by Martin Limon
As I rose to leave, the interpreter said something to me in Romanian. None of the words seemed familiar, nothing like Spanish. This was a test, of that I was certain. Both the interpreter and Commissar Oh stared at me. Waiting. If I’d learned anything from Hero Kang, I’d learned that when you’re about to get caught red-handed, there’s only one thing to do. Get angry. Get very angry.
I strode toward Commissar Oh’s desk and leaned forward, looking down at him and the tiny interpreter.
“I want money!” I said in Korean. “A lot of it. Not a lot of lies. Not a lot of your silly nonsense.” Then I pointed at him, tapping my forefinger on his chest. “Do you understand?”
Somewhere, there must’ve been a silent alarm. Four armed guards burst into the room. They grabbed me and we started jostling. When they finally pulled me a few feet from the desk, Commissar Oh waved them off. He puffed furiously on his cigarette. It smelled of something vaguely familiar, maybe cherry wood, not the foul-smelling Korean tobacco I was used to.
“You will be paid according to your work,” he said. “And only after we see what you bring us.”
I shrugged the hands off me, straightened my Warsaw Pact tunic, and stormed out of Commissar Oh’s office.
Later, I thought about what the interpreter had said. I kept running the words over in my mind, comparing them to Spanish or English or the little bit of Latin I’d studied in school. And then I figured it out. “Who are you really?”
Even the interpreter knew I was a fraud.
I managed to survive the Taekwondo workout. Apparently the word had gone out: I was working for Commissar Oh now and I was to be left alone. That was fine with me. As I stood on the sidelines, stretching and occasionally hitting the heavy bag, I watched the real experts go at it, one on one. I was glad no one ordered me to spar with them. In the afternoon we chose sides and were treated to a two-hour game of soccer. After about five minutes, the Koreans realized that I was hopelessly inept at a game that I’d never played before and they let me stand on the sidelines and pretend that I was interested in the outcome.
Finally, the workday was over. As I showered I wondered if the interpreter had worked up the nerve to tell Commissar Oh she didn’t believe I was in fact Romanian. Of course, telling him that would be tantamount to explaining to him that he was an idiot. Somehow, I didn’t believe she’d bother him with such impudent information. Still, doubts about me must have been growing. After all, they played soccer in Romania, didn’t they? No one would believe it was a game I had played as a child. I was much too hopeless at it. And Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook had more than just doubts about me. She was certain that I was not who I claimed to be. How long until Commissar Oh picked up on all this? Probably not long.
What was keeping me afloat, I suspected, was the good work of the Manchurian Battalion. Obviously, they had a mole in the Romanian Embassy, someone who had confirmed to the highest levels of the North Korean government that a certain Captain Enescu was indeed a member of their embassy and working in their employ. That, coupled with the manic level of mutual suspicion that pervaded the Joy Brigade, made it possible for me to survive. No one was willing to compare notes; no one was willing to express an honest opinion; no one was willing to admit that they—or, more importantly, their boss—might be wrong. Welcome to the efficient functioning of the worker’s paradise.
During evening chow, I wolfed down all the food I could hold, because who knew when I’d be able to eat again. When the lights dimmed and the propaganda newsreels flickered to life, I slipped out once again into the moonlit gloom of the garden. After making sure no one was following, I made my way quickly through the maze of monuments and manicured lawns.
As I neared my destination, I rounded an artificial pond and crouched behind a stone edifice I hadn’t previously paid much attention to. It was about eight feet high, thick at the base and tapering to a point, and there appeared to be carvings along the side. I rubbed my hand over the etched lines, but in the pale moonlight I couldn’t make out any design. Erosion had faded the original inscription into an indecipherable jumble. Amid the tufts of grass at the bottom, a few bits of intricately wrapped paper and some polished stones were hidden. Gifts, I supposed, left by the people who worked nearby; gifts to this ancient monolith and to the primitive gods who predated not only the regime of the Great Leader but also the medieval kings buried nearby. I left the sacred edifice and slipped downhill toward the iron door of the Koguryo tomb.
