The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

She was right. The soldier wore a private’s uniform and he wouldn’t have any valuable information. We didn’t say anything more. When we got to the river, a shot rang out from where they’d taken the soldier. As Jeon-suk filled her tok, she started to cry. I thought of Hisashi, and I wanted to cry, too, but I pushed my cries down inside where I was becoming hard like stone.

  We spent the fall and then winter at the camp by the Mudan River. It was colder than any winter I’d known. The nights were long and the days short and dreary. Snow piled against the tents and huts. We made hard, icy paths in the snow from tent to tent and to the river. I was never warm and I was always hungry. They put me last in line to get food, so I never had enough to eat. At night under the blankets, the women made me sleep on the end where one side of me was always cold. I knew why they treated me the way they did. I’d married a Japanese.

  During the day, we did our chores but little else. On especially cold days, we stayed inside the tents, huddling close to stay warm. Every day, Jeon-suk and I made trips to the river for water. Though the river ran fast, we often had to break through ice with rocks. I wrapped my hands in rags to keep them from freezing. Midwinter, the leaders decided to shoot one of the horses. They said it was to save feed for the other horses, but I think it was to provide food for us. They shot the animal on a bitterly cold day, and the women quickly butchered it, steam rising from the carcass as they cut into it. They smoked the meat before it froze. They dragged the carcass to the river where, over the next two weeks, the crows and eagles picked it clean.

  I hadn’t talked to Byong-woo much since our escape from Sinuiju. Now that we had idle time, he often sought me out. When Jeon-suk pretended to be sick, Byong-woo volunteered to help me fetch water. I think he did it to be with me, but I didn’t mind. His interest in me kept the other men away. Besides, Byong-woo was a strong porter and, unlike the always-sullen Jeon-suk, he liked to talk. Now that he didn’t have to wear the chauffeur’s cap, he wore his long wavy hair down. The sun and Manchurian wind gave him a rugged look that sat well on him.

  One day when winter was beginning to lose its grip, Jeon-suk refused to come out of the tent, so Byong-woo and I went to the river with the toks. He smoked a short brown cigarette as we walked. “Our raids have Commissar Kim in good standing with the rebel leaders,” he said. “There is talk that they will put more men under his command. We are lucky to have him as our leader.”

  “Yes,” I said. I wanted to say that I thought Il-sung had been wrong to leave Young-ee to die and that I didn’t approve of them torturing and killing the soldier the way they did. But I decided it was best to hold my tongue.

  We walked a little farther. Then I asked, “Why did you save me in Sinuiju? Why didn’t you just escape on your own and let the police take me?”

  “It was a big risk,” Byong-woo said. “If they had caught us, they would have tortured me and then shot me.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “I guess I felt sorry for you,” he replied.

  “But I was happy with Hisashi,” I protested. “And I had Young-chul. You took me from my son.”

  “You did not have Hisashi anymore. And Mrs. Saito was taking you away from Young-chul, not me. I arranged for Kiyo to take care of him. This is better for you.”

  “This?” I asked as we came to the riverbank. “Living here in Manchuria like this?”

  “Yes, this,” he answered bluntly. “Here, fighting the Japanese as your parents did. I hated it in Sinuiju. I was a slave in a chauffeur’s hat. I would much rather be here in the cold. Anyway,” he said with a quick look, “I saved you because I wanted you to come with me.” He tossed his cigarette butt to the side and dropped to his knees. He began filling the toks.

  We filled the water toks and headed to camp without talking. After we’d dropped them off, Byong-woo said, “Suk-bo, tell me. How do you feel about me?”

  “You saved my life,” I replied. “I am grateful.”

  “Just grateful? That is all you can say?”

  I smiled at him and walked away.

  Eventually, the daylight grew longer and it wasn’t as cold at night. The women did not sleep as close together and the ice paths turned to mud. One day, Jin-mo went off on his horse. Three days later he returned with fifty more rebels, who set up camp next to us. They were hardscrabble men and women dressed in rags. I thought they looked pathetic. Then I looked at my own ragged clothes and noticed how calloused and cracked my hands had become. I hadn’t brushed my hair in months. I could feel my ribs sticking out and that my face was thin. I’d become just like them.

