by Eugenia Kim
Inja refused to let the thought of that awful medicine ruin their afternoon. The warm breeze blew her sweater open and her trousers flapped as they walked through crowds of people enjoying spring, even the giant American soldiers in clumsy boots and ugly hats. She and her friend Hyo often played around the gates of the military base. Lots of children gathered at the gatehouse, vigilant to vehicles trundling by, hoping a friendly soldier would toss candy or gum. “Chee-ai! Chee-ai!” they’d all yell when a soldier neared. Inja thought they were hollering for American candies, and it was months before she understood it meant “GI.” She and Hyo had a pact to split any treasure they caught, and so far they had tasted butterscotch, Tootsie Roll, Mary Jane, and their beloved Juicy Fruit gum. They often did better than the others because they were nicely dressed with scrubbed faces.
Uncle and Inja stopped at a park, and he read the paper while she squatted by the crocuses and poked a beetle lumbering through the turned earth. “Yah,” he said, “come look. Another contest.”
She leaned over his knee and read the tiny ad. “First prize, forty thousand hwan! Ajeossi, what will you buy?” The government had tried to curtail inflation by issuing hwan instead of the severely devalued won, and she, along with most of the populace, was perennially confused about its value.
“Even a monkey falls from the tree.” With this cautionary proverb, he tweaked her nose. “Especially a favorite monkey.” He folded the newspaper under his arm. “It would’ve bought twice as much last year, but it’s still a fine sum. I’ll buy fish or meat for your ajumeoni, aunt, to fatten that growing baby boy—”
“Is it a boy?” she cried.
“—or girl,” he said, laughing. “Now that I know what a grown daughter is, I’d be delighted to have another.” He took her hand, and she felt happy to the core, though of course everyone wanted a boy.
They walked all over town that day, and on the way home, he asked if her feet were hurting. She said, “No, but, Ajeossi, what happened to Halmeoni’s feet? How did she get frostbite?”
He sobered. “She told you that?”
“Not the whole story. Is it a secret?”
“No. Sort of.” A group of GIs passed by, joking with each other in their throaty English, and the dust swirled. “It was hard times,” said Uncle. “Your mother was a young woman, married then but living at home with us, and your father was in America going to seminary.”
“When they were separated because of the Japanese.”
“Yes, smart girl. You remember that story.” Their shadows melded behind them, and the bushes beside the military base walls wavered in a breeze, seeming to sparkle in the canted sunlight. “It was winter and I can’t say for sure, but it seemed like the coldest winter we’d had in a long time, probably because fuel was scarce. Everything was scarce, much worse than in Busan.”
She was going to say, “That wasn’t so bad,” but remembered Aunt and Uncle’s fights and kept her mouth shut.
They took several paces, and Uncle said, “Your mother was imprisoned by the Japanese.”
She dropped his hand and stopped, eyes wide. “Why?” She knew so little about her mother, and then it occurred to her that she didn’t know her at all. Who was this woman who would take her adopted daughter to America instead of her real firstborn? But—in prison! “Did she do something wrong?”
“Of course not.” He walked on and she caught up. “It doesn’t matter why. The Japanese were in charge, and they arrested people for their own reasons. Like your harabeoji.”
Inja remembered the story about Grandfather demonstrating for independence. “Did she march with him on Sam-il?”
“No, she was a child then. This was more than twenty years later. Japan was at war with China. Or was it Pearl Harbor? I was in school in Seoul, I think. No, I was home. Where was I?” He grew silent as the sun slid deeper behind walls and buildings. “I remember now. It was his letters—” He frowned. “Never mind about that. The fact is, they arrested people at whim. They only fed the prisoners thin soup, so Halmeoni carried rice to your mother every day. The prison was on the other side of town, two hours’ walk each way. Like I said, it was the coldest winter . . .”
Their steps slowed and he remained quiet. On snowy days if Inja played outside in rubber shoes, her toes felt the cold first, and when she came inside, Uncle would rub her feet with vigor until they were pink. Poor Halmeoni, walking with frozen feet day in and day out—and Inja thought of her poor mother, in prison, freezing. “How long was she there?”
