The campaign against the Supreme People’s Assembly representative election, which was to be held on November 3of that year, became the last public movement to be organized by the Christians. It just so happened that the day was a Sunday, and the Joint Presbytery of the Five Provinces of the North held a meeting. They adopted a strong stance against what they saw as the state’s general persecution of the Church. Sunday being a sacred day, there was to be no participation in any kind of public event whatsoever except for church services. All throughout the nation, ministers and churchgoers gathered in their churches and prepared to become martyrs. They refused to participate in the general elections.
We gathered together at Kwangmyŏng Church. Sunnam ordered the place surrounded, and the men who used to be our servants and the boys from the peacekeeping troops did exactly that. Sunnam entered the church all alone. The number of believers had gradually decreased in the months following liberation, so only a few dozen people were in the church that day. All the so-called churchgoers from before—those who used to welcome their minister’s home visits—they were now reluctant to openly attend church services since the beginning of the land reform movement, afraid they might fall into the Party’s bad graces. Unarmed, Sunnam sauntered into the church, his step firm as he took off the work cap he always wore. At the time, our church was run by a preacher named Mr. Kim, someone my father had recruited from the Pyongyang seminary. Mr. Kim was about the same age as Sunnam. Sunnam was in the habit of visiting the church every now and then, but he always addressed the new preacher as “Comrade Kim,” never “Preacher Kim.”
Comrade Kim, isn’t today’s service over yet?
On the preacher’s behalf, my father looked up and replied, We’re in the middle of a prayer meeting. Would you like to join us?
You know very well, sir, that today is election day.
Well, you see, our prayers are not yet finished.
Oho, and to whom do you pray so ardently, sir?
Isn’t it obvious? Where do you think we are? This is God’s sacred temple.
Obviously biting his tongue, Sunnam swept his eyes over the inside of the church, all the way from the top of the ceiling down to the pews. He mumbled, And just where is this God of yours? If He exists, why can’t you show Him to me?
Springing up from his seat, Father pointed at Sunnam and shouted, How dare you! How dare you show such disrespect! This is a holy house of God—
Calm down, sir. Let’s just call a spade a spade, that’s all I’m saying. My point is that I have no trouble seeing the masses that cry out for the sovereign power of the People, but I still can’t seem to spot God anywhere.
You fool. Can you look into your own heart and see your conscience?
Sunnam’s reply was immediate, as if he’d known for a long time that he would one day be asked this exact question.
Just as your heart is different from mine, each of our hearts is different from any other.
And with that, Sunnam turned around and left. We all stayed at the church, praying until well after midnight. At daybreak, Sunnam returned. Though he did not try to reenter the building, he did stand at the gate and call out to us in a resounding voice, his tone soft, This is the last time. I promise not to come anywhere near this village again. It’s just that Sunday is over now, and we’ve left the County Committee office open until dawn, just for you. Come and vote. I will be forced to report the names of those who abstain from performing their civic duty.
That son of a . . .
Clenching my fists, I began to rise from my seat when Father pulled me back down.
Come, come, we must protect the church. We must survive.
Quite a few of the people who stayed at the prayer meeting all through the night went to the county office and voted that morning. On the following day, our preacher was arrested and taken to Haeju before any of us even realized what was happening. A sizeable number of religious workers throughout the country were taken into custody that day. Still, even then, the church continued to be guarded by the true believers, and, above all, the services we held in private homes through individual house calls continued to be quite popular. You see, those home services also doubled as our information network.
A door opened. Tanyŏl’s voice floated out of the dark.
“Uncle, are you out there?”
Sitting on the sofa, Yosŏp turned towards his nephew.
“I’m over here. Why did you get up? You ought to sleep.”
By the time he turned back around, the phantoms were gone. Tanyŏl fumbled with the curtain and drew it aside. The sky outside was turning pearly gray with the break of dawn. Tanyŏl came over and sat down across from his uncle.
“It looks like you had some trouble sleeping.”
“I was thirsty, so I got up for some water.”
His voice still drenched in sleep, Tanyŏl mumbled, “I saw my father in a dream . . . for the first time in my entire life.”
“Oh yeah? How was it?”
“His face wasn’t very frightening, really. He was dressed in white.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He just watched me.”
Yosŏp walked over to the window and listened to the birds twittering. The world was waking up again. Tanyŏl came up and stood by him, looking out the window. The day was still not quite light. Quietly, as if to himself, Tanyŏl spoke.
“To tell you the truth . . . I shouldn’t say this, but . . . ”
Yosŏp waited patiently for his nephew to continue. Tanyŏl’s voice faded into silence even as he said the words.
“Mother prays, every now and again. She has ever since I was a little boy.”
“What kind of prayer?”
“Father’s hands—she said that he stained them with blood, right after she gave birth to me. She said she had to pray for forgiveness.”
“Stained with blood, yes. But . . . ”
Reverend Ryu Yosŏp let out a long sigh and added, “There’s no such thing as a soul beyond redemption.”
