by Eugenia Kim
Najin pulled down the ironing board from its kitchen cubby and ironed Calvin’s shirts, while Miran matched and bundled socks beside the laundry baskets in the living room. She wanted to sneak into her parents’ bedroom to ask him what was happening, but a mantle of silence had permeated the house, a silence only penetrable by a language she didn’t have.
5
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Flowers
The sun at midafternoon cast short shadows among the people heading south. The crowd grew thicker than before, and its earlier mood of panic had dulled, as if the air itself were tired. Inja woke from her nap, her neck complaining, saliva pooled beneath her tongue. She was hungry and noticed Grandmother shifting in a way that indicated she might need the bedpan. Inja’s mother had sent this stellar example of American ingenuity after learning about Grandmother’s stroke.
Uncle’s back was bent and sweaty with exertion from an uphill climb. When they reached a level crossing, he unwound the ropes, stretched his arms and shoulders, and stood on the cart shaft to scan the vista ahead. Inja sat tall to see what he saw. People and their bundles filled the downhill road far ahead to a turn toward the railroad station and the bridges that crossed the Han River. Whirling dust and fumes of heavy vehicles clouded the distance, and the canvas tops of army trucks showed them attempting to maneuver upstream through the mass exodus. More people joined the main artery from side streets, the women balancing huge bundles on their heads, the men carrying the most surprising things lashed to the A-frames on their backs: a chest of drawers, a bag of grain twice the size of the carrier, a frail elder.
Grandmother gave Aunt a jug and gourd to dole out drinking water, and Uncle edged around the cart. “We should reconsider Suwon,” he said to Grandfather. His firm stance was directed at Aunt, who would challenge him.
Inja settled closer to Grandmother to have a lap to hide in should they begin fighting, but Grandfather said, “What’s your thinking, son?” and thus closed the possibility of criticism. The old man, a vigorous seventy, commanded the respect his age required. A few wisps of gray circled the back of Grandfather’s head like a victor’s laurel, and his goatee was as stiff and white as the traditional clothes he wore. He had fewer wrinkles than Grandmother though he was ten years older, and no liver spots on his cheeks like other elders at church. Inja had once heard Aunt whispering to Cook that Grandfather wasn’t wrinkled because he was a lazy man who had never worked a day in his life. Inja was so shocked and ashamed to have heard such a declaration about a revered elder that she couldn’t even weigh its truth.
“Let’s avoid Suwon altogether and cross at the ferry.” Uncle tapped the cart. “That chaos ahead looks impossible for this beast. We’ll go through the alleys to the fire station and take the hills behind Itaewon to the river.” Itaewon housed the army hospital and garrison.
“Lose the cow, then fix the stable, eh?” said Aunt, taunting with a proverb.
“The cart will be worse at the bridge with these crowds,” said Grandfather, silencing Aunt. “The ferry’s a good idea, and we can get news at Itaewon.”
Though Inja regretted not getting to meet the orphans, she hoped to see the handsome uniformed soldiers performing their military exercises when they passed the base.
“I’m thinking Gwangju by way of Seongnam.”
Grandfather nodded and the decision was made.
With much shouting and pleas of forbearance, they pushed and dragged the cart to the nearest alley. The narrow lanes, broken cobbles, and rugged dried mud made the cart sway and buck, but they soon turned a corner where the only crowds were dogs rooting in trash heaps and gullies. After a maze of backyard walls, they stopped near a patch of bamboo, and Inja scrambled down to help Aunt carry Grandmother piggyback to the shade, then found the white enamel bedpan and the old blanket they’d use as a curtain.
Uncle changed his shirt and said he’d see how far they were from the ferry.
Aunt waved him off. “You’ll get us lost again.” She turned to Inja, her voice rising. “Did you sit on this?” She held a basket wrapped in cloth, the rice-and-barley balls Cook had prepared for their journey, now concave with the indentation of someone having sat on them.
Though it was Grandmother who’d sat on the food, Inja stiffened for the tongue-lashing, but Uncle said, “What does it matter? Leave her be.” He smiled. “She only made it sweeter for us.”
Adoration for her uncle flooded Inja’s chest, and she wanted to run and hug his legs, but he turned and strode toward the river ferry. The family rested and ate, and Inja climbed on the cart to find her book. A streak of black screamed across the sky and crashed in a distant burst of thunder and smoke. Two others followed, farther away. Grandfather helped Inja clamber from the cart and sat her next to Aunt. “Stay close!” He skirted the walls to see better but came back shaking his head. Aunt tidied their belongings and readied a gourd of water and food for Uncle.
Uncle soon returned, his face grim. “The ferry’s impossible.” He ate the rice ball in a few bites and described the army’s attempts to commandeer the ferry amid thousands of refugees thronging the dock. “They’re bludgeoning their way to the river!” he said. “We were right to avoid the train station—that explosion means the city is breached.”
Aunt gasped and Grandmother sighed, and a dart of fear pierced Inja’s sense of adventure.
Uncle turned to her, his face changed by a smile. “But I saw Khang at the ferry. We’ll go through the hills behind Itaewon, and he’ll meet us there.”
