by Min Jin Lee
In the evening, Noa helped Mozasu with his schoolwork, but they both knew it was pointless, since Mozasu had no interest in memorizing kanji. As his long-suffering tutor, Noa focused on teaching his brother sums and basic writing. With remarkable patience, Noa never got upset when Mozasu did poorly on his examinations. He knew how it was for most Koreans at school; most of them dropped out, and he didn’t want this to happen to Mozasu, so he did not focus on exam grades. He even asked Uncle Yoseb and his mother to refrain from getting upset with Mozasu’s report cards. He told them that the goal was to make sure that Mozasu had better-than-average skills as a worker. If Noa hadn’t tried so hard and taught him with such care, Mozasu would’ve done what nearly all the other Korean boys in the neighborhood did rather than go to school—collect scrap metal for money, search for rotting food for the pigs their mothers bred and raised in their homes, or worse, get in trouble with the police for petty crimes.
Ever the student, after Noa helped Mozasu, he studied English with a dictionary and a grammar book. In the only academic reversal, Mozasu, who was more interested in English than Japanese or Korean, would help his older brother learn new vocabulary words by drilling Noa on English words and phrases.
At the dreadful local school, Mozasu hung back and kept to himself during lunch and recess. There were four other Koreans in the class, but they all went by their Japanese pass names and refused to discuss their background, especially in the presence of other Koreans. Mozasu knew with certainty who they were, because they lived on his street and he knew their families. All of them were only ten years old, so the Koreans in his grade were smaller than he was, and Mozasu stayed away from them, feeling both contempt and pity.
Most Koreans in Japan had at least three names. Mozasu went by Mozasu Boku, the Japanization of Moses Baek, and rarely used his Japanese surname, Bando, the tsumei listed on his school documents and residency papers. With a first name from a Western religion, an obvious Korean surname, and his ghetto address, everyone knew what he was—there was no point in denying it. The Japanese kids would have nothing to do with him, but Mozasu no longer gave a shit. When he was younger, getting picked on used to bother him, though far less than it had bothered Noa, who had compensated by outperforming his classmates academically and athletically. Every day, before school began and after school ended, the bigger boys told Mozasu, “Go back to Korea, you smelly bastard.” If there was a crowd of them, Mozasu would keep walking; however, if there were only one or two assholes, he would hit them as hard as he could until he saw blood.
Mozasu knew he was becoming one of the bad Koreans. Police officers often arrested Koreans for stealing or home brewing. Every week, someone on his street got in trouble with the police. Noa would say that because some Koreans broke the law, everyone got blamed. On every block in Ikaino, there was a man who beat his wife, and there were girls who worked in bars who were said to take money for favors. Noa said that Koreans had to raise themselves up by working harder and being better. Mozasu just wanted to hit everyone who said mean things. In Ikaino, there were homely old women who cussed and men who were so drunk that they slept outside their houses. The Japanese didn’t want Koreans to live near them, because they weren’t clean, they lived with pigs, and the children had lice. Also, Koreans were said to be even lower than burakumin because at least burakumin had Japanese blood. Noa told Mozasu that his former teachers had told him he was a good Korean, and Mozasu understood that with his own poor grades and bad manners, those same teachers would think Mozasu was a bad one.
So the fuck what? If the other ten-year-olds thought he was stupid, that was okay. If they thought he was violent, that was okay. If necessary, Mozasu was not afraid to clean out all the teeth right from their mouths. You think I’m an animal, Mozasu thought, then I can be an animal and hurt you. Mozasu did not intend to be a good Korean. What was the point in that?
Before spring, a few months before the war in Korea ended, a new boy from Kyoto joined his class. He was eleven, going on twelve. Haruki Totoyama was obviously a poor kid, evident from his shabby uniform and pathetic shoes. He was also wiry and nearsighted. The boy had a small, triangular face, and he might have been acceptable to the others, but unfortunately, someone let it out that he lived on the border street between the Korean ghetto and the Japanese poor. Quickly, rumors spread that Haruki was a burakumin, though he wasn’t. Then it was discovered that Haruki had a younger brother with a head shaped like a dented summer melon. Even as a Japanese, it had been difficult for Haruki’s mother to find a better place for them to live, because many of the Japanese landlords thought the family was cursed. Haruki did not have a father; this would have been understandable if his father had died in the war as a soldier, but the truth was that at Haruki’s brother’s birth, the father had taken one look at the child and left.
Unlike Mozasu, Haruki cared deeply about fitting in and tried very hard, but even the kids with the lowest social status wouldn’t give him a chance. He was treated like a diseased animal. The teachers, who followed the cues of the student leaders, kept their distance from Haruki. The new boy had been hoping that this school might be different from his old one in Kyoto, but he saw that he didn’t have a chance here, either.
At lunchtime, Haruki sat at the end of the long table with two seat gaps around him like an invisible parenthesis while the other boys in their dark woolen uniforms stuck together like a tight row of black corn kernels. Not far from this table, Mozasu, who always sat alone, watched the new boy trying to say something now and then to the group of boys, though, of course, Haruki never got a reply.
