked and dragged her around by a wire they pierced through her nose because her husband was in the army.

  Oh Ŭnsun. Ten years old at time of incident. Currently employed as guide at the Sinch’ŏn Museum, exposing imperialist America’s crimes to the world. Father was Party member. Also member of Mount Kuwŏl guerrillas. Family was unable to retreat. Family went to mountain in search of father. Mother was caught while foraging in village for food. Ŭnsun was locked up in landlord’s storage house. Unexpectedly ran into her father. Reunion between father and daughter was not allowed. Father was tortured in front of small daughter. Daughter fainted. They buried the father alive in a dugout. Ŭnsun crawled out. Approximately twenty of Ŭnsun’s close relatives were killed.

  Cho Sunwŏn. Ten years old at time of incident. Father was Committee Chairman of Party Cell. Witnessed father being beaten to death with clubs by large crowd. Final interrogation was held on November 1 according to lunar calendar. Nine o’clock that night they came with something wrapped in white cloth. It was live ammunition. Eighty-two women and children were dragged through landlord’s front yard to execution site. Were stood on hillside and shot. Sunwŏn’s six-year-old baby brother was shot first. Bullet went through his abdomen. He survived. Muttering that he was a tough one, they used bayonets. Sunwŏn suppressed the urge to scream. He bit his lips. Sunwŏn was hit by four bullets. All his younger siblings, including the baby on his mother’s back, were shot and killed. They sorted out the live ones from the dead and stabbed or beat them to death. At dawn, Cho Sunwŏn crawled out from under a pile of corpses. A ghost rose up from among the corpses. The ghost untied the telephone cords that bound Sunwŏn. The ghost of the woman who used to live next door. Cho Sunwŏn climbed up the mountain, dragging along another boy who wasn’t dead yet.

  Yu Maemul. Currently acting Chair of Women’s League in Sinch’ŏn. They committed all sorts of atrocities to extract information concerning the hiding place of People’s Guerrilla Corps. Snatched three-year-old Ŭnja from mother’s breast and interrogated mother by dipping child in swamp. Later threw child into swamp. When the mother protested, they struck her head with a club. She died on the spot. Took Yu Maemul hostage while roaming around in search of Guerilla Corps. Thinking she was dead they discarded her on an icy road. Because of the resulting frostbite, Maemul spent the following fifteen years in different hospitals. Lost six toes.

  Ri Inhwa. Nine years old at time of incident. Father was Committee Chairman of District Party Cell. Four men in village, including Inhwa’s father, were dragged by wire pierced through their noses. When father refused to respond to interrogation, they trampled her younger brother to death. Inhwa hid underneath the wooden floor.

  Ah, finally they’re all through with their stories. But no, it’s not over yet, Yosŏp thought.

  Yosŏp came out of the county hall and waited for the car that would take him back to the hotel. He stood under the dangling fruits and wide leaves of a fragrant sycamore tree. In the old days, on days like today, Big Brother Yohan and he had played war, using sticks for swords and wearing crowns made out of these huge sycamore leaves. Yosŏp took out his pocket Bible and thumbed through it. He turned to Ephesians:For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall that is, the hostility between us. He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father.

  Yosŏp felt tears welling up in his eyes. In the hazy distance, he spotted the approaching vehicle. Sitting in the passenger seat was the guide—he’d left earlier to fetch the car. Another man sat in the back seat. He opened the door for Yosŏp then scooted further in. It was his nephew, Daniel, whom he had parted with yesterday. When Yosŏp got in, Ryu Tanyŏl addressed him in a tone much more courteous than before.

  “Comrade Assistant Chief has asked me to spend some time with you, Uncle.”

  Realizing for the first time that All Back must be the Assistant Chief, Yosŏp showed his appreciation by bowing his head.

  “Thank you for your consideration.”

  “Well, there was an order from above—we’re going to let you take it easy today. You may go to your hometown with your nephew. The inns here aren’t suitable, so I’ll take you to the guesthouse.”

  The car raced along a tree-lined avenue that sliced through the rice paddies. Scores of young men and women in shabby working clothes were marching along the lane. Each one was armed. They looked like some sort of farm village army reserve. They made their way through the field, slowly, without a single look towards the speeding car.

  5

  A Pure Spirit

  CLARIFICATION BEFORE RECONCILIATION

  THE GUESTHOUSE WAS BUILT in the style of an old-fashioned inn. Immediately inside the front door was a large hall for receptions and conferences. Farther in, there was a small dining hall and a kitchen. Beside the reception hall was a corridor, and a
t its end was a common room. The bedrooms were all lined up along the left side of the corridor. On the right side, a series of glass doors looked out onto a backyard. The room assigned to Yosŏp and his nephew Tanyŏl was the VIP suite—it included a parlor, a study, and a bedroom. The Assistant Chief, All Back, had a different room at the far end of the corridor. After supper Yosŏp and Tanyŏl went out together to take a stroll around the guesthouse. It was surrounded by trees with broad leaves, providing an abundance of cool shade; farther off was a forest of pine trees. Uncle and nephew walked side by side along the narrow path that wound through the forest. The cool evening breeze was quite pleasant, and though it was still fairly light out, the crickets had already begun to cry. The path was a gravel one so they were accompanied by the crunching sound of their steps.

  “Your mother . . . does she still have her faith?”

  Yosŏp asked the question without turning to his nephew, looking straight ahead, and Tanyŏl kept his gaze fixed on the ground as he answered.

  “My mother doesn’t talk about the past.”

  “Not even about your father?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know so much about him?”

  Silent, Tanyŏl just kept on walking. Yosŏp was thinking that here, now, they could finally throw caution to the wind; they were outside, and no one was around to listen in but the pine trees.

  “You, you know your father’s name, and you seem to know about his past—”

  “Everybody knows about his past. I heard about it constantly, all through my childhood. Grandfather Some told me a little bit, too.”