While Sung-man translated, Il-han looked into the sad blue eyes of an aging man, he saw the firm mouth quiver and smile and the lips press themselves together again. Before he could reply, Wilson stumbled as though he would fall and two young men on his staff stepped forward to support him.
One of them said in a low voice to Wilson, “I hope you won’t speak of self-determination again, sir. It’s dangerous to put such an idea into the minds of certain races, I assure you. They’ll make impossible demands on you and the Peace Conference. The phrase is simply loaded with dynamite. It’s a pity you ever uttered it, Mr. President. It will cause a lot of misery.”
Sung-man took Il-han aside and translated for him and hearing it, Il-han felt a misery creep into his heart and his belly. He turned his head to see what Wilson would say. The American’s face had changed to a greenish hue and he was stammering in a broken voice.
“I am ill—I’m very sorry—I must be excused—”
His young men caught him by the arms then and led him away. When he was gone blankness fell upon them all. They had been strangers at first, these people from many countries. Then for a brief moment they had been comrades in a common cause. Now they were strangers again.
“Let us go home,” Il-han said. “Let us go home.”
Yul-han listened in silence as his father told the long story, his eyes upon his father’s face. Neither he nor his mother had dared to put into words the great change they saw there. Il-han had left home looking a man of his years, thin as all were thin nowadays who were not traitors, but healthy. Now he had come home an old man. Yet he would not allow anyone to blame Wilson.
“He is wise beyond his times,” Il-han declared. “He did not know the world—true, I grant that. He did not know how tyrants rule, and how many long to be free. His dream will shape the world, nevertheless—not for us in our generation but for your children, my son—perhaps for your children. I regret nothing. I looked in his face. I saw a man stricken by his own pity for us to whom he could not fulfill his promises.”
Induk was there, and Sunia, and Induk spoke softly. “He is a man crucified.”
She was well again but she had lost her calm good looks.
Across her neck and face lay a great crimson scar, and Il-han regarded her with a tenderness he had never felt before.
“It has been a lesson for me,” he said. “I know now that we must trust to ourselves only. No one will help us.”
Induk looked at him bravely. “Father, let us trust God!”
“Ah, I do not know your God,” Il-han replied. And thinking the reply too short he added in courtesy, “Ask for his help, if it will comfort you.”
… While his father had been away Yul-han had steadfastly carried out his determination to become a member of the New Peoples Society, but he did not tell Induk. Her nature was timid and delicate, and the torture to which she had been subjected increased these qualities in her. She became even more devoted in her religion, spending much time in prayer, and she began to visit her childhood home. It was not usual for a daughter to cling to her blood family, but Induk now did so, since they were Christian and she found in their presence a support and strength which she did not find elsewhere. Her father was an officer in his church while earning his living by a small silk shop. Her mother was a lady of good family but she had not learned to read until she became a Christian, and then she made great effort so that she could read the Christian Scriptures. Since Induk’s torture, her family had doubled their hours of prayer, and in their despair and terror of what might happen next they became more than ever devout, beseeching God in constant prayers to save them and save their country. To know that Yul-han had become a member of so dangerous a company as the New Peoples Society would have overwhelmed them and he would not tell them.
This company, as he knew, was spread into many countries and had created centers everywhere to work for the freedom of Korea. In America a Korean government-in-exile was in preparation for the day when they could declare themselves free. Secret news of such matters flew around the world by printed page, by written letters, by spoken words. In Philadelphia—
“Where is Philadelphia?” Yul-han asked his father.
The time was evening, at twilight, in a day unseasonably mild for the second solar month of that Christian year, nineteen hundred and nineteen. Four days ago snow was melted and the buds were swelling on the plum trees. Tomorrow it might be winter again.
Il-han had taken to smoking a bamboo pipe since his return from abroad and he paused to draw a puff or two while he searched his memory.
“Philadelphia is a city in the eastern part of the United States near the sea but not on the sea,” he said. “A largish city, yes, but what I remember is a great bell there. They call it the Liberty Bell. I believe it was struck to declare American independence. It stands in a building—a hall named Independence. We were taken to see it.”
“Our people in America are planning a great meeting there,” Yul-han said. “They are writing a constitution which they will read in that hall in the presence of the great bell. And here we have written a Declaration of Independence. I have committed it to memory and destroyed the paper. So we have been commanded to do. Each of us knows it by heart.”
He closed his eyes and began to chant under his breath. “‘We herewith proclaim the independence of Korea and the liberty of the Korean people. We tell it to the world in witness of the equality of all nations and we pass it on to posterity as their inherent right.
“‘We make this proclamation, having behind us 5,000 years of history, and 20,000,000 of a united loyal people. We take this step to insure to our children for all time to come personal liberty, in accord with the awakening consciousness of the new era. This is the clear leading of God, the moving principle of the present age, the just claim of the whole human race! It is something that cannot be stamped out, or stifled, or gagged, or suppressed by any means.
