21.
It seemed as if the war would never end. Day after day of too much hard work, not enough food, constant exhaustion—and no chance to make or do anything beautiful. If a war lasts long enough, is it possible that people would completely forget the idea of beauty? That they’d only be able to do what they needed to survive and would no longer remember how to make and enjoy beautiful things?
I was determined not to let this happen to me. At school every day, while I was working with my hands, I let my mind float away to think of something beautiful. The dragon pin, buried safely in the backyard; the way the little pearl ball shone, white but with a hundred unnamed colors gleaming. How the row of rose of Sharon trees had looked when in full bloom, each flower like an open mouth, singing. Or the mountains outside town—how they used to turn green a little at a time in the spring, the color climbing higher with each warm day.
I was afraid that if I didn’t take time now to remember these things, I’d wake one day unable to recall them at all.
Jung-shin had avoided me ever since the incident in the schoolyard with her sister. We hadn’t spoken even once, and this left a large, ragged hole in my life.
The days of defense-preparation work without her company were truly miserable. And as unhappy and uncomfortable as I felt, I could see whenever I glanced at her that she felt a hundred times worse. Her shoulders were always slumped and her eyes dull.
What Jung-shin’s father did was the responsibility of the whole family; her father’s shame was hers as well. That was why she couldn’t face me.
I was sure she hadn’t known her father was chin-il-pa before the day when I guessed, for she had seemed completely bewildered. I thought again of Uncle—how he’d never mentioned anything about Jung-shin’s family.
Now I thought I knew why. I hadn’t known then what Uncle was doing, nor had Jung-shin known what her father was doing. We were just two girls playing together. That must have been what Uncle had thought.
It was what I thought, too.
After school one day I rushed out and found the popcorn man. If he was anywhere in town, he was easy to find; you just followed the sound of the loud banging noises—the popcorn inside the cannon. I bought a bag, then hurried to a street corner Jung-shin would pass on her way home.
Soon she came along, walking slowly, with her head down. She saw me standing there and her steps slowed even more. “Hello, miss,” I called as she approached. “I hear you are good at cat’s cradle. I would like to learn some new patterns. Don’t worry, I can pay for the lesson.” And I held out the bag of popcorn.
It was a wonderful sight, the way her eyes instantly regained their sparkle. Right away she began to play along. “Well, I don’t know,” she said, striking a contemplative pose. “I am very good at cat’s cradle, and I’m not sure if one bag of popcorn is enough payment.”
“Who said anything about one bag?” I said indignantly. “Some of this is for me, you know! I was offering half a bag!”
We laughed together, and I knew in that moment we could still be friends.
One evening late in winter Tae-yul asked to speak to Abuji alone. After supper Omoni and I immediately rose from our seats and left the room. We took the dishes to the back of the house under the eaves and washed them there, so the men would have some privacy. I was dying to know what Tae-yul had to say; I couldn’t remember any other time that he’d asked to talk to Abuji privately.
There was quiet in the house for a little while, but as we were finishing the dishes we heard Abuji’s voice. He was shouting. “What do you mean by this? You would deliberately disobey my express command?”
I was stunned—Abuji never shouted. Omoni immediately covered her ears with her hands and hissed at me to do the same. Reluctantly, I raised my hands to my ears. I knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help it: I covered my ears without completely blocking my hearing.
I couldn’t hear the words—only quiet, then more shouting. They argued for a long time—long enough for my legs to cramp. At last there was silence. Omoni cautiously lowered one hand. Then she told me to empty the water basin while she took the dishes back to the kitchen.
“Yobo, Sun-hee,” Abuji called in a stern voice. I dropped the basin and hurried inside.
Abuji was pacing back and forth in great agitation. Tae-yul had obviously just bowed to him; he was on his knees on the other side of the low table. Unhappiness seemed to fill the space between them, the whole room. Following Omoni in, I took only one step past the threshold and stood next to the sliding door, making myself as small as I could.
“Tae-yul has something to say,” Abuji said.
Tae-yul swiveled on his knees and bowed his head to the ground toward my mother. Then he raised his head but kept his eyes down as he spoke.