On the way, I found a heavy branch from one of the nearby trees and carried it with me. The locking mechanism in the front door of the tomb had been loosened now and was relatively easy to open. I slipped into the darkness. Instead of closing the door all the way, I propped it slightly open with the branch, just enough so it wouldn’t lock behind me. That way, if I had to make a quick exit, I wouldn’t have to fiddle with the key. I suspended the branch two or three inches above the ground, so I’d know if anyone entered behind me and dislodged it. When I was happy with my little warning signal, I stepped into the gloom.
Without a flashlight or candle, I felt my way down the steps, touching ancient stone with my fingertips. A rotten odor filled my nostrils. Rodents squeaked in front of me and tiny paws scurried away. Something flapped its wings. I waved whatever it was away from my face. On my left, the darkness seemed thicker somehow and the air was full of the musty reek of fur.
Finally, like a friendly beacon, I found the dime-sized beam of light emanating from the wall next to the iron escape hatch. I peered inside. The room was empty and only one solitary yellow bulb glowed. I squatted down on the cold stone steps, hugging myself, beginning to shiver. I waited.
I awoke with a start.
I’d been dozing on the steps, my forearms resting on my knees. Even as I stood, I could feel my muscles and joints complaining about the ridiculous workout I’d been subjected to earlier. Come what may, I was glad I wouldn’t have to go through all that tomorrow.
Ahead of me, the hatchway moved, groaning. Light flooded the tunnel. I grabbed the edge of the iron door and peered inside.
Kang Hye-kyong looked like a sculpted hero in her People’s Army uniform, all the lines of her wool skirt and wool tunic pressed, her square face stern, like her father’s. She touched a forefinger to her pursed lips.
“They will be coming soon,” she said. “I will leave this unlatched, but you must not enter until I call you, not under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
Footsteps pounded on the far side of the room. Hye-kyong glanced back and reached for the inner handle of the door, pulling it shut. Or almost shut. She left it open just enough so the metal latch wouldn’t catch. When the time came, I’d be able to pull it open.
I returned to the dime-sized peephole and peered in. Doors opened and voices murmured, one of them Hye-kyong’s. I imagined her bowing and helping the various officials with their coats and hats. Then brown shoes appeared beneath the conference table. Something tinkled. Glassware. Cups, maybe. Hye-kyong was serving tea.
Eventually, a deep-voiced man cleared his throat and the meeting started. I tried to keep up with what was being said, but most of the reports consisted of long lists of supplies and numbers and logistical timelines. It was clear this was a working meeting of men responsible for the day-to-day operations of the First Army Corps, one of the most important military organizations in the North Korean People’s Army. It was responsible for protecting the capital city of Pyongyang and therefore also the life of the Great Leader and his heir apparent, Kim Jong-il, the Dear Leader.
Finally, my ears perked up. One of the First Corps armored brigades would be moving out. Tomorrow. There was much discussion of the other brigades that would be responsible for taking over defensive positions along the perimeter of the city that would be left unguarded after their departure. There was also talk of tanks and artillery pieces and infantry units, and discussions about the fuel required to move all that equipment s
outh toward the Demilitarized Zone. The most efficient route was discussed. The roads leading directly to the DMZ were ruled fairly good, but the road leading to the Kwangju Mountain Range was in sore need of repair. Maintenance had been neglected because the Manchurian Battalion, guarding the eastern portion of the DMZ, was notorious for being self-sufficient; therefore, over the years, the scarce resources had been diverted to other units.
It was decided that the Red Star Brigade, which was the First Corps brigade chosen for this mission, would not take a direct route to the Kwangju Mountains. Instead, they would head first toward Hamhung, the largest port city on the Eastern Sea, mimicking what would happen if an enemy invasion force broke through with an amphibious landing and reinforcements were needed. Paper crinkled. Maps were being spread atop the conference table. Eventually it was decided that before reaching the outskirts of Hamhung, the Red Star Brigade would turn south and make their way at top speed toward the Kwangju Mountains.
