Jia: A Novel of North Korea

by Hyejin Kim

  "She is too old to learn now. She has never had regular training in a professional school," the oldest man said, raising his head from my identification papers.

  The woman assessing my body threw her head back, exclaiming, "What do you know about this field? It's not too late-she could catch up. We're not looking for a lead dancer anyway, we just need more dancers. The director already said she's the best one here, and we saw her performance. What else do we need?"

  Ignoring the man's pout, she turned back to me. She took several steps back. I was baffled, and felt suddenly naked; my face flushed. She really had sharp eyes: their apple shape and long slant made them even stronger. Not a strand of hair stuck out of her ponytail. Seeing her up close, I thought she looked much older than I had first assumed. She went back to her seat, and, on sitting down, sighed and said, "Sing whatever you want."

  I stood up, looking dully at the director of the orphanage and the others in turn. Why would they want to hear my song? The director had called me to stop by her office after lunch, only to bring me to the room where these people were waiting. I was bewildered; I stalled.

  Losing patience, the director stalked over to me and whispered, "Jia. Sing the song you think is the best for your voice." She grabbed my left hand and yanked me forward, in front of them. "She will sing. She's just a little nervous." She signaled me again, with an urging eye.

  I sang the Third Aria from the opera Girl Selli, Flowers. As I sang, I remembered I had seen these same people the previous weekend, at the performance to welcome the government officials on their regular visit. Every year, the orphanage held a performance to entertain visiting officials. As I voiced the lyrics of the song, I tried to figure out why I was there. The woman studied me with her hands clasped, bobbing one of her crossed legs.

  "Okay. That's enough. Show us your dancing." Waving at me, the sharp-eyed woman stopped me in midsong. "You prepared the audio, right?" she said, turning to the director.

  The director seemed more nervous than I was. Her stout body wasn't meant for rushing; she nearly toppled to the floor in her haste to get to the tape recorder on her desk. "Which music do you want?" the director asked me softly.

  Before I could ask what music she had, the sharp-eyed woman interrupted, "No. Don't turn it on." She crossed her arms. "Show us the dancing part of the song you just sang."

  Whenever we had performances in the orphanage, I took the girl's part in Girl Selling Flowers. I was used to singing and dancing in front of audiences, but in that room, at that moment, with only six people's eyes focused on me, I was more anxious than I had ever been. I glanced at the director, but her eyes were busy darting around, checking the reactions of the others and then looking tensely back at me. Something must have happened between them before I arrived.

  "Okay. That's enough. Go sit down over there." The sharp-eyed woman pointed to a chair next to the window.

  I immediately stopped dancing, crossed the room to sit down, and heaved a sigh of relief. They talked together intently, the tops of their heads forming a circle. I couldn't make out what they were discussing; their faces were inexpressive. The director joined their conversation and occasionally threw me a glance, bobbing her head repeatedly.

  The oldest man turned his head to me and asked abruptly, "Do you remember anything about your family or where you lived before you were seven?"

  "No," I said, shaking my head, folding my hands on my knees.

  "Stand up when you answer our questions," the sharpeyed woman ordered, and I sprang to my feet. Surely, she was the scariest person I had ever met. "When did you learn to dance?"

  I stood at attention. "Three years after I came here."

  "She was really good," the director said. "She had never been schooled in dance or singing. One day when she passed a classroom, she saw a group of students practicing dancing. She just copied the older students' dancing in front of the door, but she was like a tiny flying butterfly." The director lavished praise on me, gazing at me with a warm smile. It was true: if she hadn't seen me in the hall that day, I never would have started dancing professionally.

  They didn't respond, or even look at the director.

  "So...she might be from the reactionary class," the oldest man muttered to himself, without taking his eyes from my document.

  The sharp-eyed woman nervously tapped the handbag on her knees. "What are you talking about? I told you I've already made a decision. I'm the one who trains students; I'll decide whether we'll take her or not."

  The man looked unsatisfied. "Whatever you want.... But bear this in mind: you may be wasting your time. I'll report her to the department as a possible risk, and if she isn't approved, you'll have to handle it on your own."

  She stood up and said, "I'm not going to use her for the main part. I just need more extras and stand-ins. We don't have time to be so picky." The others stood up as well, and the sharp-eyed woman turned to me and said, "We'll take you tomorrow. Pack your things. You're not going to come back here for a while, or forever. So take everything that belongs to you."

  As soon as she finished, she left the room, holding her bag on her forearm. The oldest man accompanied her, shaking his head, his hands folded behind his back. The others snickered into their sleeves and followed. The director hurried behind them. Their departure finally left me with some space to breathe, and I felt all my muscles loosening. I tried to stand up, but sunk down wearily into a chair. They had demanded I do several things with no explanation; truly, they were typical representatives of their government.

  "What's going on here?" I muttered to myself.

  We had made so many preparations for the annual visit of the government officials. Two months earlier we had begun to put the building in order. For the performance, I danced a fan dance, sang in an opera, and then played the accordion. The performers were divided into three groups: traditional dancers, revolutionary dancers, and musicians. Sixty orphans had been chosen for the performance.