After a month of this, Mozasu finally said something to him in the boys’ washroom.
“Why do you try to make those kids like you?” Mozasu asked.
“What choice do I have?” Haruki replied.
“You can tell them to fuck off and get a life of your own.”
“And what kind of life do you have?” Haruki asked. He didn’t mean to be rude; he just wanted to know if there was an alternative.
“Listen, if people don’t like you, it’s not always your fault. My brother told me that.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah. He works for Hoji-san, you know, the landlord.”
“Is your brother the young guy in the glasses?” Haruki asked. Hoji-san was their landlord, too.
Mozasu nodded, smiling. He was proud of Noa, who cut an impressive figure in the neighborhood. Everyone respected him.
“I better go back to class,” Haruki said. “I’ll get in trouble if I’m late.”
“You’re a pussy,” Mozasu said. “Do you really give two shits if the teacher yells at you? Kara-sensei is an even bigger pussy than you are.”
Haruki gulped.
“If you want, I’ll let you sit with me during recess,” Mozasu said. He had never made such an offer before, but he didn’t think he could bear it if Haruki tried to talk to those assholes one more time and was rejected. In a strange way, just watching his efforts was painful and embarrassing.
“Truly?” Haruki said, smiling.
Mozasu nodded, and even when they were men, neither one ever forgot how they became friends.
11
October 1955
Mozasu kept a photograph of the wrestler Rikidozan taped to the inside lid of his trunk, where he kept his special things like his favorite comics, old coins, and his father’s eyeglasses. Unlike the Korean wrestler, Mozasu did not like to get too close to his opponent and tussle for too long. Rikidozan was known for his famous karate chop, and similarly, Mozasu had deadly aim with his strikes.
Over the years, he had hit many different kinds of boys: He had hit them when they called him names; when they picked on his friend Haruki; and when they hassled his mother or grandmother at their confectionery stall at Tsuruhashi Station. By this time, Sunja had gotten used to the notes and visits from teachers, counselors, and angry parents. There was little she could do to stop her son from fighting, and she was terrified
that he would get into serious trouble or argue with the wrong boy. After each incident, Yoseb and Noa would speak to him, and the fighting would stop for a while. Nevertheless, once incited, Mozasu would pound anyone who deserved it.
When Sunja asked him what happened, she could always expect two things from him: a sincere apology to her and his family for bringing them shame, and the defense that he didn’t start it. Sunja believed him. By nature, her boy, who was sixteen, was not violent. He avoided fights when he could and for as long as he could, but when things got bad, he would put a stop to the harassment with a quick, effective punch to the instigator’s face. Mozasu had broken the noses of several boys and blackened as many eyes. By now, only a stubborn fool or a new bully at school would bother Mozasu. Even the teachers respected the boy’s physical authority, and everyone knew that he did not abuse his power and preferred to be left alone.
To keep him out of trouble, Mozasu was required to go to the confectionery stand after school. Kyunghee stayed at home with Yoseb, and Noa wanted Mozasu to help their mother and grandmother. When the family had enough money to buy a store, it was hoped that Mozasu would help his mother and grandmother run it. Mozasu did not want to do this. Working in the market was women’s work, and though the boy respected the women, he did not want to make candy or sell taiyaki for the rest of his life.
For now, he did not mind helping his mother and grandmother by fetching more coal for the box stove beneath the taiyaki griddle and candy burner. At the end of the day, Sunja and Yangjin were relieved to have a strong boy to push the carts home, since they had been working since dawn. However, between the hours of four and seven, there wasn’t enough for Mozasu to do, because Sunja and Yangjin were able to cook the sweets and handle the customers without him. It was never that busy then.
It was a late fall afternoon, when business was exceedingly slow and the market women were busy talking with each other since there were so few customers; Mozasu made excuses about getting some gimbap on the other side of the market, and no one seemed to mind. Mozasu went to see Chiyaki, the girl who sold socks.
She was an eighteen-year-old Japanese orphan whose parents had died in the war. She lived and worked with her elderly grandparents, who owned the large sock store. Petite and curvy, Chiyaki was a flirt. She didn’t like other girls very much and preferred the company of the boys who worked in the market. Chiyaki teased Mozasu because she was two years older than he was, but of all the boys she liked, she thought he was the most handsome. It was a pity, she thought, that he was Korean, because her grandparents would disown her if she dated him. They both knew this, but there was no harm in talking.
When Chiyaki’s grandparents went home in the afternoon and left her alone to manage and close the shop, Mozasu or other boys came by to keep her company. Chiyaki had quit school years before because she hated all the stuck-up girls who ruled the school. Besides, her grandparents couldn’t see the point in her finishing. They were arranging her marriage to the tatami maker’s second son, who Chiyaki thought was boring. Chiyaki liked sharp dressers who talked a good game. Despite her interest in boys, she was very innocent and had never done anything with a boy. She would inherit her grandparents’ store, and she was pretty enough to get a guy to take her to a café if she wanted. Her value was obvious, and what she liked best was to make a man give her his devotion.
When Mozasu knocked on the doorframe of the stall and handed her his grandmother’s famous taiyaki, still warm from the griddle, Chiyaki smiled and licked her lips. She smelled it appreciatively at first, then took a little bite.
