Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  Yoseb rushed to him. The boy had become an adult. Isak was even thinner than he last remembered; his pale skin was more olive, and radial lines had surfaced around his gentle, smiling eyes. Isak had their brother Samoel’s face; it was uncanny. The Western suit, handmade by the family tailor, hung slack on his drawn frame. The shy, sickly boy Yoseb had left eleven years ago had grown into a tall gentleman, his gaunt body depleted further by his recent illness. How could his parents have let him come to Osaka? Why had Yoseb insisted?

  Yoseb wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him close. Here, the only other person Yoseb ever touched was his wife, and it was gratifying to have his kin so near—to be able to feel the stubble of his brother’s face brush against his own ears. His little brother had facial hair, Yoseb marveled.

  “You grew a lot!”

  They both laughed because it was true and because it had been far too long since they had last seen each other.

  “Brother,” Isak said. “My brother.”

  “Isak, you’re here. I’m so glad.”

  Isak beamed, his eyes fixed to his elder brother’s face.

  “But you’ve grown much bigger than me. That’s disrespectful!”

  Isak bowed waist-deep in mock apology.

  Sunja stood there holding her bundles. She was comforted by the brothers’ ease and warmth. Isak’s brother Yoseb was funny. His joking reminded her a little of Fatso, the boardinghouse guest. When Fatso first learned that she’d married Isak, he had pretended to faint, making a splat sound on the floor of the front room. Moments later, he took out his wallet and gave her two yen—over two days of a workman’s wages—telling her to buy something tasty to eat with her husband when she got to Osaka. “When you’re munching on sweet rice cakes in Japan, remember me, lonely and sad in Yeongdo, missing you; imagine Fatso’s heart torn out like the mouth of a sea bass hooked too young.” He had pretended to cry, rubbing his meaty fists into his eyes and making loud boo-hoo noises. His brothers had told him to shut up, and each of them had also given her two yen as a wedding present.

  “And you’re married!” Yoseb said, looking carefully at the small girl beside Isak.

  Sunja bowed to her brother-in-law.

  “It’s good to meet you again,” Yoseb said. “You were just a little thing, though; you used to follow your father around. Maybe you were five or six? I don’t think you can remember me.”

  Sunja shook her head because she had tried but couldn’t.

  “I remember your father very well. I was sorry to hear about his death; he was a very wise man. I enjoyed talking with him. He didn’t have extra words, but everything he said was well considered. And your mother made the most outstanding meals.”

  Sunja lowered her eyes.

  “Thank you for letting me come here, Elder Brother. My mother sends her deepest thanks for your generosity.”

  “You and your mother saved Isak’s life. I’m grateful to you, Sunja. Our family is grateful to your family.”

  Yoseb took the heavy suitcases from Isak, and Isak took Sunja’s lighter bundles. Yoseb noticed that her stomach protruded, but her pregnancy was not entirely obvious. He looked away in the direction of the station exits. The girl didn’t look or talk like some village harlot. She seemed so modest and plain that Yoseb wondered if she could have been raped by someone she knew. That sort of thing happened, and the girl might have been blamed for having misled a fellow.

  “Where’s Sister?” Isak asked, looking around for Kyunghee.

  “At home, cooking your dinner. You better be hungry. The neighbors must be dying of jealousy from the smells coming from the kitchen!”

  Isak smiled; he adored his sister-in-law.

  Sunja pulled her jacket closer to her body, aware of the passersby staring at her traditional dress. No one else in the station was wearing a hanbok.

  “My sister-in-law’s a wonderful cook,” Isak said to Sunja, happy at the thought of seeing Kyunghee again.

  Yoseb noticed the people staring at the girl. She’d need clothes, he realized.

  “Let’s go home!” Yoseb guided them out of the station in no time.

  The road opposite the Osaka station was teeming with streetcars; hordes of pedestrians streamed in and out of the main entrances. Sunja walked behind the brothers, who darted carefully through the crowd. As they walked toward the trolley, she turned back for a moment and caught sight of the train station. The Western-style building was like nothing she had ever seen before—a stone and concrete behemoth. The Shimonoseki station, which she’d thought was big, was puny compared to this immense structure.