  For the finale, all the performers appeared on stage and played the "Song of General Kim 11 Sung" (kimilsuug jaug- guu ui norae) on accordions, and then the whole audience sang together as the accordion players walked into the audience, praising the Great Leader's achievements.

  The rehearsals had required so much time and effort, but the performance itself was over in a matter of hours, and afterward the government officials shot out of the auditorium like arrows. They had applauded, given us flowers, and handed out a few wan compliments. Then their cars disappeared. The performance season was officially over. Returning to our rooms, we collapsed on our beds. The following day was quiet, and we had no classes or activities for the next few days.

  On the day when the government officials came again to see me, I had gone in the morning to the dancing hall, but none of the other orphans were there. I knew that, after the performance, the others were sick of that place and wouldn't go there for a while.

  Alone, I practiced the part of Girl Selling Flowers that I especially liked. Bending my arm as though holding a flower basket, I stretched the other arm toward the sky. I sang the passage where the lead, Kkot-bun, begs passersby to buy flowers. Kkot-bun's devotion to her family saddened me. At least she had a family near her.

  When, with a heavy heart, I returned to my room from the dancing hall, I found a message saying the director wanted me in her office right after lunch. But I didn't expect I would meet those strangers in her office.

  As I rose to my feet, still shaking from the impromptu performance, the director returned to the office. She rushed straight to me and grasped my hands. "Oh! I'm so proud of you, Jia. You don't know how happy I and right now." Her reddish round face beamed with pleasure.

  I was taken aback. "What's going on here, Director? Who were those people? Why did they come here?"

  She held my arms more tightly and brought her face close to mine. I couldn't help but grunt from the pain, but she didn't care. "They are all government officials in the art and propaganda department. Jia,
they are really highpositioned people. In your life, you would never have the chance to talk to them. Now, they are totally crazy about preparing for the World Festival of Youth and Students, the big festival next year. People all over the world will come to see our Great Leader and the happy life we live under the Great Leader, and we will welcome them with our dancing performances. Isn't that exciting!"

  The director's face glowed a deeper red.

  "The government officials are looking for fourteen-toeighteen-year-old girls in every school. Every year they select girls who have dancing and singing talent, and of course, who have a good figure. They saw your performance last weekend, and this morning I got the call. Everything went so well! I still can't believe it. They'll take care of you, they'll train you as a professional dancer. Jia-it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This is especially rare in the orphanage. You should be grateful to the government; you're a chosen person now. You'll participate in the official dancing group for the festival-they handle the best dancing group in the country. The Great Leader will see your dancing-I knew it. I knew they would take you. I knew it."

  She hugged me several times, until her big glasses nearly slipped off her small nose. My body staggered in the director's arms. My heart trembled. Am I leaving? Am I really leaving?

  At noon the next day, as I left the orphanage, the director cried and held my hands. I couldn't help but break down in tears too; she was like a mother to me. Unable to have a baby of her own, she was the only one who opened her heart and regarded the orphans as her own children. The teachers treated us like trash. No one cared about us, because no one needed us.

  I was already 16; the only reason I had been able to stay longer than other orphans, who usually departed before they were 14, was to teach the younger kids how to dance. Otherwise, I already would have been a garbage collector, or a factory cook.

  As the car departed, I watched the gray buildings of the orphanage I thought I might never leave grow smaller. I had been stuck in those dismal buildings for ten years. I still remembered the day I arrived-it was as clear as yesterday in my mind.

  Following our arrival in Pyongyang, the soldiers took me directly to the orphanage. When the army cars pulled up in front of the high building, Uncle Shin helped me out of the car, and I saw a middle-aged woman with a round face, round glasses, and a round belly bounce toward us. Several people followed her out while, with flushed cheeks, she talked to the bushy-eyebrow soldier. Eventually she nodded her head and approached me, reaching her moist hand out to mine. "Come here, baby," she said. "We'll take care of you."

  Saying farewell to the soldiers, I broke into tears, grabbed Uncle Shin's pants, and plopped down on the ground. He looked embarrassed.

  The other soldiers made fun of him. "That kid has already grown fond of you just take her as your daughter."

  Before he got back in the car, he hugged me and whispered softly, "They'll take you to your grandparents' house-this is the biggest orphanage in Pyongyang. Don't worry, Jia. Forget everything you remember about the mountain. You'll have a new life here." He squeezed my hands tightly and looked into my eyes. "Jia, you'll have a good life." He promised he would stop by the orphanage soon, but that was the last time I saw Uncle Shin.

  Nightmares haunted me at the orphanage. I saw my grandparents and my sister in our house. My sister massaged my grandfather's back and shoulders with her feet. My grandmother sewed worn-out clothes, frowning and complaining that her eyes were getting worse. They all seemed so peaceful despite my absence. I was in a rage, and I scolded them for abandoning me because I was such a troublemaker. They ignored my crying and turned off the light to go to bed. In the darkness, I sobbed alone.

  In another dream, they looked horrible and wore sad faces. My sister wouldn't even look at me. She stood with her back to me, holding Grandmother's hand, and I called her again and again, but she wouldn't turn around. Finally, my grandmother took her up in her arms and they left together. My midnight shrieking made me a problem child; I woke up the other orphans.

