by T'aejun Yi
They set off for the border two days later led by an experienced guide, but because of the third anniversary of Liberation and the upcoming Supreme People’s Assembly elections, security was tight, and they had to abandon the route through Ch’ŏngdan, and go instead around Sibyŏn Village toward Sangnyŏng and Yŏnch’ŏn, before crossing at Hant’an River, which flowed exactly along the thirty-eighth parallel. Thus they managed to reach the South before the anniversary.
3
This evening, once again, a party for American soldiers was being held in Sim Kiho’s house at the foot of Namsan Mountain, judging from the fact that electric cars belonging to the American army had been blocking the lane behind the house since early evening, stretched out in a line from inside the property and making so much noise that the surrounding houses shook with the roar of engines.
In a Seoul that recalled the old capital of Hanyang from the era of the Great Han Empire—the same Han that featured in the country’s name announced by Syngman Rhee—in that the city was lit by oil lamps and candles with the exception of those buildings occupied by the American army, such as the Bando Hotel and Minakai; in this Seoul, Sim Kiho’s house glittered and dazzled once again on this night, from the dining room through to the ballroom and on into the rooms and veranda on the second floor, and even out into the garden, as if to deliberately attract attention.
Although they were cousins, Sim Kiho looked more like Dr. Sim’s brother, with his big, round eyes, double chin, and bald head. Yet, perhaps on account of his rather thin lips and pointed nose, Sim Kiho paid far more attention to detail. He went down to the kitchen himself in order to taste the coffee that was being brewed and the ice cream that was being made, and he even watched on as his daughter and To Mihwa did their makeup and dressed up in ceremonial robes and bridal headgear, comparing the two of them as he did so.
To Mihwa looked by far the most bewitching of the two, while his daughter looked the least experienced. Thinking this would not do, he went back upstairs and called them in separately. He had hired To Mihwa, a dancer recently returned from Shanghai, for tonight’s guest Mr. Wood, who apparently preferred inexperienced young girls now that he had tired of kisaeng. But there was little that seemed inexperienced about To on account of her travails here and there. Worried that Mr. Wood would lay hands on his own innocent daughter, Sim instructed her to alter her usual manner.
“Now these Americans, they think that innocence means ignorance, and they will only respect you as the daughter of a cultured family if you impress them with your refined charm. What I’m saying is that I want you to pay special attention to tonight’s guests.”
Next, he took hold of To Mihwa’s slender hand and spoke as follows,
“Mr. Wood likes his women inexperienced and innocent. You understand? If all goes as planned, then when my friends are released, they’re not likely to forget your efforts.… I guarantee I’ll get you at least a hundred thousand from each of them …”
Two of his colleagues had been caught up in a profiteering incident and sentenced to three years each, despite paying a two-million-won fine. This Mr. Wood was an American belonging to Syngman Rhee’s clique, director of judicial affairs in the military administration, and slated to stay on as Rhee’s personal advisor once the transfer of political power to Syngman Rhee’s government was complete in South Korea, Rhee having been elected president in the May 10 elections. If the likes of Wood could be properly won over, then even someone awaiting the death penalty would be free by the evening, let alone someone whose sentence was only three years, as long as the crime was not of the leftist variety, of course. And if through an event like this party they could seal what is called in English “friendship,” then not only could prisoners be freed but all kinds of possibilities would open up for further profiteering and swindling.
In addition to To Mihwa, seven kisaeng had also arrived, armed with full instructions. At least two high officials from the military administration would accompany Wood to act as interpreters between him and the host. The kisaeng had been booked four days earlier in response to a request by those high officials to call specific girls from a certain kisaeng guild, and then partners for those kisaeng had been ordered too.
In general, Americans liked Korean eggs and beef. Sim Kiho had acquired eggs from a purely native species and hired a chef from a certain Western restaurant to make steaks from beef. Mr. Wood, too, seemed to very much enjoy Korean beef, for he did not refuse a second serving of the steak, which was the size of the palm of one hand. He said it was best cooked only on the outside and left rare on the inside, and when too much blood had gathered around his teeth, he washed them off with a glass of whisky before grabbing a handful of pine nuts in his rough hands and stuffing them into his enormous mouth.
With the seven kisaeng, To Mihwa, and the host’s daughter, there were twice as many women as there were guests. To Mihwa was a sure thing and would tumble into his car soon enough, so Mr. Wood took his cut from the other women first. His wet lips reeked of alcohol and burped up meat juice, while he forced them Hollywood style onto first one woman’s lips and then the nape of another’s neck. Once the first round of dancing was over, everybody moved into the garden. Sim Kiho’s daughter brought out the ice cream and held it under Wood’s chin, all the while shooting him an amorous glance with her lips lightly parted, according to her father’s orders. That was when Mr. Wood took hold of one ear and bent back her decorated head in order to plant a long smacking kiss on her lips, instead of the ice cream. Sim Kiho could do no more than quietly turn the other way and pretend not to have noticed.
“Father?”
It was not his daughter screaming but his son, who came running out of the house in search of him.
“What is it?”
“Uncle’s here from Pyongyang.”
“Pyongyang? Where is he?”
