by Julie Lee
It also helped that Omahni said he had broken into our house, even if that was a lie.
I snuck out the door. The clouds had darkened. I sat against the wooden fence and gazed out toward the millet field. A coolness crept around me.
“Run away with us,” a low voice said into the darkness.
I jolted. Beside me was Myung-gi, his wire-framed glasses resting perfectly on his tall nose. Why was he here? Up close, I noticed a small birthmark on the side of his face, a brown spot like a dot of sweet chocolate, and I had the urge to touch it.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “You always used to tell me how your grandfather lived in America. Wouldn’t you like to go there one day, too—or anywhere else in the world? How do you expect to do that from here? We can’t even go to the next village without a pass. In South Korea, people are free to come and go as they please.”
Come and go as they please.
I mouthed the words silently. Would I be allowed to come and go as I pleased?
But then Omahni’s frightened face, her skin pulled as taut as the skin of a drum, popped into my head. I imagined creeping through the woods at night, always just steps away from a border guard and a pointed rifle. “It’s too dangerous,” I blurted. “If you get caught, they’ll kill you. Just like they did my uncle.”
Myung-gi pushed up his glasses with an index finger, as if to get a better look at me. “Don’t you think I know that? But there are some people who’ve made it across to the South. You can’t let fear control you.”
“That’s easier said than done,” I said, without thinking.
He looked down and let out a long breath as if I had disappointed him.
“Your parents are like my parents, and you…are like a little sister.” He rose to his feet. “I hope you and your family will reconsider.”
Then he went inside, leaving the door ajar for me.
five
June 28, 1950
Days passed, and we acted as if nothing had happened. No one spoke of Mr. Kim’s proposal, but it crackled in the air.
Omahni forbade us from seeing the Kims or even mentioning their names, but I knew they hadn’t left yet. Myung-gi was leaving his books for me, one by one, under the willow tree by the schoolhouse. Only when I stopped finding old textbooks and novels would I know he was gone.
One summer morning, a lightning storm hovered. Everyone stayed indoors. Omahni sewed a hole in one of Youngsoo’s pants, swatting Jisoo away from the sewing box full of sharp needles.
Youngsoo sat across from me at the table, opening a board game. “Noona, do you want to play yoot?”
“Maybe later.” How could he think of playing games when the Kims would try to escape any day now?
Youngsoo sighed, then said, “You can have one of my schoolbooks. It’s your favorite—the history book with all the maps.” He nudged it across the low tabletop, nodding in reassurance the way an elder would push a plate of food toward a timid child.
I wondered if he knew that I always looked through this book at night while he was sleeping.
“No, take it back. I don’t want it.” I pushed it across the table, but glanced at the pretty blue cover as it slid away.
Youngsoo shrugged and put it in his bag. He wasn’t trying to embarrass me; his heart was just too big for a small boy—I knew this. But I already had to serve him his food and take him to the school that I was no longer allowed to attend. Wasn’t that humiliating enough? How could I accept his charity, too?
“Noona, one day let’s go to America together. We can sail across the ocean, and I can be your shipmate.” He smiled at me, not giving up.
I gave him a long, hard look. How could those words slip from his lips so easily? America wasn’t a dream I dared consider, let alone say aloud—it gleamed so brightly I could hardly look at it. “Youngsoo, maybe you’ll go there one day, but not me. You know that.” I handed him a slice of apple that I had learned to skin and cut into a perfect crescent moon.
Abahji walked in carrying a bundle of firewood and set it by the kitchen step. I cut more apples into pieces and put them on a plate, and everyone gathered around the table for a break. Abahji pushed an entire slice into his mouth while Jisoo grabbed two, one in each fist.
“Better. You cut it a little better this time,” Omahni said through a mouthful of apple.
It wasn’t much of a compliment, but like a dog hungry for scraps, I would take it. Finally, I took a bite. Juicy and tart. My lips puckered. I didn’t have an appetite.
