“He will be fine,” Byong-woo said as the river came into view. “Kiyo will take care of him.”
“Kiyo?” I said.
There were sirens in the distance, several of them. Byong-woo pointed the car toward the river. The bridge to China was just ahead of us. The car sped along the dock. Then Byong-woo slammed on the brakes, sending me tumbling against the front seat. The car screeched to a stop. Byong-woo got out and opened my door.
“This way,” Byong-woo said. “Quickly!”
I climbed out. The sirens were louder now, only a few blocks away. A trawler was moored to the dock. A man in fisherman’s clothing reached for me from the gunwale. Another man hopped off the boat, climbed into the car, and sped off.
“Get in the boat,” Byong-woo said. I grabbed the man’s hand and he pulled me aboard. Byong-woo jumped in after me. “In the hold,” he said pointing to an open hatch. Byong-woo followed me and closed the hatch behind us. The hold was cramped, dark, and slimy. It reeked of fish. Byong-woo huddled close to me. I could smell cigarette smoke on him. After a few seconds, I heard the two police cars with their sirens blaring coming along the dock. The sirens grew louder and louder and soon they were alongside us. Then they roared past.
After the sirens faded, the boat engine sputtered to life, and in a few seconds, I could feel we were on the open water. Exhaust fumes combined with the stench of the hold made me nauseous.
“Where are we going?” I said to Byong-woo, only inches from my face.
“To China,” he replied.
“Will Young-chul be there?”
“No,” Byong-woo said.
“When will I see him again?”
“I do not know. It might be a long time. But do not worry.”
“Kiyo will not take care of him!” I cried. “She doesn’t like him.”
“There is Fumiko and Yoshiko, too. As I said, he will be all right.”
Sitting inside the close, dark hold, my heart swelled with anger and grief. I punched Byong-woo’s chest. I punched him again and again. “You took me from my son!” I cried. “Take me back to my son!”
Byong-woo let me punch him and didn’t say anything. And when I could punch no more, I brought my hands to my face and cried.
EIGHTEEN
Present Day, Los Angeles
“Doctor Ishii,” I say to Ms. Yi, “of Unit 731?”
On the table inside the interrogation room, the recorder’s light continues to glow red. Ms. Yi stares at it with watery eyes. Her head nods ever so slightly, and I can’t tell if she’s answering yes or if her head shakes because of her age.
Finally, she says, “Yes, Anna. That Doctor Ishii.”
“Who’s he?” Detective Jackson asks from behind me. I’d almost forgotten he was there with us. “What’s Unit 731?”
Ms. Yi continues to stare at the recorder and doesn’t answer, so I do. “I think we should let Ms. Yi tell her story.”
Jackson just shakes his head. I turn to Ms. Yi and put a hand on her arm. “Ma’am, would you like more tea?”
She nods and says, “Yes, please.”
“Detective?” I say. “More tea for Ms. Yi.”
Jackson doesn’t get out of his chair as he opens the door and hands the teapot to someone on the other side. “What’s this Unit 731 you’re talking about?” he asks, shutting the door. “I’ve never heard of it.”
I nod. “You’re not alone. Most Americans don’t know about Unit 731.”
“So, what is it?” Jackson insists. “What does it have to do with the murder?”
“We don’t know if it’s a murder, Detective,” I say quickly.
He ignores me and leans into Ms. Yi. “Does this Unit 731 have something to do with your parents?”
“I do not know,” Ms. Yi replies. “I never saw them again after my wedding day.” She looks at her hands. “However, they went to Manchuria and that is where Unit 731 was.”
“So,” Jackson says, “the deceased was your husband and you murdered him because something happened at this Unit 731. Am I right?”
“You are impatient, Detective,” Ms. Yi says. “As Anna says, you will have to listen to the rest of my story for answers to your questions.”
The door opens and a man in a white shirt and tie gives Jackson the teapot. He whispers something to the detective.
“I gotta leave for a minute,” Jackson says. “I’ll be right back.”
