The Guest

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  All right, you’ve had your say. Now it’s my turn. It was around the twenty-fifth, I think, when the Soviet Liberation Army marched into Hwanghae Province. The Soviet political officer came with his advance troops, and he met with Chosŏn representatives from all those community organizations—it was all in compliance with decisions that had been made in Pyongyang. So was changing the name of the Hwanghae branch of the Committee for the Preparation of Korean Independence to the Hwanghae Province People’s Political Committee. Then they just went ahead and appointed a Christian presbyter as the chairman of the committee. Except for a few Leftists, all the members were either landowners or other rich folk with lots of influence. I’d just gotten home from Ŭnnyul, so I went to look up Mr. Kang and see some old friends, the ones I used to read the bulletin with.

  All sorts of organizations were springing up back then in Hwanghae Province, like weeds that grow like crazy after a heavy rain. I remember the Hwanghae Province Regional Committee of the Chosŏn Communist Party had a pretty motley crew back then, from former tenant farmers to men who’d been schooled in Seoul or Japan, who had book learning and knew all their -isms. And then there were the ones who, as we used to say, were just “whatever-ists,” the ones who just joined because they thought it looked good. Those “security forces,” as they called themselves, and the “peacekeeping troops”—they were all good-for-nothings who used to hang around town, and those were the groups some of the young Christians ended up joining. The Christians and the Committee for the Preparation of Korean Independence were basically one and the same, too. It was different in Hamgyŏng Province, they say, but that’s how it was in P’yŏngan Province and Hwanghae Province. We—the young men—we were far from content. The way we saw it, the bastards who’d lived so well through the occupation, fawning all over the Japs—they were still the same ones who were getting the higher positions, even after liberation and still ordered us to do this and that. Things were in a sorry state.

  To tell the plain truth, your father, Presbyter Ryu Indŏk, and your grandfather, Reverend Ryu Samsŏng—they came into their land by working as agents for the Japanese Oriental Development Company, managing the contracts of tenant farmers. Practically everyone who attended Kwangmyŏng Church, in fact, lived quite comfortably, and most of them had at least a plot of land to their name, small or large. As for the churchgoers who lived in town, they were all restaurant owners, pharmacy owners, schoolteachers, millers—all pretty loaded, really. And the members of the so-called Committee for the Preparation of Korean Independence, they were the same kind of people. The only thing different about them was that they called themselves the Nationalist Camp. Anyway, we stood firm. Land reform had to be implemented using blind confiscation and blind distribution. That’s when the Nationalist Camp flared up in a rage and refused to compromise. They said the very notion of abolishing the landownership system was unpatriotic. They wanted to employ the three-to-seven system, with thirty percent going to the landowners and seventy to the tenants, provided that all farming expenses were handled by the tenants—but it all amounted to nothing in the end. You see, even under the Japanese occupation, everyone argued over these exact same issues. You know what I say? Show me a Christian leader who didn’t come from a family of landowners.

  I’m not pretending that the Left didn’t have its problems, too. Being Communist was our claim to fame, but there were so many inner factions that a country bumpkin like me could never keep them all straight. There was a domestic group that kept running to Seoul to find out which way the wind was blowing, a separate group from China, and a group of comrades with weird names who’d come with the Soviet army—but the number of partisans who, weapon in hand, actually fought against the Japanese, well, that was so small that none of them could even find the time to visit the simple folks in the countryside.

