Year of Impossible Goodbyes

by Sook Nyul Choi

  Kisa waved from his viewing stand and motioned that I could come up to see him. He rarely allowed me up there with him, so I was in heaven. Everything looked different from where he stood. The spools of thread looked like hats atop the girls' heads. But after a few minutes, Kisa smiled. I knew it was time to get down before Mother saw me. She thought it was too dangerous for me to be up on a small platform with no railing. Kisa whispered, "There is always tomorrow. You can talk to the girls tomorrow, and serve them tea." I went down somewhat consoled as I thought of what we might talk about.

  How nice Kisa was. I always felt a little sorry for him. Something was wrong with one of his legs, causing him to limp awkwardly. He had also lost a couple of fingers on his right hand while working at a machine. But he had a very pleasant broad forehead, which Mother said was a sign of a generous heart, and he had a handsome nose, a sign of an even temperament, Mother said. His friendly twinkling eyes were unusual for a Korean man. The light in his eyes danced as he looked at you and you just had to smile back as you listened to his deep gentle voice. We all loved him, and were happy he had not been taken away to a labor camp, as my three brothers and most of the other men in our town had been. As Fathers nephew, he tried very hard to fill my fathers place. Although Mother told him he was doing the job of four men by being here to help all of us women, Kisa wished that he could be working with my father in Manchuria in the Korean independence movement.

  I went back out to the yard to help Mother and Aunt Tiger. We spread out the long tubes that the girls had made, cut them, and sewed them on one end, turning them into tube socks. While I worked, I looked at my mother's fair oval face and her large almond-shaped eyes which glowed softly behind the fatigue and sorrow. I followed the tiny wrinkles around her eyes and neck. But her hands, which moved so quickly as she repaired the stitches the machines had missed, distracted me. Her long thin fingers were dry and chapped, and full of callused needle marks. I once heard from the girls in the factory that Mother was known as the beauty of her hometown, and I tried to picture how pretty Mother must have been.

  In silence, I continued to work, now fixing my gaze on the shadows the tree cast around us. Although I loved this pine tree, I longed for some flowers like we used to have when I was very small. We were not allowed to spend time cultivating the garden anymore. Captain Narita said flowers did not help the soldiers at the front; we must spend every waking moment trying to help them in the battle against the White Devils. Once, when we did manage to have a tiny patch of flowers, Captain Narita's police stepped through them as they grinned broadly. There was nothing we could do but watch as the dainty flowers were crushed beneath their ugly boots.

  After that, Mother put her packets of seeds away, carefully wrapped in rice paper. Sometimes I opened the packages to look at the seeds. Each time I opened the carefully wrapped packets, the paper in which they were wrapped seemed more yellow and brittle. I wondered if we would ever be able to plant those seeds.

  I can still remember years ago when Mother picked the wilted clusters of bright crimson azalea petals from our little garden. In a bowl, she gently ground the petals with a pestle until they turned into a fragrant red paste. Then she made ten tiny balls of paste and put one on each of my fingernails. I sat very still with my fingers spread as far apart as I could to make it easier for Mother. She wrapped each fingernail with a large sesame leaf and tied each fingertip carefully with red yarn, trying not to let the red paste touch any of the skin of my fingers. I went around all day with my fingers spread apart so as not to disturb anything. I looked as if I was carrying ten precious little packages, one on the tip of each finger, and Mother smiled That night I went to sleep with my arms stretched out to the sides so that none of the sesame leaves would come off. The scent of faint azaleas and sesame leaves tilled the room, and I went to sleep swearing not to move an inch.

  Of course, some of the sesame wrappers had come off by morning and some of the pink liquid had run down my fingers. Mother and I laughed. Not only my nails, but a few of my fingers were entirely red. But after washing them very carefully for several days, only my fingernails remained a deep pretty pink. I showed my elegantly decorated fingernails to everyone. Later, I watched with fascination as my nails grew out.