A man’s voice blared from the radio: “In only three days, our valiant army has captured Seoul, the capital of South Korea! Our South Korean brothers will soon surrender to the bosom of the Fatherland!”
Abahji clicked the radio off. He stopped chewing.
Silence swelled in my ears. “Abahji, what does it mean? Will North Korea win the war?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”
“Why all the glum faces?” Omahni asked. “Nothing would change for us. We’ve managed well enough by keeping our heads down and following the rules!”
Abahji whipped around, his face suddenly reddening. “What kind of nonsense are you saying? Everything would change!” I had never seen him so angry. “The entire Korean peninsula would be under communist rule! All hope for free elections, for contact with the outside world, for the right to speak our minds would be gone! Do you like living like this? Constant Party meetings? Fearing our neighbors? Worshipping in secret? Needing permission to visit your parents’ graves in Pyongyang?”
Omahni quieted.
I wrung the edge of my blouse tighter and tighter. “What about the Kims?” I asked. Omahni jumped at the mention of their name. “What will happen to them? If the war’s almost over, then they won’t try to cross the border, will they?” I imagined Myung-gi and Yoomee walking straight into a black cloud of smoke and felt my heart pound.
Abahji took a sip of tea. “I think they will leave any day now. And I think they will make it to Busan.” Then he turned to Omahni. “Busan is so far south and so well protected that the North Korean army cannot touch it—the Americans will stop them before they get there. And even if they don’t, we’ll have a better chance of getting out of Korea from a coastal city. Maybe we should consider leaving with the Kims and settling in Busan, too. We can stay with your brother, Hong-Chul, and his wife.”
I stared at Abahji. Was he changing his mind? Something stirred inside me.
Omahni shook her head vigorously. “No, it’s too dangerous! How can we possibly travel by foot all the way to the tip of South Korea with three children? We have no money to make the journey. And if North Korea wins the war, then it would have all been for nothing. We would have risked our lives, lost our home, all for nothing!” She sniffled, then dabbed her eyes and nose with the bottom of her skirt.
“But what is any of this worth if we have no hope for freedom? Why is your mind closed so tightly? It’s as impenetrable as an acorn!” Abahji said.
“And you, my husband, waver like the wind! I thought we had agreed to stay!”
I wondered what we ought to do. My heart raced at the thought of leaving, but I wasn’t sure whether it was from fear or excitement. I tugged on Abahji’s sleeve. “Abahji, does everyone have freedom in South Korea? Is it true that all the people can come and go as they please?”
Omahni glared at me from across the room.
“Yes, Sora-ya,” Abahji said. But his face looked stricken, and I knew there was no easy answer, not even for him. “Your mother is so stubborn,” he muttered. Then he brought his fist down hard on the low table—the teacups rattled against its wooden top. He rose and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
In an instant, I felt a gust as Omahni hurtled toward me, her long skirt whipping the air. “Do you think South Korea is some magical place to cure all your ills?” she hissed, her eyes wild with fear. “It’s made of the same dirt and rock as here. Nothing will change for you. You’ll still be a daug
hter. You’ll still be a noona. You must still follow our traditions. You can’t get out of those responsibilities, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Her mouth twisted into a tight knot.
I sat motionless. A steady pressure mounted on my temples. Images from Miss Chun’s World War II newsreel flickered in my head—women and children, dirty and ragged, howling by roadsides beside lifeless bodies. And, all at once, the thought of leaving home made me very afraid.
Omahni flicked the radio back on, and the announcer’s voice returned like an unwelcome houseguest. She pushed my head toward the sound and said, “Listen to the radio! Do you hear what he’s saying? The war is nearly won. There is no point in risking our lives when it’ll soon be over. Don’t encourage your father! He’s a dreamer. Wake to your senses, Sora! A girl must have a keen mind and be as sharp as a fox. How else will you survive in this world?”
six
June 29, 1950
The next morning, I ran to the willow tree by the schoolhouse. A slick layer of sweat coated my back.
