by T'aejun Yi
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t the newspapers made it to Ch’ŏlwŏn?”
“Well, yesterday’s broadcast was correct.”
“We could hardly hear because of the interference. But they say it’s unconditional surrender?”
At this point Hyŏn jumped up from his cramped seat.
“What did you say?”
“They’re saying the war is over.”
“What? The war?”
“It’s over now.”
“Over! How?”
“Well I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Japan has finally lost. When you get to Ch’ŏlwŏn you can read about it in the papers.”
With this, the other driver moved on. Hyŏn fell back into his seat as his driver suddenly pressed a foot down on the accelerator.
So I was right! What was meant to come has come! This tedious affair …
Hyŏn’s nose twitched, and he blinked as he looked around the bus. None of the passengers appeared to be Japanese, and yet nobody seemed interested.
“Did you all hear what the drivers just said?”
They looked around at each other, but no one replied.
“If Japan has lost the war, then can you imagine what this means for our country?”
Only then came a reply, from an older man wearing Korean clothing at that.
“Well, whatever it means, we can’t do much about it, can we? What kind of a world do you think this is, to talk about something we don’t know is certain?”
The driver had been cheerily chatting away up to this point, but now his tired, wrinkled face and sunken eyes were focused on driving the bus as he spoke, “That’s right. It’s too scary to even ask whether it’s true or not.”
Hyŏn’s head sank. The sad sight of his spiritless countrymen made him want to cry more than celebrate Korea’s independence.
Am I dreaming?
When he reached Ch’ŏlwŏn and read the Keijō Daily, he discovered it was not a dream. He immediately began to visit everyone he knew, grasping them firmly by the hand and even crying with them out loud. He gazed up at the clear sky dotted with clusters of clouds, looking just like gourd flowers, and he looked at the grain growing profusely from the earth and at the lush green shade of the trees, and he wanted to bow before each and every one, to jump and to shout out with joy.
At dawn on the seventeenth Hyŏn squeezed into the crowded back of a truck, full of people instead of its usual grit, and traveled up to Seoul, all the while debating who should be president and who head of the army, and shouting himself hoarse with cheers for independence at each stop, where the T’aegŭkki flags would be flapping amidst a flurry of excitement and he became increasingly anxious that he wouldn’t make it in time for the National Construction Rally, which was due to start at ten that morning.
Yet, what was going on when he reached Ch’ŏngnyangni? Against all expectations, in Seoul people were calm and hardly a flag was to be seen. He went into the city only to find the venomous Japanese soldiers still posted at strategic points on every street, ready to react at any moment with their sharp weapons, and the tone of the Keijō Daily measured as always.
He rushed to see the friend who had sent the telegram. Before they had even finished shaking hands, Hyŏn asked where the rally was to take place, but his friend didn’t know. When Hyŏn asked where the main figures of the government were, who had supposedly arrived earlier by airplane, again his friend couldn’t answer. But when Hyŏn asked whether Japan had really surrendered, the friend said that was true at least. Exhausted, Hyŏn collapsed in a chair and tried to clear his mind for the first time in some hours. Then his friend recounted the gist of events in Seoul over the two days that had passed since August 15.
Hyŏn was frustrated by the state of affairs in Seoul. The city seemed to be in disorder, and people were behaving rashly: the Government General and Japanese army still held power over the Korean people, and though the Provisional Government had either returned from overseas that morning or might arrive in the evening, in the meantime others were impatiently pushing their own plans for rebuilding the country without consultation. In the cultural realm too, various groups were rushing around and hastily hoisting placards as if this were their chance to reap advantage from the confusion, when Hyŏn, for one, could hardly tell dream from reality and most of the other writers and artists had yet to return from the countryside. Hyŏn was even more concerned to hear that most of those rushing to raise banners and organize groups were the leftist writers of old; he sensed a danger that with the leftists now able to do as they please and dominate not only literary society but the country as a whole, the nation could collapse in self-destructive strife. The danger seemed so real that Hyŏn decided this was no time to sit still and visited the newly formed Central Council for the Building of Korean Culture. A few of his close friends from the Group of Nine and the journal Writing were involved, but the main roles were taken by former leftist writers and critics. When he arrived, they were in the midst of rewriting the proclamation that was to form the council’s basis. Hyŏn cautiously read through the first draft. He then read it a second and a third time. He was on the lookout for signs of hypocrisy in their expression or actions, but found himself quietly surprised.
Have they really prepared this sincerely for the situation here in Korea?
He found that he agreed with them on all points in both their attitude and declarations. Their first slogans called for the “Liberation of Korean culture, Building of Korean culture, and a Unified Cultural Front.” They vowed to “work toward order in every field and unified communication in the current cultural realm until such time as our future government can establish cultural and artistic policies and the institutions to carry them out.” Above all, Hyŏn felt the urgency of establishing principles for the nation’s future based on unified action between Left and Right, and he had been worried that the leftist writers would disrupt any such attempt. In fact, he had even harbored feelings of hatred toward them, but this had turned out to be his own unfounded fear. It was too soon for more concrete plans, but simply the fact that they were not making class revolution a priority suggested not so much hesitation or caution as a considerable degree of self-criticism and deep consideration of the relationship between Korea and international players; without such consideration the leftists would not have been able to satisfy themselves with such a simple attitude and principles. Hyŏn was relieved and happy to add his signature to their proclamation.
