by Martin Limon
Finally, Commander Koh threw up his arms.
“Kurom,” he said. So be it. “If that’s the way you want it, take him. Take him! He’s your problem now. Just, whatever you do, don’t return him to us.” Commander Koh waved his hand in front of the big man’s face. “We don’t want him.”
For once, the big man remained passive.
Commander Koh swiveled and bellowed at his men. “What are you doing? Have you no military discipline? Form your ranks! Stand straight like soldiers. Let’s go! Get moving!”
Commander Koh, his back to the bigger man, maintained an air of scholarly dignity. Without looking back, he followed his troops into one of the larger alleys. In seconds, their footsteps faded in muddy lanes.
The big man, still breathing heavily, stood with his arms akimbo, the redness in his face ebbing. I dared not move. Finally, he turned and looked at me.
“Iro-nah!” he said. Get up!
I did.
“Follow me.” He turned and strode away, but after a few steps he turned back, noticing that my hands were still tied behind my back. He stopped and reached into a coat pocket, pulling out a knife. The blade flashed open. As he approached, I held my breath, standing stock-still. Roughly, he grabbed me by the shoulder and twisted me around. He was only a few inches shorter than I, huge for a Korean, since I stand six foot four. He must’ve weighed two hundred pounds easy. From the wisps of gray in his hair and the slightly loose texture of his jowls, I estimated that he was older than I by a couple of decades, in his early- to mid-forties, but he was still strong and quick. With a deft slash, he cut the wire cord and the loose ends fell away. I rubbed my wrists. He stared up at me, subdued now after such an unseemly public display of emotion.
However, there was no public to be seen. During all this commotion, not a peep had come from the surrounding homes; not so much as a window being lifted, nor a door sliding open, nor a candle being lit.
The man who had saved me from Commander Koh seemed to be thinking something over. Finally he said, “ko-ah.” Orphan. The password.
I replied with the response: “Manju-ei ko-ah.” An orphan from Manchuria.
The big man looked at me impassively, then he said, “Bali ka-ja.” Quickly, let’s go.
I followed him toward the flickering light.
His name was Hero Kang. He showed me the photograph hanging from his neck. It was framed in varnished wood and showed a much younger version of himself standing in full military uniform next to the Great Leader of North Korea, Kim Il-sung, shaking hands. Both men were smiling. Hero Kang told me that the photograph was taken in Pyongyang in the Great Hall of the People almost twenty years ago, after the end of the Korean War.
“You must’ve been very brave,” I said, “to receive such an honor.”
His round face grimaced. He changed the subject.
After we’d escaped from the plaza of the barren elm, Kang led me down a narrow alleyway and opened the door to a dirt-floored storage building that held the flickering candle I’d seen from the opposite side of the plaza. After bolting the front door from the inside, he lifted the tin tray that held the candle and I followed him out a back door. He secured the door with a padlock. Then he doused the candle and we proceeded to wind our way through the narrow alleys of Nampo, lit only by moonlight. We must’ve traveled at least a mile, and during all that time we encountered no major intersections, no roads wide enough for a truck or even a small automobile. Hero Kang seemed to know this warren of byways as if he’d been born into it.
Finally, we reached another wooden warehouse. Hero Kang shuffled through a ring of keys in his pocket, popped the padlock, and we pushed through the splintered door. After relighting the candle, Kang motioned for me to sit on a raised platform partially loaded with sacks of grain. In front were a series of handcarts, and I realized this small warehouse and the one we’d been in before were part of a distribution network that started at the large warehouse closer to the port. Food is not sold in North Korea, at least not officially; it is issued based on rations. The rations themselves are based on a complicated set of rules. For example, a laborer receives more rice than a child or an elderly woman who no longer has a job outside of the home. On paper, it sounds fair, but in practice, at least according to my Eighth Army briefings, those in positions of power—the military, the police, and especially the Communist cadres—receive the lion’s share. I figured Hero Kang must be an important man in Nampo if he was in charge of grain distribution.
