I blurted out, "We want to know what you did with out mother. We came to get her." I stared into his eyes and I didn't move. I was frightened. I could see out of the corner of my eye the guns and the dogs inside the guardhouse. Hearing my voice, the dogs lazily opened their eyes, only to close them again. Again I asked what they had done with Mother. By this time Inchun was squeezing my hand so tightly I thought he would break my fingers. But we stood with our chins held high trying to appear very brave.
The man looked at us standing hand in hand gripped with determination, and a faint smile crept across his face. He called out to the other soldier who was tearing off a bite of bread. The younger soldier's eyes were blue like the sky, a deep cobalt blue. He reminded me of Ivan Malenkiv, the first Russian soldier I had ever met. I thought maybe this soldier with the same clear blue eyes would like us and would help us.
After a few minutes, the older one made a face and turned away, looking bored. But the younger soldier invited us in. He spoke a bit of Korean, but said many words that I couldn't quite understand. Gesticulating, he pointed to us and then to himself, and I understood that he had a little sister and brother like us at home in his country. He gave us some of his dark bread. Though coarse, it was chewy and delicious to us after eating nothing but steamed corn for three days. We ate in silence, relieved that he was so friendly, but still afraid of what might happen to us. His large blue eyes gazed gently at us as we ate, and he began to seem like a friend.
I asked him once again, "Can you tell me where you are keeping my Mother? We want to find our mother. We lost her here almost four days ago. Can you find her for us?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted Inchun up on his lap, gave him more bread, and pointing to himself, said, "Dobraski, Dobraski." Inchun repeated "Dobraski," and the soldier laughed heartily.
The other soldier started shouting at Dobraski in Russian. He pointed to us and then to a big brick building far off in the distance. The dogs began to growl at us. Dobraski shouted at them and they quieted down at once. Dobraski shouted something to the older soldier, who gruffly shouted back at him. The older one picked up his gun, grabbed the dogs by their leashes, and walked off. Dobraski said nothing. He suddenly stood up, picked up his machine gun, swung it over his shoulder, and pointing to the jeep parked in the distance, motioned for us to follow. He was angry. I wondered what would happen now. Inchun and I followed him in silence.
I had seen hundreds and hundreds of these jeeps in Pyongyang but I had never ridden in one. I got in reluctantly, but Inchun was clearly excited to be sitting in the front. Dobraski hopped in and proceeded to drive down the muddy road. The cold air was refreshing and my dirty hair flew in the breeze.
Before I knew it, the jeep had stopped in front of the brick building with the big red Russian flag fluttering in the wind. Dobraski took us inside. It was clean and smelled like a paper factory. On every desk, there were huge stacks of papers, and we could hardly see the soldiers sitting behind these desks. One of the soldiers talked to Dobraski and then took us into a big, empty room.
While we sat waiting, I said quietly to Inchun, "If they take us in separately and ask lots of questions, just say that you don't know anything. Just say that all you know is that we were going to see our grandmother in Yohyun. Tell them I know everything."
Inchun stared wide-eyed at me, and nodded. He started to sob. He was exhausted and frightened. I felt like crying, too, but I told Inchun it would be all right. I didn't believe it myself, and I wondered if that was how Mother had felt all those times.
After a while, a Korean Communist soldier with ted epaulets and a red cap came in. He looked very stern and official. "You are the children who went to the guardhouse and asked for your mother?" We nodded. He was cold and mean-looking and I didn't like him. He stared closely at us, then pointed to Inchun and said, "You, follow me."
Inchun looked at me and I said, "I am his Nuna and we go everywhere together. Can I come, too?"
Glaring at me, he replied, "I will call you when I need you."
Inchun's face grew pale as he followed the soldier into the next room. I wondered what he was going to do to little Inchun. I sat in the empty room wondering whether someone was going to come and question me, too. Was someone watching me tight now? I had heard horrible stories about Communist interrogation techniques. People in our town said they were merciless with those who tried to escape to the South. My stomach ached and I held my tummy and rested my head on my knees.
