by Min Jin Lee
Yoseb nodded.
“The baby was born. It’s a boy,” Isak said, smiling.
Yoseb sat down on the floor by the low acacia dining table—one of the few things he’d brought from home. He touched the wood and thought of his parents.
Kyunghee placed his food tray in front of him.
“I know you’re upset with me, but you should eat something and rest,” she said, patting his back.
Isak said, “Brother, I’m sorry about what happened. Sunja’s very young, and she was worried for us. The debt’s really mine, and—”
“I can take care of this family,” Yoseb said.
“That’s true, but I put a burden on you that you hadn’t anticipated. I put you in that position. The fault is mine. Sunja thought she was helping.”
Yoseb folded his hands. He couldn’t disagree with Isak or be upset with him. It was hard to see his brother’s sad face. Isak needed to be protected like a fine piece of porcelain. All night, Yoseb had nursed a bottle of doburoku at a bar that Koreans frequented not far from the train station, wondering all the while if he should’ve brought the frail Isak to Osaka. How long would Isak live? What would happen to Isak if Sunja was not a good woman after all? Kyunghee was already so attached to the girl, and once the baby came, Yoseb was responsible for one more. His parents and in-laws were counting on him. At the crowded bar, men were drinking and making jokes, but there hadn’t been a soul in that squalid room—smelling of burnt dried squid and alcohol—who wasn’t worried about money and facing the terror of how he was supposed to take care of his family in this strange and difficult land.
Yoseb covered his face with his hands.
“Brother, you’re a very good man,” Isak said. “I know how hard you work.”
Yoseb wept.
“Will you forgive Sunja? For not going to you first? Will you forgive me for making you take on a debt? Can you forgive us?”
Yoseb said nothing. The moneylender would see him like all the other men who sponged off their wives toiling in factories or working as domestics. His wife and pregnant sister-in-law had paid his debt with what was likely a stolen watch. What could he do?
“You have to go to work, don’t you?” Yoseb asked. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yes, Sister said she’d stay here with Sunja and the baby.”
“Let’s go,” Yoseb said.
He would forgive. It was too late for anything else.
When the men stepped outside the house, Yoseb held his brother’s hand.
“So you’re a father now.”
“Yes.” Isak smiled.
“Good,” Yoseb said.
“I want you to name him,” Isak said. “It takes a lot of time for us to write to Father and to wait. You’re the head of our house here—”
“It shouldn’t be me.”
“It must be you.”
Yoseb took a breath and faced the empty street, and it came to him.
“Noa.”
“Noa,” Isak repeated, smiling. “Yes. That’s wonderful.”
“Noa—because he obeyed and did what the Lord asked. Noa—because he believed when it was impossible to do so.”
“Maybe you should give the sermon today,” Isak said, patting his brother on the back.
The brothers walked briskly toward the church, their bodies close, one tall, frail, and purposeful, and the other short, powerful, and quick.
Book II
Motherland
1939–1962
I thought that no matter how many hills and brooks you crossed, the whole world was Korea and everyone in it was Korean.
—Park Wan-suh
1
Osaka, 1939
Yoseb inhaled deeply and planted his feet squarely on the threshold—ready to be tackled by a six-year-old boy who had been waiting all week for his bag of taffy. He slid open the front door, steeling himself for what would come.
But nothing.
There was no one in the front room. Yoseb smiled. Noa must be hiding.
“Yobo. I’ve arrived,” he shouted in the direction of the kitchen.
Yoseb closed the door behind him.
Pulling out the packet of candy from his coat pocket, Yoseb said dramatically, “Huh, I wonder where Noa could be. I suppose if he isn’t home, then I can eat his share of the candy. Or I can put it aside for his brother. Maybe today would be a good day for baby Mozasu to have his first taste of candy. One can never be too young for a treat! He’s already a month old. Before you know it, Mozasu and I’ll be wrestling, too, just like Noa and me! He’ll need some pumpkin taffy to make him stronger.” Not hearing a sound, Yoseb unfolded the crinkly paper with a flourish and pretended to put a chunk of taffy in his mouth.
