by Min Jin Lee
A child like Noa, a child who worked so hard, deserved to fulfill his wish to study and to become someone. Throughout his life, Noa’s teachers had said that he was an ideal student, far smarter than anyone else; “A credit to your country,” they’d said, and this had pleased her husband, Isak, so much, because he knew the Japanese thought Koreans were worth so little, fit only for the dirty, dangerous, and demeaning tasks. Isak had said that Noa would help the Korean people by his excellence of character and workmanship, and that no one would be able to look down on him. Isak had encouraged the boy to know everything as well as he could, and Noa, a good son, had tried his best to be the very best. Isak had loved the boy so much. Sunja could not say anything, and her mouth was dry. All she could think of was how good Isak had been to give Noa a name and to give them his protection.
“How could this be?” Noa shook his head. “How could you betray him?”
Sunja knew he meant Isak, and she tried to explain.
“I met him before I met your father. I didn’t know Koh Hansu was married. I was a girl, and I believed that he would marry me. But he couldn’t, because he was already married. When I was pregnant with you, your father, Isak, stayed at our inn; he married me even when he knew. Baek Isak wanted you as his son. Blood doesn’t matter. Can you understand that? When you are young, you can make serious mistakes. You can trust the wrong people, but I am so grateful to have you as my son and so grateful to your father for marrying me—”
“No.” He looked at her with disdain. “This kind of mistake I cannot understand. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Who else knows?” His voice grew colder.
“I didn’t think it was necessary to tell anyone. Listen to me, Noa, the man who chose to be your father is Baek—”
Noa acted like he didn’t even hear her.
“Then Uncle Yoseb and Aunt Kyunghee—do they know?” His mind couldn’t accept that no one had told him this.
“We’ve never discussed it.”
“And Mozasu? He is Baek Isak’s son? He doesn’t look like me.”
Sunja nodded. Noa called his father Baek Isak; he’d never done that before.
“My half brother then—”
“I met Koh Hansu before your father. I’ve always been faithful to Baek Isak—my only husband. Koh Hansu found us when your father was in prison. He was worried that we didn’t have money.”
A part of her had always feared Noa finding out, but even against such a possibility, she had trusted that Noa would understand, because he was so smart and had always been such an easy child—the one who never made her worry. But the young man who stood in front of her was like cold metal, and he looked at her as if he could not remember who she was to him.
Noa stopped moving and took a deep breath, then exhaled, because he felt so dizzy.
“That’s why he’s always helping us—why he found that farm for us during the war. Why he brought us things.”
“He was trying to make sure that you were okay. He wanted to help you. It had nothing to do with me. I was someone he knew a long time ago.”
“You know that he’s a yakuza? Is that right?”
“No. No, I do not know that. I do not know what he does. He used to be a wholesale fish broker who lived in Osaka when I knew him. He bought fish in Korea for Japanese companies. He was a businessman. He owns a construction company and restaurants, I think. I don’t know what else he does. I hardly ever speak to him. You know that—”
“Yakuza are the filthiest people in Japan. They are thugs; they are common criminals. They frighten shopkeepers; they sell drugs; they control prostitution; and they hurt innocent people. All the worst Koreans are members of these gangs. I took money for my education from a yakuza, and you thought this was acceptable? I will never be able to wash this dirt from my name. You can’t be very bright,” he said. “How can you make something clean from something dirty? And now, you have made me dirty,” Noa said quietly, as if he was learning this as he was saying it to her. “All my life, I have had Japanese telling me that my blood is Korean—that Koreans are angry, violent, cunning, and deceitful criminals. All my life, I had to endure this. I tried to be as honest and humble as Baek Isak was; I never raised my voice. But this blood, my blood is Korean, and now I learn that my blood is yakuza blood. I can never change this, no matter what I do. It would have been better if I were never born. How could you have ruined my life? How could you be so imprudent? A foolish mother and a criminal father. I am cursed.”
Sunja looked at him with shock. If he had been a little boy, she might have told him to hush, to mind his manners, never to dishonor your parents, but she couldn’t say that now. How could she defend gangsters? There were organized criminals everywhere, she supposed, and she knew that they did bad things, but she knew that many of the Koreans had to work for the gangs because there were no other jobs for them. The government and good companies wouldn’t hire Koreans, even educated ones. All these men had to work, and there were many of them who lived in their neighborhood who were far kinder and more respectful than the men who didn’t work at all. She couldn’t say this to her son, however, because Noa was someone who had studied, labored, and tried to lift himself out of their street, and he thought all the men who hadn’t done so weren’t very bright, either. He would not understand. Her son could not feel compassion for those who did not try.
“Noa,” Sunja said, “forgive me. Umma is sorry. I just wanted you to go to school. I know how much you wanted that. I know how hard you—”
“You. You took my life away. I am no longer myself,” he said, pointing his finger at her. He turned around and walked back to the train.