  Still, after the Committee for Preparation became the People’s Committee, things did get a bit better for us. When he returned from his visit to Pyongyang in mid-October, Mr. Kang told us what had happened at the Enthusiasts’ Rally of the Five Northwestern Provinces held by the Chosŏn Communist Party. He told us that General Kim said our newly liberated country would be weakened by any internal strife and that we all had to do our best to work together with the conscientious national capitalists. The General said we shouldn’t assume that every last person who’d worked under the Japanese occupation was a Japanese front man—he said the real battle ahead of us was against the landlords, against the true Japanese spies who were masquerading as members of our Party. Two days after the Enthusiasts’ Rally came the Pyongyang People’s Rally, and that’s where we found out that the Protestants were claiming we’d only been liberated by “the grace of God.” Following that, the Honorable General made his first ever public appearance. In order to build a democratic Chosŏn, he told us, those with money needed to provide money, those with knowledge, knowledge, those with strength, strength, and so on and so forth, so that the entire race could finally unite as one and create a truly autonomous, independent nation. But then, in Pyongyang, the Protestants formed the Chosŏn Democratic Party and grown men like your father, Presbyter Ryu, youths like Yohan and Sangho, and all kinds of riffraff like the trash who raided our office—they all actually became official Democratic Party members. Up until that point, we’d just put up with it all, doing whatever you young ones told us to do. Everyone told us to just bear with it for the sake of national unity. It was real easy to tell a Leftist from a Rightist back then, even from far off, you know, just looking at their clothes and build. I mean, we’d all been underfed as children, and we still had no money for clothes, so we just looked wretched all around.

  Actually, you, Yohan, you put it quite well. Both sides were in the wrong at Sinŭiju. Whenever times get confusing, you know, all the sleazy con men come out of the woodwork. A lot of the Communists, all they did was offer lip service, and since Sinŭiju is a border city it was full of people who’d made their living by kissing Japanese Imperialist ass. There were a ton of you churchgoers, too—they don’t call Sinŭiju the Jerusalem of Chosŏn for nothing. There never were a lot of tenants in that area, just lots of traders and landed farmers. Everyone was pretty well-to-do, so there were plenty of schools, lots of students. Anyway, those who claimed to be Communists may have made the blunders, shooting their guns like that, but you churchgoers have got to admit—you did egg them on.

  You guys may have had no idea what anti-trusteeship and pro-trusteeship was all about, but we studied it systematically—we knew it through and through. You know and the whole world knows that America and Russia are both just full of big noses. Their official goal was eliminating the “temporary military measure” of the thirty-eighth parallel and supporting Chosŏn’s bid for independence, but the truth is, what they really wanted was to gobble up the entire peninsula—neither one was willing to settle for half. Trying to reduce Russia’s influence to a fourth of what it was, the Americans tried siding with China and England. Russia, though—Russia maintained confidence in the people of her former colony and changed the proposition at the Moscow Conference to help establish the Chosŏn Provisional Democratic Government. They said officially that Chosŏn should be an independent nation. It was all or nothing for a while, but then the Americans and Russians decided to compromise, at least for the time being. Depending on how we did, we could always use the foreign powers to unify our country three years down the line. You people keep wanting things to be either good or evil, but our philosophy is that reality is what matters most. You chose to be idealistic and went for anti-trusteeship, but we were pro-trusteeship. The American military government based in South Korea assessed the situation and decided to begin by securing the South. Pretty soon their propaganda was everywhere, claiming that Russia was for the trusteeship while America was against it. By then, even the anti-Japanese faction was divided about trusteeship. I still remember what the insider documents used to say in those days:

  “We must commit ourselves to the cla
ss struggle ever more forcefully. All known Rightists are pro-Japanese, landowners, capitalists and puppets controlled by America, other enemies of the People, and reactionaries in the South. A democratic base must be established in the North in order to demolish the foreign powers and other enemies of the class. All arable land and forests in the possession of Japanese and Chosŏn landowners, traitors of the people, must be nationalized. With the introduction of land reform, the tenant system must be abolished and the land freely distributed to farmers.

  In January, the farmer’s off-season, each district received instructions to select a representative for the farmers and send him to Pyongyang. The notice said that the class principle had to be observed in the selection, too. Each district chose, as they understood they should, from the tenants, servants, and daily laborers, and those representatives were sent up to the central government. Illang was selected to be Ch’ansaemgol’s representative, so he went on up to Pyongyang. When the provisional People’s Committee was first formed, I, too, went up to the central government to attend training sessions on founding local Party cells. The issue we all thought about most was class struggle. And then the Independence Day incident broke out. Our political position on the issue was simple.

