by T'aejun Yi
What will happen? Soon the chairman Kayama will introduce me. In front of all these breathtaking, high-ranking officials and army officers, the executives of the Patriotic Writers Association will have to look for me and call out my name, which is not even Japanese!
He hears someone coming down from upstairs. Hyŏn slips into the toilets. There is the slap, slap sound of a sword approaching. Whoever it is also seems to be heading toward the toilets. It could well be that lieutenant colonel, a compatriot no less, who had once threatened our writers in the dining hall of this same Municipal Center with the words, “This sword will show no forgiveness to the throats of those who are not loyal imperial subjects.” Hyŏn quickly enters one of the stalls. It takes quite some time before the protagonist with the sword finishes urinating and goes out again. Immediately new footsteps enter. There is no reason anyone might glance inside the stall, but Hyŏn freezes, just like the time he had bumped into the station sergeant on the hill as he was heading off to fish. The toilets are flush operated but still reek a humid and toxic smell. Hyŏn takes out a cigarette to smoke. It’s hard to suppress a wry smile as he considers the fact that the toilet stall is not the kind of place you wish to stay once your business is done; even in a prison or police cell it would not be this narrow nor the air this foul. Up on the third floor way above, applause rings out. And then, silence. After a while Hyŏn leaves the building. Deciding to let things be, he flees bareheaded to a friend’s house in Sŏngbuk-dong, far from the city center.
As it turned out, Hyŏn did not go unrewarded for his trip to Seoul. Now that Hyŏn had helped him fix his watch, Kanemura had become quite genial, where before he had been stiff and refused to properly acknowledge greetings, and the postmaster, station sergeant, and mayor all seemed to have a higher opinion of Hyŏn now that he had received three telegrams from the organizers of the writers rally, to the point where they would greet him of their own accord, and Hyŏn could walk around without hiding his fishing gear from their view.
For Hyŏn, fishing was truly a kind of oriental pastime; perhaps this was because he still used oriental gear and methods. Sometimes when it was so quiet that he yearned for the float to quiver, he would doze off with his mind in the river, and when he occasionally felt like mumbling a verse in his croaky voice, a short sijo or a Chinese poem would seem more fitting than one of the new-style poems.
In a small hamlet at the foot of a mountain,
A bell hangs from an official’s pavilion.
He peruses books in the midst of birdsong,
Hears petitions before falling blossom,
With a salary so small, he’s but a poor servant,
But a body so free, he’s a walking wizard.
Having newly joined a fishing party,
Half the month is spent down by the river.
Since moving to the countryside Hyŏn had taken to humming this poem whenever the fancy took him. One day, during a discussion about writing with Headmaster Kim, the subject of old steles had arisen, and, afterward, having nothing better to do, they had walked down to the entrance of the village to look at the steles commemorating county magistrates. Hyŏn was pleasantly surprised to discover that the very first stele commemorated the poet Taesan Kangjin, who was known as the inheritor of the tradition of the four great poets from the late Chosŏn era and who had once stayed here as a county magistrate. On his way home Hyŏn had stopped by Kim’s house and borrowed the two volumes of Taesan’s collected writings only to discover that most of his midcareer works had been written in this very mountain hamlet and that hardly a known place was missing from the title lines of the poet-magistrate’s poems: there was Full View Mountain where Hyŏn would sometimes climb, his fishing haunt Nine Dragon Pond, and the hamlet of so-called Closed Doors where the loyal Koryŏ minister Hŏ had lived in seclusion after the fall of the dynasty. Taesan seemed satisfied with a post in the mountains and had early on admired the style of Tang poet Han Yu, who had once written to a friend, “Go make your home amidst the mountains and rivers, And read in the woods of pine and cinnamon.” Whether reading in the midst of birdsong or settling the people’s disagreements before scattering blossom, this poem sang the praises of a leisurely life on a small salary and of spending half of each month in the company of fellow fishermen by the river. If an official’s life were always like this, there would have been no need for the Jin poet Tao Yuanming to resign his official post at Pengze. A post that allowed one to sing to the wind and the moon could provide a life as literary as that earned by deciding to cast off official clothing and return to the fields and gardens.
He peruses books in the midst of birdsong, hears petitions before falling blossom! It’s our contemporary politicians’ misfortune not to be able to experience such graceful governance. But will such a world ever come again? It’s surely a misfortune for contemporary writers that we cannot spend our time singing to the wind and the moon. But will there ever come a time when literature can consist of singing to the wind and the moon once more? Then again, perhaps there’s no need for such a world, which might not provide either the life or glory to which our contemporary politicians and artists aspire?
Even though Hyŏn tended to recite Taesan’s poem from time to time as a kind of habit, this was something akin to the pleasure of fondling an antique from dynastic times, and he did not feel that it held any connection to his current literary life.
But what is the literary road that I have traveled? Has my work really been so different from the leisurely literature of feudal times?
