by Min Jin Lee
“He expects something, and he’s cheap,” said the brother, looking disgusted.
“I’d never let Yoshikawa-san touch me. I sit, smile, and listen to him talk about his family and his work.” She didn’t mention that she poured his drinks and wore the rouge that he bought for her, which she scrubbed off before coming home.
“He pays you to flirt with him. This is how a whore behaves.” The brother was shouting now. “Good women don’t go to restaurants with married men! While we work in Japan, Father said I’m in charge and must watch out for my sister. What does it matter that she’s older? She’s a girl and I’m a man; I can’t let this continue. I won’t allow it!”
The brother was four years younger than his nineteen-year-old sister. They were living with a distant cousin in an overcrowded house in Ikaino. The cousin, an elderly woman, never bothered them as long as they paid their share of the rent; she didn’t come to church, so Pastor Yoo didn’t know her.
“Father and Mother are starving back home. Uncle can’t feed his own wife and children. At this point, I’d sell my hands if I could. God wants me to honor my parents. It’s a sin not to care for them. If I have to be disgraced—” The girl started to cry. “Isn’t it possible that the Lord is providing Yoshikawa-san as our answer?” She looked at Pastor Yoo, who took the girl’s hands into his and bent his head as if in prayer.
It wasn’t uncommon to hear rationalizations of this sort—the longing to transform bad deeds into good ones. No one ever wanted to hear that God didn’t work that way; the Lord would never want a young woman to trade her body to follow a commandment. Sins couldn’t be laundered by good results.
“Aigoo,” Yoo sighed. “How difficult it must be to bear the weight of this world on your small shoulders. Do your parents know where you’re getting this money?”
“They think it’s from my wages, but that barely covers our rent and expenses. My brother has to go to school; Mother told me that it’s my responsibility for him to finish. He’s threatening to quit his studies so he can work, but that’s a foolish decision in the long run. Then we’ll always be working these terrible jobs. Without knowing how to read and write Japanese.”
Isak was astonished by her clarity; she had thought this through. He was half a dozen years older than she was, and he had not thought of such things. He’d never given his parents one sen of his wages, since he’d never earned money before. When he served briefly as a lay pastor at his church back home, he had gone without a salary because the church had so little for the senior clergy and the congregation had such great needs. He wasn’t certain what he would earn here. When he received the call to work at this church, the terms hadn’t been discussed; he’d assumed that his compensation would be enough to support him—and now, his family. With money always in his pocket and more readily available when he asked his parents or brother, Isak hadn’t bothered to figure out his earnings or his expenses. In the presence of these young people, Isak felt like a selfish fool.
“Pastor Yoo, we want you to decide. She won’t listen to me. I cannot control where she goes after work. If she keeps meeting with that goat, he’ll do something terrible, and no one will care what happens to her. She’ll listen to you,” the brother said quietly. “She has to.”
The sister kept her head down. She did not want Pastor Yoo to think badly of her. Sunday mornings were very special to her; church was the only place she felt good. She wasn’t doing anything wrong with Yoshikawa-san, but she was certain that his wife didn’t know about these meetings, and often he wanted to hold her hand, and though it didn’t seem harmful, it didn’t seem innocent, either. Not long ago, he’d mentioned that she should accompany him to a marvelous onsen in Kyoto, but she had demurred, saying she had to take care of her brother’s meals.
“We must support our family, this is true,” Yoo prefaced, and the sister appeared visibly relieved, “but we have to be careful of your virtue—it is more valuable than money. Your body is a sacred temple where the Holy Spirit dwells. Your brother’s concern is legitimate. Apart from our faith and speaking practically, if you are to marry, your purity and reputation are important, too. The world judges girls harshly for improprieties—and even accidents. It’s wrong, but it is the way this sinful world works,” Yoo said.
“But he can’t quit school, sir. I promised Mother—” the sister said.
“He’s young. He can go to school at a later time,” Yoo countered, though he knew this was not likely.
