by Hyejin Kim
He lowered his voice and continued, "We don't have a daughter. We don't have any granddaughter either." He turned back and left the room.
My grandmother held my hands and said, "You look like your mom when she was your age." Then she stood up as well and quietly left the room.
I didn't move from my seat. I heard the sound of the car leaving and stared blankly at the door; their coldness had stunned me. In my dreams they had drawn me into their arms and taken me to their cozy house. Why were they so angry with me? Did they think I killed my mom? Did they also see me as a little troublemaker?
Our first meeting had lasted less than one hour. They didn't come again.
And so the orphanage turned out to be my second home. I later learned that my grandparents had denied any connection to me and had taken away my photos, even my sister's favorite. They claimed that their daughter and granddaughter had passed away ten years before. I decided to forget the day I saw my mother's parents. I decided I had just one grandfather and grandmother in my life. My pillow was often soaked with tears; I longed to see my sister and play our old games. The mountains gave us no food and bitter cold, but I longed for them just the same.
After the meeting with my mother's parents, men in dark suits came to the orphanage several times and asked me whether I remembered anything of my past and how I got so lost. My answer was always the same: "I don't remember." I was afraid any comments I made about my sister or grandparents would cause hurt to them.
I became one of the orphans, living at the orphanage and attending the school. The director of the orphanage decided to take care of me. Sometimes she gazed at me for a moment and patted my shoulder, but she never asked me about my past. I began to thrive, in my new home. In fact, it didn't take long for me to become the orphanage jumprope champion.
"This is your schedule."
Teacher Song-as the sharp-eyed woman ordered me to call her-threw a piece of paper onto the desk as soon as I stepped into her office. Forgetting I had planned to thank her for choosing me to join her dance group, I picked it up with haste. She wore a white shirt and black pants over her firm body. I looked around her office and saw that everything was in perfect order. In addition to Kim 11 Sung's big picture in the center of the room, there were several pictures of a woman dancing. I assumed it was Teacher Song-it was hard to tell because of the thick makeup she wore in the pictures-but her body seemed unchanged. One bookcase was filled with books and the other with medals of various sizes.
"All the students get the same training. So don't say it's too much."
I was excited to learn something new. The schedule promised I would be busy, though I couldn't understand what a lot of the classes entailed.
"Of course not. Thanks for giving me this chance." I smiled at her, but she never smiled at me. Perhaps she didn't show her gentle face to anyone.
She asked, "Did you see your room?"
"Yes," I said, nodding my head, holding the paper with both hands. I had just come from my new room. It was for 20 girls, but I hadn't seen my roommates yet. The driver who'd picked me up from the orphanage said they were in the gymnasium all day and wouldn't be back until dinner.
"You'll stay there until the festival is over," she said. That room is for professional dancers, not amateurs like the children in other dancing groups, so try to learn from them and get along." Teacher Song stretched constantly as she spoke to me. It seemed that she couldn't stand to stay in one place.
"The big festival is exactly one year away, and we are preparing several performances for it. You are already several months behind the other dancers, but I believe you'll catch up. You'll get extra training after dinner every night. Got it?" She stretched her leg in my direction, leaning on the edge of the desk.
"Yes, I'll do my best." I was still anxious in her presence.
"Okay. You may go." As soon as she finished speaking, she sat down in her chair and turned to the papers on her desk. Just as I was leaving, she said, "Oh, by the way, don't mention that you're from the orphanage to the other dancers. Just say you were raised by your grandparents, who were in the army, if they ask."
She didn't look up at me as she spoke. I bowed and tiptoed out.
My new home was huge: several buildings, all much more colorful than the orphanage. All the furniture was new, too. The driver had told me most of the buildings were dormitories for the dancers. Next to them was a big, round gymnasium; I could hear music inside even from far away.
On the way there, I noticed several buildings under construction in the middle of the city: much had changed since the orphanage's sightseeing trip the previous year. I had lived in Pyongyang for ten years, but I still felt like a stranger there.
From the next day forward, I woke up at 5:30 A.M. and had breakfast in a huge cafeteria on the first floor of the dormitory at 6:00. In the gymnasium, 300 performers sang and danced all day, under the intense direction of Teacher Song. Megaphone in hand, she shouted at us from a balcony where she ran back and forth. Whenever someone made a mistake, she scolded her from above. Her booming voice kept us nervous and alert.
My name was the most famous among the dancers; Teacher Song enjoyed driving me hard. I always hoped someone else would come to instruct me, but it was always she who showed up for my private lesson after dinner. I couldn't believe she was over fifty; her body was elastic and tireless. Eventually, she stopped pointing and reprimanding me in front of the other students, but she didn't stop the private training until I was finally selected as one of the eleven dancers for one of the festival's main dancing performances, entitled "Unity." It supported the festival's theme, "For Anti-Imperialist Solidarity, Peace, and Friendship." Teacher Song wanted to express the goals of the festival through our dance.