“Wah, this is the best batch of pumpkin taffy that Piggy ajumma has ever made! Yobo,” he shouted, “come out here, you must have some of this! Really tasty!” he said, making chewing noises while checking behind the clothing chest and the screen door—Noa’s usual hiding spots.
The mere mention of Noa’s infant brother, Mozasu, should have made the boy bolt out from hiding. Normally a well-behaved child, Noa had been in trouble at home lately for pinching his brother, given the chance.
Yoseb checked the kitchen, but there was no one there. The stove was cool to the touch, and the side dishes had been put out on the small table by the door; the rice pot was empty. Dinner was always made by the time he came home. The soup kettle was half-filled with water, cut-up potatoes, and onions, waiting to be put on the fire. Saturday evening meals were Yoseb’s favorite, because there was no work on Sundays, and yet nothing had been prepared. After a leisurely Saturday dinner, the family would go to the bathhouse together. He opened the kitchen back door and stuck his head out, only to face the filthy gutters. Next door, Piggy ajumma’s oldest girl was fixing supper for her family and didn’t even look out from her open window.
They could have gone to the market, he supposed. Yoseb sat down on a floor cushion in the front room and opened up one of his many newspapers. Printed columns of words about the war floated in front of his eyes—Japan would save China by bringing technological advancements to a rural economy; Japan would end poverty in Asia and make it prosper; Japan would protect Asia from the pernicious hands of Western imperialism; and only Germany, Japan’s true and fearless ally, was fighting the evils of the West. Yoseb didn’t believe any of it, but propaganda was inescapable. Each day, Yoseb read three or four papers to glean some truth from the gaps and overlaps. Tonight, all the papers repeated virtually the same things; the censors must’ve been working especially hard the night before.
In the quiet of the house, Yoseb felt impatient and wanted his dinner. If Kyunghee had gone to pick up something at the market, there was still no reason why Sunja, Noa, and the baby would’ve gone, too. No doubt, Isak was busy at church. Yoseb put on his shoes.
On the street, no one knew where his wife was, and when he reached the church, his brother wasn’t there. The office in the back was empty, except for the usual group of women seated on the floor, their heads bowed, mumbling their prayers.
He waited for a long time until the women raised their heads.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen Pastor Baek or Pastor Yoo?”
The women, middle-aged ajummas who came to church nearly every evening to pray, recognized him as Pastor Baek’s older brother.
“They’ve taken him,” the eldest one cried, “and Pastor Yoo and the Chinese boy Hu. You have to help them—”
“What?”
“The police arrested them this morning—when everyone went to the Shinto shrine to bow, one of the village leaders noticed Hu mouthing the words of the Lord’s Prayer when they were supposed to be pledging allegiance to the Emperor. The police officer who was supervising questioned Hu, and Hu told him that this ceremony was idol worshipping and he wouldn’t do it anymore. Pastor Yoo tried to tell the police that the boy was misinformed, and that he didn’t mean anything by it, but Hu refused to agree with P
astor Yoo. Pastor Baek tried to explain, too, but Hu said he was willing to walk into the furnace. Just like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego! Do you know that story?”
“Yes, yes,” Yoseb said, annoyed by their religious excitement. “Are they at the station now?”
The women nodded.
Yoseb ran outside.
Noa was sitting on the steps of the police station, holding his baby brother, who was asleep.
“Uncle,” Noa whispered, smiling with relief. “Mo is very heavy.”
“You’re a very good brother, Noa,” Yoseb said. “Where’s your aunt?”
“In there.” He tilted his head toward the station, unable to use his hands. “Uncle, can you hold Mozasu? My arms hurt.”
“Can you wait here just a little longer? I’ll be right back, or I’ll send your mother outside.”