After I sat down, I took off my peacoat and used the back of my hand to wipe perspiration off my forehead. I was about to thank Hero Kang for rescuing me when he said, “You must help me with a chore.”
I sat very still, and waited.
Hero Kang studied me. “I’ve been told that you are bright and resourceful.”
“Who told you that?”
His cheeks started to redden. “You ask too many questions. Listen! That will serve you better.”
I chided myself for speaking too soon. Wait. See what he was proposing.
Hero Kang slipped off his left shoe. Brown low quarters, not boots, well worn but apparently well made. I wondered if they had shoe factories in North Korea or if there were still cobblers who made shoes by hand, as they did in South Korea. A pebble dropped out of the shoe and Hero Kang slipped it back on, retying the laces carefully. Then he looked back at me.
“I have a chore to complete,” he said. “A vital chore.” He spoke slowly, enunciating every word, wanting to make sure that I understood his Korean. “Do you understand?”
I nodded. He continued.
“It is a chore I don’t really want to do but one that, for the sake of the people, I must do. It is a difficult chore and I will need help, but amongst the people of this country, this frightened country, there are few I can trust. You are a foreigner. You have nothing to lose. No parents, no children, no wife.”
He was right. More than he knew. I had no one back in the States. I was an orphan—my mother had died years ago, and I’d been brought up in foster homes, thanks to the largesse of the superintendents of the County of Los Angeles. The one person I did have, I hoped, was Doctor Yong In-ja.
“The only thing you have to lose,” Hero Kang continued, “is your life.”
He waited for me to react. I didn’t. At least I don’t think I did. I’d known how dangerous this mission would be when I took it. I’d even written out a will of sorts, in longhand. It was taped to the inside of my wall locker back at the Eighth Army compound. I knew Ernie would find it if I didn’t come back. I didn’t have much in the way of material possessions to leave—clothes, a portable typewriter, a few dollars in a bank account—but what little I did have I left to a Catholic orphanage on the edge of Itaewon. That and my Servicemen’s Group Life Insurance, which I’d designated to go to my heir, if it turned out I had one.
Satisfied with my silence, Hero Kang continued.
“My country is filled with evil men,” he said. “They betray our revolution daily, but to hear them tell it, they are protectors of the people.” Hero Kang laughed sardonically. “Protectors of the people.” He shook his head in disgust. “They are parasites on the backs of the people. They are rapists. They are cannibals.”
As if suddenly realizing that he’d said too much, Hero Kang glanced around the warehouse.
“I would never talk like this to a Korean,” he said. “The chance of betrayal is too great. It’s not that my people are evil. But if by betraying you they can obtain a better job, a larger food ration, a chance for their children to go to university, they will do it. Because they are desperate. Because they know no better. Because they are constantly told that to betray someone’s trust is patriotic.” Hero Kang shook his head. “With foreigners, people from outside our world, one lets one’s defenses down. And it’s been so long since I spoke frankly to anyone. And besides, it’s too late now.” He sat up straighter, throwing back his shoulders.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we le
ave on the train. We will be traveling to Pyongyang.”
I thought about this for a second, remembering my main reason for being here. “There’s someone I must meet,” I said. “It is my duty. Is she there? In Pyongyang?”
Kang shook his head. “Not there, but it is a necessary stop. After this chore is completed, she will be safer. Then, I assure you, I will take you to her.”
“No,” I said, surprising him. “Before I do anything, I must see her, make sure that she’s safe.”
Hero Kang studied me, amazed apparently, at my temerity. So far, he was my only point of contact in the entire country. All I knew about Doc Yong’s whereabouts was that she was somewhere in North Korea. I either trusted Hero Kang or I was worth less than a handful of nurungji, the burnt crust on the bottom of a rice pot. But maybe I was burnt crust anyway. Before I did anything, before I was either killed or captured or tortured by the North Korean authorities, I wanted to see Doctor Yong In-ja. My cooperation was my only bargaining chip and I’d withhold it until I saw her.