  1 had once told Aunt Tiger about my pretty pink nails, hoping that she and I could venture out and plant a secret garden somewhere. She just looked at me and repeated what Captain Narita had said. "Korean women have no time for that nonsense." Then she sighed and said, "When the war is over you can plant the whole yard with flowers." She went to her room and brought me a bundle wrapped in a yellowed handkerchief. I opened it and saw packages of seeds with pictures of sunflowers, pansies, and many other flowers that I could not identify. I kept them together with Mother's packets to plant when the Japanese left. I knew Mother would find some azaleas somehow.

  Mother looked at me and smiled. She didn't know what I was daydreaming about. Or maybe she did. "Doesn't this pine tree smell good?" she said. "It's like a different world sitting beneath this tree." I smiled and nodded. We didn't talk of the flowers and garden we could not have.

  I looked at Aunt Tiger, who was unusually quiet. She was very different from Mother, who was tall, slender, and elegant. Aunt Tiger was stocky and round. She didn't go quietly about her duties, always trying to make the best of everything, as Mother did. She spoke her mind, and often complained bitterly. I thought it refreshing to hear her complain, for she so often said what I was feeling.

  At night Aunt usually grew sad and pensive. She didn't get angry or complain about our lives or about the cruelty of the Japanese. Instead, she told the most wonderful stories about the animals that lived in the forests of Korea long ago. All the wild animals in her fables talked as if they were human. She was especially fond of telling stories of the majestic tigers that used to roam the Korean mountains until the Japanese hunted them down for their skins.

  Aunt told us so many wonderful stories of these clever talking tigers that we began calling her Aunt Tiger. I could never forget the tears in her eyes as she told us about the mother tiger who roamed the mountains in search of her cubs, not knowing they had been killed by hunters. Her voice trembled as she spoke, and I felt as if she were talking about her own babies. As I looked into her mournful eyes, I wondered if she complained so bitterly to hide her sorrow from us. She didn't want to be weak, and I knew how strong she was. It was a different kind of strength from Mother's.

  As we worked, the sun began to set and darkness fell. The whirring of the machines suddenly stopped and I heard the low murmuring of the girls as they emerged from the factory and stretched their stiff, aching muscles. Mother, Kisa, and Aunt wished them a safe trip home. The tired girls looked sad but relieved to have made it through another day. They bowed to Mother in silence, and Mother watched with concern as their weary gray figures disappeared into the liberation of darkness.

  Mother, Aunt, and Kisa then went into the factory to put the socks in neat piles for the Japanese merchants and police. Inchun and I busied ourselves putting heavy blankets over the rice-paper paneled doors of our room. We lit a candle and in the small pool of dancing light, we looked at Grandfather's Chinese books and Mother's book of American fairy tales. Then I started to read aloud from one of our books written in Korean script, Hangul. Mother joined us later with a pile of socks that needed mending before the morning, and listened to me read to Inchun. She carefully checked all the work done that day, for she didn't want any of the girls to be in trouble with the police.

  Soon, Inchun got tired of listening to me read and started dozing. His books fell from his little hands, his mouth fell open, and he began to snore softly.

  I kept reading and tried hard to stay awake until Mother was finished with her work. I watched her at night as intently as I watched my Grandfather in the morning. She took off her gray outfit and put on her long white gown. Then she reached back to pull out the tarnished pin that held her braided hair in a large twisted knot
at the nape of her neck. When Mother pulled out the little silver pin, her long braided hair came tumbling down like a big heavy rope. It almost touched the floor as she sat on her knees. When she finished unbraiding her hair, she slowly combed the wavy mass. In her white night gown, with her long wavy hair framing her face, she looked like an entirely different person. It was easy to see how Mother had once been the town beauty as the sock girls had said.

  While she quietly combed the mass of wavy hair, I played with her tarnished silver pin. Though it looked like a cheap piece of metal, it was actually a beautifully crafted silver hairpin. When I looked closely, I could see a multitude of embossed little roses and small birds flying. I touched the pin with my finger tips and felt the grooves of the tiny rose petals and the little bumps of the birds' wings. I held it in my palm, and reveled in its cool smoothness. I tossed it into the air and caught it again.