Inja’s heart knocked to hear this name. Khang was the porter who toted the heavy American packages from the ferry to their house, with two, sometimes three cartons roped together on his A‑frame. He spent his days at the Sobinggo ferry dock, waiting to be called for jobs that would earn him a few jeon a day. Once Uncle saw how Khang favored his niece, he designated him as their porter, an enormous privilege for a simple laborer, the likes of whom numbered hundreds at the dock, railroad station, and in the alleys of factories and back doors of businesses, all vying to transport any sort of load. Though his mouth stank from rotted teeth, Khang always carried a small flower tucked behind his ear—in winter, a feather or sprig of pine—which he would solemnly present to Inja after he’d plunked the cardboard packages on their porch. A giant man, his thighs were as thick as her waist, and his head as bald and brown as a chestnut. When she shook his hand to thank him for the honeysuckle sprig or dandelion, her entire hand, fingers wide, fit with room to spare within his calloused palm. His gnarled hands were rough, but his touch was gentle, and when he bent to speak to her, he always turned his mouth aside.
So to hear her uncle mention Khang filled her stomach with special warmth. Uncle was saying, “—and he knows a man with a raft behind the temple at Daehangang‑ni, upriver two kilometers, for the right fee.” Aunt patted her waistline where she’d tied a cloth belt thick with bills beneath her blouse, but Uncle said he had enough on hand, and they should leave.
Rested and with renewed urgency, the Han family made good time through the alleys until they came upon a dirt path that cut through the hilly woods behind Itaewon’s army base. No one was about, and a foreboding quiet swept through a grassy meadow. They kept going until Inja saw a familiar form sauntering between the trees ahead.
“It’s Khang!” She hopped down from the cart and ran. She hadn’t realized how puny she’d felt until Goliath had joined their party. How could his massive size and strength not protect them from the Reds? When she neared, he bent to offer her a flowering quince branch he’d tucked in the back of his rope belt. Its fragrance, tangy and sweet, erased her apprehension, and she was grateful. He lifted her beside Grandmother, who reached to smell the persimmon-colored flowers. The men conferred in hushed tones. Khang shouldered the ropes beside Uncle, and the two pulled the cart at a brisk pace for the remainder of their journey to the river. No one spoke except for Grandfather, who walked beside the cart and pointed out to Inja certain things along the way—the waning sun strea
ming in slanted beams through a young grove of birches, a tiny rhododendron bush with a single violet-hued flower, the scent of must and loamy pine when they wheeled through an old part of the woods, a chipmunk’s striped back flashing on the forest floor.
The moon, almost full, shimmered through the tall reeds behind the riverside temple at Daehangang-ni. Cattails rustled with murmurs of many people hidden within. Inja sat beside Grandmother on the bank by the maiden grass, while Uncle greeted the raft’s owner with an American-style handshake to pass a wad of notes. “Well met,” said the man, putting Uncle first in line.
The raft slid up, a broad flat craft reeking of tar and dead fish. Its two occupants, pole men, changed sides. Khang rolled the cart to the center of the raft, chocked its wheels, and the family clustered around it. Inja stood on the cart shaft beside Uncle, who wrapped his arms around her. The raft owner told everyone to sit on their bundles or hold them aloft to allow space for others. He cautioned them to remain quiet and still, as the cross-current pulled fast and he feared the enemy had reached the riverbanks. Fifteen more people boarded and the river sloshed over the raft, soaking those sitting on the outside. Khang stood on the wet wood nearby, and nearest the edge in front of him was a young mother, balancing a big round basket on her head, and her son, a boy about Inja’s age, who sat on a bundle.
The raft lurched and the current swept it downriver. The dank rot of the marshy riverbank faded, and the craft’s foul odor dissipated in the night’s cool breeze. The crossing was slow, hand-poled efforts to tack against the current, and someone whispered, “It might drag us as far down as the ferry.” Debris and unknown floating things tapped the edges of the raft, and Inja feared they were bodies.
Something big crashed into the edge that plowed the current, and the woman with the basket lost her hold. The basket fell and hit her son, and the boy and the basket tumbled with a quiet splash into the river. She screamed, “My baby!” and jumped in. Uncle cried out and reached for her. She floundered and slipped below the dark water. A man struck Uncle, and others wrestled him to the wet wood. Grandfather was beside Inja in an instant and held on to her as the raft swayed. Khang kicked the mother’s bundle aside and leaped into the water. Uncle shouted, “No!” and someone muffled him.
Inja strained to see in the moonlight. Her eyes couldn’t open wide enough. Far downriver, Khang’s big head bobbed once and disappeared beneath the surface. Uncle went lax and silent, and Grandfather touched Inja’s cheek to turn her eyes from the river.
6
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Night
The rising moon, one night from full, illuminated the Takoma Park neighborhood with silver, and in the dark woods next to the Cho house, crickets pulsed their night song. Najin, fearing for her daughter in Korea, had allowed Miran into bed with her, but she herself couldn’t sleep. When she heard Miran’s gentle snores, she got up. Her nightly habit of writing a letter to her mother made her wonder if the mail could still be delivered to Seoul. She loved the American post office—so reliable it could find ways to get through war, as it had when she’d lived through war.