The atmosphere turned tense; no one knew what to say.
“There’s a phone call from Tongdaemun Police Station. Here, can you take it?”
“From Tongdaemun Police Station?”
Following the separate election in the south on May 10, Mayor Chang T’aeksang had implemented a harsh decree in Seoul, according to which anyone walking around in groups of three or more, or who stood still for too long in the street, or who went into the street after six o’clock, would be shot regardless of their motivation, and so when Dr. Sim and Mr. Han Moe had arrived in Tongdaemun after six o’clock in the evening they had unexpectedly heard gunfire from behind and fallen over with fright. The shots were clearly aimed in their direction. There was no time for questions. Nothing suspicious could be found on either of them, nor in the leather bag belonging to one and the paper twine bag belonging to the other, therefore they were spared being trussed up in rope, but they were still dragged off to the Tongdaemun Police Station, and on the way had noticed how deserted the streets were, apart from armed police gathered here and there and the occasional elite car or two rushing past at high speed. This was the scene after six o’clock in this special district of Tongdaemun, where “His Excellency” Syngman Rhee might not have become president had the opposition candidate Ch’oe Nŭngjin not been illegally detained, and where Yi Hwajang was now forming the so-called cabinet.
Han and Dr. Sim felt relieved not to have been hit by a bullet, but they were dumbfounded when they were dragged off to a prison cell.
“Hey? What have we done to be treated like this?”
“No talking.”
“Don’t you know we’ve escaped from the North … there are hundreds of people here in Seoul who can verify our identity!”
“We don’t know anything about that!”
“Then who does?”
“The top guys have all been called up because of the high security alert, who’s got time for interrogations?”
The men were too young to be speaking down to Han and Dr. Sim in this manner; they gruffly asked the two their names before removing all their belongings, including the paper twin
e bag and their belts, and pushing them into a cell. Dr. Sim’s round eyes almost popped out of his head, but he did not say a word for fear they might be bloodthirsty enough to beat him with their guns. It was only after the cell door had been locked with a clank and the guards’ footsteps had not been heard for a while, that he began to complain,
“We’ve not even been in prison in the North …”
The only response came in the form of snorts of ridicule from the others in the cell. Dr. Sim and Han were surprised to find that they could barely find space to place their feet. There were many young men to be sure, but also a fair number of younger boys and old men. None of the scornful faces seemed to belong to thieves or gamblers.
Just who are they to laugh at others when they themselves are in jail, and why are there so many of them?
Dr. Sim and Han did not feel like sitting down calmly, even though there was no room for them to sit anyway. Sim shook the bars of the cell and shouted, “Is this what police do in the South? My first cousin is Sim Kiho. Please phone Sim Kiho.”
Footsteps came stomping toward them. Their purpose was not to respond to Sim, however, but to shove yet another laborer into the cell. Blood was splattered all over this laborer’s upper torso and he gasped for breath, but strangely enough, some of the others in the cell got up and went to him. They called each other “comrade,” just like the young people in the North, and wiped the blood off him. They were talking about signing some petition. Even the young boys and old men in the cell seemed to be concerned about this talk of a petition, and soon they were debating with each other under their breath.
Han knew that a petition meant some kind of a signed letter in aid of what they believed to be right.
I wonder what their petition is in aid of?
He did not have to remain curious for long, because a hint came soon enough. The purpose of their petition was none other than to oppose the so-called National Assembly and government, which was the product of the May 10 separate election forced through by the dispatch of American tanks, bombers, and warships, and to select people’s representatives for the August 25 Unified Supreme People’s Assembly elections, which had been declared illegal in the South. The unified elections were apparently not merely propaganda from the North, but were going ahead in actuality. The flesh of the incarcerated was torn and their collars covered in blood.
Does this mean that people in the South support the North?
Han blinked his small, sharp eyes for a moment, eyes that had been almost singed by the reality of Seoul on the way into the city.
Indiscriminate shooting, indiscriminate arrests, a desperate war of resistance for men and women, old and young …
Han recalled the time he too had been thrown into a police cell for several days during the March First Uprising. He remembered how back then he too had despised the petty criminals who squeezed into the narrow cells, thinking them no better than insects. His fears grew that these bloodied warriors would find out he had escaped from the North alongside someone like Dr. Sim.
But … but … one side is just moving ahead by itself. Instead of encouraging and nurturing a political situation in which South and North might reconcile and be united, one side is going alone and ignoring the other. No matter how worthy the political policies, wouldn’t it be better to first unite and agree to enforce those policies across the entire country? If you step on someone’s toes and keep pushing ahead alone, then who will want to follow from behind? Isn’t that why things keep going wrong …
This was why Han kept saying “but …,” despite the fact that he agreed with all of North Korea’s policies. He calmly adjusted his posture, as if to say I too am no petty criminal, and found a place to sit himself down, if only by squatting.
Each time the guard on duty changed and a new one entered, Dr. Sim would plead in an increasingly frightened voice, “Please call my cousin Sim Kiho.…” But so many people streamed into the cell, one after another, that the guards had no time to listen to Sim’s plaintive cries. Laborers, students, office workers, women, female students, young boys, and old people—soon there was no more room to squeeze them into the cells, and they were dragged off to some room on the second floor.