The number eleven is meant to symbolize the five oceans and six continents, and in the Unity dance, five men and six women wore different-colored clothes, designed by Teacher Song. Each of us would wave a silk cloth, followed by a flag, and then a farm implement. We struggled with this routine in the beginning: Teacher Song demanded big, wild motions, and a different facial expression for each motion. We were instructed to wrap others in our cloths, and then wrap ourselves. Our struggle ended with the emergence of a boy in a uniform. We surrounded him and danced around him. We were unified through him: there would be no struggle, no further conflicts. I also took part in two other performances, the fan dance and the flag dance.
Teacher Song changed the choreography constantly; she never wanted us to be still. She continually emphasized that 177 countries had promised to participate in the festival.
"One single mistake would humiliate our country," she said. This was her favorite threat.
I went to bed utterly worn-out every night, but I felt alive. I felt as though there was a place for me.
My 19 roommates and I so looked forward to seeing the many people from other countries. We had to study a booklet titled 100 Questions and Answers for Foreigners, and memorize all 100 to pass a test. We always carried a small book of Russian and English words in order to memorize them during our breaks. We had to be ready to welcome our guests, to help them understand our country, our lives, and the Great Leader.
My roommates and I were all selected for the fan dance. They were especially trained for traditional dance and all aspired to be professional traditional Korean dancers.
One day, Jangmi, after returning from a visit home, took a small yellow bottle out of her backpack. Sora, who usually slept next to her, instantly snatched it from her hand. "What is this?"
Jangmi closed her backpack and motioned for Sora to smell her hair, moving closer to Sora's nostrils.
"You smell so good!" Sora exclaimed, sniffing at Jang- mi's neck. The rest of us surrounded them at once.
Jangmi gave each girl a whiff of her hair. "My mom bought it for me in a department store. It's shampoo. It came from abroad," she said, smiling exultantly.
"What? Shampoo? Is it soap? Why is it in your hair?"
"Thi
s kind of soap is specifically for your hair."
"You can't use it to wash other parts, body and face?"
We moved our noses close to smell the bottle.
"No, just for hair. It makes it feel like velvet," she cooed.
"Let me see." Not satisfied with the smell, several girls tried to touch the bottle.
"Be careful," she said, staring nervously at the other girls.
That night, they all made urgent calls to their parents and soon got their own bottles of shampoo. Except me, of course.
On the first of July, 1989, all the dancers were aflutter. Everyone was talking about the World Festival of Youth and Students. TV and radio broadcasters proclaimed its importance and repeated that only a powerful nation could host such a massive festival. We were proud of our country, and respect for our leader grew stronger. The festival opened with a young flush-faced woman and a man lighting a ceremonial torch, installed on the roof of the May Day Stadium for that night. I had never witnessed such a beautiful scene: every street was lit up, and we easily forgot the fatigue of our ceaseless rehearsals. It was fascinating to meet so many different kinds of people.
The performances we had devoted our lives to for a solid year succeeded in capturing the attention of foreigners. When I received a thunderous round of applause as I stood onstage, I felt my life had finally begun.
We were asked to attend the dancing festivals on Restoration Street for several nights, and that was where we first saw foreigners up close. Their dancing didn't have any rules, it seemed; they just shook their bodies and moved their arms and legs freely, with no sense of order. Watching them made me sweat. When they asked us to dance, we were at a loss for what to do. Without strict training, we didn't know how to move to the strange musical accompaniment.
The festival felt unreal, completely disconnected from our regular lives. We spent much of the time shouting for joy. When the Great Leader showed up on his special platform, we cried out, waving the flags; his appearance swept us off our feet. His image was so familiar-from my grandparents' house at the political offenders' camp to every wall at the orphanage and at the gymnasium, his picture had always followed me. When I had first seen his picture in the orphanage, identical to the one at my grandparents' house, I had felt a certain attachment to it, but fear as well. It seemed that he was watching over everything that had happened to me, and that he must have known about my past. And now he was standing in front of me! I broke down. But I don't know why the people around me were crying as well.
He was a part of my life. I had no way to choose otherwise.
It all passed so quickly. Although the festival ended and the foreigners went home, I carried its joy with me, right to the day that Teacher Song called me to her office. On the last day of the festival, Teacher Song was dancing, jumping around and embracing us, like a tiny, ebullient girl.
A few days later, I opened the brown door to her office with a big smile still on my face. "Teacher Song, did you call me?"
I found her sitting on the desk and talking on the phone, her face distorted. "Why is it impossible?" she demanded.
I immediately erased my grin. Slamming the phone down in a rage, she stood; the strict teacher had returned. Her eyes drifted to a picture on the wall of her playing the girl's role in Girl Selling Flowers. In the picture, she looked much younger than me; she was captured in profile, and the angle highlighted a deep dimple on her cheek. I could imagine her at that age. Nobody dared compete with her passion for dancing.
"Jia, you accomplished your task as well as I expected." She turned to me and gave a slight, tender smile. She never complimented any student: finally, she had recognized me! I was full of glee.
Teacher Song sat down on the ugly black sofa and winked at me to have a seat before her. It was the first time I'd seen her use the sofa. Cupping her chin in her hands and leaning her elbows on her knees, she looked small.