Such thoughts had bothered Hyŏn even before he had read the works of poets from previous ages, such as Kang Taesan, and even before he had more time to examine himself now that he had stopped writing and taken refuge in the village. To this date his literary oeuvre had mostly focused on the personal realm. It was not so much that he had limited himself to the personal things that he enjoyed, but that in feeling the suffering of the nation more sharply than the issue of class he had felt some resistance toward the Left with their predilection for that very issue of class. Nevertheless, when it came to direct confrontation with Japanese imperial policies toward the Korean people, the literary ranks in Korea as a whole, including Hyŏn, were far too weak and isolated internationally. Occasionally the pressures of reality would set light to a rage inside of him, but under the extreme censorship regime he had no choice but to submit; the only path that seemed open led to a world of resignation.
So, what am I to write now? Japan will surely lose. I must prepare myself! But what if Japan does not lose? Literature and culture are not the most serious problems in Korea. The Korean language is becoming so distant that this will lead ultimately to the annihilation not just of the language but of the very character of the nation. Will history really allow this terrifying plot of Japanese militarism to succeed?
Hyŏn kept insisting to his wife and Kim that it would take a year from now at the most, but when alone with his own thoughts he was unsettled by the vague nature of the information they were receiving. Yet his fears of what would happen were the fascist states to win would soon disappear. The ousting of Mussolini, the opening up of a second front, the fall of Saipan … even the little reported by the Japanese newspapers seemed to suggest the course of the war had already been decided.
Hyŏn still could not pick up his pen. He could not find the peace of mind to read other people’s works, let alone write his own. He could sit on the riverbank and recite “He peruses books in the midst of birdsong, Hears petitions before falling blossom,” but the great works of European literature would simply not enter his head, and he remained stalled on the final volume of War and Peace, which he had been rereading for more than a year now. No sooner did he step into the house than he had to worry about rice, firewood, and the holes appearing in the floor, about the inconvenience of the kitchen, the lack of shoes, clothes, and medicine, and, later on, that the money borrowed on their house, which they thought would last three years, had all been spent in less than a y
ear. It was not even certain that he was safe from conscription, since a new law forming a National Volunteer Force had been decreed, which targeted all men up to the age of sixty. One day he was called to the substation. Instead of receiving a notice, this time a boy had simply shown up at his house with the news, but this did nothing to decrease the anxiety and unpleasantness. At least he did not have to wait until the next day to ease that anxiety, as he had in Seoul, but could run over there immediately to find out what was going on.
The station was packed full of people from the village to the point where he could not even get through the door. At first he watched on quietly, thinking his own case must be in some way connected. It turned out the villagers had come to appeal to the township for food rations: after all, what were they supposed to live on when they received no rations as farmers but all the wheat and barley they harvested was taken away, right down to the very seeds; and despite all the talk of increasing production and fulfilling quotas, how could they farm without eating themselves, and how could they deliver grape vines, pine knots, and oak bark if they could not feed themselves? The station sergeant merely snickered in response, but adopted a more dignified expression when he caught sight of Hyŏn and came outside.
“You didn’t go fishing today?’
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were exempted from serving in the Civil Defense Forces and Anti-Communist Watch so that you could write for the country, but unfortunately rumors are circulating that all you do is go fishing. I was at the head office yesterday and they kept pressing me to tell them who it is that they can see from the bus, the man who has so much free time that all he does is fish. Now let me suggest that you refrain from fishing again until our Japanese Empire has attained its final victory.”
Hyŏn had no option but to apologize, “Oh, is that so? I’m sorry.”
“And haven’t you missed all of our sending off parties, when our soldiers leave for the front?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to attend in the future.”
Hyŏn felt depression setting in.
Now that the first rains had passed, the fish would be fattening up and on the move. This ban was being enforced at exactly the best time of year to be by the river. He packed up his fishing gear and put it away on the shelf, and from then on meeting with Kim became the order of his day. Talk would naturally turn to the current situation—with Germany already destroyed and Japan facing the enemy as close to home as Okinawa, they were inclined to be optimistic and dream of the day when Korea would gain independence.
“Did you say the country is going to be called Koryŏ?”
Hyŏn had once told Kim what he’d heard in Seoul.
“That’s what they say, the Republic of Koryŏ.”
“And why would they choose Koryŏ?”
“Apparently Koryŏ is better known than Chosŏn or Taehan overseas. What name would you choose, Headmaster?”
“I’m not so bothered about the name, I just want independence as soon as possible. But since you ask, I would prefer Taehan, Great Han.”
“Taehan! But wasn’t that name used only briefly at the end of the Yi dynasty, when the country was on the brink of ruin?”
“Yes, I know. But it was the court that chose that name, just like Silla or Koryŏ.”