Omahni was right. What was the point in risking our lives to escape? There would be no escape if the whole peninsula became communist. I had to stop the Kim family from leaving. They were dreaming, like Abahji.
There were no students running up the hill, no bells chiming from the schoolhouse. The plants out front were already withering. When I closed my eyes, I could still see it, the way life used to be before I had been pulled out of school: girls in the schoolyard making flower necklaces, Youngsoo playing tag with his classmates, kindergarteners running through the grass.
I opened my eyes. The image dissipated like smoke across the empty grounds.
The willow tree stood at the top of the hill, its draping branches hiding the ground and everything on it—leaves, rocks, Han’s books. I searched by the trunk but couldn’t find anything, not even the red book that he’d angrily chucked into his bag. Had they already escaped? I rummaged through leaves and bushes. Nothing.
The Kim family was gone.
I stopped moving and let the quiet sink in, lonelier than I had been just a second ago. The wind blew in and out of my shirt, billowing it away from my skin as if I were a hollow tree.
I rose and walked. The sky and river blurred into one, and I stumbled home not knowing up from down anymore.
“Rumors are circling as fast as a dog chasing its tail,” Omahni said to Abahji as I slipped into the house. She tugged on the latch of the storage chest and shoved our folded blankets inside, her face dark as the churning river before a storm. “Some are saying that the Kims were taken to a labor prison. But others think they heard shots.”
I gasped. Something cold as liquid metal flowed into my stomach. I started shivering.
“Are you sure about this?” Abahji asked. “I mean, they’re gone?” He sat at the low table, his cup of barley tea untouched.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Omahni cried. “And the worst part is that everyone is keeping their distance from our family as if we were a plague!”
From that day forward, Omahni ordered us to stay inside.
We became a target. At the whim of any one of our neighbors, our family could be sent to a hard labor prison in Siberia—all anyone had to do was go to the local Party office and lie. “The Paks are traitors to the Fatherland, just like their close friends the Kims! I heard them say…”
The Party would reward their loyalty—and we would vanish like ghosts.
After the police interrogated Omahni and Abahji, we slept and ate together, never once leaving the house for more than ten minutes. I’d suggest we play school to pass the time, and Youngsoo and Jisoo would agree, but by afternoon, they’d be rolling on the floor like sausages. The day would always end with each of us in our separate corners, Jisoo winding down with a thumb and a pile of clean socks.
Soon, our endless games deteriorated into shouting. One person’s finger tapping would spark another person’s outrage. Even Abahji started barking at us to quiet down. So, after seven days of confinement, when Youngsoo announced that he wanted to go fishing, Omahni didn’t object. She just told us to be quick.
I took Youngsoo to the river.
We headed up the dirt road in silence. The swaying trees and whistling birds pacified us. And though I could feel the neighbors watching—eyes past half-closed shutters, curtains rustling without a breeze—I savored the fresh air and refused to hang my head low. I tried to ignore them and imagine Myung-gi running free—no—soaring free, high above the trees, away from petty gossip and stifling rules.
“This is a good spot, Noona,” Youngsoo said. He crouched in the dirt along the river’s edge while I watched him make mud pies and dig for worms. Long, pink bands wriggled on his open palm.
A group of boys came barefoot along the bank, skipping rocks and sticks along the water. Their white shirts were untucked and disheveled, but their red armbands gleamed like fresh blood on snow.
“Look who’s here!” a moon-faced boy said. I recognized him as the son of the Suhs. “It’s the traitors! If you don’t love our country, then you should’ve been shot with the Kims!” He lunged toward us with a long stick and laughed when we flinched.
I grabbed Youngsoo’s hand and walked farther upstream, but the gang of boys followed.
“We should notify the police that these traitors aren’t wearing their armbands!” one boy said, holding a piece of candy—the kind that Comrade Cho awarded to students for ratting out their parents.
I recognized him; he was Kunsoo, youngest of the Chung boys. His mother and father had done a day of hard labor for letting Kim Il-sung’s portrait hang crookedly on their wall.