At this, the brother perked up; he hadn’t expected this suggestion. He hated school—the Japanese teachers thought he was stupid and the kids taunted him daily for his clothes and accent; the brother planned on making as much money as possible so his sister could quit or work elsewhere and so he could send money to Jeju.
The young woman sobbed.
Yoo swallowed and said calmly, “You’re right, it’d be better if your brother could go to school. Even for a year or two so he could know how to read and write. There’s no better choice than education, of course; our country needs a new generation of educated people to lead us.”
The sister quieted down, thinking the pastor might take her side. It wasn’t that she wanted to continue seeing Yoshikawa, a silly old man who smelled of camphor, but she believed that her being here in Osaka had a noble purpose, that there was a respectable future for them if she worked and her brother went to school.
Isak listened to Yoo in admiration, observing that the senior pastor was an exceptional counselor, at once sympathetic and powerful.
“Yoshikawa-san doesn’t want anything but your company for now, but he may wish for other things later, and you’ll find yourself in his debt. You’ll feel the obligation. You may fear the loss of your job. Then it may be too late. You may think you’re using him, but is that who we are? Shall we exploit because we have been exploited, my dear child?”
Isak nodded in agreement, gratified by the pastor’s compassion and wisdom. He wouldn’t have known what to say.
“Isak, would you bless these children?” Yoo asked, and Isak began to pray for them.
The brother and sister left without argument and, no doubt, would return on Sunday morning to worship.
The sexton, who had disappeared, returned, bringing three large bowls of wheat noodles in a black bean sauce. The three men prayed before eating. They sat on the floor, their legs crossed, their hot lunches on top of the low dining table that Hu had made from abandoned crates. The room was chilly, and it didn’t help that there were no floor cushions. Isak was surprised at himself for noticing this; he’d always believed that he was not the kind of person who cared about such niceties, but it was uncomfortable sitting on a concrete floor.
“Eat, son. Hu is a fine cook. I’d go hungry without him,” Yoo said, and started to eat.
“Will the sister stop seeing him, do you think?” Hu asked Pastor Yoo.
“If the girl gets pregnant, Yoshikawa will throw her away, and then there would be no school for the brother anyway. The manager is just one of those romantic old fools who wants to be with a young girl and to feel like he’s in love. Soon he will need to lie with her, then eventually he will lose interest. Men and women are not very difficult to understand,” Yoo said. “She must stop seeing the manager, and the brother must get a job. She should change her workplace immediately. Together they will make enough money to live and to send to their parents.”
Isak was surprised by the pastor’s change in tone; he sounded cold, almost haughty.
Hu nodded and ate his noodles quietly as if he were ruminating deeply about this.
Yoo turned in Isak’s direction. “I’ve seen this many times. Girls think they’ll have the upper hand because these kinds of men seem so pliable, when in fact, the girls are the ones who end up paying bitterly for their mistakes. The Lord forgives, but the world does not forgive.”
“Yes,” Isak murmured.
“How’s your wife settling in? There’s enough space at your brother’s for you two?”
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“Yes. My brother has room. My wife is expecting a baby.”
“So fast! How wonderful,” Yoo said with pleasure.
“That’s wonderful,” Hu said excitedly, sounding young for the first time. Seeing all the small children running about in the back of the sanctuary was Hu’s favorite part of attending services. Before coming to Japan, he’d lived in a large orphanage, and he liked hearing children’s voices.
“Where does your brother live?”
“Only a few minutes from here. I understand that good housing is difficult to find.”
Yoo laughed. “No one will rent to the Koreans. As pastor, you’ll get a chance to see how the Koreans live here. You can’t imagine: a dozen in a room that should be for two, men and families sleeping in shifts. Pigs and chickens inside homes. No running water. No heat. The Japanese think Koreans are filthy, but they have no choice but to live in squalor. I’ve seen aristocrats from Seoul reduced to nothing, with no money for bathhouses, wearing rags for clothing, shoeless, and unable to get work as porters in the markets. There’s nowhere for them to go. Even the ones with work and money can’t find a place to live. Some are squatting illegally.”