  The men walked quickly, and she tried to keep up. The trolley car was approaching. In her mind, she had been to Osaka before. In her mind, she had ridden the Shimonoseki ferry, the Osaka train, and even the trolley that could outpace a boy running or cycling. As cars drove past them, she marveled that they did look like metal bulls on wheels, which was what Hansu had called them. She was a country girl, but she had heard of all these things. Yet she could not let on that she knew of uniformed ticket collectors, immigration officers, porters, and of trolleys, electric lamps, kerosene stoves, and telephones, so at the trolley stop, Sunja remained quiet and still like a seedling sprouting from new soil, upright and open to collect the light. She would have uprooted herself to have seen the world with him, and now she was seeing it without him.

  Yoseb directed Sunja to the only empty seat at the back of the trolley and deposited her there. She took back the bundles from Isak and held them in her lap. The brothers stood close to each other and caught each other up on family news. Sunja didn’t pay any mind to the men’s conversation. As before, she held her bundles close to her heart and belly to inhale the lingering scent of home on the fabric covering their possessions.

  The wide streets of downtown Osaka were lined with rows of low brick buildings and smart-looking shops. The Japanese who had settled in Busan resembled the ones here, but there were many more kinds of them. At the station, there were young men in fancy Western suits that made Isak’s clothing look dated and fusty, and beautiful women wearing glorious kimonos that would have made Dokhee swoon with pleasure at their exceptional colors and embroidery. There were also very poor-looking people who must have been Japanese—that was something she had never seen in Busan. Men spat in the streets casually. The trolley ride felt brief to her.

  They got off at Ikaino, the ghetto where the Koreans lived. When they reached Yoseb’s home, it looked vastly different from the nice houses she’d passed by on the trolley ride from the station. The animal stench was stronger than the smell of food cooking or even the odors of the outhouses. Sunja wanted to cover her nose and mouth, but kept from doing so.

  Ikaino was a misbegotten village of sorts, comprised of mismatched, shabby houses. The shacks were uniform in their poorly built manner and flimsy materials. Here and there, a stoop had been washed or a pair of windows polished, but the majority of the facades were in disrepair. Matted newspapers and tar paper covered the windows from inside, and wooden shims were used to seal up the cracks. The metal used on the roof was often rusted through. The houses appeared to have been put up by the residents themselves using cheap or found materials—not much sturdier than huts or tents. Smoke vented from makeshift steel chimneys. It was warm for a spring evening; children, half-dressed in rags, played tag, ignoring the drunken man asleep in the alley. A small boy defecated by a stoop not far from Yoseb’s house.

  Yoseb and Kyunghee lived in a boxlike shack with a slightly pitched roof. Its wooden frame was covered with corrugated steel. A plywood panel with a metal covering served as the front door.

  “This place is fit for only pigs and Koreans,” Yoseb said, laughing. “It’s not quite like home, is it?”

  “No, but it’ll do very well for us,” Isak said, smiling. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience we’ll be causing.”

  Sunja couldn’t believe how poorly Yoseb and his wife lived. It could not be possible that a foreman of a fac
tory could live in such impoverished quarters.

  “The Japanese won’t rent decent properties to us. We bought this house eight years ago. I think we’re the only Koreans who own a house on this row, but no one can know that.”

  “Why?” Isak asked.

  “It’s not good to let on that you’re an owner. The landlords here are bastards; that’s all everyone complains about. I bought this with the money Father gave me when I moved out here. I couldn’t afford to buy it now.”

  Pig squeals came from the house next door with the tar-papered windows.

  “Yes, our neighbor raises pigs. They live with her and her children.”

  “How many children?”

  “Four children and three pigs.”

  “All in there?” Isak whispered.

  Yoseb nodded, raising his eyebrows.

  “It can’t be that expensive to live here,” Isak said. He had planned on renting a house for Sunja, himself, and the baby.