"The festival is over. As I said a year ago, you have to find another place to stay now. This place will be closed for a while. I tried to put you in a professional university, but it was `impossible.' You're supposed to go back to the orphanage and wait there until your next home is decided upon. Do you want to go back?" she asked quietly.
My head was reeling. The end of the festival meant the end of my life. I shook my head. "I don't want to go back to the orphanage!" I cried. All I would do there is take care of kids and cook. To readjust to that life would be too hard-my mind was already far away.
Teacher Song sighed. "Go back to your room, Jia. Let's figure out what we can do. I'll file a report with the Party on your achievements in this festival and call you later. But pack your things anyway."
Despite her reputation, I had become unafraid of Teacher Song. She had devoted her life to dancing and was the most passionate person I had ever met. I wanted to stay with her. There was still so much more to learn from her.
I went back to my room, dejected. The others were restless, halfheartedly packing their things, waiting for their parents to pick them up and talking about their new universities. I sneaked out of the room and sat down on the stairs at the end of the hall. This year had been like a dream that passed too quickly. I felt as if my life had skipped from my childhood on the mountain to the present. I had changed: my arms and legs were much longer; my shirts and pants didn't cover my limbs. I could hear my heart beating. The more I thought about the orphanage, the more pain I felt. I remembered how happy the director of the orphanage had been when I left to dance under Teacher Song! How strongly she had encouraged me never to return! To go back to that dead world now was more than I could contemplate.
My roommates left, one by one. The building, once boisterous, became as quiet as a mausoleum, and I paced the halls like a restless spirit. At last, I packed my things and waited for the call from Teacher Song. I knew my mother's parents would not help me, if they remembered me at all. I blamed myself for thinking about them at that moment.
Several days later, Teacher Song stopped by my room. Leaning against the door, she spoke in a soft voice. "You don't have many choices. The orphanage said they would welcome you if you like to go back."
I held my backpack tightly to my chest and looked at her with despair. I wanted to say that I would do anything to stay, perform any task.
Teacher Song moved close to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "I asked one of my friends, a government official, to give you a new job, and she found a good place. You can dance over there, too. I didn't have time to discuss it with you because I had to answer right away. If you'll take it, we have to leave right now."
Teacher Song carried my backpack and I followed her, my face glowing with joy. As we walked, side by side, she held my hand and said, "It won't be so bad there-you can dance and sing and see how professional dancers live. They'll give you your own house soon, and enough rations, too. But it'll be a tiring job. I'll try to find a better one for you, but for now I have no choice but to follow the order from above. Let's see what happens." Her hand felt warm and strange. She had been so harsh and cold, always scaring the students. Her head was full of dance steps. We never had time to get to know her or talk to her outside of class. How could I ever thank her enough for opening the door to the real world for me.
When I climbed into the dark-brown van, already waiting for me in front of the building, she let go of my hand. I looked up at her with tearful eyes and gave her a letter I had written. She looked down at the letter and was silent, her eyes filling with tears. I hadn't expected her to cry for me, but her tears didn't stop flowing.
She spoke slowly, without wiping her cheeks. "If your mother had seen your performance, she would have been so happy. She was the best student I've ever had and you inherited her talent, Jia. When I first saw you on the stage at the orphanage, I knew who you were. I thought my favorite student had returned to me."
As we drove off, I watched her with widened eyes, trying to keep her in sight, craning my neck as her figure grew smaller and smaller. I
didn't understand why my life couldn't be my own, why there was always a chain, emerging from deep in the past, stretching into the present, that bound me to my fate.
Into a Different World
1 hirty minutes later, the van deposited me in front of a tall, imposing building, my bag at my heels. The driver shouted at a young man in a blue uniform standing erect outside the glass doors. My gaze followed the building up to the sky. Two brown towers, like giant chopsticks, pressed down on me. They looked like separate buildings but were connected in the middle by a tunnel, like a bridge across a river.
The Kaya Hotel was the one of the biggest hotels in Pyongyang. Foreign guests stayed there during the 1989 festival. The building was visible from Rungra Island, where I had stayed with other dancers during the festival, but I had never seen it up close.
I gasped in amazement. Is this where I'm supposed to be?
The young uniformed man stepped into my line of sight, and I knew I had to follow him. When I turned around, the van had already disappeared.
Inside, the vast interior of the lobby spread out before me. Everyone seemed to be staring at me. I kept my head down and chased after the uniformed man. Turning left off the main hall, we arrived at an open door, and he gestured for me to go in.
Stepping inside, I found myself in an auditorium, on the shining, hard, wooden stage. Glancing around the interior, my eyes were drawn to two women, who stopped talking and looked at me.
"Come here," the younger woman commanded me, her high-pitched voice reverberating through the room. "You'll share a room with Aunt Ann. She'll show you around." With her chin she pointed to the woman at her side. She continued, speaking quickly, "You'll be on standby for our dancing group-I've heard a lot about you from Teacher Song. I'll introduce you to the other dancers when they arrive tomorrow morning. You can't participate in the performances yet-you're the youngest and a novice. I wasn't expecting you, actually, I just got the call from Teacher Song. Learn a lot from the other dancers and you can assist them for the time being."