“The men who were brought here by Japanese companies—wouldn’t they provide housing?”
“There are camps attached to mines or larger factories in places like Hokkaido, but the camps aren’t for families. The camps are no better; the conditions are deplorable,” Yoo said without emotion. Again, Yoo’s tone sounded unfeeling, and it surprised Isak. When the siblings had been there, Yoo had seemed concerned about their hardship.
“Where do you live?” Isak asked.
“I sleep in the office. In that corner.” Yoo pointed to the area beside the stove. “And Hu sleeps in that corner.”
“There are no pallets or bedding—”
“They’re in the cupboard. Hu makes the beds each night and clears them up in the morning. We could make room for you and your family if you need to stay here. That would be part of your compensation.”
“Thank you, sir. But I think we are all right for now.”
Hu nodded, though he would’ve liked to have had a baby living with them; the church building was too drafty for a child.
“And your meals?”
“Hu fixes our meals on the stove at the back of the house. There’s a sink with running water; the outhouse is by the back. The missionaries put those in, thankfully.”
“You don’t have a family?” Isak asked Yoo.
“My wife passed away two years after we arrived. That was fifteen years ago. We never had children.” Yoo added, “But Hu is a son to me. He is my blessing, and now you’ve arrived to bless us both.”
Hu blushed, pleased by this mention.
“How are you with money?” Yoo asked.
“I meant to speak with you,” Isak said, wondering if he should discuss this in front of Hu, but realizing that Hu had to be present to function as the pastor’s eyes.
Yoo lifted his head and spoke firmly, like a hard-nosed merchant:
“Your wages will be fifteen yen per month. It isn’t enough for one man to live on. Hu and I don’t take a salary. Just living expenses. Also, I can’t guarantee fifteen yen per month, either. The Canadian churches send us some support, but it’s not steady, and our congregation doesn’t give much. Will you be all right?”
Isak didn’t know what to say. He’d no idea what his contribution was to be for living at his brother’s. He couldn’t imagine asking his brother to support him and his wife and child.
“Can your family help?” It had been part of Yoo’s calculation in hiring Isak. The boy’s family owned land in Pyongyang; his references there had mentioned that the family had money, so Isak’s salary would likely not be so important. They told him that he hadn’t even asked for a salary when he served as a lay pastor. Isak was sickly and not a strong hire. Yoo had been counting on Isak’s family’s financial support for the church.
“I…I cannot ask my brother for help, sir.”
“Oh? Is that so?”
“And my parents cannot help at this time.”
“I see.”
Hu felt sorry for the young pastor, who looked both stunned and ashamed.
“Our parents have been selling their land in large parcels to pay taxes, and things are precarious now. My brother has been sending them money so they could get by. I think he may also be supporting my sister-in-law’s family.”
Yoo nodded. This had not been expected, though it made sense, of course. Isak’s family was no different from the others who had been assessed egregiously by the colonial government. He’d been counting on Isak’s being able to sustain himself. With his vision so heavily impaired, Yoo needed a bilingual pastor to help him to write sermons as well as to deal with administrative matters with the local officials.
“There isn’t enough from the offerings, I suppose…” Isak said.
“No.” Yoo shook his head vigorously. There were seventy-five to eighty regular attendees on Sunday mornings, but it was really five or six of the better-off congregants who made up the lion’s share of the giving. The rest could hardly afford two shabby meals a day.
Hu picked up the empty bowls from the table.
“The Lord has always provided for us, sir,” Hu said.
“Yes, my son, you’ve spoken well.” Yoo smiled at the young man, wishing he could’ve provided him with an education. The boy had such natural intelligence and tremendous aptitude; he would have made a fine scholar, even a pastor.
“We will find a way,” Yoo said. “This must be very disappointing to you.” His tone of voice sounded the way he had spoken to the sister earlier.
“I’m grateful for this job, sir. I’ll speak with my family about the salary. Hu is right, of course; the Lord will provide,” Isak said.