“Umma said she’d give me a treat if I didn’t pinch Mozasu and kept him still. They won’t let babies inside,” Noa said soberly. “But I’m hungry now. I’ve been here forever and ever.”
“Uncle will give you a treat, too, Noa. Uncle will be right back,” Yoseb said.
“But, Uncle—Mo’s—”
“Yes, Noa, but you’re very strong.”
Noa straightened his shoulders and sat up. He didn’t want to disappoint his uncle, who was his favorite person.
Yoseb was about to open the door of the station, but he turned at the sound of Noa’s voice.
“Uncle, what do I do if Mozasu cries?”
“You should sing him a song while you walk back and forth. The way I did when you were his age. Maybe you remember?”
“No, I don’t remember,” he said, looking tearful.
“Uncle will be right out.”
The police wouldn’t let them see Isak. The women had been waiting inside the station, with Sunja going outside to check on Noa and Mozasu every few minutes. Children weren’t allowed in the station, so Kyunghee had remained near the front desk, since she was the one who spoke Japanese. When Yoseb entered the waiting area, Kyunghee gasped, then exhaled. Seated beside her, Sunja was doubled over, weeping.
“Do they have Isak?” Yoseb asked.
Kyunghee nodded.
“You have to talk quietly,” she said, continuing to pat Sunja on the back. “I don’t know who’s listening.”
Yoseb whispered, “The ladies at the church told me what happened. Why did that boy make such a fuss about the bowing?” Back home, the colonial government had been rounding up Christians and making them bow at the shrines each morning. Here, the volunteer community leaders made you do this only once or twice a week. “Is there a fine we can pay?”
“I don’t think so,” Kyunghee said. “The officer told us to go home, but we waited in case they’d let him out—”
“Isak can’t be inside a jail,” Yoseb said. “He can’t.”
At the front desk, Yoseb lowered his shoulders and bowed deeply from the waist.
“My brother’s in poor health, sir; he has been this way since he was a boy, and it would be difficult for him to be in jail. He just recovered from tuberculosis. Is there any way he can go home and come back to the station tomorrow so he can be questioned?” Yoseb asked, using honorific Japanese.
The officer shook his head politely, indifferent to these appeals. The cells were full of Koreans and Chinese, and according to their family members, nearly all of them had some sort of serious health problem that should preclude them from jail time. Although the officer felt bad for the man pleading for his truant brother, there was nothing he could do. The minister would be held for a very long time—these religious activists always were. In times of war, there had to be crackdowns against troublemakers for the sake of national security. It was pointless to say any of this, however. Koreans caused trouble, then made excuses.
“You and the women should go home. The minister is being questioned, and you will not be able to see him. You’re wasting your time.”
“You see, sir, my brother isn’t against the Emperor or the government in any way. He’s never been involved in anything against the government,” Yoseb said. “My brother is not interested in politics, and I’m sure he—”
“He’s not allowed to have visitors. If he’s cleared of all charges, you can be assured that he’ll be released and sent home.” The officer smiled politely. “No one wants to keep an innocent man here.” The officer believed this—the Japanese government was a fair and reasonable one.
“Is there anything I can do?” Yoseb said in a lowered voice, patting his pockets for his wallet.
“There’s nothing you or I can do,” the officer said, peeved. “And I hope you’re not suggesting a bribe. Making such an attempt would only exacerbate your brother’s crime. He and his colleagues refused to acknowledge loyalty to the Emperor. This is a serious offense.”
“I didn’t mean any harm. I beg your pardon for my foolish words—I would never insult your honor, sir.” Yoseb would have crawled on his belly across the floor of the station if that would have made Isak free. Their eldest brother, Samoel, had been the brave one, the one who would’ve confronted the officers with audacity and grace, but Yoseb knew he was no hero. He would have borrowed more money and sold their shack if the police would take a bribe in exchange for Isak; Yoseb didn’t see the point of anyone dying for his country or for some greater ideal. He understood survival and family.
