The Kinship of Secrets

by Eugenia Kim

The Warehouse of Christian Living

  The farther the Hans got from Seoul, the more the crowds thinned. The going was slow on hilly terrain, the way sometimes paved, though mostly not. As night progressed, clouds blackened the stars and veiled the moon. Inja’s uncle pulled the cart all night, two shirts wrapped around his shoulders, blistered hands and feet bound with strips of cloth. Aunt and Grandfather had also padded their shoes with rags.

  From Seongnam to Gwangju, there were no rooms at any price, and though many refugees made camp by the roadside, Uncle said it was too risky. Not only did they have many obvious possessions to tempt thieves, but the rumors of Seoul’s fall to the North Korean People’s Army made the main roads the logical choice for enemy advancement.

  Bundled in blankets, Grandmother sat atop the cart with Inja half-prone in her lap, but the child could not sleep. When she closed her eyes, she saw the boy and his mother tumble into darkness. If she opened her eyes, she seemed to see through the dark with unusual intensity, the air too loud with locusts, the wheels’ groans like bears prowling. She cradled the quince twig, its flowers wilted, and pinched a few petals to bring to her nose—the sharpness of citrus and green.

  Grandmother stroked her hair and sang hymns about the kingdom of heaven, making Inja recall the garden in her Bible book. A group of fair-haired children, bathed in light, gathered around a gently glowing Jesus, who had both hands raised as if telling them a story about the holes in his palms. In the background were statues of lambs and cherubs, and Uncle had told her it was a children’s graveyard. Perhaps the boy would go to that heavenly garden, but where would his mother go? Inja cried a little for the boy, separated from his mother, and understood then what it might mean to miss one’s mother.

  At midday, they stumbled upon a roadside inn in Chowol township. The owner had no room for even one more refugee, but told them about a warehouse four kilometers south in a village called Ssangdong. Owned by a churchgoing man—a supplier of gravel and sand for highways and bridges—he had opened his yards for refugees who could profess honesty and Christian brotherhood. As the sun touched distant hills, her uncle found the gravel trail that led to the warehouse, and at last they came upon hundreds of people gathered in small clusters around a huge factory building and several sandlot sheds. Inja smelled the appetizing smoke of cooking fires, then as they neared the warehouse itself, the stink of the open latrine dug behind the structure.

  Those crowded inside the warehouse gave them baleful stares. In a last surge of effort, the three Han grownups pushed on and found an outside spot where several families had made camp around the fat trunk of a plane tree. Its broad limbs and wide leaves shaded a narrow-roofed open shed, where they found a corner to settle. Before he collapsed from exhaustion, Uncle unloaded a few bundles and positioned the cart to create a boundary for a square that Aunt spread with mats. Later, after Inja had investigated the grounds, she saw her family was well stocked compared to others who’d fled with what little they could carry on their backs.

  She found a small gourd among the kitchen things and asked Aunt for water for her quince twig. “You’ll be wanting that water to drink, so don’t ask for more later—”

  “Is there no pump?” said Grandmother on the mat, massaging her legs. “Maybe a brook?”

  “We’ll look for one,” said Grandfather. “You’d best eat first,” he said to Uncle, who had crawled on top of the unpacked bundles and was asleep.

  Aunt gave Inja a water bucket, saying, “—and see what fuel you can find.”

  Grandfather got a hand axe and looped lengths of hemp rope on his shoulder. The two walked beyond the camp to a field where the setting sun lit the tops of tall grasses with gold. Children’s heads bobbed above the grass, and their laughter rang loud. Grandfather said she could play tomorrow, but she shrugged. He bent and peered into her eyes. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to play, but tomorrow I promise you’ll feel differently. Life continues, and so must we.”

  This made Inja feel worse. She did want to play and felt badly about it. She bowed her head. He squeezed her shoulder, and it was as if he’d made her heart pump new blood that reached the tips of her fingers and warmed her cheeks.

  “And help Halmeoni with her feet tonight; Aunt is exhausted. Halmeoni can show you what to do.” Even before Grandmother had had her stroke, she faltered when she walked. Uncle insisted she see a doctor, but she said it was pointless. Cook had taken care of her feet every night. Since they shared a room, Inja had seen Grandmother soaking her feet in a steaming basin, then Cook would wrap them in strips of cloth. She wondered what kind of malady would require such nightly care.