  When the snow finally melted, a feeling of relief filled the camp. We’d survived the winter. People spent more time outside the tents. Jeon-suk didn’t pretend to be sick as often. Byong-woo and several other men worked on the truck and three-wheeler. Still others practiced hand-to-hand combat with the new people, each group showing the other new moves. Women went to the woods in search of plants and roots to restock the food stores. Hunting parties shot more game. Men constantly cleaned their rifles.

  Not much happened in camp for several months until one day, after a storm, Jin-mo came to me. Il-sung’s handsome deputy rarely took notice of me, so I was surprised when he called my name. “Suk-bo,” he said, “come with me. Commissar Kim wants to talk to you.”

  I hesitated, not sure if I’d heard him correctly. “Come, come!” Jin-mo said, waving his hand. “Do not make him wait.”

  I followed him to Il-sung’s tent. Jin-mo opened the tent flap and motioned me inside. I stepped in as Jin-mo, staying outside, closed the flap. The commissar sat at his table, which was set with two tea bowls and a teapot. Il-sung saw me and bade me to sit with him. Whenever I saw him, I was surprised how a man not much older than me could be so charismatic. Now, inside his tent, his aura was strong.

  I kept my eyes low as Il-sung poured tea into the tea bowls and set one in front of me. “The new people brought tea from China,” he said, “so we do not have to drink that swill. Drink.”

  Il-sung had never offered to drink tea with me before. In fact, he hadn’t spoken three words to me since Young-ee died. I knew why. It was because he didn’t trust me. But I’d worked hard for the rebels for nearly two years, and now, he was offering me tea. Perhaps, I thought, I had earned his trust.

  I took a sip and it was, in fact, the best tea I’d had since I’d lived in the Saito house. Sipping his tea, Il-sung kept his eyes on me. “You are the water girl,” he said from over his tea bowl. “I have been told that you are strong and you never miss a day of work. That is admirable, exactly the traits our rebellion needs.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  He set his tea bowl down. “I should tell you that several of our new comrades have information about the raid on the unit your parents were with. They said that your father was a brave soldier, but he and your mother were captured. It is not likely you will see them again. I am sorry.”

  I looked into my tea bowl. I’d hoped that my parents were not killed. But the thought of them as prisoners was worse. I wanted to cry for them, but I choked back my tears so I wouldn’t cry in front of Commissar Kim.

  Il-sung took another sip of tea and said, “I have been thinking about you, Suk-bo. I was concerned that you are sympathetic to Japan because of feelings you have for your husband. How do you feel about what we are doing here, fighting the Japanese?”

  “I do not know,” I said, shaking my head. “My father hated them. My mother was afraid of them. They turned my brother into a chinilpa. If it is true what you say about my parents, they have destroyed my family. I think they are destroying Korea, too.”

  “They are,” Il-sung said. “And China, too.”

  I looked at Commissar Kim. “But Hisashi is not like that. He is a kind man. He does not support what Japan is doing in Asia. When we were alone, he used my real name.”

  “Are you sure about him?” Il-sung asked.

  “Yes, sir. I know it in my heart.”

 
“Well,” Il-sung said, “we have learned something different about your husband.”

  “What do you know?” I said quickly. “Tell me, please.”

  Il-sung lifted his chin at me. “Byong-woo said that your husband was going to work for Doctor Ishii here in Manchuria. We have learned that Doctor Ishii has set up a camp in Harbin, less than two hundred miles north of here, near where they captured your parents. They say it is a sawmill, but we know it is not. No timber goes in and no lumber comes out. Only prisoners go in, but they do not come out. The Japanese conduct experiments there—cruel experiments on prisoners.”

  “Experiments?” I shook my head. “Hisashi would not be involved in something like that.”

  “Oh?” Il-sung said. “Was Byong-woo wrong about what your husband was going to do?”

  I looked down. “Hisashi only said he was going to work for Doctor Ishii.”