After a protracted silence, he said, “Three months.”
She couldn’t fathom this length, or an era when they would put her mother in jail for no reason and make her grandmother crippled because she brought her food.
“Praise God, your mother came out unharmed,” said Uncle, his voice firming, “and if I remember correctly I think she led the prison warden to Christ—a Japanese major who thought his emperor was god. It was a bad time, but there was that glimmer of good.”
Inja walked sideways beside him, her eyes on his features, seeking an explanation. He stooped and took her hands. “Inja, child, your mother doesn’t know about Halmeoni’s feet. Don’t ever tell her. It would kill her.”
“But how could she not know?”
“Those were hard times, and we moved to Seoul soon after that. Harabeoji was ill, your mother was weak from prison, and Halmeoni hid her affliction because everyone was suffering. Your mother would feel terrible about it—guilty, as if she had caused the frostbite herself. No need to add to her troubles. She’s got her hands full in America. Agreed?”
“Yes, Ajeossi.” She squeezed his hands, and he hugged her hard. She felt privileged, serious, and adult in accepting the responsibility that secrets required.
They reached their gate. “Let’s give Ajumeoni that medicine, shall we?”
She had lots of thinking to do about this conversation, including the intriguing notion of knowing something important in her family that her own mother didn’t know. It reminded her of what Grandmother had said when she was younger and wanted to know if her mother could feel what she was feeling—that God always knew. If her mother didn’t know about Grandmother’s toes, maybe God didn’t always know either. She suspected this might be blasphemous, but she was certain of one thing—she would be forever gentle with Grandmother’s feet and would never again complain, even inside, about taking care of them.
Inja’s baby cousin, Seonil, was born August 12, 1955, on a moonless night that made the midwife complain about their exceedingly dark house. The only electric light was a single bare bulb, hung from a wire strung across the ceiling of the sitting room, and the midwife insisted that Aunt give birth there.
After many hours, Aunt yelled, the midwife commanded her to breathe and push, breathe, big push now! and then came a squishy plopping sound. The midwife shouted, “A boy!” followed by a walloping baby cry. Aunt groaned, and Ara praised her and snapped a clean cloth open. Inja smelled the fresh linen against the scent of something dark and pungent. The light swung to reveal a wet hairy globe cradled in the midwife’s spindly fingers. After making sure Aunt had delivered the placenta and was fine, the midwife cradled the baby, swaddled loosely to show the men its sex, which they called his pepper.
Inja had to tell Grandmother several times about the baby. “Omana! A boy,” said Grandmother. Then, “Whose boy? A baby boy? Omana! A boy.” What didn’t need to be said by anyone was that their family line was now secured with this boy, and the joy of that security was inherent in each Omana! she uttered.
By the time Inja left Grandmother still musing about a baby boy, Grandfather had strung peppers across their gateposts to announce and celebrate his grandson, and Uncle was in with Aunt, cooing to his son in tones of reverence.
Aunt grew more amiable, especially while nursing Seonil. After the baby’s hundredth day celebration, Inja often had to watch him, at first a somewhat fussy baby with a fat round head and merry eyes. But when he grew heavy, the nove
lty of caring for him wore off. Weekends he spent most of the day wrapped to her back, and sometimes when he wouldn’t stop wailing, she’d pinch his fat elbow. Aunt would yell, “Go walk that child! What are you doing to him?”
“He’s cranky, that’s all.” But he was also easy to play with, and his jolly laughter made them all laugh.
The autumn after baby Seonil’s first birthday, Inja came home from her new fifth-grade class to find everyone circled in the sitting room, even Grandmother, marveling at something on the floor. She peeked in and saw a brown-and-green-shelled turtle sliding down the sides of a big basin. Bigger than her wide-open hand, its splayed legs floundered on the slick tin surface, the nubbin head tottered to and fro, and its bean eyes rolled, making Seonil laugh.