  Others had already cut down the few trees edging the meadow. The best Grandfather could do in the dark was to bundle twigs and grasses. He asked a woman who was also gathering kindling where water could be found, and they followed her directions to a pump on the far side of the warehouse, where a dozen women and girls were queued. Grandfather set down his sheaves nearby, said he’d wait for her, and began conversing with men who leaned against the entrance, smoking.

  The muddy ground by the pump made Inja’s blue sneakers squish, her steps spongy. A girl who might’ve been twice Inja’s age lined up behind her, a tin kettle in hand. “Nice bucket,” she said, her tongue rolling the inside of her cheek as if worrying a canker sore. She bent her narrow face close and whispered, “You have to be careful around here. People steal things.” Her sour breath felt damp on Inja’s cheek, and she wrinkled her nose, clutching the bucket. “You came at the right time,” said the girl, too close. “Don’t come in the morning, everybody wants water then, or in the middle of the day when it’s hot. You’re little so I’ll pump for you. You can’t wear shoes on the platform. Just watch me and you’ll know what to do when it’s your turn.”

  The line moved and Inja took a big step forward, but the girl stayed close. “Did you just get here? From Seoul?”

  Her dislike of this talkative nosy girl with her crudely patched skirt kept her lips sealed, but when the girl pouted with hurt, Inja said, “Yes, today.”

  “Us too, from Seoul, but we’ve been here since last night and got the best spot inside, until the farmers came. They had nothing, and my mother said to hide our food so they won’t steal from us. They’re from Munsan village and tell terrible stories with lots of crying and wailing. Did you hear about the fires? The Commies killed everybody in sight. They lined them up and shot them. They spoiled the women and threw the bodies in the fields. That’s what they said. Babies too. Speared them straight through.”

  Inja was sure she was exaggerating if not outright lying, but the words blew hot in her ears, an assault on her memories from the river. She moved with the queue.

  “You’re just a baby yourself, aren’t you? You don’t even go to school yet, do you?”

  “Soon,” said Inja.

  The girl swung her kettle and leaned in so close, Inja felt her cropped hair tickle the back of her ear. “Everybody will be dead by then. All the teachers and principals. There won’t be any more school ever. You wait and see.” She tossed her hair back and laughed. “Hah! Listen to me. You’ll be dead, too. No one left to wait and see!”

  Inja grasped the bucket to her belly and looked for Grandfather. His conversation with the men seemed far more amiable than hers. The girl reached the platform, kicked off her straw sandals, and pushed ahead. “Watch me now.” She pumped vigorously until water trickled into her kettle. She told Inja to put her bucket beneath the faucet. Inja stepped out of her shoes and complied, then the girl pumped twice and said she had to go.

  The heavy pump handle made Inja stretch her arm high at its upper position, and she held on with both hands when her socks skidded on the slick wooden platform. An old woman next in line hurried to help, and the bucket was full at last. The horrid girl was gone—and so were Inja’s blue sneakers. She left the bucket and ran to the warehouse in muddy socks, but it was impossible to see into the dark interior. She erupted in tears, and that made
her even angrier because she was acting like a baby just as the girl had insinuated. And then it felt good to cry, and she squatted right there and wept for Khang, the boy in the heavenly garden, and his mother, elsewhere in the kingdom, separated from her child.

  Grandfather crouched beside her, and she sputtered out that her sneakers were stolen. His peaceful features knit into a frown. “There’s nothing to be done for it, meong-keong,” he said, using a familiar endearment. “We’ll see about this in the morning. Come, your aunt is waiting.” She retrieved the bucket, and he carried it, the bundled rushes tied to his shoulder. “If you didn’t bring another pair of shoes, I’ll make you sandals with these grasses. Yah, you didn’t know your grandfather used to make everybody’s shoes, eh? My sandals are so strong, they’ll last the whole summer long. Tomorrow you’ll be running and playing as if nothing happened.”

  She wanted to please him, but only faltering breaths came out.