  “Yes,” Il-sung said, picking up his tea bowl. “Your husband is helping Doctor Ishii conduct experiments on prisoners—prisoners like your parents.” He took a sip of tea and stared at me.

  “No,” I said. “It cannot be true. You’re saying that so that I will disown him.”

  “It is true and you know it,” Il-sung said.

  I thought about it for a minute. Perhaps Il-sung was right. Maybe it was why Hisashi was so distraught the day when we were last together. Maybe it was why he’d said we couldn’t be married anymore. It made sense, but I couldn’t make myself believe it.

  I wanted to reach out to my husband. I wanted to tell him I knew he was a kind and gentle man and that he would never hurt anyone. He was less than two hundred miles away, Il-sung had said. Over the hills and valleys of those miles, I sent my love to him. I prayed that he would receive it.

  And then I became angry. Why had fate done this to Hisashi and me? Why couldn’t we have a love like we’d had that precious year before he went to Tokyo? Why did I have to suffer?

  “It is the curse of the two-headed dragon,” I said to myself.

  “What did you say?” Il-sung asked. “A two-headed dragon?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “My aunt told me that if I married Hisashi, I would be cursed by the two-headed dragon. I saw it once. It is in a comb she has.”

  “A comb?” Il-sung said with raised eyebrows. “Tell me about it.”

  “It had a gold spine. The dragon was made from ivory inlays. It was beautiful. My aunt said her mother gave it to her.”

  “I see,” Il-sung replied. “Where does your aunt live?”

  I remembered that my aunt told me I shouldn’t tell anyone about the comb. Il-sung seemed to be very interested in it, and I realized I’d made a mistake telling him about it.

  “It is nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “The gold was fake, and the dragon wasn’t ivory at all. My aunt said she was going to throw it away.”

  Il-sung smiled wryly. “But you said it was beautiful. And you think the dragon has cursed you.”

  “No,” I replied. “It is just something I say.”

  “Where does your aunt live?” Il-sung asked again.

  “She . . . she lived outside of Sinuiju,” I replied, “but she and my uncle moved to Seoul. I have not seen them in years.”

  “I see,” Commissar Kim said. “Well, as I said before, I have been thinking about you. I want you to prove that you are with us. I am promoting Byong-woo to third in command behind Jin-mo. Byong-woo has many skills and is passionate about our cause. He knows how to make bombs. I want you to work with him. It is dangerous but important work.”

  “I would rather fetch water, sir,” I replied.

  “Yes, well,” Il-sung said, leaning back. “Your son—what is his name? Young-chul, is it?”

  I snapped my head up. “What about my son?” I asked. “Where is he? What can you tell me about him?”

  A dry smile spread across Il-sung’s face. “Byong-woo arranged for one of our people—Kiyo, I think he said her name was—to take care of him. I hear your son is doing well in her care. But I cannot say how the boy would do if we told Kiyo to put him on the street. He is half Japanese, so no Korean would take him in. He is half Korean, so the Japanese would not want him either. The poor boy would starve. I think our comrade Kiyo is his only hope to survive.”

  I pictured Young-chul alone on the streets of Sinuiju, where no one would take him in. My prince was only a toddler, and without Kiyo, he would surely die. They wanted me to help make bombs. It was a dangerous job, Il-sung said. But they had Young-chul.

  I bowed my head to Commissar Kim. “I would be happy to help Byong-woo,” I said.

  “Good,” Il-sung said. “Your service will be valuable to us. And as long as you are working with Byong-woo, you should be his woman. It will prove to us that you no longer love a Japanese soldier.”

  Although Byong-woo seemed to be a good man, and I knew he wanted me, I couldn’t picture myself being with him. I was still in love with Hisashi and I always would be. I wanted to tell Commissar Kim how I felt about my husband. I desperately wanted to try to make him understand. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good, so I said nothing.

  “Think about it, Suk-bo,” Il-sung said. “And now, you may go.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  As Commissar Kim said, Byong-woo was an expert with explosives. The new people had brought chemicals and black powder that they stored in a small tent fifty yards from the main camp. The black powder was in sacks and the chemicals in toks. The chemicals gave off a suffocating odor that gave me a headache. When I told Byong-woo the smell bothered me, he said the chemicals had to stay inside the tent out of the weather. “It is the acid you smell,” he said. “You never get used to it.”