“There is a tournament,” he said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, “for foreigners. Every year the winner is allowed as an honored guest into a place that is reserved only for the highest echelons of the Korean Workers’ Party. We have managed to slip one agent in there, but no others. How that agent is faring, we do not know. We’ve received only one message, a message of the highest priority. A plea for immediate assistance.”
“What,” I asked, “does all this have to do with me?”
“You are a foreigner,” Hero Kang roared. He glanced around, surprised by the rage in his voice. When he spoke again, his voice was more controlled. “It is a Taekwondo tournament, for foreigners only, in Pyongyang. You are a black belt, are you not?”
I nodded. I’d been studying Taekwondo for almost three years now, if not as diligently as I should. My instructor in Seoul, Mr. Chong, criticized me often for not attending every class. I told him it was my job. That didn’t mollify him.
“If you win this tournament,” Hero Kang continued, “you will be able to enter the confines of their compound and make contact with our agent. You will be able to tell us what their plans are.”
“Their plans?”
“You’re not a fool,” he said. “You know that at this moment, when our so-called ‘Great Leader’ is about to step down …” He flicked the photograph hanging at his neck with his forefinger, “… every mind in the country is on his succession.”
“You want to stop his son from taking over the government.”
“Don’t worry about such things,” he replied. “Let others worry about that. Only worry about the mission.”
“I haven’t accepted the mission. I came here to meet Doctor Yong In-ja.”
Hero Kang leaned forward, as if he were about to spring at me, and let out a sigh of exasperation. He cocked his head to the right for what seemed a long time. I tensed, prepared to defend myself. Finally, he turned his head and gazed up at me. “All right,” he said finally. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“No,” I replied. “Not ‘what we can do.’ I must see her.”
His face flamed red. He held up a thick forefinger, as if to waggle it at me, then thought better of it and let it drop to his lap.
“It will be dangerous for her,” he said. “But if that’s what you want, that’s what we will do. Wait here.”
He left through the back door, slipping off into the dark alleys of Nampo. I’m not sure where he went, but I spent the time sweating, wondering if he’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. I wondered why I had been so obstinate. After all, I was alone in North Korea and this man held all the aces. I’d never escape from here alive if he didn’t help me. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I believed I was right. I had to see Doc Yong. That’s all that mattered.
After more than half an hour, Hero Kang returned.
“I sent a message,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Tomorrow, early, we go to Pyongyang.”
“I’ll see Doc Yong?”
“Yes.” He was angry now. “I already told you.”
He hadn’t already told me, but I didn’t argue the point. “On the way to Pyongyang won’t we be stopped?” I asked. “Won’t I be arrested?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t trust me very much, do you?”
When I didn’t answer, he shook his head.
“No, you won’t be arrested. In this country, no one is arrested as long as they act boldly. What you must do is spread fear; with every step, with every glance, with every word, you must spread fear. Then others will wonder what powerful people are behind you and they will respect you. Then they will do your bidding.”
From what I’d seen so far, Hero Kang was good at spreading fear. He rummaged through a duffel bag and pulled out a brown uniform. He tossed it to me.
“Here,” he said. “Fold this neatly, lay it on the hot floor, and sleep on it tonight. Tomorrow, at dawn, the wrinkles will be gone.”
I held the uniform up to the light. Pants. Tunic. He also tossed me a pair of boots. Apparently, Hero Kang had been briefed on my size. Everything looked as if it would fit. I set the uniform down.
“You want me to wear this?”
“Yes. It is the only way.”
I had recognized the uniform immediately. I’d seen it in innumerable intelligence briefings. It was the uniform of an officer of the Warsaw Pact.
3
We didn’t bother to buy tickets. In fact, I’m not even sure there was a booth. Hero Kang already had what he called yoheing zhang, travel permits, two of them. All through the station people gawked at me. But when I looked back, they quickly averted their eyes. Afraid, I suppose, that I might stop and talk to them. In a country that prizes loyalty to the Great Leader above all things, being spoken to by a foreigner could prove fatal.