She crouched by the basin with the others. “Wow. Where’d that come from?”
“I bought it for Seonil.” Uncle pushed away Seonil’s eager hands. “Don’t touch, it’ll bite.”
“Where’d you get it?” Inja wondered if the refurbished zoo was selling surplus animals.
“Apothecary. Be quiet, you’ll scare it.”
Apothecary! The creature’s presence took on a sinister meaning—but Uncle had said it was for Seonil. They watched the pitiful antics of the turtle trying to escape the basin, and the adults argued whenever it moved if it was clever or stupid. Seonil reached to pet it, and the turtle withdrew into its shell. He clapped and Inja laughed with him—the turtle was cuter inside its house—but the others sighed with dismay. “Aigu,” said Aunt. “It took hours to coax him out.” Inja watched the turtle doing nothing for a while, then went off to play with Seonil.
Sometime later they were still there, crouched around the closed turtle now perched on a board laid across the top of the basin, a few leafy greens piled enticingly by its head end. Uncle held a twig and Ara held a cleaver. Grandfather said they were waiting for the turtle to come out to eat the lettuce, then Uncle would make it bite the twig defensively and he’d pull so Ara could chop its head off. Inja shuddered—poor turtle!—and watched until she got bored again.
She made newspaper hats and boats with Seonil in the next room, occasionally hearing the knife slam the board, followed by groans, and she’d score one more point for the turtle’s clever side. Thus far, the turtle had two points for stupid—getting caught and leaving its house at all—and eight points for clever.
Slam! then cheers! She ran to the kitchen, leaving Seonil happily tearing up paper boats. Uncle was washing his finger where the turtle had bit him, and Ara stood by with a cloth to tie it up. Grandfather held the poor headless turtle upside down, its legs and tail limp, while Aunt held a small bowl beneath Grandfather’s every shake and squeeze to catch the turtle’s blood, which was intended to strengthen Seonil’s male vigor. Grandmother kept asking how the turtle got in the house. Thoroughly repulsed and fascinated, Inja stood half outside the doorway until the turtle dripped no more. She was surprised how little blood the turtle had—two small spoonfuls—and was glad it was scant for Seonil’s sake.
The grownups descended on him, and when they decided to hold him down to pour it down his throat, Inja ran outside. To the sound of his wretched cries, she crept around the front yard hidden from the house, relieved that she wasn’t a boy.
16
* * *
Twins
Inja, my child, here is a letter from your sister. Her writing is worse than her Korean speech, but she wanted to write to you herself, so she asked Appa to translate it for you. When we are reunited, I know you will help her with her language, and perhaps she will help you to learn English. The very thought makes my heart yearn for you girls to be together, and I pray it will be soon. Mother
December 12, 1955
Dear Little Sister,
Today is my birthday and I am ten years old. I learned today we are both in the fourth grade although I am older than you. That is funny! Dad says it is because school is different in Korea, and also it is different how you count your age over there. He says Koreans are one year old from the day you are born, but we are counting your age like we do here. That is good because I got an A in arithmetic, but it is confusing, and you would be older than me! Isn’t that funny? For three months we are the same age! Yes, strange! When it is your birthday, Mother calls us twins. But since you are still nine, we are not twins until your next birthday. I will make you a card to go in the package for your birthday. I got mittens, saddle shoes, underwear, construction paper, and a box of 64 Crayolas. I did not get a Barbie doll. Do you have a Barbie doll? I will ask Mom to send you the same presents so we can be twins. Maybe she will buy you a Barbie doll.
Yours truly,
Your almost twin sister, Miran
Part III
* * *
Reconstruction
1956–1962
17
* * *
Friends
After the letter from Miran on her birthday, Inja thought about her sister more often, and when her own birthday came the following September, she wondered if, when she got to America—it was always a when, she assumed she’d go there someday, somehow—she’d have a party like those shown in their photographs with cake, candles, balloons, hot dogs decorated to look like sailors, streamers strung from the ceiling light fixture, funny cone hats, and presents in bright papers with ribbons and bows. Instead, she invited three classmates for birthday soup.