After what seemed like days, Inchun came out and said, "They want you to go in right now. They told me not to talk to you. Are you sick, Nuna?" Inchun was still very pale, but he seemed to be all right otherwise.
I didn't answer. I just shook my head and went into the next room. As soon as I entered, the Korean Communist soldier shut the door and pointed to the hard wooden chair in front of a large desk piled high with official-looking documents. Behind the desk was a stout, bespectacled Russian officer. He asked my father's name and I told him. He asked me where my father was. I told him I had not seen him for many years as he had fled to Manchuria to avoid being imprisoned by the Japanese. He asked me if I had any big brothers and if I knew where they were. I told him I had three older brothers, but that I had not seen them for a long time either, as they were taken to labor camps by the Japanese soldiers and did not come home after the war. I was so frightened that it was not until then that I realized he was speaking to me in fluent Korean. Then he asked me why I was so far from my home in Pyongyang and what had happened to my passport. At this I started to say exactly what our guide had told us. I told him we were on our way to visit our sick grandmother. I was not in the habit of lying so I started to mumble. I hesitated when I tried to explain that my grandmother lived right near the border. All of a sudden, the Korean Communist officer shouted at me, "Tell the truth!" He struck the table with his fist. I was so startled that I started to cry.
The Russian officer looked disturbed and said something in Russian to the other officer, who then left the room. I was glad that he made that mean-looking Korean Communist leave. As the man left, he pushed my head with his large hand and said, "You'd better tell the truth to our Comrade Major." This young Communist reminded me of many eager young Korean men I had seen in Pyongyang who espoused Communism. They seemed more dedicated to Mother Russia than the Russians themselves. They were more anxious to kill traitors like and my family than the Russians were. They had no sympathy for us as their fellow countrymen. To them, the idea of becoming a dedicated Communist comrade was more important. It came as no surprise to me that the Comrade Major was less ominous.
He was a soft-spoken man. He also had red epaulets, but in addition had several red patches emblazoned on the front of his uniform. Looking at me, he said that he could not find my mother. It would be best for us to go back home to our relatives.
I mustered all my courage and said, "Please find my mother. She was taken by one of your soldiers at the checkpoint."
He told me he knew all about it and if he saw her he would tell her to go home just as he was now telling me. Then he let me sit there while he did his paperwork. He was looking through the many papers he had with photographs of Koreans pasted in the corner. I sat quietly, hoping he would say something about my mother. Maybe one of those papers was hers. After a long while, he called to a soldier who must have been standing outside the door. He said something to the soldier, who then led me and Inchun out the door and told us to go away.
Inchun and I felt completely lost and just stood outside that cold gray building. It had seemed a short distance from the guardhouse when we rode in the jeep, but now the checkpoint looked like a little pea in the distance. We walked in silence. I saw a large warehouse and I thought I heard noises coming from inside. Two armed soldiers were marching back and forth in front of the building with their dogs. I wondered if Mother was being held there. Was there something we had said that might make them hurt Mother? I felt miserable and I was glad Inchun didn't as
k me any questions. We continued on toward the guardhouse. We could try asking Dobraski one last time.
After a long, tiresome walk, we reached the little guardhouse, where we found Dobraski humming a familiar Russian tune. Before I even had the chance to say anything, he pointed in the direction of the train station and then at the setting sun. We understood that he wanted us to go before dark. He went back inside. He didn't want us around anymore.
Lost and alone, Inchun and I reached for each other's hands and walked slowly toward the station. It was getting dark and chilly. We saw Dobraski peek out from the guardhouse to watch us as we passed the other soldier walking up and down the path with the two dogs. The dogs seemed to know us and didn't hark at us. I dropped a lump of the dark bread Dobraski had given me in front of the dogs. I wanted them to know that I liked them.