The roads, one of the officers complained, were miserable in these areas. These were practical men who weren’t worried about propaganda considerations or saving face for the regime. They called it like it was, at least here in the confines of this secret meeting. Since the roads were so bad, it was decided that various units of the Red Star Brigade would split up and take different routes. That way, if one part of the brigade were blocked by landslides or heavy snowfall, the rest would still reach its destination. Once they reached a town called Beikyang, they would regroup and start their climb over the ridge of the highest peak in the area, Mount O-song, and commence their final assault on the Manchurian Battalion.
Or at least that’s what I thought they said. This type of detailed information would prove invaluable to a military unit fighting in defense, but if I were wrong about the particulars, it could lead to disaster. The entire conversation taxed the very limits of my Korean-language abilities and I cursed myself for not studying harder. So much was at stake.
There was more discussion of the strength of the Manchurian Battalion, how many men they had, what their fighting capability was, how many artillery pieces and how many armored vehicles. It turned out that the battalion was virtually all infantry. They had a few dozen old Russian artillery pieces, but those were on tracks, dug into the sides of mountains, and pointing across the DMZ toward South Korea. They could not be turned around and used against an assault force attacking from the rear.
“Will they fight?” one of the generals asked.
“Of course not,” Commissar Oh responded. “Once we drop leaflets explaining that they are being decommissioned and replaced by the Red Star Brigade, they will lay down their arms. After all, it is the will of the Great Leader.”
A gravelly voice I hadn’t heard before spoke up. “Is Bandit Lee dead?”
“No,” Commissar Oh replied. “He is still the commander of the Manchurian Battalion.”
“If Bandit Lee is alive,” the voice said, “then the Manchurian Battalion will fight. He will never turn over his command to anyone other than the Great Leader himself.”
A long silence ensued. As honest and practical as this group might be, no one was willing to venture an opinion on what the Great Leader should or shouldn’t do. They had their orders. But the implication was clear: If the Great Leader commanded this expedition himself, Bandit Lee wouldn’t oppose him and lives would be saved. If the silence in the room was any indication, the Great Leader had no such plans.
More paperwork was shuffled, more tea was served, and finally, after haggling over the amount of petroleum reserves that would be issued to the Red Star Brigade, the meeting was adjourned. Footsteps pounded on a stone floor, glassware was removed. An overhead fluorescent light was turned off and only the single yellow bulb remained.
There were still two people in the room. They spoke softly to each other and I turned my ear to the opening, trying to pick out voices. Commissar Oh and Hye-kyong. She seemed to be protesting something, saying no, and then the edge of the table shuddered. The entire conference table had been shifted about a foot. She kept saying no and I heard a couple of slaps, hand to face. The table lurched again. Something heavy landed atop it. Now I could just see the black boots of Commissar Oh. Hye-kyong’s brown loafers lifted a couple of inches off the ground. Her hands clung to the far edge of the conference table. He was working behind her, shoving her forward roughly at first and then in a steady, rhythmic way. Hye-kyong was still protesting, whimpering like a little girl being punished for something she didn’t do.
I stood up and stepped toward the iron hatchway. Just as my fingertips touched the cold metal, I stopped. Hye-kyong had warned me. No matter what happened, don’t enter until she told me to enter. She’d known Commissar Oh was going to do this to her. Probably it had happened before, many times, and if I entered now and punched Commissar Oh’s lights out, I’d ruin everything.
Still, it was torture standing here. Just as it had been torture watching all these poor, confused people praising the very criminals who were abusing them. I wanted to barge in there and catch the arrogant protector of the working class with his pants down and put my size-twelve boot firmly up his ass. But how many people would die—including me and Hye-kyong—if I gave in to that temptation? I stayed my hand, still gripping the metal handle of the hatchway. My fingers trembled.
I stayed like that for what seemed a long time. Finally, I squatted down, burying my face in my hands and feeling the sweat on my forehead. At length, the iron hatch squeaked open.
“Bali,” a voice said. Hurry.