However, he was not to remain relaxed for long. All the fluttering banners and songs reaching the street from the council building were phrased along the lines of “Power to the people.” This might well hold a certain truth, but it was just all too soon for the ears of the common people. They had yearned so heavily for a country, for Great Han, and for a government and heroes, all of which had hovered enchantingly like a mirage over the ocean, and now they even rejected the rights that were their due, so captivated had they been by these dazzling fantasies and emotions. On more than one occasion it seemed to Hyŏn that the shouts of “Power to the people” originated in a habitual communism rather than democracy, and even though “to the people” did not sound either particularly new or dangerous in the current situation, especially when he recalled how those like Hugo had already shouted “to the people not the subjects” in a previous age, he was still cautious, and the majority of his friends and seniors who truly cared about him were quietly rather worried about his joining such ranks. On top of this, in all objectivity, the political situation was growing more complicated by the day. The Provisional Government barely made an appearance even as individuals, let alone in the grand fashion for which the people had so yearned; and while rumor had it that in the North the Soviet army had thoroughly expunged the Japanese troops and begun a total purge of the foreign enemy, which revealed a true understanding of the deep enmity that pierced Koreans to the bone; the U.S. army
, on the other hand, had ignored the people’s expectations and even distributed cordial leaflets to the Japanese, which allowed the Government General and the Japanese army to adopt a position that seemed to say, “Look at this, Japan is still a partner of the United States, countries like yours count for nothing.” Meanwhile, on the Korean side there appeared first the People’s Republic, an organization that would surely clash with foreign powers in the future, and eventually the Proletarian Arts Federation, which was made up of leftist writers only and clearly opposed to the Central Council for the Building of Korean Culture.
At first Hyŏn and others with the Central Council had tried to dismiss the Proletarian Federation, saying that “neither this age nor history would allow for its separate existence,” but they all knew that this one immediate problem would need to be solved if they were sincere about a united cultural front. What Hyŏn found even more unpleasant was the fact that the basic principles in the Proletarian Federation’s proclamation barely differed from those of the Central Council, with the result that he could not help but feel that the leftist writers of old did not want to join the literature section, for which he was responsible, simply because they had opposed each other in the past. One day, a few friends on the Right had quietly pulled him aside, as if they had been expecting the appearance of the Proletarian Federation all along.
“It’s not that we are unaware of your true intentions. But you won’t survive there in the end. It will all come to nothing. In the final instance, some of them are on the Proletarian Federation’s side and not yours. If you’re going to be left behind in the end anyway, why not get out now and join with us? What’s the point of facing the embarrassment of such an awkward situation?”
Hyŏn left them, having acknowledged only that there was room for more reflection at this point. The very next day a demonstration led by a popular leftist organization passed through the street of Chongno. Red flags fluttered all over, but none of the other Allies’ flags could be seen. In the procession people were singing “The Red Flag.” The crowds in the street did not warm to the demonstration. It was only from the building of the Central Council that passionate applause and cheers for the demonstrators could be heard, and then a fairly high-ranking council member went to the pile of Allied flags, which had been prepared to welcome the Allied troops upon their arrival, untied the Soviet flags only, and carried an armful up to the fourth floor, from where he sprinkled them over the procession. The whole street turned red. Hyŏn immediately leapt up to stop him. He also blocked the way when the man tried to go back down to get more flags.
“Please, just calm down.”
“What is there to be calm about?”
Their eyes met like daggers. To make matters worse, the young writers standing to one side all looked at Hyŏn with disgust and stamped their feet to applaud and cheer the leftist demonstration when they were no longer able to throw down more red flags. Once the procession had passed, no one would go anywhere near Hyŏn. He left the building feeling terribly isolated. But he also felt confident that he would be able to gather an equal number of supporters for a cultural or literary group, were he to split from this group.
But …
But …
He mulled over events until dawn. The next day he didn’t go to the council building.
Should I work only with those who share my views? But what would such self-centered action achieve in the face of this enormous new reality? The freedom and independence of the new Korea must also be the freedom and independence of the masses. My conscience tells me that instead of failing to understand their passion for a mass movement, I should learn from it, encourage it, and try to support it with whatever little power I have. I merely want to point out that at this moment in Korea handing out only red flags is no mass movement and that those who support the red flag do not make up the entire masses. If they can’t understand my feelings, or if they misinterpret what I’m saying as simply the words of a reactionary, then how can I work with them?
The next day, too, Hyŏn did not feel like going to the council building and was puttering about at home alone when the flag thrower came to see him.
“Hyŏn, you weren’t pleased the other day, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Hyŏn, let me be honest with you. For how long have our dreams been haunted by the fantasy of a red demonstration? When I saw it actually happening in front of me, I got overexcited and lost all sense of reason. I’m embarrassed now. I was rash. If it hadn’t been for you, our imprudence would have had far wider repercussions. For every ten of us who think the same way, we absolutely need one of you.”