Eventually Sim wore himself out and tried to sit down, but with buttocks the size of one of those wooden boards used for pounding rice cakes, he inevitably ended up squashing someone’s shoulders. Sim and Han celebrated the much-anticipated third anniversary of the August 15 Liberation in a South Korean police cell without so much as being questioned. Finally, on the seventeenth, one of the guards on the night shift realized how powerful this Sim Kiho was, and for the first time a call went through to his house; the cousin’s power proved effective, for no sooner had the phone call been made than an American soldier had rushed to Tongdaemun in Mr. Wood’s shiny private car, carrying the name card of this giant in the military administration.
As it was already nighttime and too dangerous for Han to set off alone, he had joined Dr. Sim in the car and come to Sim Kiho’s house.
Dr. Sim was most impressed. In fact, he was so impressed it was as if he had already declared coming to the South a success by virtue of having met his cousin after a gap of many years, finding him unchanged in his energetic social climbing from the time of the Japanese occupation, and having shaken hands with such bigwigs from the military administration.
Han had a quick wash before being dragged out to the party in his wrinkled hemp suit. Mr. Wood wanted to meet people from the North and hear about life there.
“He says, how much you must have suffered in the North.”
As soon as they had finished their initial greetings, Mr. Wood spoke through an interpreter.
“Fortunately, we got by.”
Han saw through everything and could not remain quiet. Mr. Wood wiped his glistening lips with his napkin and asked question after question, as if he naturally had the right to speak first.
“I imagine people in the North are also grateful that America has mobilized the United Nations to set up an independent government in Korea?”
Han did not know what to say, and while he hesitated, Dr. Sim gladly cut in to answer in his stead.
“Absolutely. Everyone is secretly most grateful and happy about it.”
“Apparently those guys are holding elections in Pyongyang too, and making noise that their elections are unifying North and South. So how is it up there? I bet they’re treating people harshly, aren’t they?”
“What can I say? If it weren’t so bad, would I have left, having survived so far? But is North Korea being allowed to hold elections here in the South too? People seem to be very active, judging from what we saw at the police station.”
“The United States is here in the South. The United Nations Temporary Commission on Korea is here. So there’s no need to worry. The United States is still the most powerful country in the world, more powerful than the Soviet Union. Just look at France and Britain. And look at China, the largest country in the Orient. Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist Party is still in power. The most important, and the largest and most civilized, countries are all on the U.S. side. So rest assured. It is true that communist elements are holding secret elections here in the South too. But they will most certainly not succeed. How many cannons and bombers does the United States have in China? They’re not far away. Politics should be run by the right people and not by some laborers.”
Mr. Wood waited for the interpreter to finish before stroking his fat belly as he first guffawed and then drank, or rather emptied, the contents of a glass about the size of an eyeglass lens, and then the most fantastic question fell from his lips.
“I heard that life is so hard in Pyongyang that dozens of people are drowning themselves in the Taedong River every day? You must have witnessed such tragic scenes many times!”
Even the shameless Dr. Sim’s lips froze, and he glanced over at Han. Han quickly examined Mr. Wood’s face; inside those sunken eyes pupils shone with vigor, as if he w
ere not merely asking a question but exerting pressure for an answer, which would at the very least affirm that he already knew everything but which might possibly do something more than that. Those sinister eyes moved onto Han and hovered there, while the host Sim Kiho blushed when he saw that his most distinguished guest’s question was not receiving a quick reply, and he urged them to answer.
“What are you hesitating for? There’s no need to be shy about something we all know is true. There’s a time and place to hide our country’s blemishes, but isn’t this gentleman from the United States, a friend of Korea?”
Han struggled to control himself. His eyes might well be small but they were sharp, and given what he had seen so far, it was impossible to compromise his principles. In Pyongyang half a bushel of rice cost about five hundred and twenty won, but when he had asked at Tongduch’ŏn in the South, he had been told the price was three thousand two hundred. If anyone were jumping into a river because life was hard, then would it really be the Taedong River, or the Han River? Han wanted to ask them about this. But he did not have the courage, or rather he did not want to act on Dutch courage. Excusing himself on the pretext that according to oriental morals it was not right to cause a disturbance at someone else’s party, he picked up his glass of pop and drank. But for Dr. Sim, this amounted not so much to a case of saving his cousin’s face as seizing an opportunity to buy Mr. Wood’s favor, which might help with the pressing real-life problems he would face from the following day. He no longer felt it necessary to check Han’s reaction, and answered, “Oh, so many have drowned. Even the fishermen can’t fish anymore because of the bodies getting caught in their nets. Ha, ha …”
Mr. Wood nodded in a satisfied manner, before assuring Dr. Sim, “I will introduce you to President Syngman Rhee tomorrow.”
Dr. Sim quickly jumped up and asked the kisaeng to fill their glasses, so that he could propose a toast to President Rhee’s health. After he had proposed a second toast to Mr. Wood’s health, he asked about his niece’s headpiece and ceremonial dress, which had been intriguing him all along.