I stepped inside the room. Hye-kyong pulled the hatchway shut and locked it. No sign of Commissar Oh. The conference table still sat at an angle. Hye-kyong motioned for me to help her straighten it out.
Her face was red, her clothes disheveled, and the hair that had earlier shone like a black helmet was now sticking out in sweat-matted disarray, like an exploding nova. The worst part was that she wouldn’t look at me. She kept her eyes staring firmly at the ground. Without looking up, she pointed to a wooden stand with flat panels. I pulled one of the panels out. It held a map.
“Here,” she said. “Find the location of the Red Star Brigade. Make a note of it. And then study the routes they will travel to Hamhung and up into the Kwangju Mountains. Pay particular attention to the supply points along the way. But leave the maps undisturbed. They must not know what we are planning.”
“What are we planning?”
“Never mind now. Just take down the information. Do you have paper and a pencil?”
“No.”
She pulled a small notepad and a short pencil out of her front pocket and handed them to me. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “You will have to keep your notes brief and memorize as much as you can. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“Memorization would be better,” she said. “That way, if you’re captured …” She let her voice trail off.
As I studied the maps, Hye-kyong held a candle aloft. The Red Star Brigade would be traveling the main road from Pyongyang to Hamhung. The crucial information was what military intelligence calls “the order of battle.” That was the strength and capabilities of the component units of the Red Star Brigade and the routes they would be taking once they left Hamhung and headed up into the Kwangju Mountains. I jotted down the unit designations and the names of the towns and villages along the routes. Also, most importantly, how much military equipment each unit had—tanks, artillery pieces, armored personnel carriers—and how many infantry platoons to back them up.
“Hurry,” Hye-kyong said. “The regular staff will be back soon.”
I made the list as short as possible, using symbols and numbers mainly and relying on memory tricks they’d taught me at Eighth Army. I used words from English, Spanish, and Korean to form pictures that would stick in my mind. For example, the regrouping area for the final assault on the Kwangju Mountains was the village known as Beikyang. One of the meanings of beik in Korean is white, and yang
can mean goat. So I imagined a white goat with the point of a flaming red star slamming into its butt. Try to forget that.
Hye-kyong all the while had been fidgeting behind me. Finally, she said, “Do you have it?”
I nodded and handed the pencil back to her. “Why didn’t you just give the information to your father yourself?”
“I can’t leave,” she replied. “Ever. Once someone becomes a member of the Joy Brigade, we are watched constantly. It’s only you, a foreigner, who can come and go.”
“Why don’t you come with me now?” I asked. “Escape?”
“I must stay,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “No time for all that now. Come.”
She opened the escape hatch for me, gesturing out into the dark tunnel.
“A car will be coming for you,” she whispered. “This evening. We had our man in the Romanian Embassy raise a fuss, and finally Commissar Oh has consented to let you go a few hours early. You will be picked up in less than a half hour in front of the First Corps headquarters. You must not delay for any reason. Leave as soon as you are able.”
I nodded and started to climb through the hatch. Hye-kyong grabbed my arm.
“You won’t tell anyone about what you saw?”
I touched her hand. “Don’t worry.”
“If something goes wrong,” she continued, “you must use the same tactics my father uses. Act totally unafraid. If anyone questions you in any way, become enraged. Remember, you are a foreigner. Foreigners have to be handled very carefully because your superiors might be in close contact with the men who work for the Great Leader himself. If you are insulted or become angry, who knows what kind of lightning might strike the person who opposes you? The best protection is to act completely unafraid.”
She knew her father well.
After I climbed into the tunnel, Hye-kyong slammed the escape hatch with a loud clang. Touching the wall with my left hand, I stepped carefully through the darkness. Occasionally, puffs of air from invisible wings hit my face. After climbing stone steps for what seemed a long time, I finally reached the main door. From the crack I’d left propped open for myself, a glimmer of starlight greeted me. I knelt and studied the branch. It lay flush on the floor, no longer elevated two inches off the ground. I stood, looking around in the darkness.