  “Tenants pay more than half their earnings on rent. The food prices are much higher than back home.”

  Hansu owned many properties in Osaka. How did he do that? she wondered.

  The side door that led to the kitchen opened, and Kyunghee looked out. She put down the pail she was carrying by the doorstep.

  “What! What are you doing standing outside? Come in, come in! Uh-muh!” Kyunghee cried out loud. She rushed over to Isak and held his face in her hands. “Uh-muh, I’m so happy. You’re here! Praise God!”

  “Amen,” Isak said, letting himself be petted over by Kyunghee, who’d known him since he was an infant.

  “The last time I saw you was right before I left home! Go inside the house now!” she ordered Isak playfully, then turned to Sunja.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted a sister. I’ve been so lonely here wanting to talk to a girl!” Kyunghee said. “I was worried that you didn’t make your train. How are you? Are you tired? You must be hungry.”

  Kyunghee took Sunja’s hand in hers, and the men followed the women.

  Sunja hadn’t expected this warmth. Kyunghee had a remarkably pretty face—eyes shaped and colored like persimmon seeds and a beautiful mouth. She had the complexion of white peonies. She appeared far more appealing and vibrant than Sunja, who was more than a dozen years younger. Her dark, smooth hair was rolled up with a wooden hairpin, and Kyunghee wore a cotton apron over her plain blue Western-style dress. She looked like a wispy schoolgirl more than a thirty-one-year-old housewife.

  Kyunghee reached for the brass teakettle resting above the kerosene heater. “Did you get them something to drink or eat at the station?” she asked her husband. She poured tea into four terra-cotta cups.

  He laughed. “You said to come home as fast as possible!”

  “What a brother you are! Never mind. I’m too happy to nag. You brought them home.” Kyunghee stood close by Sunja and stroked her hair.

  The girl had an ordinary, flat face and thin eyes. Her features were small. Sunja was not ugly, but not attractive in any obvious way. Her face and neck were puffy and her ankles heavily swollen. Sunja looked nervous, and Kyunghee felt sorry for her and wanted her to know that she needn’t be anxious. Two long braids hanging down Sunja’s back were bound with thin strips of ordinary hemp. Her stomach was high; and Kyunghee guessed that the child might be a boy.

  Kyunghee passed her the tea, and Sunja bowed as she accepted the cup with two shaky hands.

  “Are you cold? You’re not wearing much.” Kyunghee put down a floor cushion near the low dining table and made the girl sit there. She wrapped a quilt the color of green apples over Sunja’s lap. Sunja sipped her hot barley tea.

  The exterior of the house belied its comfortable interior. Kyunghee, who’d grown up in a household with many servants, had taught herself to keep a clean and inviting house for her and her husband. They owned a six-mat house with three rooms for just the two of them, which was unheard-of in this crowded Korean enclave where ten could sleep in a two-mat room; nevertheless, compared to the grand houses where she and her husband had grown up, their house was absurdly small, not fit for an aging servant. The couple had bought the house from a very poor Japanese widow who had moved to Seoul with her son when Kyunghee arrived to join Yoseb in Osaka. There were many different kinds of Koreans who lived in Ikaino, and they had learned to be wary of the deceitfulness and criminality among them.

  “Never lend anyone money,” Yoseb said, looking straight at Isak, who appeared puzzled by this order.

  “Can’t we discuss these things after they’ve eaten? They just got here,” Kyunghee pleaded.

  “If you have extra money or valuables, let me know. We’ll put it aside. I have a bank account. Everyone who lives here needs money, clothes, rent, and food; there’s very little you can do to fix all of their problems. We’ll give to the church—no different than how we were raised—but the church has to hand things out. You don’t understand what it’s like here. Try to avoid talking to the neighbors, and never ever let anyone in the house,” Yoseb said soberly to Isak and Sunja.

  “I expect you to respect these rules, Isak. You’re a generous person, but it can be dangerous for us. If people think we have extra, our house will be robbed. We don’t have a lot, Isak. We have to be very careful, too. Once you start giving, it will never stop. Some people here drink and gamble; the mothers are desperate when the money runs out. I don’t blame them, but we must take care of our parents and Kyunghee’s parents first.”