20
Osaka, April 1962
They didn’t receive letters often, and when one arrived, the family gathered around Yoseb’s bedside to hear it read. He was lying on his back, his head propped up by a buckwheat-filled pillow. Of course, Sunja recognized her son’s handwriting on the envelope. Though illiterate, she was able to make out her name and signs in both Japanese and Korean. Normally, Kyunghee read the letters out loud, asking Yoseb for help when there were difficult characters she could not recognize. Yoseb’s vision had worsened; he was unable to read his beloved newspapers, so Kyunghee read them to him. If Kyunghee described the image of the character, Yoseb could sometimes guess it from the context. Kyunghee read in her clear, mild-toned voice. Sunja’s face was white with fear, and Yangjin stared at the thin sheet of paper, wondering what her grandson had to say. Yoseb’s eyes were closed, but he was awake.
Umma,
I have withdrawn from Waseda. I have moved out of the apartment. I am in a new city and have found a job.
This may be very difficult for you to understand, but I ask that you not look for me. I have thought about this very deeply. This is the best way for me to live with myself and to maintain my integrity. I want to start a new life, and to do that there is no other way.
I have had to pay some bills in starting out, and as soon as I earn some more money, I will send you something as often as I can. I will not neglect my duties. Also, I will earn enough money to repay Koh Hansu. Please make sure that he never reaches me. I do not wish to know him.
I send regards to you, Uncle Yoseb, Aunt Kyunghee, Grandmother, and Mozasu. I am sorry I did not get a chance to say good-bye properly, but I will not be returning. Please do not worry about me. This cannot be helped.
Your son,
Noa
Noa had written his brief message in simple Japanese rather than Korean, a language he had never written well. When Kyunghee finished reading, no one said anything. Yangjin patted her daughter’s knee, then got up to go to the kitchen to fix dinner, leaving Kyunghee to put her arm around her sister-in-law, who now sat wordless and pale.
Yoseb exhaled. Would anything bring the boy back? he wondered. He did not think so. This life had too much loss. When Isak died, Yoseb had thought of his brother’s little boys and vowed to watch over them. Noa and Mozasu were not his own, but what did tha
t matter? He had wanted to be a good man for them. Then after the war, after his accident, he had resigned himself to death and looked forward only to the boys’ future. The stupid heart could not help but hope. Life had seemed almost bearable; though Yoseb was nearly cut off from the living, confined to his pallet, his family had persisted. Life continued. To Yoseb, Noa had seemed so much like Isak that it had been possible to forget that the boy’s blood father was someone else—someone wholly different from his gentle Isak. But now, the poor boy had learned somehow that he had descended from another line. The boy had decided to leave them, and his departure was punishment. Yoseb could understand the boy’s anger, but he wanted another chance to talk to him, to tell Noa that a man must learn to forgive—to know what is important, that to live without forgiveness was a kind of death with breathing and movement. However, Yoseb did not have enough energy to rise from his pallet, let alone search for his dear nephew, a boy who was like his own flesh.
“Could he have gone to the North?” Kyunghee asked her husband. “He wouldn’t do something like that, isn’t that so?”
Sunja glanced at her brother-in-law.
“No, no.” Yoseb’s pillow made a gravelly noise as he moved his head from side to side.
Sunja covered her eyes with her hands. No one who went to the North came back. There was still hope as long as he had not gone there. Kim Changho had left in the last month of 1959, and in more than two years, they’d heard from him only twice. Kyunghee rarely spoke of him, but it made sense that her first thought was Pyongyang.
“And Mozasu? What do we tell him?” Kyunghee asked. Still holding Noa’s letter, she patted Sunja’s back with her free hand.
“Wait until he asks about him. The boy is so busy as it is. If he asks, just say you don’t know. Then later, if you have to, tell him that his brother ran away,” Yoseb said, his eyes still shut. “Tell him that school was too hard for Noa, so he left Tokyo and he was too ashamed to return home after all those attempts to get into school. For all we know, that could be the reason.” It sickened Yoseb to say these words, so he said nothing else.
Sunja couldn’t speak. Mozasu would never believe that, yet she couldn’t tell him the truth, either, because he would go look for his brother. And she could not tell Mozasu about Hansu. Mozasu was hardly sleeping lately, because he had so many responsibilities at work, and Yumi had miscarried only a few weeks before. The boy did not need any more worries.
Since that evening when Noa had come home from school to speak to her, Sunja had thought daily of going to Tokyo to talk to him, but she could not do so. A month had passed and now this. What did he say to her? You took my life away. He had withdrawn from Waseda. Sunja felt unable to think, to breathe even. All she wanted was to see her son again. If that wasn’t possible, it would be better to die.
Wiping her wet hands on her apron, Yangjin came out of the kitchen and told them that dinner was ready. Yangjin and Kyunghee stared at Sunja.
“You should eat something,” Kyunghee said.
Sunja shook her head. “I have to go. I have to find him.”
Kyunghee clutched her arm, but Sunja broke free and got up.
“Let her go to him,” Yangjin said.
It turned out that Hansu lived only thirty minutes away by train. His preposterously immense house stood out prominently on the quiet street. A pair of tall, carved mahogany doors, flanked by grand picture windows, centered the two-story limestone structure like a giant maw. The house had been the residence of an American diplomat after the war. Heavy drapery shaded the interiors, making it impossible to look inside. As a young girl, Sunja had imagined where he might live, but she could never have conceived of anything like this. He lived in a castle, it seemed to her. The taxi driver assured her that this was the address.