“‘Victims of an older age, when brute force and the spirit of plunder ruled, we have come after these long thousands of years to experience the agony of ten years of foreign oppression, with every loss to the right to live, every restriction of the freedom of thought, every damage done to the dignity of life, every opportunity lost for a share in the intelligent advance of the age in which we live.
“‘Assuredly, if the defects of the past are to be rectified, if the agony of the present is to be unloosed, if the future oppression is to be avoided, if thought is to be set free, if right of action is to be given a place, if we are to attain to any way of progress, if we are to deliver our children from the painful, shameful heritage, if we are to leave blessing and happiness intact for those who succeed us, the first of all necessary things is the clear-cut independence of our people. What cannot our twenty millions do, every man with sword in heart, in this day when human nature and conscience are making a stand for truth and right? What barrier can we not break, what purpose can we not accomplish?’”
Il-han listened, his head bowed. Over his heart and into his mind a great peace descended. The purpose of his people had been carved clear and plain in stately words.
Days passed and Yul-han was seldom at home in the evenings. He told Induk that he had new work to do but what it was he did not say, and she feared to know and would not ask. She spent her evenings alone, reading the Sacred Scriptures and praying often, her children asleep beside her while she waited for the yet unborn. She kept her candle lighted for Yul-han’s return but if by midnight he had not come, she obeyed his command that she go to bed and leave the house in darkness.
He could not have told her where he spent his evenings, even if he would, for he was never in the same place twice. He and his company met in open fields, under the darkness of trees; they met in caves in the mountains, in hidden gullies and behind rocks. He learned to walk in the black of the night, feeling the path with his feet, guided by a star hanging in the east over the dying sunset sky. He learned to know when another human being came near with
out a sound. He knew what the rustle of a bamboo meant, and how to give no sign when he felt a paper, folded small, thrust into the curve of his hand. He learned not to look up or to speak when a servant in a teashop gave him a message with his pot of tea, or a student in his class wrote words between the lines of an essay. He thought nothing of getting messages from any country in the world where his countrymen gathered their strength into one great dream.
Yet even here in their hearts, single for independence, there was division. One leader was for violence, declaring himself for an armed uprising inside their country, while another protested that such an uprising could not succeed since the invaders were far stronger and they would only make excuse that they were compelled to use force to quell the rebels. No, that leader said, the nation must resist without violence, protest but not by arms, and this protest must take place on some national occasion. This man prevailed, and Yul-han was with him. Prudent he was and wise beyond his years and he, too, believed that an armed attack against the rulers could only lead to defeat.
What occasion could there be? The Governor-General forbade all gatherings of the populace in public places. Even in churches there were always spies present, and Yul-han had more than once been called before the official who had let him be Christian to answer questions as to who was Christian and who was not and whether one Christian or another belonged to the New Peoples Society. He learned to lie easily and without conscience if a life could be saved by lies.
It was the old King who inadvertently came to their aid, and in this fashion. After the great war, the Japanese rulers, foreseeing that Korea would ask for independence, had written a petition to be signed by Koreans, saying that they were grateful to the Emperor of Japan for his good and kindly rule and that they were asking of their own free will to become a part of the Japanese nation. This petition the ruling Japanese had presented to the old King, now deposed, for him to sign. He had shown no courage during these years and his people had all but forgotten him, but, confronted with the heinous sheet, he summoned his strength and refused to sign it. His people were amazed and for the first time they acclaimed him and in his consequent agitation he had an apoplexy and he died. Since all knew he was thin and bloodless and since he had died two days before his death was announced, rumors flew about, one that he had been poisoned, and another that he had killed himself rather than give permission for his son to be married to the Japanese Princess Nashimoto. Whatever the cause, he was dead and Yul-han and his company seized the King’s death as an occasion for the announcement of the freedom of Korea. They disputed bitterly as to whether there should be a bloody uprising or a peaceful demonstration of what was now called the Mansei Revolution. The Christians were for peace instead of blood, and among these Yul-han was the leader. Nor were the Christians the only ones who so declared themselves. The sect of Chuntokyo, who believed in a God who was the Supreme Mind, and the sect of Hananim, who combined the Christian doctrine of brotherhood with the Confucian ethic and the Buddhist philosophy, joined with the Christians. These together had written the Declaration of Independence and Yul-han had spent long nights in a dark cellar under a temple, the monks assisting, while he and his fellows printed the Declaration from hand-carved wooden blocks upon thousands of sheets of papers. The sheets were sent throughout the country to every city, village and hamlet, to every farmhouse and every factory, and to Koreans over the whole world. Lovers of freedom in every country seized upon the sheets and treasured them.
And while this work was being done, thirty-three men, fifteen of them Christians, were preparing in secret the day of announcement of independence. In every township they set up a local committee, each committee knit to the next, and this though spies were everywhere. Meanwhile the leaders, in the name of the people, besought the rulers to allow them a day of mourning for the dead King, and the request was finally, though most unwillingly, granted. The first day of the third month was the day allotted and toward that day all worked together. The plan was this: crowds were to assemble everywhere, and the sign, village to village, was to be fires blazing on the mountains as beacons, until over the whole country people were ready to gather at the same hour to hear the announcement made of their independence. Then the crowds were to parade the streets of every city and town and village, waving their national flags and shouting the national cry, “Mansei! Mansei!”