I thought of Dobraski in his khaki uniform with the red patches signifying his rank, his black boots that came all the way up to his knees, and the familiar gun he had slung about him. He resembled other Russian soldiers I had seen, but somehow he seemed different. I wished we could have stayed with him until we found Mother. I felt certain that she was being held somewhere around there. Maybe Dobraski knew something about her whereabouts, but was powerless to do anything. I looked back many times to see if he would ask us to return, hut he didn't.
We continued walking toward the station along the narrow path between the rice paddies. I thought of Mother. If Mother were still in the hands of the Russians, maybe she would be lucky enough to meet someone as nice as Dobraski and the major. But maybe Mother was already in the South, having assumed that the guide had taken care of us as she had asked. We had never expected to be lost like this, and so we had never discussed what to do. I knew we could never go home to Kirimni. Traitors like us would be shot to death. Aunt and Kisa would be shot, too, for taking us in.
I looked at Inchun. I didn't feel like talking, but I hoped he might prattle on about something as my head was aching from trying to think about what we should do next. I was tired and hungry and wanted to eat the rest of the dark bread that Dobraski had given us. But I had hidden it under my skirt, knowing we had a long way ahead of us and had to conserve our supply to survive.
Inchun started to cry and ask for the food. He tugged at my skirt, and kept crying, "Nuna, I'm hungry. Let me have some bread now." I told him he had to wait. Inchun asked again for the bread and I told him to wait until we were really hungry. "Now, Nuna, I am really hungry now!" Inchun cried, tugging at my skirt. He was like any other tired, cranky, hungry little boy. I felt sad and completely alone. But at the same time I was annoyed at myself for expecting so much from him. I gave him the rest of the bread. "Chew it for a long time and eat slowly so you won't get a stomachache," I warned. He ate in silence, holding my hand and lagging as far behind me as his little arm could stretch.
Chapter Ten
When we arrived at the small country train station, it was much too late to expect to find the old man who said he would help us. Since it was almost dark, we walked around the station to see if it would he safe for us to spend the night. A few people passed by without even looking at us. Everyone was afraid of being spotted by the police. We saw some soldiers walking by, talking and laughing loudly. We sat down on the wooden floor facing the little ticket booth that was closed. Inchun complained about a stomachache just as I had feared, and cried himself to sleep on my lap. I didn't know if we would even see the man with the broom, and he was our only hope.
My bones ached, and I suddenly realized how exhausted I was. For the past three days I had dragged my tired feet up and down so many long country roads. I was covered with mud from going through the rice paddies at all hours. I had often given Inchun piggyback rides and my feet had sunk deep into the wet earth. As a result, my ankles and legs were caked with many different shades of mud. It was hard to he a nunu. I wished someone older than I were around. I didn't like being the older one, though I loved Inchun and I wanted to take care of him. I was tired and I cried as I caressed his dirty hair, stiff from the mud and rain. We had not been able to wash or bathe since we left Pyongyang, and we were both dirty and smelly and covered with bruises and scabs from the mosquito bites.
Consumed with hunger and exhaustion, I too must have dozed off and slept. Suddenly, startled by a noise, I awoke. It was the old man with the broom. He motioned for us to follow. I shook Inchun and we went with the man to the corner of the train station by his broom closet. He said, "I was waiting for you for the earlier train, but you were not here."
"I am sorry, sir. We were talking to the Russian guards hoping they would help us find our mother."
He looked startled, shook his head in disbelief, and said, "Look, many people in this town have seen you, so you'd better get going. It's not safe for you here. The Russian soldiers take children away. We don't know what they do with little children, but they do disappear. You are very daring and have been very lucky. Maybe your mother is already in the South. Do you have relatives in the South?"
"Yes."