  They found their way back by the flicker of others’ fires. A cool wind threatened rain, and she felt chilled and hungry. Aunt must have been feeling the same, for she didn’t scold Inja when she saw the shoeless muddy socks. They ate a simple supper of dried fish and boiled leeks, and used the hot leek water to soften the last of the rice balls Cook had packed. Grandfather woke Uncle to eat, and they talked about Uijongbu, Munsan-ri, Seoul invaded, bridges exploded with hundreds of people on them, a threat of rain. The men rearranged the bundles, spread a blanket beneath the empty cart, lay side by side, and were soon asleep.

  Aunt cleaned the pots, and Inja took the bucket with the last of the hot water to Grandmother, who sat on the mat near the fire, its grass-fed flames sparking in the night breeze. She held a handful of withered twigs.

  “What’s that?” said Inja, yawning.

  “Cover your mouth. It’s willow bark. It helps with the swelling and prevents infection. Let it steep and help me take off these wrappings.”

  Inja tossed the herbs into the bucket and unrolled Grandmother’s bandages. The firelight revealed swollen ankles and reddened and shrunken toes, and Inja saw she had no toenails. She dropped the foot and drew back.

  Grandmother winced and Inja said, “Sorry!” She dipped Grandmother’s feet into the bucket, and the willow infusion smelled like wet dog. Inja tightened her lips against revulsion and to silence the questions clamoring inside.

  “I know they’re ugly,” said Grandmother. “An old woman’s arthritic feet.”

  “Is that what happens?” Inja tried to think if she’d ever seen Grandfather’s naked feet. She hadn’t. “Harabeoji, too?”

  “Silly child. Of course not.” Grandmother cupped handfuls of herbed water and wet her ankles. “Another long story for some other time.”

  That made three stories Grandmother owed her, the two from yesterday—a long time ago—the one about her sister’s near death and the story about why her mother decided to leave Inja behind, and now this one, about what happened to her toenails.

  Aunt unrolled the women’s bedding close to the wall. “Stop pestering her and wrap her feet. Then wash yours in that water and rinse out your socks, and don’t throw it out yet.”

  Inja knew better than to toss out water that could still be used, but the herbal mix repulsed her. With her back to Aunt she made a face, but Grandmother saw and frowned. When she showed Inja how to wrap her feet, she murmured, “Your toenails won’t fall off if you use that water. I had frostbite a long time ago, before you were born. It took years for them to come out, and they still bleed at times.” She dried Inja’s hands, and though the child could barely see her features, she hoped Grandmother saw hers as humbled.

  Aunt had made a private area with the blanket draped around the bedpan. The last to use it, Inja went to empty it in the latrine ditch. She looked for the girl with her blue sneakers, but few people were about. After she rinsed the bedpan with the herb water, she leaned it against the cart to dry and arranged the quince twig by her bedding, its few tawdry petals shut for the night. The moment she closed her eyes, she felt the heavy hand of sleep, but remembering the girl’s all-too-true warning about thieves, she dragged herself up to rummage around for her book. In her bundle she also found a pair of rubber shoes that Uncle had packed for her, and she hugged them, grateful for his foresight. The book wrapped in her jacket became her pillow, and she hoped the memory of its pictures would lull her into a kinder world of dreams. She woke once to a downpour, and Uncle and Aunt rushing about, leaning mats to shelter them as they slept.

  Inja’s eyes opened to a bright morning, someone shaking her shoulder. Aunt hissed, “Where’s the bedpan?”

  Inja waved toward the cart.

  “It’s not there. Halmeoni needs it. Go find it!” She swept off Inja’s quilt.

  Inja hugged her elbows and looked around. Everything shone from the rain, and though the ground was wet, the mats had kept them dry. Grandfather sipped hot water, the lines on his face carved deep, his eyes hooded, and he crouched in that particular way that meant his back pained him. Many nights Inja heard him cry out for Uncle to rub his back. Uncle had told her that Grandfather still suffered injuries from police beatings after he’d demonstrated for Korean independence early in the Japanese occupation years—the year Uncle was born. He also told her that story when they celebrated Sam-il, March First Independence Declaration Day, using respectful high language when he described Grandfather as a great patriot, a hero who saved Korean history books doomed for destruction by the Japanese.