The boys surrounded us. So many of them—five, six, seven. My breath grew shaky. I glanced at Youngsoo. His face was white.
“Trai-tor! Trai-tor!” Kunsoo and the boys chanted, circling closer.
“Look at this one. Look at the mud on his shirt. This isn’t mud from a hard-working proletarian. This is mud from a capitalistic America-loving pig who plays in the dirt all day,” Moon-face said, sounding just like the local Party leaders at town meetings. His breath reeked of rotten kimchi. He yanked the worms from Youngsoo’s hand and pulled one thin.
“Give it back to him,” I said, a hot flare in my chest.
The worm elongated and flattened into a pink line. Stretching, stretching, stretching, until it ripped in half.
“No!” Youngsoo shouted.
Moon-face threw the rest onto the grass. Youngsoo dropped to the ground, picking up the worms that had done nothing to deserve this.
It was then that Moon-face grabbed Youngsoo’s arm.
Without thinking, I yanked my brother’s sleeve away from him. “Who are you calling a filthy pig, anyway? Have you smelled yourself lately?” I said.
For a second, Moon-face looked at me, as determined as a wolf fixed on prey stuck up a tree. He pretended to walk away—then turned around and jabbed his stick into my stomach instead.
My body coiled. I fell. Tears welled in my eyes, and I closed them.
I felt my stomach. Blood on my blouse. I had to remember to exhale.
There was laughter. Ugly laughter, everywhere. Then howling. Crazy, ferocious howling like a cornered wild animal. I opened my eyes. The boys were running. White river rocks shot through the air like many little arrows. Youngsoo stood over me hurling handfuls of them, a mad howl still blasting from his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I’m fine, Youngsoo!” I said, trying to calm him.
But he wouldn’t stop throwing, screaming.
I clasped the sides of his face. “Youngsoo, look at me. It’s all over.”
He held still. His eyes widened, as if he were surprised to see me. Then he took in a shuddering breath.
I looked toward the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of Moon-face fleeing. A part of me wanted him back. Here. In front of me. How dare he call us traitors when we had done nothing wrong? I started rehearsing what I’d say to his face—that he was a bully and a brainwash
ed idiot. I’d tell him that the Kims were smart to run away from stifling, ignorant people like him.
But as soon as I thought it, I knew how dangerous that would be. Instead, I took the last rock from Youngsoo’s hand and hurled it as far as I could, then spat on the very ground that I loved.
seven
August, 1950
Weeks passed. The village began emptying.
Down the road, a hanging basket fell off its hook and stayed in the same spot for days. Miss Chun’s house stood vacant, its doors swinging listlessly in the wind. She’d seemed different after her books and teaching materials were confiscated, hardly ever saying hello to anyone, and now she was gone. A family from our old church disappeared in the middle of the night. I could see torn-up floorboards through their window, their found Bible ripped to shreds. Every day their dog sat under the eaves, waiting for them.
One late afternoon, I helped Omahni take down the laundry from the clothing line. Even the air smelled different—earthy and musty—as if the whole village were uninhabited. As if it had been for a long time.
“Where did everyone go?” I asked. “I can count at least four or five families that are just…gone.”
Omahni scoffed. “Is that all? I can count more than that. What about the Suh family, with the round-faced boy? They left just yesterday,” she said, a surliness in her voice. She snatched shirts and pants off the rope and threw them in a basket.
The Suh family. That was Moon-face boy. Even they were gone. “So everyone is leaving, like the Kims?”
“No, they have been taken,” she said, keeping up the swift and steady pace of her work. “Like the Kims.” She believed what she’d heard—that they had been arrested. I tried to believe that they’d escaped, and that was why they were gone.
“Taken?”
“Yes, taken!” She shook her head in annoyance. “The police have been rounding up anyone they don’t like. That’s where people go when they disappear—prison! Or worse! They’ve been arresting pastors, did you know that? Pastor Joh’s wife said soldiers came in the middle of the night and took her husband away.”