“Oishi! Oishi! Mo-san, thank you so much,” she said. “A handsome young man who can make sweets. You are perfect, nee?”
Mozasu smiled. She was adorable; there was no one like her. She had a reputation for talking to a lot of guys, but he still enjoyed being in her company. Also, he’d never seen her with another guy, so he didn’t know if the rumors were true. She had a cute figure and wore a berry-colored lipstick, which made her small mouth look delicious.
“How’s business?” he asked.
“Not bad. I don’t care. I know we made enough for the week, because Grandfather said so.”
“The sandal lady is looking at us,” Mozasu said. Watanabe-san owned the store opposite Chiyaki’s, and she was best friends with Chiyaki’s grandmother.
“That old bat. I hate her. She’s going to tell Grandmother about me again, but I don’t care.”
“Are you going to get in trouble for talking to me?”
“No. I’ll only get in trouble if I keep letting you give me sweets,” she said.
“Well, I’ll stop then.”
“Iyada!” Chiyaki took another bite of her cake and shook her head like a willful little girl.
They both looked up when a young man dressed like an office worker stopped in front of the shop. Chiyaki gestured to the empty stool in the corner of the shop, and Mozasu sat down and busied himself with the newspaper.
“May I help you, sir?” Chiyaki asked the man. He had been by earlier when her grandparents were there, but had returned. “Did you want to see those black socks again?”
“You remember me?” the man said excitedly.
“Sure. You were here this morning.”
“A pretty girl like you remembered me. I like that. I’m glad I came back for you.”
Mozasu looked up from the paper, then looked down again.
“How many would you like?”
“How many do you have?”
“At least twenty pairs your size,” she said. Sometimes a person would buy ten pairs. Once, a mother bought two boxes for her son who was at university.
“I’ll take two, but I’ll take more if you put them on me.”
Mozasu folded the paper and glanced at the man, who didn’t seem to notice his irritation.
“I’ll wrap up these two, then,” Chiyaki said.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Chiyaki.”
“I have a cousin with that name. Gosh, you are very beautiful. You got a boyfriend?”
Chiyaki got quiet.
“No? I think you should be my girlfriend then.” The man put money in her hand and held it.
Chiyaki smiled at him. She had dealt with this sort of fellow before, and she knew what he was implying. She pretended not to understand. Mozasu was jealous, but she didn’t mind. She stuck out her chest a little. In the bathhouse, the older women always stared at her high, round breasts and told her she was lucky.
The man stared exactly where Chiyaki wanted him to and said, “Nice. When can I pick you up tonight? I’ll buy you some yakitori.”
“You can’t,” she said, putting the money away in the cashbox. “You’re too old for me.”
“You little tease.”
“You’re not my type,” Chiyaki said, unafraid.
“You’re too young to have a type. I make good money, and I know how to fuck.” The man pulled her to him and put his hands on her behind and squeezed her. “Nice and full back there. Good tits, too. Close the shop. Let’s go.”
Mozasu got up from his chair quietly and walked over to the man. He hit him square in the mouth as hard as he could. The man fell over and blood poured down his lip. From the pain in his knuckles, Mozasu knew that he had loosened some of the man’s teeth.
“You should take the socks and go home now,” he said.
The man stared at the blood on his blue shirt and trousers as if the blood belonged to someone else.
“I’m calling the police,” he said.
“Go ahead, call the police,” Chiyaki said to the man. She waved frantically to the sandal lady, who was now rushing over.
“Mo-san, go now,” she said. “Hurry, get out. Go. I’ll deal with this.”
Mozasu walked briskly toward the confection stand.
The police found him in no time. Only a few minutes before, Mozasu had come back to the stall with blood on his hand and told his mother and grandmother what had happened with
Chiyaki.
The police officer confirmed the story.
“Your son hit a gentleman who was buying some socks. This sort of behavior warrants an explanation. The young lady said that that man was trying to molest her and your son was protecting her, but the customer denies it,” the officer said.
Goro-san, the pachinko parlor owner, who was heading to the stand for his afternoon snack, rushed toward them when he saw the policeman.
“Hello, officer.” He winked at Sunja. “Is everything okay?” Goro asked.
Mozasu sat on the old wooden stool by the cart, looking guilty for troubling his mother and grandmother.
“Mozasu was defending a young lady who works at the sock store from a man who grabbed her. Mozasu hit him in the face,” Sunja said calmly. She kept her head high and refused to apologize for fear of admitting guilt on his behalf. Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought they could hear it. “He was only trying to help.”
Yangjin nodded firmly and patted Mozasu’s back.
“Maji?” Goro said, laughing. “Is that right, officer?”
“Well, that’s what the young lady said in the shop, and Watanabe-san agreed with her version of the events. The man who was hit denies it, but I’ve heard from some other store owners that he is a creep who often bothers the younger girls who work here.” The police officer shrugged. “Nevertheless, the man thinks his jaw is broken. His two lower teeth are loose. I wanted to warn the young man that he can’t just hit people even if they’re wrong. He should have called the police.”