On her tenth birthday morning, she woke and found two handmade cards from her sister—“인자, 생일 축하합니다 Happy Birthday, Inja,” wrote Miran in crooked childish Hangul, and “Happy Birthday, Anna,” in beautiful English cursive with little flowers all around.
Anna was the American name her parents had chosen for Inja. They used it when they gave talks about Korea and received donations. Assimilation required having an American name, even if it was never used, like the name Alice for Najin, or Miriam for Miran. They didn’t do the presentations any longer, but the enemy was still very present at a mere sixty kilometers north of Seoul, and infiltrators and dissidents were always getting imprisoned by President Rhee. Protesters were saying that the president himself was a communist, so Inja was confused, and Uncle explained, “It’s politics.” Her father had also written to tell her about her American name, and to challenge her to find the three passages about the prophet Anna in the Gospel According to Luke, an easy enough task.
Along with the birthday cards Miran made were presents Uncle and Aunt had saved from her mother’s packages. Inja was so pleased, she didn’t mind that they lacked wrapping paper or bows. Spread out beside her bedding was a pale green dress trimmed in white lace with a flounced skirt that had two front pockets, a matching hair ribbon, a box of chocolate-covered raisins—raisins and chocolate were precious market commodities she was never allowed to keep—a sky-blue coin purse that snapped open and shut, and tucked inside was an American silver Mercury dime for her ten years.
Inja showed everything to Grandmother, who admired her gifts with enthusiasm, then wanted to be shown again and again until Uncle said he’d walk her downtown to have a birthday portrait taken in the new dress to send to her parents. She scrubbed her face, combed her hair—still curly from earlier that week after her bath when Ara had twisted it up in rags—knotted the ribbon into a smart bow beside her ear, dressed carefully, and bounced out with Uncle for a lively walk downtown to the photographer’s studio. In front of the camera, Inja curtseyed American-style, and the loud flash and praise from the photographer and Uncle had her feeling queenly.
At home Inja stepped regally into the kitchen. Aunt washed vegetables, and Ara soaked and sliced dried seaweed, while a pot of broth, floating with beef bones, bubbled on the stove and sent its steamy deliciousness throughout the house. At the market, the seaweed had cost one tube of Ipana toothpaste, and the beef bones cost three yards of corduroy.
“Very fancy!” said Ara. “You look beautiful.”
“It’s a pretty dress, so don’t get it dirty when you set the table,”
said Aunt. “We’ll eat first, then you can have lunch with your friends.”
Wearing a big cloth over her crinkling skirt, Inja was proud to serve her birthday soup to her family, and just as happy to clean up and set the tables again. She made sure the sills were dusted and the room neatened of its usual haphazard newspapers, clothes, and books. Then she sat and waited, her stomach growling for soup. Every ten minutes, then every ten seconds, Inja checked the window, the gate, and then outside to peer down the road.
At half-past twelve, Aunt came in carrying Seonil. “Where is everybody? Ara says the soup is getting too cold and thick.”
“I guess they’re late.” Her legs seemed stuck to the floor.
“You’re sure you asked them properly? I have to take the soup off the heat.”
She remembered precisely when and how she had asked each invitee. Will you come over for my birthday lunch next Saturday at noon? Maybe she hadn’t been firm enough. Maybe she should’ve given them an invitation card, like the rich girl, Myeonghi, had given to every girl in their classroom for her birthday party. Inja hadn’t attended that party since she hadn’t had a decent gift to give her—all she had was an old book that she loved, its covers torn, and used clothes. Myeonghi came to school with new books and new clothes every month. Inja heard later they had eaten American-style cake and every girl was given a banana. She regretted missing Myeonghi’s party most because she’d never tasted a banana. She hadn’t thought to write out invitations for the three girls she’d asked, including Myeonghi.