“All I have needed Thy hand hath provided; Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!” Pastor Yoo sang in his rich tenor voice. “The Lord provided you for our church. Surely, He will care for all of our material needs.”
15
The summer had come fast. The Osaka sun felt hotter than the sun back home, and the brutal humidity slowed down Sunja’s heavy movements. However, her workdays were easy, and until the baby came, she and Kyunghee had to care only for themselves and their husbands, who didn’t come home until late in the evening. Isak spent long days and nights at the church serving the needs of a growing congregation, and Yoseb managed the biscuit factory during the day and repaired machines in factories in Ikaino in the evenings for extra money. The daily tasks of cooking, laundry, and cleaning for four were considerably less onerous than caring for a boardinghouse. Sunja’s life felt luxurious in contrast to her old life in Busan.
She loved spending the day with Kyunghee, whom she called Sister. After two brief months, they found themselves enjoying a close friendship—an unexpected gift for two women who’d neither expected nor asked for much happiness. Kyunghee was no longer alone in the house all day, and Yoseb was grateful that Isak had brought the boardinghouse daughter as his wife.
In the minds of Yoseb and Kyunghee, the cause of Sunja’s pregnancy had long been settled with a rationalization of their making: The girl had been harmed through no fault of her own, and Isak had rescued her because it was his nature to make sacrifices. No one asked her the particulars, and Sunja did not speak of the matter.
Kyunghee and Yoseb hadn’t been able to have children, but Kyunghee was undeterred. Sarah in the Bible had a child in old age, and Kyunghee didn’t believe that God had forgotten her. A devout woman, she spent her time helping the poor mothers at the church. She was also a thrifty housewife, able to save every extra sen that her husband entrusted to her. It had been Kyunghee’s idea to buy the Ikaino house with the money Yoseb’s father had given him combined with her dowry, even when Yoseb had had his doubts. “Why would we pay rent to the landlord and have nothing left when the month is over?” she’d said. Because Kyunghee stuck to a careful budget, they’d been abl
e to send money to Yoseb’s parents and her own—both families having lost all of their arable land.
Kyunghee’s dream was to own her own business selling kimchi and pickles at the covered market near Tsuruhashi Station, and when Sunja moved in, she finally had a person who’d listen to her plans. Yoseb disapproved of her working for money. He liked coming home to a rested and pretty housewife who had his supper ready—an ideal reason for a man to work hard, he believed. Each day, Kyunghee and Sunja made three meals: a hot, traditional breakfast with soup; a packed lunch for the men to take to work; and a hot dinner. Without refrigeration or the cold Pyongyang climate, Kyunghee had to cook often to avoid waste.
It was unusually warm for the beginning of summer, and the thought of making soup on the stone stove at the back of the house would have been unappealing to any normal housewife, but Kyunghee didn’t mind. She enjoyed going to the market and thinking about what to fix for their meals. Unlike most of the Korean women in Ikaino, she spoke decent Japanese and was able to negotiate with the merchants for what she wanted.
When Kyunghee and Sunja entered the butcher shop, Tanaka-san, the tall young proprietor, snapped to attention and shouted “Irasshai!” to welcome them.
The butcher and his helper, Koji, were delighted to see the pretty Korean and her pregnant sister-in-law. They weren’t big customers; in fact, they spent very little money, but they were steady, and as Tanaka’s father and grandfather had taught him—the eighth generation of sons to run the shop—the daily, cumulative payments were more valuable than the infrequent, outsize purchases. Housewives were the backbone of the business, and the Korean women couldn’t fuss like the local women, which made them preferable customers. It was also rumored that one of his great-grandfathers may have been Korean or burakumin, so the young butcher had been raised by his father and mother to be fair to all the customers. Times might have changed, to be sure, but butchery, which required touching dead animals, was still a shameful occupation—the chief reason given as to why the matchmaker had such difficulty arranging an omiai for him—and Tanaka couldn’t help but feel a kind of kinship with foreigners.