  The director asked me to give her the pictures I had brought. I was reluctant to hand all of them over, but she said it was possible to find my grandparents with them, though it might take some time. I was certain that within a few days I would leave that place and be rescued by my grandparents.

  I slept with 25 other kids-all my age-boys and girls mixed in one big dormitory that was little more than a cold floor. When I entered the room the first time, a boy made fun of me, saying, "Didn't you run away from home? Your stepmom picked on you every day, right? Didn't they feed you? Poor you. How easily you were caught by those scary soldiers! Your parents will come here and beat you soon."

  I didn't care about him. I was sure I wouldn't be there for long anyway. Unlike the boys, the girls were nice; they asked me how old I was and invited me to play jump rope and jacks, games I had played with my sister every day. I was good at jump rope, while my sister was much better at jacks. We tied one side of the rope around a skinny tree, and one of us held the other side at the same height. Then we'd skip over the rope from ankle height, then knee height, hip, waist, shoulder, neck, and up to the crown of the holder's head. I loved that game. We sang as we skipped. When we felt bored with the same songs we composed our own. We even made up arm gestures to make the game more complicated. We took our jump-rope games so seriously that we frequently got into big arguments.

  One day, when it had been raining since early morning, some of the kids were playing jacks inside, while others took a nap. I was strolling around, sulking, when the director came into the room, and had me stand still. She took the cleanest clothes out of my backpack and dressed me up. Patting my cheek lightly, she said my grandparents were coming soon. Before the other kids, I left the room exultant, in a flutter of excitement. I tried not to forget the names of the places I wanted to go.

  I watched through the window of the director's office as a shiny black car made its smooth approach to the building. An old couple slipped out of the car: the old man was tall and wore a dark-green military uniform, holding his round military hat at his side; the lady was tiny, and had a round face. Next to him, she was like a cicada on an oak tree. I couldn't see their faces very well. Once I saw them head to the gate, I returned to my chair and waited for them, sitting properly and organizing my tangled hair. Soon the director opened the door, and they stepped into the office awkwardly, walking slowly toward me.

  They were the people in the pictures. Though they looked much older, I recognized their faces easily. How many times had I seen those pictures! As they approached, I gave a big smile. I was certain they were my mom's parents, I could feel her in them. They had much better skin and clothes than my grandparents on the mountain. I wanted to tell my sister what was happening in front of me right at that moment. She had never seen them; it was the first time I experienced something before she did.

  They sat down on two chairs placed in front of me and looked at me silently for some time. My new grandfather asked the director to excuse us for a minute. She nodded and quietly left the office. Closing the door, she waved a hand over her flushed face, and I answered her by showing my teeth in delight.

  Alone, they examined me again. My new grandfather's air was so brusque, so different from my other grandfather. He looked too clean. He might not have any special smell, and I wondered whether it would be possible to fall asleep next to him, breathing in his smell and tugging on the drooped flesh around his Adam's apple, as I did with my grandfather on the mountain. I didn't dare to watch his face. Moving my fingers, I counted the different-colored medals on his chest. After counting 20, I became worried for him; it must be heavy to carry all of them on his body every day.

  With tearful eyes, Grandmother stretched her hand toward me to touch my head. When Grandfather cleared his throat, she pulled her hand back to her knee. Finally, he broke the silence.

  "How did you get here from so far away?"

  "Some soldiers helped me."

  W
hy did he look so uncomfortable? It seemed he wasn't happy to see me at all.

  "Bookchang is too far away for a kid like you to get here alone," he murmured.

  "How's your mom?" Grandmother asked, hesitantly.

  "I've never seen her. She died when she gave birth." I was surprised at the question. Could they not know about their daughter's death?

  Grandmother gasped and turned her head to her husband's side. His face stiffened. He demanded, "How did you get those pictures? Did your grandparents let you come here? Did they send you?"

  With my mouth half open, I looked at each of them in turn. Grandmother avoided my eyes; I knew he was blaming my grandparents on the mountain and me as well. His face was turning red, and I didn't want to hear his reproach; these two people had never cared for me and now they couldn't even spare me a warm look. My cheeks were starting to burn.

  "They gave me those pictures to find you because they didn't know where you were. They were right. Without them, I may not have met you at all." I tried to smile at them.

  Grandfather said, "What do they want? To get out of the compound? They want us to save them even though they killed my daughter? Isn't it enough to wreck our family? They still don't understand. Do they think they can have their way with us? No! They are much better off than other dissidents, and it's because of me. We tried to be generous because of our daughter-maybe that's not necessary anymore." He gave me a fierce scowl, his face turning purple. He was different from my grandfather on the mountain, like a stranger, and I pulled back in fright.

  My grandmother grabbed his arm. He breathed heavily and stopped scolding me. Still, he kept a hard face. He stood up from the chair and said, "We promised the government we would have no contact with you. We swore that we didn't have a daughter in our lives. You and your grandparents don't realize that your behavior could risk all of our lives."