… Somehow the secret was kept, the instructions carried in loaves of bread, in the coils of men’s hair, under their hats, in the long sleeves of women, until every citizen knew that on the first day of the third month, which was the seventh day of the week, at two hours past noon, all were to gather in their own streets. The Japanese rulers, still aware of nothing, had nevertheless feared what might happen, and to every hundred Koreans over the nation they had appointed a policeman and had added many hundreds of spies to those already at work.
At noon upon the chosen day the thirty-three signers of the Proclamation gathered to eat their noon meal together in the Bright Moon Restaurant in the capital city. As soon as the hour struck two, they rose and walked together to give themselves to the police, and this without violence or any resistance. Among them Yul-han walked first, his steps measured, his face calm.
The police at first were dazed when the men stood before them. They hesitated, not knowing whether they should arrest these ringleaders. In doubt they accepted them, but left them in a room in the police station, free except for two soldiers as guards, while they went to ask for orders from their superiors.
“These guards are not necessary,” Yul-han told them as they went. “We have no wish to escape. It is our purpose to go to prison.”
The police were further confounded by such words and fearing some trickery and shaking their heads, they went on. Meanwhile all over the nation the people were obeying instructions and the streets were crowded everywhere with singing, shouting people, waving flags and crying “Mansei.” But the thirty-three sat waiting with the two guards for many hours.
At the end of that time the police still had not returned, and going toward the window, Yul-han saw a strange small commotion. The glass was so clouded with dust that he could not see through, but as he watched, and he had learned to watch small signs without speaking, he saw a round place washed clean, and he saw that this spot was being washed clean by Ippun wetting her forefinger in her mouth and then rubbing the glass. To the clean spot she applied one eye and a part of her face, enough for her to see Yul-han and to motion to him violently with her finger crooked. The guards by this time were careless and drowsy, and without sound he went to the door, tried it and found it not locked and so he went out. It was twilight and to the east he saw a glow that lighted the sky.
East? Then it could not be the sunset.
“Fire!” Ippun breathed hoarsely at his ear. “They have set the church on fire. Your daughter is there—and her mother—”
He did not wait for more. Through the crowds still milling in the streets he ran, past the bellowing police and the soldiers everywhere beating and berating the people, stooping to crush himself between legs and pushing bodies out of his way. Now he knew why they had been left so long with only two guards. The whole city was under attack. Hundreds of men and women and children were lying in the streets, bleeding from the blows of clubs, dead from the bullets of guns. He stayed neither to look nor to ask. He ran to the church and saw it ablaze. He ran up the steps and tried the doors. They were locked. From within came cries and wailing and yet above all he heard the sound of human voices soaring through the flames, singing the words of a Christian hymn.
“Nearer my God to thee—”
“Induk!” he shouted. “Induk—Induk!”
He remembered the vestry and the little door there that led into the church. That door they may have forgotten to lock! The flames were only on the roof. She might still be alive and he could snatch her out of the fire. He ran through the glittering brightness, the blackening shadows, the clouds of smoke to the rear of the church. Ah
, the door was not locked! He was choking and coughing in the vestry, feeling his way to the door into the church. He felt the knob. The door opened and he flung himself into the shadows streaked with wild and livid light. At the same moment he heard a thunder of falling beams, a booming crash and human voices screaming in agony. The blazing roof had fallen in. For one instant he knew, and then he knew no more.
… Outside, Ippun waited. Now she saw and she covered her ears with her hands and shut her eyes and ran through the night. She ran without stopping, her arms flailing like wings at her shoulders to speed her way. Through the unguarded city gate she ran, and down the country road until she reached Il-han’s house. Still without stopping, stark-mad with fright and horror, she ran into the house where Il-han and Sunia sat side by side. Before them on the ondul floor Liang played with a vehicle he had made from a paper box. He had built wheels to it, and he was working with a broken wheel.
Upon these Ippun burst, her hair streaming down her back and her face a grimace, the wide mouth stretched, the eyes ready to burst from their sockets. She pointed with her shaking forefinger at the child.
“That—that one,” she stammered, her voice a high strange whine, “that one—he is all you have left—”
And she fell upon the floor unconscious.
All, all was lost. Before the night had passed, Il-han knew that thousands lay dying in the streets. In every city, town and hamlet they lay dying. Before days had passed he knew that villages blazed against the night sky and other Christian churches were burned, many with their congregation inside. The deadly stench of roasted human flesh hung about the streets of the capital.
… Meanwhile the beatings continued of those who had been taken prisoner. The missionary haunted the streets like a white ghost to prevent what he could, and an American, hired to be adviser to the Japanese, could not restrain his horror though he dared not give his name. What he wrote to his own countrymen and what was printed in America was printed also on the small sheets which Il-han still found under his door:
The Living Reed: A Novel of Korea Page 36