  A little way from the tent a tok sat buried inside a pit with only the top exposed. It was covered with a heavy lid. “That is where we keep the mercury fulminate,” Byong-woo said, pointing.

  “Mercury fulminate?”

  “It’s the catalyst. The main explosive is black powder, but the tricky part is the catalyst. We use mercury fulminate. It is unstable and dangerous.”

  “Why do you need a catalyst?” I asked.

  “Black powder can make a good bomb,” he said. “But using a catalyst makes a much more powerful explosion. We do not have much fulminate, so we must make more. The new people brought what we need. I’ll teach you how. Then, I will show you how to make a bomb.”

  Over the summer, I worked with Byong-woo making fulminate of mercury. I didn’t like the thought of making bombs to kill people, but I was trapped. All I was doing now was making fulminate. When the time came to make a bomb and use it to kill someone, I would have to decide what I would do.

  During that time, I didn’t learn much about Byong-woo. I sensed he didn’t want to talk about his past. He was focused on killing Japanese. He never once asked me to go to his tent at night. I think he hoped that our time together would make me want to go to him on my own. But I never did.

  As we worked, Byong-woo told me news of the war. “The Chinese report that the Japanese are in southern China now,” he said. “They are killing innocent civilians wherever they go. We have learned that a few years ago when they took Nanking, the soldiers raped women and killed babies with their bayonets. They cut off the arms of young boys so they could never get revenge.” He shook his head. “I hate the Japanese. I want to kill as many of them as I can.”

  What he was saying couldn’t possibly be true. I had lived with Japanese all my life. Sure, they could be cruel like when they made the farmer eat the maggots from his rotting roof, or what they’d done to my aunt during the Dano celebration. And if the rumors were true, they tortured the rebels they caught for information. But raping women and killing babies? Surely it was an exaggeration. And I knew for certain that Hisashi would never be involved in such atrocities.

  “Not all Japanese are like that,” I said.

  “You are talking about Hisashi,” Byong-woo said. “You are right. I cannot imagine your husband doing such terrible things. But he
is complicit. He is an officer in the army that is raping women and killing babies.” He looked at me sideways.

  If what Byong-woo said was true, an Imperial Army officer like Hisashi was, indeed, complicit. But though I saw him wearing a uniform when he’d come home from Tokyo, I could not picture my husband as a soldier. I only saw him as a carefree young man with short, shiny hair and an infectious smile, spying on me in the forest behind my house. I refused to believe he knew what the Japanese were doing. I refused to believe he was helping Doctor Ishii conduct human experiments. I refused to stop loving him.

  When we finished for the day, I went to camp, leaving Byong-woo at the bomb-making tent. I went to the eating area and took some dried fish and millet. I sat away from the others and tried to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I set my food next to me and drew my knees to my chin. I tried not to think of Japanese soldiers killing babies with their bayonets.

  By the end of the summer, Byong-woo and I had run out of mercury and had made enough fulminate “for several good bombs,” as Byong-woo said. “Now it is time for you to learn how to make a bomb.”

  Byong-woo got a paper cylinder about the size of a carrot from inside the tent. He got a sack of black powder and put some inside the cylinder. “The tighter you pack it, the bigger the explosion,” he explained. “This is just a small one for practice, so we won’t pack it tightly.” With a stick, he poked a small opening in the powder. He took a large pinch of fulminate and gingerly pressed it into the opening. “Treat the fulminate as you would a baby bird,” he said. “Be gentle with it. Do not press it too hard.” He closed the cylinder with beeswax. Then he folded a crease in a sheet of rice paper and poured in black powder. “This is how you make a fuse,” he said. “A little powder makes the fuse burn slowly. A lot of powder will burn more quickly. You must decide how fast the fuse should burn depending on the situation you are in. For this one, we will use just a little.” He rolled the rice paper into a long, thin snake and pinched the ends closed.