Calvin’s confidence that the invasion would soon be pushed back gave her enough encouragement to gather her writing things at the kitchen table, and she sat, legs curled up on the chair. She addressed her letter to her mother with Halmeoni, Grandmother, in the Korean way, and decided she would write nothing but good news, in case the family was truly embattled. But her fears poured out instead.
27 June 1950
Halmeoni,
Inja’s father says the news from Korea is not good. I am heartbroken not to see my baby Inja—not a baby anymore and does not know her own mother. I do not mean to burden you with all that is in my heart, but at times, when I am alone in the kitchen and everyone is sleeping, I know I have failed two daughters and I have failed my husband. What use is it to regret leaving a baby? What use is it for this evil mother? Thinking of an innocent child, I hear her calling us, “Umma, Appa,” and see her running around the room as if she is looking for us, afraid. She had just begun to crawl when we left . . .
She wept for the child she’d left behind to suffer whatever might befall her, and she wept for the baby boy she’d miscarried. She tore up the letter, tied her hair into a bun, and made a cup of Sanka. Filled with helplessness, she paced, the wind creaking in the woods. When bird calls signaled pre-dawn, she checked on Miran and found she had fallen off the bed, still fast asleep. How had she not heard the thump of her fall? She was a terrible mother, abandoning one child and ignoring another. She tried to write in her diary—
My heart is full of worry. And what about Halmeoni, unable to walk in the midst of a battlefield? I cannot think of it . . .
—but her fears were so great words could not contain them.
At six-thirty when Calvin hung his hat in the mud porch, she got up from the table to make him breakfast. “What news?” The very thought of Inja’s safety made her heart pound to send out signals of love and concern.
“I’m sure she’s safe at home with the family.” Calvin ran his hands through his thinning hair and unknotted his tie.
She studied him. He looked weary and tense, but his skin still gleamed with the same sheen she had admired in the first photograph she’d ever seen of him, his jawline squared and strong. “Miran’s sleeping in our bed—I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” He went to hang up his suit jacket and tie.
She leaned into the hallway. “What news?” she asked again. And when he came back, frowning, unbuttoning his cuffs, she uttered an endearment, “Yeobo . . . ,” knowing he was as worried as she. Nothing they said to each other could relieve this unyielding anxiety they shared. What point was there talking about such helpless fear?
“I don’t think he’d make a move without contacting us,” Calvin said, referring to her brother.
“But what if the battles should reach them?” How foolish they were to have left her. Only a year or two, they’d said, but starting a church took longer than expected, and even though Calvin had a great job, they were never able to raise enough money to return home.
“They’re far enough from downtown. I’ve sent him a telegram—it’ll be tomorrow before he receives it.”
She wondered if the telegraph was still operational.
He gave her a grave look. “The Americans have evacuated their embassy staff and families.”
Her stomach caved—it was worse than she thought. “They aren’t going to fight with us?”
“It’s sensitive. Entering war with North Korea would be akin to declaring war with Russia. At least it could be taken that way.”
“I heard your broadcast—”
“I’m sorry. That’s already old news. Their attack had multiple prongs. One of the reasons I think your brother will stay in place is because the citizens have panicked and people are fleeing. He’s much more sensible than that, especially considering he’s got two elderly parents . . .”
He didn’t need to finish. Her brother had shown himself through his letters to be a devoted and loving father figure. Throughout their youth, Najin had regarded him as lazy and selfish, but he’d had a daughter whom he lost to pneumonia, and Najin had witnessed his love and dedication to that child, especially during her illness. That experience was among the reasons she had believed her daughter would be well cared for while they were away. But with this kind of external stress, would he make the right choices for her daughter and his family’s sake? She was also assured for Inja’s well-being because of her own mother, who for the few years of their being away would raise Inja as Najin herself had been raised. But Grandmother had had a stroke last year, and they should have found a way to go home then.
“We can push them back. The president is safe in Suwon.”
“So he fled before the people could.” She stood to boil water.
“I’m not very hungry. Rice and water is enough.” Calvin sat. “It’s his duty, but I heard he learned about the invasion w
hile he was fishing in Biwon.”
“I can see why you call him wannabe king.” Biwon was the famed luxurious garden on the grounds of the Yi dynasty palace, with rich plantings, stately pavilions, and several well-stocked ponds.
“He took the train to Suwon at night.” Though Calvin was a conservative and wanted unification as much as anyone did, he was no fan of President Syngman Rhee, whom he called a megalomaniac.
In a flash of irritation, Najin said, “How is it you know more about the whereabouts of the president than about our own child?” She turned to face him, stricken. “Oh! I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Yeobo. I understand.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“We can pray.”
“Yes.” She turned to the stove with tears for Inja and prayers for her family’s safety.
They talked little while he ate, both knowing talk was pointless in assuaging their fears. She washed his dishes and he went to bed, tucking Miran in beside him.
When he left the kitchen, her helplessness swept through her body and left her frustrated and angry. Best to do something productive, so she sat at her sewing station in the dining room and hemmed the matching green dresses until she found herself nodding over her stitches.
7
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