6
God, Too, Has Sinned
PARTING THE CLOTH
IT WAS ALREADY AFTER ELEVEN when Yosŏp and his party finally finished breakfast and left the guest house at the hot springs. The Assistant Chief was the only guide to accompany them, and the car and chauffeur were the same ones that had driven them out of Pyongyang. Although the day before had been hot and humid, today’s skies were thick with low-hanging clouds. The clouds weren’t exactly black—they were closer to gray, really, and they were just floating around, clumped together. It didn’t look like the kind of sky that would be content to sprinkle a light shower; once the first drop actually fell, it would probably pour incessantly throughout the entire day.
“I wonder if we’ll finally get some rain today. This heat is just too much. I can’t stand it,” said the Assistant Chief, looking up at the sky as they drove away.
“The radio forecast said it’ll start raining sometime this afternoon or evening,” offered the chauffeur.
“Ah, it’ll be cooling down, then.”
They drove slowly along the dirt road they had traversed the previous day, only picking up speed when they reached the paved highway that connected Pyongyang and Kaesŏng.
“Well, did you relatives enjoy your time together last night?”
The Assistant Chief turned to look around from the passenger seat as he swept one hand back across his neatly combed hair. Yosŏp was watching the buildings. They looked like factories of some kind, and they were whizzing by on the other side of the empty, white cement road. Reading a sign that sat against the side of a hill, he realized it was a pig farm.
“Well, ah, I suppose it’s the kind of meeting that’s bound to be a bit awkward, for both sides.”
The guide’s comments finally registering, Yosŏp nodded hastily.
“I wanted to thank you for yesterday. This young fellow and I’ve become quite close now—isn’t that right?”
Reverend Ryu turned to look at
his nephew, who lowered his head and grinned shyly.
“Comrade Ryu, does your uncle strike you as someone you’ve seen before somewhere? They say that’s how it feels when you’re reunited with a long-lost family member.”
Tanyŏl glanced sideways at Yosŏp’s profile for a second.
“Well, I wouldn’t really know, sir—I’ve never seen my own father.”
“Ah, is that so?”
In an attempt to return the guide’s friendly overtures, Yosŏp tried to do his part to keep the conversation afloat.
“I didn’t see it when we first met, but as I spend more time with him I’ve begun to recognize how much he takes after his father and grandfather.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, in any case . . . we are now on our way to see your sister-in-law, Reverend. How much time do you think you’ll need for the reunion?”
“Hmm . . . ”
Yosŏp decided to answer him with a question of his own.
“It’s been almost fifty years—how could a single day be enough?”
The Assistant Chief turned back to face the front of the car for a moment, apparently giving the issue some thought. He twisted around in his seat once more to address Yosŏp.
“All right. Two days. What do you say?”
“Thank you, thank you very much. But . . . would it be possible to spend the first day with my nephew’s family and the second visiting my uncle?”
“Your uncle . . . was there an uncle?”
The Assistant Chief-cum-tour guide hastily reached for his notebook. It had a blue vinyl cover, and he kept it in his inner jacket pocket—he was constantly checking it to verify this or that. Skimming over a page that was covered in names, running over them with the tip of his ballpoint pen, he came to a stop.
“Well, well, here it is.”
He looked up from the book for a moment, turned back and asked, “But this address here, this is Sinch’ŏn, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Facing the front once more, the guide muttered, “Huh, that means we’ll have to go all the way back. Let me see . . . we’ll send your request up and wait until tomorrow morning to find out whether or not it’s been approved.”
In less than half an hour they were in Sariwŏn, the second largest city in Hwanghae Province. There were high-rise apartment buildings and even two of those department stores—the ones that deal exclusively with foreign shoppers. A sign with red letters spelling out “Rice Cakes” whizzed by outside the car window. A small crowd was gathered out in front of a fish shop. Office workers and laborers were out on their lunch breaks, and so the city center was nearly as crowded as Pyongyang had been. Amazed, Reverend Ryu turned his head this way and that, taking in the sights.
“Actually, hang on—could we stop at a store somewhere?”
“What do you need to buy?”
“I can’t visit my sister-in-law empty-handed, can I?”
At that, the Assistant Chief turned to the chauffeur.
“Over there, at the corner of that intersection. See the store for foreigners?”
The car pulled to a stop, and the Assistant Chief led the way inside, Yosŏp and Tanyŏl following directly on his heels, side by side.
“But Uncle, you’re on vacation—why are you spending money?”
“It’s all right, don’t worry about it. Now, what’s something your mother might like?”
“She likes curly noodles a lot.”
“Curly noodles?”
“You know, those bone-dry noodles.”
Yosŏp finally caught on.
“Ahh, you mean ramen.”
There was a surprisingly large number of customers in the store; each cashier had several people waiting in line. Most of the goods for sale had been made in Japan and China. The whole place was basically an arena for circulating foreign currency. Following his nephew’s advice, Yosŏp bought a box of Japanese ramen. He also bought some clothes for his nephew’s children and a dress from Singapore for his sister-in-law. For his nephew, he bought a thermos and an electronic wristwatch. Then, remembering that he might be visiting his uncle, he decided to get several cartons of cigarettes, too. He started to put the Japanese cigarettes into a bag with the rest of the gifts, then stopped to take two of the cartons out and pack them separately in a vinyl bag—he would give them to the guide and the chauffeur. Just like that, he’d spent several hundred dollars in the blink of an eye. As he got ready to pay, random people around him came rushing up to rummage through his purchases, apparently for the sake of pure entertainment. Yosŏp felt a little flustered. He thought of the huge selections in the gargantuan New York shopping malls with their labyrinthine aisles, of all the times he had wandered around, quite lost, searching for the right exit. In stark contrast, this place was so simple and rudimentary that it seemed almost unreal.