Jackson leaves and I’m alone with Ms. Yi. I study her. She doesn’t look tired from telling her story and I marvel at her strength. I can tell she wants to continue. I reach over and shut off the recorder.
“Unit 731,” I say. “My god . . .”
Ms. Yi just stares.
“Ms. Yi,” I say, “is there anything you want to tell me while the detective is gone? About Hisashi or your parents or what happened at Unit 731?”
“No,” she answers. “It is all in my story.”
We sit quietly while we wait for Jackson to return. I should probably press Ms. Yi for what happened in the nursing home. I should know who the dead man is and her relationship to him. But I think I need to listen to her story, too. I try to hear what they’re saying on the other side of the door, but I can’t. I think I’m supposed to find out what’s going on, but I don’t know the protocol. I decide to stay with my client.
Finally, Jackson returns. He shoots a look at me and sits in his chair. “There’s a ruckus out there,” he declares. “Media’s all over this story and the DA wants to know what I got so they can press charges. My lieutenant is pressuring me to wrap this up. How much longer will it be?”
“It will take as long as it takes,” Ms. Yi answers. “Now, where were we?”
“You’d just escaped from the police and were going to China,” I say, pouring tea for her.
“Ah, yes,” Ms. Yi sighs. “Without my little prince.” The pain in her face has returned.
“We can take a break for a while, Ms. Yi,” I say. “Don’t worry about what they want outside. Take your time.”
“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “It is important that you hear my entire story. Then, Detective Jackson here will have what he wants.”
Ms. Yi takes a sip of tea and stares at the recorder. “Your machine is off,” she says.
Jackson leans over and punches the recorder on. The light glows red again.
“China,” she says with a sad smile. “The rebels.”
NINETEEN
Manchuria, China. 1939
My breasts were swollen and painful, and all I could think about was how Young-chul was missing his feedings. The discomfort was a persistent reminder of how Hisashi had abandoned me and how I had abandoned my son.
The boat rocked, making me seasick. The closeness made me sweat. Inside the hold, Byong-woo leaned on me heavily and snored. I couldn’t believe he could sleep. I guessed we’d been on the water for an hour, maybe more. They’d closed the hatch and I couldn’t tell if it was dark outside.
Finally, the engine slowed. The hull made a crunch sound against sand, and the boat stopped. Byong-woo woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and pushed open the hatch. Cool air poured into the hold.
“You can come out now,” a voice said in Korean.
Byong-woo climbed out of the hold and reached a hand to me. I grabbed him and he pulled me up into the dark night. In the half-moon light, I saw that we’d stopped on the riverbank.
“This is where you get off,” the fisherman said. He held something out to me. “Take off your kimono and put this on,” he said.
I pulled off my kimono and took the clothes, the loose pants and shirt of a peasant man. I put them on and cinched them tight with the waistband. He handed me a pair of leather shoes. I took off my zori and put them on.
“Your hair,” Byong-woo said, pointing.
I tied my hair into a man’s braid that hung down my back. Byong-woo jumped off the bow and helped me down. He splashed out of the river and started up the bank. At first I didn’t want to go,
but then I sloshed after him. We were on a path of sorts leading through the trees and bushes. Branches grabbed at my arms and legs and swatted my face. With some effort, I scrambled to the top of the bank. Byong-woo pulled me up the last few feet into an opening. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the dark and I saw that we were standing on the bund of a rice paddy.
Byong-woo sat on the bund and emptied the water from his boots. I did the same. Then he said, “This way.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I want to go back.”
“Huh,” Byong-woo replied. “Do what you will.”
I stayed put while Byong-woo set off. Before he disappeared into the darkness, I followed him. We walked along the embankment away from the river. The bund was narrow and I had to be careful where I stepped so I didn’t fall into the paddy. The moon reflected silver off the paddy water, the air was cool and still.
Eventually, we came to a narrow road heading away from the rice paddy.
After a while, I said, “Where are we going?”
“There is a house some ways from here. They are Chinese rebels who are our allies. They will help us.”
