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Simon’s wrists were already bleeding by the time Lang dragged him out of the detainment center and toward the administration building. He could hardly feel his legs but stumbled along, tripping regularly, barely able to sense where his feet were in relation to the rest of him. Camp 22’s Chief Officer was already addressing the crowds when the throng of prisoners came into view, a gray mass against the backdrop of a drab, cloudy day. “It is the joyful, patriotic duty of every member of this great nation to commemorate the birthday of our beloved Eternal President, who saved us from Western aggressors and constantly provided for us out of his own benevolence and extreme generosity.”
Simon thought back to his own childhood, when he had sung songs of Kim Il-Sung’s preeminence with as much passion as the rest of his peers. He should be grateful to finally be free of the regime. A few more minutes, and he would never have to hear another propaganda speech again. Soon, the only songs he would sing would be praises of the one true King. He should be ecstatic, leaping and dancing for joy. But his wrists were chaffed and bloody, and after he stepped outside, the arthritic burning in his hips and back only intensified each time he stumbled.
“Hurry up,” Lang ordered. Simon gritted his teeth. A few more minutes. Just a little longer, and he would be free.
The speaker cleared his throat. “It is no secret that our nation has struggled arduously at the hands of Imperialist aggressors. But for metal to be perfected, it must first be purified in the furnace, purged of all impurities. It is in this spirit of sacrifice, this spirit of purging, that we bring forth our condemned.”
A low cheer sounded, not the lustful howl of the bloodthirsty, but the resigned compliance of the exhausted masses.
“We’re late.” The assistant director swore and shoved several prisoners out of his way in one sweeping motion.
Simon glanced up. He no longer needed to beg his legs to function. He tried to run, nearly outpacing Lang himself.
There on the platform, biting her cheek and straining her neck, stood Hannah.
***
She let out her breath, and relief washed over her entire being. He was there. He had come. She would not die alone. He was bruised and beaten, but she saw in his eyes that he was ready. As was she.
A lifetime of conversations passed between them in a single moment — the theological discussions they would never have, the sweet musings they would never whisper in the hammock of Mrs. Stern’s garden. And in that moment, Hannah knew. She was his, she had always been his. In any other place, any other world, they would have been together already. Simon stepped up on the platform. The droning of the political speech, the shuffling of the prisoners fell mute. It was him, and it was her, and in that moment, she knew everything was exactly as it should be.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. She took a deep breath, thankful for the simple gift of crisp, fresh air. She tore her eyes away from him to glance up at the storm clouds overhead. She prayed for rain to wash their blood off the platform when it was all over. Lord, send a deluge. Something rumbled in her spirit. For a moment, she envisioned the entire mass of prisoners of Camp 22 lifting up holy hands in praise and worship of the Almighty King. She pictured a day — years in the future, but coming nonetheless — when God would transform the very land they stood on. She saw the ground itself purged and cleansed from all the innocent blood it had soaked up over the decades. Former guards and former prisoners met together, clasping hands and asking God to heal and forgive their nation. God answered with torrents of blessings, a flood of his Spirit. The rain would come. Hannah wouldn’t be alive to witness it, so God had given her a glimpse of Korea’s future glory now.
Mr. Stern’s voice whispered to her on a breeze. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” And now she understood. If in some way her death could pave the way for such an outpouring of the Holy Spirit, she would face the sword or the revolver or the gallows a hundred times over. She turned back to Simon. Had he seen it too? Did he know what power and majesty would one day be revealed right here where they stood? Did he understand what an honor it was for God to allow them to meet their end like this — together?
Joy welled up from the core of her being, so irresistible she would have probably started singing right there if the man speaking hadn’t looked directly at her. Her spirit already soared heavenward, but her body faltered for a moment. She felt blood drain from her face and willed herself to remember this man too was loved by God.
Father, don’t desert me now.
She hadn’t even ended her prayer when glorious singing deafened her ears. The music was clearer, purer than anything she had ever listened to, yet it was somehow familiar. Had she heard it in her sleep, maybe? Or in the quietness of Mrs. Stern’s garden as she meditated on God’s goodness? For the first time, Hannah finally understood the word homecoming. This wasn’t death, but birth. Birth into a glorious new world without pain or sorrow or terror. No more darkness. No more starvation or trembling. No more heartache. She never knew how much her life was missing until she stood here, so close to eternity. The bullet wouldn’t hurt. As long as the music still filled her soul, she doubted she would even feel it.