  The cart was upended. “I put it against that wheel,” Inja said to Aunt.

  “Aigu, someone stole it! You should’ve hidden it.”

  “Where’s Ajeossi?” Perhaps Uncle had moved it when he’d turned the cart. Though he was her weh-samchon, maternal uncle, Inja familiarly called him Ajeossi, using the same habit with Aunt.

  “He’s gone to get the servants and to find us an inn.” So much had happened that it didn’t surprise Inja to learn he would attempt to help Cook and Yun get out of Seoul, where now there was war. Inja wanted Cook and Yun, but she wanted Uncle back, too. She shut her eyes and said a prayer, and Aunt flapped the quilts and yelled at her to find out who stole the bedpan.

  Inja tugged on dry socks and her rubber shoes, her face sour. Aunt shoved her hip and said, “Do as you’re told! What kind of child acts like that? It’s no wonder your mother left you behind”—her usual rant, and one impossible to ignore.

  Inja plowed through the bundles piled beneath the overturned cart, resentful and certain Aunt wouldn’t have said that if Uncle were around. She skirted people’s camps and sloshed through puddles. Fat raindrops splashed her neck as she looked for gleaming white enamel or a flash of blue sneaker. She tripped on a root, and pain surged through her toe. She seethed at her thin rubber shoes, that thief of a girl, and swore to stray all day to avoid Aunt, though her stomach rumbled. After she used the latrine, she dawdled at the warehouse’s cavernous opening, addled enough by anger to want to beat up the bad-breath girl. Then, far beyond the pump, she glimpsed a familiar white oblong and she strode toward it with purpose. There was the bedpan, balanced on stones over a small fire, a woman stirring something in it. Inja neared and smelled onions and soy sauce in its smoke.

  She ran back to Aunt. “I found it! Come and see.”

  Aunt followed her, fingers curled like a hawk’s talons, but when she saw the woman cooking with the bedpan, she stopped and clutched Inja’s shoulder. “Hush! Let’s go back.”

  At their camp, Grandmother fanned embers beneath the old iron cook pot, boiling water. In the other pot, fresh barley rice had been shaped into balls. Aunt told her about the bedpan. “That poor woman didn’t know better. We can’t say anything now.” Grandmother agreed they’d make do without it. Then they snickered, heads lowered. “She’ll wonder why her soup tastes so delicious,” said Aunt.

  “Wait until Cook hears about that special seasoning!” said Grandmother, and they laughed aloud, mouths covered in modesty. In this desperate place where people
stole things, certain manners such as saving face, even for strangers and thieves, still mattered. Inja had wearable shoes and the family had two cook pots. They could forgo a prized bedpan and a coveted pair of sneakers.

  Later that morning Inja spread blankets out to dry, pumped buckets of water, and Grandmother showed her how to lay hot compresses on Grandfather’s back. Then Aunt told her to do what she wished as long as she stayed out of trouble. She ran in the steamy fields all afternoon with other children, playing war, and looked in vain for the horrid girl.

  Uncle stumbled back to their camp after midnight, and Inja crawled from bed to give him a relieved hug. Covered in soot, his clothes smelling of metal and smoke, Uncle’s eyes were empty circles of black in the firelight. Aunt shooed Inja back to bed, and the long shadows cast by the fire and their quiet talk drew her into a sleep layered with sadness that neither Cook nor Yun had been rescued from Seoul.

  8

  * * *

  Telegrams

  A week after the invasion and still with no news from her family, Najin was like a spitting tiger in a cage of helplessness. The bits of news Calvin reported seemed unreliable and always unconfirmed. She knew she should pray, but mostly she was silently cursing the ways of this world. Everyone from church was shocked that the communists had captured Seoul, but how could they have not known about the invasion? All the might of this great country she lived in and the supposed power of the United Nations were pointless against the greed of men.

  After Calvin woke, he said—as she paced the dining room dusting needlessly—“The house is in a remote neighborhood of no military interest. They’re safe there. The People’s Army may be communist, but they’re still Korean brethren.”

  “Stop pandering to me,” said Najin. “It feels like the propaganda that turned brother against brother in a mere five years.”