“We are in China?”
“Yes,” Byong-woo replied.
“Are we going to stay at that house?”
“Only for a day.”
“Then where will we go?”
“To Manchuria. To a rebel stronghold.”
“Are my parents there?”
“I do not know,” Byong-woo said.
“Can you take me to my brother? He is in Pyongyang.”
“No,” Byong-woo answered. “Anyway, I hear he is a chinilpa. He might turn you in.”
I decided not to ask more questions. Byong-woo kept a steady pace and I fell behind. I was terribly confused about everything that had happened over the last several days. Hisashi had said we couldn’t stay married even though I knew he still loved me. Mr. and Mrs. Saito had accused me of infidelity though I never would’ve betrayed my husband. And now I was separated from my son. I tried to imagine what he was doing, where he was sleeping in the big house. I wondered how they would feed him. Perhaps they’d hire a wet nurse, although Mrs. Saito probably would refuse to pay for it. Then, Young-chul would have to have goat’s milk and watery rice. Kiyo said she would take care of him and I had to believe she would. But Mrs. Saito had said before my wedding that she would cast out any children that I would have with Hisashi.
I wanted to stop and demand that Byong-woo take me back to Young-chul. But I knew he wouldn’t. Anyway, Byong-woo had said we were in China, across the Yalu River. I had no way to get to my son.
Byong-woo noticed I was lagging. “We must hurry,” he said. “It will be daylight soon. We are not safe. Come quickly!”
I tried to push aside the worry about Young-chul and caught up to Byong-woo. The road ran along the base of a forested hill, and in the distance I saw the shadow of a house. The sky was growing light. It was deathly still, the soft, quiet pause that comes before the vigor of a spring day. Byong-woo went to a tree and crouched behind it. He cupped his hands over his mouth and gave three soft whistles. In the stillness, the whistles carried over the road and into the forest. Soon, two whistles came from the house.
Byong-woo took my arm and said, “It is safe.”
We hurried to the back of the house, where the door opened for us. We stepped into a dark room, and I sensed the presence of people there. Someone closed the door behind us, while someone else lit a lamp. The light illuminated the faces of three men. One was elderly with a gray beard and round wire glasses. The others were younger. They had the dark features of Chinese and stared at us warily.
Byong-woo bowed. “Ni hao,” he said, using the formal Chinese greeting.
The elderly man nodded. “You are Byong-woo?” he asked in Chinese.
“I am,” Byong-woo replied.
“We were told you would be alone,” the old man said.
“This woman is Korean. The police were about to arrest her. She did not commit the crime they accused her of, so I brought her here with me.”
“That was a perilous decision,” the man said. “We have heard that they are hunting for this woman. Not just the police . . . but the Kempei tai, too. There is a reward.”
“I will take responsibility,” Byong-woo replied.
“You have put us all in danger. Why do they want this woman so badly?”
“They made her marry the son of the director-general in Sinuiju. She had his son, but they accused her of being unfaithful.”
“If she married a Japanese, why is she worth saving?” the man said, eyeing me. The thick lenses of his glasses enlarged his eyes.
Anger swelled inside me. Why did this man have the right to judge me? I stepped forward. “They forced me to marry him, but I admit that I love him,” I said, careful to use the right Chinese words. “Yes, he is Japanese, but that does not mean I am a traitor. My husband is an honorable man and he loves me. Do you understand? And now, they have taken everything from me. My parents, the man I love.” The words caught in my throat. “They took my son. I will not rest until I have them back.”
There was a glint in the man’s eyes, magnified by his glasses. “And what if you do not get them back?” he asked.
“Then I will die.”
“As we all must do,” the old man said with a nod. Then he faced Byong-woo. “You must hide here today,” he said. “Rest well. You have a long journey ahead.”
He motioned to one of the younger men. “Take them to the hiding cave.”
The young man swung a rifle over his shoulder and led us to a cave not far from the house.
The cave was damp and cold and only big enough for two people. After we’d crawled in, the young man stuck his head in. “I will bring water and rice.”