She was going home.
She stared into the speaker’s frowning face and wondered how anyone could stay deaf to the majestic melody. Her eyes passed over the crowds, the prisoners assembled to witness her martyrdom. If only God unplugged their ears, the revival would start right now. Today. If only ...
***
She looked beautiful, like a princess about to address her people. Simon’s knees shook. She was too young. A lump lodged in his throat. She deserved so much more than this.
The speaker listed all of Hannah’s crimes. Simon stared out across the sea of bodies that stretched out in all directions. So they would kill her first. How could Simon stand by while the executioner pointed his rifle and ripped her life away? How could he stand by and do nothing? Had he even known what fear was before now? Had he even tasted grief? Hannah stood only a few steps away, a radiant smile lighting her perfect, bruised face. Why was she happy? Didn’t she know what would happen as soon as the Chief Officer of Productivity finished speaking?
Why, Lord? Why? Why Hannah? Wasn’t Simon’s sacrifice enough? What had Hannah ever done? She was the most gentle, selfless creature he had ever met. How could the National Security Agency ...
She stared at him. Her eyes were imploring. What was she trying to say? There was such a depth to her expression. What is it, Hannah? What are you trying to tell me?
A guard tied her hands behind her back. How could she be so calm? Didn’t she know what was about to happen? She kept on looking at him, and then he understood. She wanted to go. He felt like shaking her. Didn’t she know this was the end? The end of their dreams? Last night, they had almost married. Now, they were both about to die. And she was glad.
What is it, Hannah? What do you know that I don’t? How can you be so calm? The executioner marched up to the platform and raised his rifle to Hannah’s chest. Simon would never have the chance to ask her.
***
Hannah studied the executioner and took a breath to calm herself. The music had faded away, but her sense of hearing was still heightened, as if she could detect every breath, every movement, every rustle of the prisoners who waited for her death. Another breeze whispered past her.
“I’ve crossed over Jordan to Canaan’s fair land.”
She caught Simon staring at her. Although her heart was fuller than ever before, his look sent a sharp pang through her chest. Lord, give him strength to watch me fall. The speaker lectured the crowds, and she asked God one last time for forgiveness and grace.
“I’ve heard the sweet music, that heavenly song.”
The speaker scowled. “The prisoner will be silenced or gagged,” he barked. Hannah hardly understood his words. Had she been singing out loud? The corners of Simon’s eyes crinkled slightly. His off-key baritone rose up to join her.
“From glory land over the sea, a soul-thrilling message from Jesus, our Lord.”
Another man joined their chorus. She didn’t need to look out at the crowds to recognize Mal-Chin’s voice. For a moment, her singing faltered. Mal-Chin was elderly. She had tended to him in the infirmary once. His body might not withstand another beating.
“I will sing, I will praise you, worship my God, my King.” He and Simon sang the next line without her.
“Silence,” the speaker commanded, but his hand holding the megaphone trembled slightly.
The wind picked up, slapping strands of hair across her face. As more and more voices joined in, she knew not even death would silence their music. She waited. Any second, a bullet would lodge itself in her heart, but the praise would continue. The revival had already started. And the National Security Agency was powerless to stop it.
“I will shout, ‘Hallelujah.’”
“Now!” the speaker yelled to the guard, who had lowered his rifle to the level of Hannah’s knees. “Do it!” At first, the executioner made no indication he had heard. The speaker shouted again, and the guard raised his weapon once more.
“This is like heaven to me.”
She kept singing. She wouldn’t fear anybody ever again. Her death today would pave the way for thousands of Koreans to witness the grace and glory of God. What greater honor could she hope for in this life?
“Do it!”
The executioner moved his thumb across the rifle’s mechanism.
Forgive him, Father.
He shut his left eye to aim.
“No!” Simon’s voice carried over the noise of the crowd. He rushed forward, a gray streak charging toward her. She braced herself. She tried to warn him, but her voice caught in her throat.
The shot rang out. Simon fell. His blood splattered across the platform and pooled at Hannah’s bare feet.