“But what does that mean when we’re no longer living in the age of the Yi kings? Of course, the court or the king always chose the country’s name, according to their rise and fall just as you say, but our nation has been called Chosŏn—“Morning Beauty”—from the beginning of time, hasn’t it?”
“Well, that’s true. In the Chronicles we see Old Chosŏn and Wiman Chosŏn, so the name Chosŏn pops up all over the place, but still, I think …”
Kim had been lying down and smoking his pipe, but now he sat up.
“I think I would like to return to the name we used before, to Great Han, and to serve King Yŏngch’in, and I would like him to marry a Korean woman so that I could live under the Chŏnju Yi dynasty once again.”
“Do you really miss the previous dynasty that much?”
“It’s not simply that I miss it. And it’s not just that ordinary people like us should only serve one king. I’d like to show those foreigners that we can revive Great Han and get our own back on them.”
“So you’d like to be Governor General in Japan?”
They laughed merrily.
“Well, whether it’s the Republic of Koryŏ or whatever it is, do we have an army? Have we been recognized by the Allies?”
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but they say that war has been declared on Japan and that there’s an army of more than three hundred thousand soldiers altogether, led by Kim Il Sung, Kim Wŏnbong, and Yi Ch’ŏngch’ŏn.”
“Three hundred thousand! Now that’s a proper army! In the old days a hundred thousand was considered a lot! It will be quite some spectacle when independence comes and our government returns to the country! It’s been worth living this long after all.”
Kim lit up his pipe again. In the smoke that wafted up before him he pictured the fine men of our government in their splendid uniforms, escorted by a grand army of three hundred thousand men. Tears soon welled up in his eyes, and he let out a sigh that could only suggest the depth of emotion in his heart.
Not long after, Kim was called to the substation. It turned out that the magistrate had called the district police asking for Kim to go to the county office. The following day Kim had made the seventy-ri journey by bus. The magistrate had greeted him warmly and treated him to dinner at his official residence before speaking as follows.
“Why didn’t you attend the Provincial Confucian Scholars Assembly in Ch’unch’ŏn last month?”
“Is that why you asked me to come here?”
“No. There is something else that I have to say.”
“Then, please say it.”
“This is more important than an assembly that’s already been and gone … as both you and I well know, Headmaster Kim, the current situation will not allow anyone to stand on the sidelines. I am sorry to say this to someone of your years, but sometimes you seem just a little too old-fashioned and that goes against the current trend. Don’t they say that even a sage should follow the customs of the times?”
“And so?”
“The county will be organizing some classes in the national language and the imperial spirit before the upcoming National Confucian Assembly. I’m sorry to say this, but please shave your head before coming to the classes and get yourself a wartime uniform, as you will need it when you attend the assembly.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“That’s it.”
“Mr. Satō, as you well know I am a Confucian scholar. What kind of Confucian scholar fails to uphold the words of the sages, who clearly stated that our whole bodies are received from our parents? What kind of Confucian Assembly would that be? I did not take on the role of headmaster of the village school for the title only. I accepted the position because of my duty as a student of the sages and because there was no one else there who could perform the spring and autumn rites properly. Telling me to cut my hair, to learn Japanese when I’ve already lost all my teeth, to change the color of my clothes, you might just as well tell me to give up my position, and I do understand that is what you are saying.”
Kim had left shortly after, but within four days he was called to the substation again. There had been another phone call from the district office, but this time telling him to go to the police station. He dropped by Hyŏn’s house on his way.
“Hyŏn? It looks as if those bastards are going to try to force me.”
“Mmm. They’re getting desperate in their final days, so please just try to avoid any kind of confrontation.”
“What if I don’t go?”
“That’s no good. At the moment they have no excuse to detain you, but if they were to throw you in prison and shave your head for defying official orders, it would be like 1919 all
over again.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Hyŏn.”
The next day Kim left for the district office; three days later he still had not returned. The following day was August 15.
As there was no radio, and even the newspapers took two or three days to reach this place, Hyŏn passed the whole day without hearing about the history-making “August 15.” He suspected something was up on the following day, when he received a telegram from a friend in Seoul telling him to hurry to the capital, but when he went to the substation to obtain a travel permit and try to figure out what was going on, the constable and station sergeant acted as if nothing unusual had happened. Even when he delicately asked Kanemura why Kim had not returned, he received the following reply:
“Stubborn old men like him should be left to sweat it out a bit!”
“So does that mean he’s been detained?”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that. Don’t go around spreading needless rumors.”
It seemed as if nothing had changed at all.
Hurry to the capital, what could it mean?
Hyŏn wondered as he waited for the bus, which arrived earlier than usual that day. He boarded, noting yet again the absence of any sign of Kim.
None of the other passengers looked familiar to him. Most of them were wearing the wartime uniform, and no one showed any sign that something unusual might have happened. After about forty ri they met the bus coming from the opposite direction. Hyŏn’s driver held up his hand and the two buses stopped alongside each other.