“Omoni, today I enlisted in the Imperial Army. I leave for training in Seoul tomorrow.”
My legs turned to paper. I grabbed for the door frame to keep from falling as Omoni cried out. “Why, why? You’re too young—how—”
Tae-yul’s face was pale, but his voice was steady. “I volunteered.”
At this Omoni threw her apron over her face and collapsed, sobbing wildly. Abuji thrust out his hands in anger and shouted, “Look at her! Look what you have done to your mother!”
Tae-yul rose to his feet and bent over her. “Omoni, please,” he whispered.
This was an old trick of Uncle’s. When we were younger, crying over some small hurt or disappointment, Uncle would lower his voice and speak to us in a whisper. We had to stop crying in order to hear what he said. It always worked, and now here was Tae-yul doing it, as if he were the adult and Omoni the child.
It worked this time as well; Omoni stopped crying and sat up. Tae-yul bowed before her again.
“I ask all of you to try to understand,” he said. “The war is going badly for the Japanese. We know this—we can see it everywhere. They talk a lot about those kamikaze successes, but you can tell from that very tactic how desperate they are. The soldiers at the airstrip don’t even have ammunition for many of their guns anymore. One more soldier, and an unwilling one at that, isn’t going to make a difference in the outcome. The Japanese are losing. It’s only a matter of time.
“But if I join the army, things will be much better for you. Families of volunteers receive rice rations and other considerations. Look at Sun-hee’s clothes,” he said bitterly, glancing over at me. “It’s a wonder they hold together now—there are more mending stitches than cloth. They’ll give you clothing, better food—they’ll treat you better.”
He was speaking to Omoni; he’d probably said all this to Abuji earlier. “I’m eighteen years old now. I’m not a child anymore—I need to help the family the best way I can.”
Omoni stared at him. “And what help will you be to us if you die?” she asked quietly.
I knew what she was thinking. We’d heard rumors that Korean recruits were sent in at the start of any battle, to clear the way for the Japanese soldiers behind them. The Koreans were always the first to die. If Tae-yul were sent into battle, he’d be in the front line. . . .
For the first time Tae-yul shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a real possibility that the war will be over soon. I’ll have several weeks of training before . . . before they send me anywhere. Perhaps the war will have ended by then. . . .” His voice trailed off.
Omoni shook her head dazedly. Abuji had stopped his pacing and was standing with his shoulders bowed.
It was impossible to even imagine Tae-yul disobeying our parents in this way yet here it was, happening before my very eyes. And for what reason—to join the army and fight on behalf of the Japanese!
Suddenly, I was shouting. “You—you pig head! Don’t you know I’d rather have a thousand patches in my clothes than lose my brother?”
In the next instant I saw the shock on all their faces. I was a girl, a younger sister—I had no right to express my opinion. But I didn’t care. Omoni and Abuji weren’t going to do anything—they weren’t even going to try to stop Tae-yul, so it was up to me.
In the brief silence that followed I realized I didn’t know what they could do. Lock him in his room?
It was so cruel. All of it—the occupation, the war, Uncle in hiding, Tae-yul going into the army . . . I needed to get out of that room; the unfairness of it all was choking me. I whirled and bolted out of the house.
I ran out into the garden, all the way to the back, dropped to my knees and slammed my hand against the stone wall. Over and over I struck it in fury, hardly knowing what I was doing.
In the midst of my frenzy my wrist was grabbed from behind and held in an iron grip.
I wrenched it free and turned around. Tae-yul was standing there.
“Don’t talk to me,” I snarled, raising my hand toward him.
“Shut up, you stupid girl, and listen,” he said roughly.
I was so stunned by his rude manner that I froze as I was, my hand in the air and my mouth open.
Tae-yul knelt beside me. “I’m sorry I spoke to you like that—it seemed like the only way to get your attention.” His voice was gentle now. “There’s more that I haven’t told our parents. But I want to tell you because—because I want someone to know the truth.”
I lowered my hand but said nothing.
He leaned toward me and spoke softly. “Sun-hee, Uncle is still alive and still working for the resistance.”