  "Mother," I asked, "why not shine it so that all these birds and rose petals can sparkle in the sunlight? It's so pretty."

  Mother sighed and said, "It is beautiful, isn't it? It was done by a silversmith for my mother when I was little. Both the silversmith and my mother died in a fire set by the Japanese soldiers. But somehow I managed to find it on the ground when I returned to the site of my old home. It was buried in the mud, but it caught my eye for it shone so brilliantly in the sun. I want to keep it as long as I can, and if it were polished, Captain Narita and his lieutenants might notice it and take it away. We would be in trouble for not having offered it long ago for the melting pot."

  As I stared sadly at the pin in my palm, Mother brushed my hair from my forehead. "When the war is over and the Japanese leave, you can polish it and you can fix my hair with it. For now hide the books away and blow the candle out. We must sleep and save the candle for tomorrow night."

  Chapter Two

  One hot, muggy day in June, while Inchun and I sat working on the tube socks, Aunt Tiger and Mother told us they had a plan. We were going to have a special surprise celebration for Haiwon's sixteenth birthday. Aunt Tiger insisted she would make a visit to my sister Theresa's convent to get one of those fancy books the nuns decorated with pictures of saints and angels. That would surely be something very special for Haiwon. Mother hesitated. It was her daughter, after all. "I'll go myself," she said. "You don't know the back route as I do."

  The convent was in the countryside just outside of Pyongyang City. It was only twenty minutes away by train, but the Japanese Imperial police forbade anyone from traveling, so Mother had to go by foot on back roads. She really didn't want to go empty-handed; she had nothing to bring them. "But perhaps it is about time," Mother decided. "Maybe they will have some news about the war." The nuns often knew much more than the rest of us because of the radio hidden in the basement of the convent, and the occasional contact they had with American priests.

  The next day, Mother left right after the police made their morning inspection in order to he able to return before dark. We all hoped that the Imperial police would not come back later in the day and notice her absence. Mother did so much work at the sock factory that the days when she went to the convent were extra busy for all of us. Kisa, Aunt Tiger, and I ran around twice as fast to get the work done. Even little Inchun and Grandfather came out to the yard to make it look busier in case the police suddenly appeared.

  I wished I could have gone with Mother to see Theresa and the other nuns. Theresa, my oldest sibling, had entered the convent when I was very little. I remember visiting her there. She looked like a penguin in her long black gown and the little white veil on her head. But that was long ago. For the past two yeats, Mother had gone to see her alone. She said that most of the day was spent coming and going and the visit with Theresa and the nuns was very brief. It would be too much walking for me, and it was dangerous. If we were caught by the police, we would be questioned and punished for disobeying orders, and above all, for going to worship any other god than the Shinto god.

  We all worried about Mothers safety when she left on these trips, but we knew how much she loved going to see the nuns. "Your mother would risk almost anything to see her firstborn at the convent," said Aunt Tiger. Mother always told us Theresa was an important part of all of our lives even though she was far away from us. I often wished that she were here so that I could talk to her. I remembered when Theresa told me how much she loved all of us. But if she loved us that much, why did she live so far away in that big house with strangers all dressed like penguins?

  "That is the way it's supposed to be," said Mother. "God wanted Theresa to be a nun and she answered His call." I wondered if God would ever call me as He had called Theresa.

  We were sorting the socks and tying them into bundles when Mother returned late that evening. "The Reverend Mother said the Japanese were doing poorly in the war," Mother said, picking up a pile of socks to examine. "The nuns are praying night and day for their defeat." Aunt Tiger looked at me, rolled her eyes, and left the room. She didn't think much of the nuns' prayers. But Aunt Tiger was glad to see that Mother had brought a small bag of pure white rice, just enough to make a few rice cookies. Mother didn't bring back any records this time, but she did have a small book of Christian stories full of pictures of colorful winged angels in Heaven. "You can look at it," Mother said to Inchun and me, "then you can wrap it up for Haiwon."