  Democratic social reform in the North had to be carried out under conditions of violent class struggle. The disintegrated landowner class and the Japanese collaborators, the remnants of the bourgeoisie and bureaucrats, the institution of the Church and a number of specific Protestant ministers who had long been on intimate terms with foreign missionaries and were none other than the harbingers of American invasion were identified as the reactionary powerhouses of the country. These categories often overlapped, and the most readily identifiable common element was Christianity.

  You know, in the old days, if you went to the marketplace and entered a pottery shop, you’d probably have seen a malformed pot or two. The irregularities happen after the lump of clay has been formed into a pot, probably from some mistake in the drying process. Anyway, in the end, what you’ve got was a defective pot. These pots, they were never thrown away—they just got sold for half the price. The nicely shaped, well-made pots cost several times more. Really rich folk would even buy ceramics that had colored glazes and elaborate designs. The defective pots were for the poor. Placed in a sunny spot in a three-room, straw-thatched hut, they would be used to keep soy sauce or kimchi, food you saved to eat during the long winter days. You know, even when a poor family somehow moved on up in the world, they always held on to those ugly pots, passing them down as family heirlooms.

  You see, the poor people and needy farmers of Chosŏn—they were the ugly pots, bashed in by the Japanese. To hold them up, to display them as something precious—that’s been the position of our class. You people, you people just want to smash them to bits and be rid of them.

  At first we had no idea what was happening to our village. We were still hiding out in the mud dugout because of what happened at Sŏbu Church in Chaeryŏng. Myŏngsŏn and her younger sister, Chinsŏn, would take turns bringing us food. One day, Myŏngsŏn came and told us someone wanted to meet us. It turned out to be Pongsu, the oldest son of the man who owned the rice mill in town. He’d graduated from a commercial high school in Pyongyang, where he ran a huge general store that bought and sold local products. Then, during the Japanese occupation, he moved back home. He’d been there in his hometown when the country was liberated. He was known for being generous with his money, and the man could definitely hold his liquor—on the other hand I guess some might have called him a libertine or a womanizer. Sangho and I knew him from when we were kids. He moved up to Pyongyang right after he graduated from elementary school, but he always came down for vacations. We were never really that close, but when we joined the Democratic Party and formed the Youth Corps after liberation, he became a leader among the young men in town. When Myŏngsŏn brought us his message, he was already on the run—he’d had a hand in the raiding and burning of the People’s Committee office. We’d just assumed he’d run to Pyongyang or Haeju. Sangho and I left the dugout and made our way to the funeral house on the outskirts of the village. It was an open shed on the hillside where they stored the funeral bier, near the three-way fork in the main road. As we groped our way along in the dark, we heard someone clearing his throat.

  Is that you, Pongsu?

  Yeah, come on up.

  It was so dark inside the funeral house that we couldn’t see a thing. Pongsu struck a match and lit a candle. It was a pathetic stump of a candle stuck to a wooden shelf. Wearing a suit and standing next to a packed knapsack, Pongsu turned to us.

  I hear you guys went to Chaeryŏng and raised hell—that right? If we’re going to establish a nation of God, we’re going to have to chase out every last Commie bastard.

  The boys from the peacekeeping troops are swarming all over the place out there, red in the eyes, saying they’re gonna get you! What the hell are you doing here?

  Pongsu responded to my frantic question by laughing out loud.

  What do you mean “get me”? Haven’t you heard the talk? We turned Pyongyang inside out!

  We heard there were bombs going off all over the place.

  You heard right. We got quite a lot of help from the South—they sent friends. I’m actually on my way down to South Korea right now—I’ll be crossing the thirty-eighth parallel. Anyway, that’s part of the reason I asked to see you—we need the Christian Youth to organize, underground. We’ll be sending up some more men.

  It’ll be quieting down soon. When it does, the men we already have in Sinch’ŏn, Chaeryŏng, and Ŭnnyul alone will make quite a force, Sangho said.