The officer adjusted his spectacles and looked past Yoseb’s shoulder, though no one else was standing there.
“Perhaps you can take your women home? They have no place here. The boy and the baby are outside. You people are always letting your kids play in the streets even in the evening. They should be at home. If you don’t take care of your children, they’ll end up in jail one day,” the officer said, appearing exhausted. “Your brother will be staying here tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to bother you. May I bring him his things tonight?”
The officer replied patiently. “In the morning. You can bring him clothes and food. Religious books are not allowed, however. Also, all reading material must be in Japanese.” The officer’s tone of voice was calm and thoughtful. “Unfortunately, he cannot have visitors. I’m very sorry about that.”
Yoseb wanted to believe that this uniformed man was not all bad—he was just another man who was doing a job he didn’t like, and he was tired because it was the end of the week. Perhaps he, too, wanted his dinner and his bath. Yoseb saw himself as a rational person, and it was too simplistic to believe that all Japanese police officers were evil. Also, Yoseb needed to believe that there were decent people watching over his brother; the alternative was unbearable.
“We shall bring his things tomorrow morning, then,” Yoseb said, peering into the guarded eyes of the officer. “Thank you, sir.”
“Of course.”
The man tipped his head slightly.
Noa was allowed to eat all the taffy and to play outside, and while Sunja fixed dinner in the kitchen, Yoseb fielded Kyunghee’s questions. She was standing with Mozasu tied to her back with a narrow blanket.
“Can you contact someone?” she asked quietly.
“Who?”
“The Canadian missionaries,” she suggested. “We met them a few years ago. Remember? They were so nice, and Isak said they send money regularly to support the church. Maybe they can explain to the police that the pastors weren’t doing anything wrong.” Kyunghee paced in small circles, and Mozasu burbled contentedly.
“How would I reach them?”
“By letter?”
“Can I write them in Korean? How long would it take for them to get the letter and to reply? How long can Isak survive in—?”
Sunja entered the room and untied Mozasu from Kyunghee’s back and took him to the kitchen to nurse. The scent of steaming barley rice filled the small house.
“I don’t think the missionaries spoke Korean. Can you get someone to help you write a proper letter in Japanese?” Kyu
nghee asked.
Yoseb said nothing. He would write a letter to them somehow, but he didn’t see why the police would care what a Canadian missionary had to say when there was a war going on. A letter would take at least a month.
Sunja returned with Mozasu.
“I put together some things for him. Can I take them tomorrow morning?” she asked.
“I’ll take them,” Yoseb said. “Before work.”
“Can you ask your boss to help? Maybe they’ll listen to a Japanese?” Kyunghee said.
“Shimamura-san would never help anyone in jail. He thinks that Christians are rebels. The people who were in charge of the March 1 demo were Christians. All the Japanese know that. I don’t even tell him that I go to church. I don’t tell him anything. He’d just fire me if he thought I was mixed up in any kind of protest activity. Then where would we be? There are no jobs for people like me.”
No one said anything after that. Sunja called Noa in from the street. It was time for him to eat.
2
Each morning, Sunja walked to the police station and handed over three onigin made with barley and millet. If there was money in the budget for a chicken egg, she’d hard-boil it, soak the peeled egg in vinegary shoyu to supplement Isak’s modest bento. No one could be sure if the food ever reached him, but she couldn’t prove that it didn’t. Everyone in the neighborhood knew someone who’d gone to jail, and the wildly varying reports were at best troubling and at worst terrifying. Yoseb wouldn’t speak about Isak, but Isak’s arrest had altered him considerably. Patches of gray smudged his once jet-black hair, and he suffered from intense stomach cramps. He stopped writing to his parents, who couldn’t be told about Isak, so Kyunghee wrote to them instead, making excuses. At meals, Yoseb put aside much of his food for Noa, who sat beside him quietly. Yoseb and Noa shared a kind of unspeakable grief over Isak’s absence.