The uniform fit well, except for the sleeves, which were about two inches too short. This morning, behind the warehouse, Hero Kang and I had washed up at the single faucet and he let me borrow his old-fashioned straight razor to shave. After scrubbing my armpits and rinsing my teeth, I felt human enough to face the world. Hero Kang told me to leave behind the old peacoat and wool trousers and leather boots I’d worn on the Star of Tirana. They weren’t the type of clothing an officer of the Warsaw Pact would be carrying around.
“Someone will burn them,” he told me.
I didn’t ask who. It was enough to know that Hero Kang wasn’t acting alone.
The two of us, both wearing our military uniforms, were about to board the train when a commotion broke out behind us. Nervously, I swiveled and looked back. An old woman, bearing a huge bundle in her arms and balancing another on her back, was arguing with a uniformed official. Apparently, she wanted to travel to Pyongyang, carrying dried mushrooms and garlic cloves to present to her family there as a gift. But the rail cop accused her of planning to sell the goods in the big city. She kept moving forward, arguing, trying to make her way onto the train. Finally, the uniformed officer shoved the old woman. She stumbled backward, tripping over her own bundle, and crashed to the ground. Her skull hit the blacktop with a crack.
I stopped on the metal steps of the train, staring at the scene, my fists clenched. In South Korea, no cop would ever do that to an elderly woman. The spirit of Confucius wouldn’t allow it. Hero Kang grabbed me roughly by the arm, and when I didn’t budge, he shoved. “Move,” he hissed, almost spitting in my ear. “Not here. Not now.”
The old woman’s bundles had busted open. She lay on her back on the ground, moaning. Passersby, instead of helping her to her feet, surreptitiously knelt and stuffed a few cloves of garlic or a few handfuls of mushrooms into their pockets. One of them mumbled “bobok juija.” Revanchist. In Seoul, I’d studied the Marxist terms that people learned during their two-hour daily indoctrinations sessions. Now I knew they actually used them. The guard who had shoved her stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off above the heads of the crowd, a pos
ture of triumph stiffening his shoulders.
“I ought to punch him,” I said in Korean.
“No!” Hero Kang replied, shoving me again. “Move.”
We boarded the train, but I kept glancing out the window at the old woman lying supine on the ground. Hero Kang bulled me forward and reluctantly I marched toward the front car.
Hero Kang’s yoheing zhang were the best kind issued. It wasn’t called first class, that would be too bourgeois, but there was a sign saying that the front passenger car was a restricted area. Unlike the hard wooden benches in the other passenger cars, the seats here had plenty of legroom and were padded and covered with something that resembled leather. The windows were clean and the aisle swept clear of the debris found throughout the rest of the train. This car was for the dongji, Hero Kang told me. The comrades. The Communist cadre.
I would’ve thought these were exactly the people we’d want to avoid, but Hero Kang’s style was to confront them head-on and dare them to question us. It was Hero Kang’s size, his bulk, his aura of confidence that made people move out of his way. That and the photograph of the Great Leader hanging from his neck. I wanted to know more about how he’d attained his exalted position as Hero of the Nation, but last night he’d seemed reluctant to talk about it, so I dropped the subject.
Other cadres took their seats around us, a few of them nodding in recognition to Hero Kang. Bored, he nodded back. Some of them were military officers and I noticed their ranks, almost all colonels or above. A lot of brass in this car. The ones who took on the greatest air of superiority, though, even greater than the military men, were the ones wearing military-type clothing but no symbols of rank. Both men and women, they had bright red badges pinned to their chests. I figured these for the Communist Party cadres. They crossed their legs, lit up cigarettes, and chatted calmly. People of power and ease. In the West, they would’ve been wearing suits tailored in London and talking to one another about stockbrokers and offshore tax shelters. Here, they spoke of the Great Leader.