A young, short-haired servant girl wearing a shimmering white apron answered the door, opening it only halfway. The master of the house was not in, she said in Japanese.
“Who’s that?” an older woman asked, emerging from the front parlor. She tapped the servant girl lightly, and she moved aside. The door opened fully to expose the grand entryway.
Sunja realized who this must be.
“Koh Hansu, please,” she said in her best Japanese. “Please.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Boku Sunja.”
Hansu’s wife, Mieko, nodded. The beggar was no doubt a Korean who wanted money. The postwar Koreans were numerous and shameless, and they took advantage of her husband’s soft nature toward his countrymen. She did not begrudge his generosity, but she disapproved of the beggars’ boldness. It was evening, and this was no time for a woman of any age to beg.
Mieko turned to the servant girl, “Give her what she wants and send her away. There’s food in the kitchen if she is hungry.” This was what her husband would do. Her father had also believed in hospitality toward the poor.
The servant bowed as the mistress walked away.
“No, no,” Sunja said in Japanese. “No money, no food. Speak Koh Hansu, please. Please.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
Mieko returned, taking deliberate steps. Koreans could be insistent like unruly children. They could be loud and desperate, with none of the coolness and placidity of the Japanese. Her children were half of this blood, but fortunately, they did not raise their voices or have slovenly habits. Her father had loved Hansu, claiming that he was not like the others and that it would be good for her to marry him, because he was a real man and he would take care of her. Her father was not wrong; under her husband’s direction, the organization had only grown stronger and wealthier. She and her daughters had enormous wealth in Switzerland as well as innumerable fat packets of yen hidden in the stone walls of this house. She lacked for nothing.
“How did you learn that he lives here? How do you know my husband?” Mieko asked Sunja.
Sunja shook her head, because she didn’t understand exactly what the woman was asking. She understood the word “husband.” His wife was clearly Japanese—early sixties with gray hair, cut short. She was very beautiful, with large dark eyes fringed with unusually long lashes. She wore a light green kimono over her elegant frame. The rouge on her lips was the color of umeboshi. She looked like a kimono model.
“Fetch the garden boy. He speaks Korean.” Hansu’s wife extended her left hand and gestured to Sunja to remain by the door. She noted the rough and worn cotton clothing and the tired hands, spotted from outdoor work. The Korean could not be very old; there was some prettiness in her eyes, but her youth was spent. Her waist was thick from childbearing. She was not attractive enough to be one of Hansu’s whores. To her knowledge, all of Hansu’s whores were Japanese hostesses, some younger than their daughters. They knew better than to grace her doorstep.
The garden boy came running to the front of the house from the backyard, where he’d been weeding.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing to the mistress of the house.
“She’s a Korean,” Mieko said. “Ask her how she learned where the master lives.”
The boy glanced at Sunja, who looked terrified. She wore a light gray coat over her cotton work clothes. She was younger than his mother.
“Ajumoni,” he said to Sunja, trying not to alarm her. “How can I help you?”
Sunja smiled at the boy, then, seeing the concern in his eyes, she burst into tears. He had none of the hardness of the house servant and the wife. “I’m looking for my son, you see, and I think your master knows where he is. I need to speak”—she had to stop speaking to breathe through her tearful gulps—“to your master. Do you know where he is?”
“How does she know my husband lives here?” Hansu’s wife asked again calmly.
In his wish to help the desperate woman, the boy had forgotten his mistress’s request.
“The mistress wants to know how you know that the master lives here. Ajumoni, I have to give her an answer; do you understand?” The boy peered into Sunja’s face.
“I worked for Kim Changho at a restaurant your master owned. Kim Changho gave me your master’s address to me before he left for the North. Did you know Mr. Kim? He went to Pyongyang.”
The boy nodded, recalling the tall man with the thick eyeglasses who always gave him pocket money for candy and played soccer with him in the backyard. Mr. Kim had offered to take the boy with him to the North on the Red Cross ship, but his master had forbidden it. The master never spoke about Mr. Kim and would get angry if anyone brought him up.
Sunja stared hard at the boy as if he could find Noa himself.
“You see, your master might know where my son is. I have to go find him. Do you think you can tell me where your master is? Is he here now? I know he would see me.”
The boy looked down and shook his head, and at that moment, Sunja looked up and started to take in the interior of Hansu’s house.
The magnificent, cavernous foyer behind the boy resembled the interior of an old train station with its high ceilings and pale white walls. She imagined Hansu descending the carved cherrywood staircase to ask what was the matter. This time, she would beg for his help in a way she had never done before. She would plead for his mercy, for all of his resources, and she would not leave his side until her son was found.
The boy turned to the mistress and translated everything Sunja had said.
Hansu’s wife studied the weeping woman.
“Tell her that he is away. That he will be gone for a long time.” Mieko turned around and while walking away said, “If she needs any train fare or food, send her to the back and give her what she needs; otherwise, send her away.”
“Ajumoni, do you need any money or food?” he asked.
“No, no. I just need to speak to your master. Please, child. Please help me,” Sunja said.