  “He’s saying all this because I got us in trouble,” Kyunghee said.

  “What do you mean?” Isak asked.

  “I gave food to the neighbors when I first got here, and soon they were asking us every day, and I was giving away our dinners, and they didn’t understand when I had to keep back some food for your brother’s lunch the next day; then one day, they broke into our house and took our last bag of potatoes. They said it wasn’t them, someone they knew—”

  “They were hungry,” Isak said, trying to understand.

  Yoseb looked angry.

  “We’re all hungry. They were stealing. You have to be careful. Just because they’re Korean doesn’t mean they’re our friends. Be extra careful around other Koreans; the bad ones know that the police won’t listen to our complaints. Our house has been broken into twice. Kyunghee has lost her jewelry.” Yoseb stared at Isak again with warning in his eyes.

  “And the women are home all day. I never keep money or other valuable things in the house.”

  Kyunghee said nothing else. It had never occurred to her that giving up a few meals would lead to her wedding ring and her mother’s jade hairpin and bracelets being stolen. After the house was broken into the second time, Yoseb was angry with her for days.

  “I’ll fry the fish now. Why don’t we talk as we eat?” she said, smiling, heading to the tiny kitchen by the back door.

  “Sister, may I please help you?” Sunja asked.

  Kyunghee nodded and patted her back.

  She whispered, “Don’t be afraid of the neighbors. They’re good people. My husband—I mean, your brother-in-law—is right to be cautious. He knows more about these things. He doesn’t want us to mingle with the people who live here, so I don’t. I’ve been so alone. I’m so glad you’re here. And there will be a baby!” Kyunghee’s eyes lit up. “There will be a child in this house, and I’ll be an aunt. What a blessing this is.”

  The heartbreak in Kyunghee’s beautiful face was obvious, but her suffering and privation had made her finer in a way. In all these years, there had been no child for them, and Isak had told Sunja that this was all Kyunghee and Yoseb had ever wanted.

  The kitchen was no more than a stove, a pair of washtubs, and a workbench that doubled as a cutting board—the space was a fraction of the size of the kitchen in Yeongdo. There was just enough room for the two of them to stand side by side, but they could not move about much. Sunja rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands with the hose in the makeshift sink by the floor. The bo
iled vegetables had to be dressed, and the fish had to be fried.

  “Sunja-ya—” Kyunghee touched her forearm lightly. “We’ll always be sisters.”

  The young woman nodded gratefully, devotion already taking root in her heart. The sight of the prepared dishes made her hungry for the first time in days.

  Kyunghee picked up a pot lid—white rice.

  “Just for today. For your first night. This is your home now.”

  13

  After dinner, the two couples walked to the public bathhouse, where the men and women bathed separately. The bathers were Japanese mostly, and they refused to acknowledge Kyunghee and Sunja. This had been expected. After scrubbing away the dirt of the long journey and having a long soak, Sunja felt elated. They put on clean undergarments beneath their street clothes and walked home, clean and ready to sleep. Yoseb sounded hopeful—yes, life in Osaka would be difficult, but things would change for the better. They’d make a tasty broth from stones and bitterness. The Japanese could think what they wanted about them, but none of it would matter if they survived and succeeded. There were four of them now, Kyunghee said, and soon five—they were stronger because they were together. “Right?” she said.

  Kyunghee linked arms with Sunja. They walked closely behind the men.

  Yoseb warned his brother: “Don’t get mixed up in the politics, labor organizing, or any such nonsense. Keep your head down and work. Don’t pick up or accept any of the independence-movement or socialist tracts. If the police find that stuff on you, you’ll get picked up and put in jail. I’ve seen it all.”

  Isak had been too young and ill to participate in the March 1 Independence Movement, but many of its founding fathers had been graduates of his seminary in Pyongyang. Many of the seminary teachers had marched in 1919.

  “Are there many activists here?” Isak whispered, though no one on the road was nearby.