  Once again, Pongsu laughed.

  You kids still have no idea what’s gong on out there in the real world, do you? No way is it ever going to quiet down. They’ve just declared that they’re going to start enforcing this land reform business. North Korea is like a beehive someone poked with a stick. Anyone who lived well under Japanese rule, anyone who had land—anyone at all—is now being considered a reactionary.

  Pongsu glanced at his watch and got to his feet, hoisting the knapsack onto his back.

  Got to go. Don’t forget what I said. When the men come up from the South, they’ll be sent to you.

  Suddenly, in the darkness outside the funeral house, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Pongsu hurriedly blew the candle out and climbed down. Following him, we spotted two men waiting at the bottom of the hill. Pongsu ran down before us and exchanged a few words with them. He introduced us:

  These men are our fellow soldiers from the South. Say hello.

  Sangho and I shook hands with the two men, but it was impossible to make out their faces in the dark. The one shaking my hand spoke.

  I’m from Hwanghae Province, too.

  Pongsu and the two young men disappeared into the darkness. As dawn broke over the hills, Sangho and I boldly went down into the village, strutting along with a derring-do kind of bravado. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. At the mouth of the village we ran into a neighbor, taking his cow to pasture as usual. When we bowed to him, he spoke first.

  Your father, he’s back home now, isn’t he?

  Has he been away?

  Oh, I guess you didn’t know—he was taken to town, to the police station.

  That’s when Sangho and I finally grasped that something awful must have happened in the village while we were away. The first person I saw when I got to our front yard was Mother at the well.

  Mother, has something happened to us, to our family?

  Oh Lord, something, something indeed.

  She grabbed hold of me and her eyes began to well up.

  Where’s Father gone to?

  The neighbors just went and carried him back from town.

  In accordance with the Land Reform Order, issued nationwide on March 5, our father had officially become a personage who merited “close surveillance.” At the Farmers’ Rally, held three days later on March 8 in Sin
ch’ŏn, he was identified as a reactionary. There were about a dozen big landowners in Namuribŏl, Chaeryŏng, and our area, Ŏruribŏl, but most of them had fled South after the formation of the thirty-eighth parallel. Those who remained owned about ten thousand p’yŏng30 each, including rice paddies, fields, and orchards. When the Land Reform Order was first issued, only those who possessed more than fifteen thousand p’yŏng31 were to have their land confiscated, but very little time passed before the order was broadened to include any and all land tilled by tenant farmers. The land that had been left behind by the Japanese was, of course, the property of the state, and any land in a given village tainted by the slightest trace of Japanese collaboration was also unconditionally confiscated. Among the old-time landowners who had chosen to stay, hoping to weather the storm, those with over fifteen thousand p’yŏng were branded as reactionaries and banished to a distance of one hundred ri32 from their former homes. While confiscating land that had belonged to landlords and distributing it to tenants might have seemed logical, confiscating the land of one independent farmer to give to another independent farmer in the name of fair distribution ended up turning the entire population into tenants of the state. “Blind confiscation” and “blind distribution,” they called it, but the twelve thousand p’yŏng of rice paddies that had once belonged to our family was cut down to five thousand overnight. Seven thousand had been farmed by tenants, they declared, and besides, they were unhappy with the fact that Father had worked as a clerk for the Oriental Development Company. At least at that point they couldn’t yet openly persecute him for being a presbyter at the church—compared to what they did to Sangho’s family, we were getting off easy. They hung a sign that read “Wicked Landowner” around Sangho’s father’s neck and dragged him around town. Then they tried him before a kangaroo court and locked him up. Their excuse was that he had been uncooperative about following the Land Reform Order. Our father had agreed to limit his claims to the land the government parceled out to us and obediently stamped his tojang on the document. He was released. When I entered the room, Father was lying on the floor, huddled under a blanket. His hair looked like a magpie nest, and the rims of his eyes were bruised to a dark blue. His lips, too, were cracked and black.