“Cigarettes, too, if you have them,” Byong-woo said without raising his head. The man nodded and went away.
I folded my legs beneath me and sat on a mat across from Byong-woo. My mind was dull, my eyes heavy. I closed my eyes and saw the faces of Hisashi and Young-chul. I wanted to reach for them, embrace them, but before I could, an uneasy darkness overwhelmed me, and I fell asleep.
I didn’t wake until night. When I opened my eyes, everything around me was in shadows and I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t understand why it was cold and damp or why I was lying on the ground.
I rubbed my eyes and looked around. I saw the faint light of the cave opening and I remembered. The ache for Hisashi and Young-chul came rushing back. I wanted to go back to sleep to make the ache go away. I pulled my knees to my chest and closed my eyes. My entire world was gone. Maybe it would have been better if they had arrested me and put me in prison. Then, Hisashi could come back and rescue me and we could take Young-chul away from Mrs. Saito.
I heard voices outside the cave. It was Byong-woo, talking to someone in Chinese, but I couldn’t understand them.
Someone came into the cave. I opened my eyes but it was too dark to see who it was. “Suk-bo, wake up.” It was Byong-woo.
“I am awake,” I said.
“We must leave at once,” he said, offering a hand to me.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I want to go back to Young-chul.”
“If you go back, you will be shot,” Byong-woo said. “I don’t want to hear any more of this. You must come now. The Kempei tai is in this area looking for you. Come, quickly!”
My heart felt like stone as I followed Byong-woo out of the cave. It was early night. A line of light lit the western sky, and the moon had not risen yet. I saw the outline of the trees.
The young man who had brought us to the cave motioned for me to follow him. “This way,” he said. He had a pack slung over one shoulder and a rifle over the other.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“North,” he replied. “We will walk all night.”
Byong-woo and I followed the man along a path. He walked quickly and even Byong-woo struggled to keep pace with him. When I fe
ll behind, Byong-woo came and helped me. The young man never looked back and never slowed his pace.
After several hours my legs ached from walking and I was hungry and thirsty. We stopped at the edge of a clearing on the top of a hill. Our guide squatted behind a bush and scanned the clearing. “You rest while I check the path ahead. This is a dangerous place. Japanese soldiers are all around. Be quiet and do not move from here.” He handed Byong-woo his pack. “There is water and food inside,” the man said. “A few cigarettes, too. Take care not to eat too much. We have a long way to go.” He disappeared into the dark.
Byong-woo and I sat behind the bush. He opened the pack, took out a water poke, and gave it to me. “Drink,” Byong-woo demanded. Though I was thirsty, I only took a small drink.
He took out a round wheat bing and gave me half. The brown bread was hard. I tore off a small piece and put it in my mouth. I chewed but did not swallow.
“We will not have much to eat for many days,” Byong-woo said. “If you ever want to see your son again, you must eat and drink.”
I swallowed the wheat bread and then took a few more bites.
“Eat slowly,” Byong-woo said. “Let it satisfy you.”
He handed me the water poke again, and I took a bigger drink this time. The bing and water gave me some strength. I began to focus on surviving so that someday I could see Hisashi and Young-chul. “How long will we have to run?” I asked.
“It will take many days to get to where we’re going. But I think after today, we will be safe from the Kempei tai. They do not want to confront the rebels.”
“What will we do when we get there?”
“We will join a rebel group led by a man the Japanese call ‘The Tiger.’ I must warn you that you must be careful what you say and do there. They are stern people who will not tolerate insubordination.”
“What if I do not want to join the rebels?”
“Then you can go back to face Mrs. Saito and the Kempei tai,” Byong-woo said with a look. He crossed his legs and took a cigarette from the pack. He lit it, careful to hide the flame. As he smoked, he studied me.
I inspected the remaining bing in my hand. I wanted to eat the rest of it, but I thought about the journey ahead. I slipped it into my pocket.
The Spirit of the Dragon Page 15