They left the store and went on to make a stop at the city hall to meet the party agent who had brought Tanyŏl to the hotel in Pyongyang two days earlier. The Assistant Chief held his hand out to Yosŏp for a handshake.
“I’ll be saying good-bye here, Reverend, for the time being. We don’t know yet whether you’ll be able to make it to your uncle’s tomorrow, but, well, it should be all right.”
“I’m hoping for the best. Are you returning to Pyongyang?”
“No, I’m staying here tonight. If the order to do so comes down tomorrow, we may be going back to Sinch’ŏn together. The Sariwŏn City Authority will be assigning a guide to take care of you today.”
The new guide, his hair also combed neatly back, was wearing a short-sleeved people’s uniform. His complexion was dark and sunburnt, but he looked younger than Tanyŏl, whose hair was already half white. They changed cars and climbed into a Russian jeep, a vehicle often used by the local government offices. They left the city and drove into the suburbs. The road was, of course, unpaved, and the car jolted back and forth. A cool breeze blew in through the open windows and, following a series of tiny smudges that began to spread across the windshield, a shower of respectably sized raindrops began to fall to the ground.
“Ah, rain. Now the heat is really over,” murmured the guide in the front seat to no one in particular.
“I hope it doesn’t rain too much. The crops need sunny weather to ripen properly, don’t they?”
“Well, we still need some rain for the greens. Vegetable farming is important, too.”
Along either side of the road, fields of corn rippled gently in the wind. Past the cornfields, one could make out rice paddies. They were just starting to turn a ripe golden brown. The corn leaves, waving back and forth in the falling rain, looked positively delighted. As they entered the village, a line of low houses with tile roofs came into view. Every one of them had a waist-high wooden fence out front, painted white. Each household was growing beans, their vines creeping up the fences. Housewives peered out at them over their fences and beans. By the time they reached Tanyŏl’s house and got out of the car, some of the more curious neighbors had actually come out into the street, despite the drizzle. The Sariwŏn guide told them politely to go and mind their own business, but the small crowd stayed where it was, staring at Yosŏp and his suit and tie from every angle. Tanyŏl led the way, opening the latch on the fence and walking into the front yard. Reverend Ryu Yosŏp and the guide followed. From the front yard, they could smell some sort of frying and sautéing going on in the house. A tall, lanky boy in his teens suddenly appeared around the corner.
“Hey, hey, get over here—your granduncle’s arrived.”
Tanyŏl waved the boy over.
“Uncle, this is my oldest.”
“Oh, I see.”
The boy bobbed his head at him, and Yosŏp grabbed both his hands, holding and shaking them as he examined his face. Tanyŏl looked around again.
“Where’s your sister run off to? And your mother?”
“Big Sister’s gone out to the field, ’cause it’s raining. Mother’s cooking in the kitchen, and Grandmother’s inside.”
Apparently having heard the voices clamoring outside, an old woman opened the sliding door to what was probably her room, which had a tiny wooden veranda attached to it. Yosŏp studied her features carefully. She was awfully wrinkled, and her front teeth were now missing, but the narrow chin and the creased eyelids—they were familiar.
“Sister-in-law, it’s me. It’s Yosŏp.”
“What’s that? Why, I can’t . . . am I dreaming or awake? You sure you’re my little brother-in-law?”
“Yes, Sister-in-law, yes I am. I’ve come alone.”
The two reached out for each other simultaneously and, as their fingers interlaced, the sister-in-law let a few of her tears fall onto her brother-inlaw’s hands.
The family feast, the first of its kind in a long, long while, lasted well into the evening. The actual family members consisted of Tanyŏl’s family of four, Yosŏp and his sister-in-law. Also in attendance, however, were the guide and the director of the Management Committee of the Sariwŏn Cooperative Farm, who was also a Party member. Most likely, the people from the farm had lent a hand in getting the food ready. Finding the unfamiliar spices and salty seasoning unpalatable, Yosŏp put down his spoon after a few half-hearted tries. His sister-in-law kept clucking her tongue, worried.
“This—well, toenjang tchigae was always Brother-in-law’s favorite, but we just can’t get good toenjang these days. You just can’t find it any more, not even in the countryside.”
“Ah, come now, he’s traveled all the way from America! I’m sure he’s not interested in toenjang tchigae. . .”
At the words of the committee director, the guide spoke up, his tone all-knowing.
“Oh no, you see, that’s exactly it—all the more reason why he must be hungry for the flavor of his own people. It’s just too bad that koch’ujang34 and toenjang are all factory-made these days. They don’t have that special homemade taste anymore.”
The Guest Page 15