His voice trembled as he finished his speech. They quietly smoked a cigarette together, and then got up and headed to the council in silence.
After the red flag demonstration, the people, including students, intellectuals, and ordinary citizens, clearly began to divide into camps to the Left and the Right. In the evening, Hyŏn’s friends would take him aside to a quiet place. Once again they would plead with him to withdraw from the Central Council, and he would explain at length that, contrary to what they thought, the Central Council was not leaning to any one side. Then, one day, he received a phone call at the council from the friends he had met the previous evening.
“You are either lying or being used, which is what we think is going on. If you want proof, just take a look at the enormous banner that has appeared on the front of that building this morning.”
The caller hung up before Hyŏn could even respond, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste. Hyŏn did not bother asking the people around him. He ran all the way down the stairs to the street and looked up at the front of the four-story building. His surprise was immense. “Absolute Support for the People’s Republic of Korea”—a huge canvas banner extended all the way from the roof down to the second floor, covered entirely by specially written characters, which were larger than those of any previous phrase or slogan. He’d missed it when he entered the building earlier. All the people packed to bursting on the traffic island and the crowds swarming past the Hwasin department store … everyone’s heads were tilted back to look up. Suspicion and unease were written all over their faces. It took Hyŏn about ten minutes to climb back up to the fourth floor. His disappointment was immense at having been betrayed yet again. Neither the president nor the secretary of the council had made an appearance. When the secretary of the literature section entered moments later, Hyŏn took him by the hand and all but dragged him up to the roof.
“Who did this?”
“What is it?”
He too had entered the building with his head down because of the drizzle, and had clearly not taken part in any planning for the banner.
“Did you really not know either?”
“No, really! Who on earth did this?”
“If neither you nor I knew, and we’re both here in the building, then the council members who’ve not arrived yet can’t know either. This is dictatorship. All the talk of a united cultural front is just lies as long as this goes on. I don’t want to believe anything they say any more. I want you to know that I’m leaving.”
Hyŏn turned around, and the secretary blocked his way, flustered.
“Why don’t we find out what really happened first?”
“What’s there to find out?”
“Don’t rush to judgment.”
“There’s no harm in rushing with them. I really didn’t expect that they would promote a mass movement with so little thought.”
“Still, wait a bit. A split today would be suicidal for our cultural figures.”
Hyŏn’s voice rose of its own accord, “Then, why are you doing this?”
“Truly, I didn’t know. But if we don’t expose and correct these kinds of mistakes, then who will?”
Tears welled up in the secretary’s eyes. He ran to the banner, now heavy with rain, and started to haul it up with all his strength, as if he were reeling in an anchor that fell back half as much agai
n with each pull. By now tears had risen to Hyŏn’s eyes as well.
That’s right! The problem is not whether I’m being subjected to ridicule, used, or made to look an idiot. Worrying about such things just shows my own lack of sincerity.
Hyŏn rushed to help the secretary pull in the heavy banner.
Later they found out that neither the president nor the secretary of the council knew about the banner. What had happened was that a member of the secretary’s team had heard an announcement about the People’s Republic and was aware that sentiment within the building veered toward that name; at the same time, the propaganda team in the Art Department had asked whether there were any work orders and so, thinking that such a banner would be necessary eventually, the secretary’s team member had come up with the wording on his own; and then because the propaganda team had thought the phrase simple but important, they had written it across an entire piece of canvas and come in before breakfast to hang the banner, since their responsibility extended to hanging all banners once dry. The council had to spend the next three months explaining a simple banner that had been hung for just three hours from eight until eleven in the morning, and received quite some criticism as a result.
Yet, this had also provided the motivation for them all to become more sincere in their self-reflection and appraisal of the political situation and in working together with the Proletarian Federation.
By this time the U.S. army had arrived, and the Japanese army had withdrawn its gun muzzles from our streets, but the United States had proclaimed its own military government, just as the leaflets distributed earlier had foretold. Anyone was allowed to form a political party, with the result that some fifty to sixty parties had been thrown together overnight. While Dr. Syngman Rhee had appeared amidst wild cheers from the people and declared that all Koreans must stick together no matter what, the national traitors and profiteers had spotted the gaps in our midst and they also stuck together and resumed their activities once more—such as the president of the Japanese-era air company who returned as vice president of the newly formed national airline. The ultimate effect was the opposite of that the doctor had imagined: the people’s minds were not one, but scattered, and doubt began to rule over faith. There was nowhere else for the people’s hopes and expectations to gather other than around the erstwhile members of the Provisional Government, now reduced in status to individuals; the people had yearned for them and fantasized about them for so long that they had even forgotten their own rights. Yet were the members of the Provisional Government really fated to behave a certain way, whether as individuals or a group? During its long exile, the Provisional Government did not have its own people, and now that its members had returned home they did not seem to feel the slightest need to stand up on oil canisters in front of places like the Hwasin department store and talk with the common people. The split with the People’s Republic grew deeper, and, day-by-day, the thirty-eighth parallel choked the country around the waist ever more strongly; robberies increased while prices rose, and just as the people’s nerves had further weakened from the extended excitement, the question of trusteeship arose.