  Inchun grabbed the book from me and ran into his room. I followed him and together we read the book. He got some paper and copied the pictures of the angels. I copied the passages and we made our own copy of this little book. We had to wrap it for Haiwon, but we wanted to make it special, so we took out a piece of white rice paper that Grandfather had given us, and drew lots of pictures and made our own fancy wrapping paper.

  It was late at night and out rice-paper paneled doors were draped with thick blankets. We were all busy planning for Haiwon's birthday celebration. We heard Grandfather moving about in his room, and Mother and Aunt Tiger busy in the kitchen. Soon Kisa came by to check on us, and told us to turn off the lights. I felt too excited to go to sleep. Haiwon would be so surprised. I lay in the dark wishing it were morning.

  The next morning I couldn't wait until Haiwon opened our little present wrapped with the special paper. The table was set much earlier than usual. Grandfather didn't meditate this morning. Even little Inchun was out early in the yard helping us. Instead of the few millet cookies and kettle of barley tea that usually awaited the girls, there was now a banquet for Haiwon. It was really a very humble feast, but a special occasion for us, since we had never before dared to have such a celebration. The little brass bowls with their matching tops had been brightly polished, and were now filled with hot soup. The brass plates held a few tiny white rice cookies, and the brass chopsticks shone in the sunlight. I could smell the hot beef broth, which we hadn't been able to have for a long time. We looked forward to the few minutes we could celebrate with Haiwon before the other girls arrived. Above all, we had to put everything away before the Imperial police came.

  Haiwon came racing in looking as if she had just tumbled out of bed. She must have really rushed to arrive so early. She wore a worried expression as if she were thinking, "Is there something wrong? Didn't the soldiers like the socks I made?" Smiling, Mother met her and escorted her to her seat where the pretty package awaited her. She looked stunned when Mother told her that all this was in her honor, and she sat motionless. "Hurry and open your presents," Mother said. "We don't have much time."

  As Haiwon opened her gift, her fingers trembled and tears began to well up in her eyes. She held the little book ever so tightly against her breast and she straightened the wrapping paper to see the drawings. She carefully rolled up the paper and put it in her bag. Inchun and I were happy to know that she liked our humble present as much as the little book. She bowed to Mother as she tried to hold back her tears. Haiwon's embarrassed delight made her look beautiful. Her face was flushed and for once she was speechless and remained silent long enough for me to see
how pretty the shape of her mouth was. She seemed full of happy thoughts. Looking around me, I felt a big lump in my throat. As Haiwon wiped away her tears, she got up again and made another deep bow to Mother.

  Then I saw Grandfather slowly come out of his room smiling. Haiwon was special to him. He and Haiwon's father had been good friends. Long ago, Mother had said to me, "I wish I could keep her and her mother with us. Your grandfather and Haiwon's father go back a long way. Your grandfather used to teach Haiwon's father and his sons." Haiwon became even more flustered upon seeing Grandfather. She knew the honor that was being bestowed upon her. She got up and bowed deeply. Grandfather motioned for her to sit down and gave her a small package. Mother nudged her and said, "Quickly now ... we are running out of time." Haiwon unrolled the scroll of white rice paper. Grandfather had painted a beautiful winged horse flying toward the sky. Underneath it there were two Chinese characters in his fine calligraphy that said "thousand patience" and her name in Hangul. At Mothers urging, we ate hurriedly while the morning sun rose.

  We lifted the lids of our soup bowls. The brass dishes were lovely and we each had a sliver of meat in our soup. Haiwon ate quickly in silence, trying to savor every taste. She hesitated to take a bite of the rice cake for a second and Mother said, "That is yours ... eat it now. I saved one for you to take home for your mother." We were very happy to see Haiwon enjoy this small treat as if it were the biggest banquet she had ever seen. Haiwon's smile made us all feel this was a grand day. I wished Kisa were here, but he was busy cleaning and greasing Haiwon's machine especially for her. We were all so happy that for a few moments, we forgot the Imperial police. We laughed and ate. It was enchanting for me. I felt I was in a faraway land where there were no worries of any kind. The warm June breeze touched my cheek and I couldn't remember ever having had such a good time.