"Good, I don't think you have much choice anyway. You've come this far. You have to go just a bit further to cross the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Then things will be better for you. You won't have to live in fear when you're old like me. No time to waste." The old man did not expect any response from us. He pulled out an old ticket stub. "Here, take this and don't lose it," he said. "When the night train arrives, there will be two conductors in the station, one young and one old. You make sure you line up on the far right where the old fellow is; he's a friend of mine. You give this stub to him and he will see to it that you get a chance to cross to the other side of the tracks." By this time, I was so confused and scared that I was ready to say, "Maybe we should go back to Pyongyang and see if my aunt can help us. Maybe I can go home." The old man looked at my helpless stare and sighed, as he said, "Come I will show you what I mean."
He went to the little window at the station. He made sure no one was coming and then whispered, "You have to get to the other side of the tracks and then go down the hill. Do you see that cornfield in the distance?" We nodded and he quickly continued, "Walk through that cornfield, but you have to look out for the search beam. When you see a bright beam, sit down and don't move. Wait until it goes away, then continue walking. After you get through the cornfield, do you see that little hill?" The old man looked at me with urgency. I was not sure, because it was rather dark already, but I thought I saw a dark mass behind the cornfield, so I nodded. "Go up and over that hill. It has many trees and it should be safe. Once you get over the hill you can see the barbed-wire fence. That fence is the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Run with all your might until you get to the barbed^wire fence and go under it. You are little and can crawl under. Don't stop for anything. Once you are on the other side of the fence, you will be in the South and you will be free. Maybe your mother is already there, waiting for her brave little ones."
He looked as if he himself wanted to risk it. I felt like saying, "Will you come with us?" But he fell silent and looked worried. He reached deep into the pocket of his old wrinkled trousers and took out a small package wrapped in an old handkerchief. "Here, take this. Munch on these while you wait for the search beam to pass over you."
I felt flushed with relief, and was very grateful to this old man, but instead of thanking him, I said, "But, the train will be here. How do we get to the other side of the tracks without being caught?"
The old man said, "The old conductor will look after you, just watch him carefully when you give him the ticket and follow his directions. Don't worry, he'll know I sent you. Just make sure you give him the ticket." He then disappeared as he saw some people approaching the station.
I was gripped with fear as I saw our only friend slip into the darkness. I wanted to follow him home and wash up, and eat, and rest for the night. I could picture him going back to a small house with a low thatched roof, and warm gray smoke swirling up from the chimney into the dark night sky. His sweet old
wife was probably waiting for him with some hot soup. He was a kind man and had put himself at great risk to help us. It was then I smelled the sweetness of rice cakes from the package he had given me. I was ashamed I never thanked him for his kindness.
To my surprise, people started coming from all directions and before I knew it, the station was filled with silent shadows. No one spoke. They lined up and waited for the train. After a while, two conductors came out and started rattling their ticket punchers. We waited until we saw the elderly conductor heading toward the right side of the platform, then we followed him and got in line. We heard the train screeching and lurching to a stop. My stomach churned and my throat burned with fear. What if the old conductor gets caught trying to help us? What if he is not the right old conductor? What if he doesn't know about us?
The young conductor was asking for some people's passports. The older man was also looking at many people's passports and asking where they were going. Finally, it was our turn. I stretched out my arm to give him the ticket and looked up at him. He looked at us, punched our used ticket, and whispered, "To the end of the train." Pushing us on our way, he said loudly, "Next, next, passport, please."
I grabbed Inchun's hand and started walking to the end of the platform. People were pouring off the train, pushing and shoving through the crowds. As we got farther down the platform, the crowds started thinning out. It seemed awkward not to get on the train, and I was afraid we would be noticed. I looked back to see if anyone was staring, and saw the old conductor walking behind us. He bellowed, "All vendors must get back on the train now. You can sell your things at the next stop." Then I realized that the women with baskets in their arms were selling steamed potatoes and boiled eggs to the people getting on and off. The women grabbed their things quickly and went running onto the train.
Year of Impossible Goodbyes Page 12