Brother's Keeper

by Julie Lee

  The field teemed with stalks as tall as my father and as numerous as an army. Dried leaves brushed my face like paper blades. I crushed Youngsoo’s hand into my fist as we wove in and out of the densely packed corn. Deeper and deeper. Not caring whether we’d ever be able to find our way back to the road. I tried hard not to rustle the stems.

  At last, Abahji stopped. We huddled to the ground and didn’t move. The pungent smell of fertilizer stung my nostrils and tickled my throat, but I pushed down a cough and squeezed my eyes shut. The pointy tip of a dried corn leaf stabbed at my cheek.

  Jisoo stirred and shifted on Omahni’s back. A low whining started from his throat, like a tiny snowball rolling downhill, bigger and bigger. I seized up.

  He was going to do it again. Ruin everything.

  I had heard Jisoo whining from halfway down the road.

  I was walking home from school holding my final exam—the only one in the entire grade marked with a perfect score. A gust blew, and I turned the sheets sideways into the wind so they wouldn’t crinkle. These papers wanted to fly.

  Omahni ran out to the side of the road, waving for me to come. “Hurry, Sora-ya. I need your help. Watch Jisoo so Abahji and I can sow the millet before the sun goes down.” She ushered me into the house.

  Jisoo sat on the floor crying over a mitten that wouldn’t fit on his foot.

  “From now on, you must look after your brothers so I can work in the field,” Omahni said matter-of-factly. “I’m taking you out of school. Today was your last day.”

  “Last day of school?” Blood drained from my face. I felt my lip tremble.

  “Sora-ya, you’re overreacting! You’ll learn how to keep house. It’ll be good for you. You need this for your future.”

  Whose future? This was not the future I wanted. “But I’m going to be a writer one day.”

  “What? A storyteller?” A bubble of laughter popped from Omahni’s mouth. “Sora, put your feet back on the ground.”

  Omahni walked into the kitchen. Pots and pans clanged. I could hardly gather my rushing thoughts. “But Yoomee goes to school,” I blurted.

  Omahni poked her head into the main room and frowned at me. “Does Yoomee have little brothers to look after? Does her mother work all year long, harvesting potatoes in the spring and rice and millet in the fall?” She exhaled loudly. “As close as our families are, the Kims are different from us, Sora. Yoomee’s father is principal of the high school. He thinks fancy books are more important than anything, but we’re more practical than that.”

  I stared at her. In just a few words, as plain and gray as rocks, she had explained away my future.

  “Give Jisoo rice. I’ll be back by sundown.” Omahni hurried out the door.

  Jisoo crawled to the low dining table and tipped a pot of hot barley tea onto the floor. He yelped, then wailed—his hand turned bright red, and a blister started forming right before my eyes. I wanted to pick him up, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Just like that. On my twelfth birthday. My life was over.

  Jisoo’s hand smacked me on the shoulder as he wriggled on Omahni’s back, ready for his nighttime milk. He opened one hungry eye and looked at me, then at the cornstalks towering above us.

  “Hush!” I whispered angrily. “Be quiet!”

  He crinkled his forehead and frowned. It was an expression I knew well—the look right before he would rear his head back and let out an ear-splitting howl. In the grainy darkness, I could see Abahji press a single finger against his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Jisoo!” I said.

  But the apology could hardly get past my clenched teeth and sounded like an angry hiss instead. He squirmed and whined crossly, letting out quick and heavy breaths like he always did right before crying.

  Omahni bobbed him up and down, quietly shushing him with a soothing sound that swept up and mingled with the wind. My parents looked at each other.

  “Come out from where you hide!” a man shouted through the darkness.

  I jumped and nearly screamed. A piercing voice. Sharp and clear. All this time, I had been walking in an eerie dream, but the reality of our treacherous escape came rushing toward me, as real as the cold air sweeping across my cheeks through the corn.

  I looked at Abahji, his brows twisting in alarm, as Omahni flashed me a razor-sharp look. My face burned. How could I have angered Jisoo like that? I imagined Omahni’s scolding: A daughter with a temper is worse than having no daughter at all.

  “Come out, or I’ll shoot into the cornfield!” the man threatened.

  We sat frozen amidst the stalks. Even Jisoo quieted.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re coming out!” a woman cried.

  Corn leaves rustled a few feet away. An old woman and her husband walked out of the field onto the dirt road. “Bombs have been dropping near our village,” she pleaded. “What do you expect us to do? Stay and die?”

  “Shut your mouth! How can you and your husband abandon your country? Our Great Leader has called upon all of us to fight against the evil Americans!” The man’s tone was vulgar and sharp. “And you dare speak that way to me? Traitors! You’re under arrest.”

  The exchange drifted into muffled words, stifled sobs, shuffling feet, then silence.

  But still we waited.

  Finally, Abahji signaled us up. I struggled to stand; my knees buckled. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.

  Abahji led the way back toward the dirt road, and we tunneled through the maze of corn until the air opened up around us. Far away, on the other side of the field, a small ray of light—a lantern—moved away from us. My throat was dry. I swallowed.

  “Thank God it was not our family that was found,” Omahni whispered, her voice wavering.

  “But what will happen to the old couple?” I asked.

  No one answered.

  thirteen

  November, 1950

  “There’s a house,” Omahni said, hunched, Jisoo slumped on her back. She pointed down the dirt road, her face long and drawn. “We need to rest. Let’s stop there for a little while.”

  Abahji nodded.

  We had walked for hours. A timid dawn was spreading across the sky. My legs ached. The blisters on my feet stung. Youngsoo dawdled behind me, unusually quiet.

  “It’s not far, children. We can sleep there,” Abahji said encouragingly. He hoisted the jigeh higher on his back and quickened his step.

  Up ahead, I could see it. A stone house with a straw roof, fallen leaves covering the courtyard. In some ways, it looked like home, but without the crawl space for firewood under our porch or the warm wooden beam that hung over our door. This stone house was cold and coarse like a chiseled piece of mountain. I hoped the people who lived there would be kind.

  Abahji was as brazen as a drunkard, strutting up to the front of the house and marching right inside as if he had lived there all his life. I stopped and stared, wondering if it was possible to become drunk with exhaustion, but when Youngsoo and Omahni shuffled past and went inside, too, I followed them through the door.

  “The owners clearly fled months ago,” Omahni said, wiping the dust off a table with her fingers. A portrait of Kim Il-sung hung crookedly on the wall, a stray nail on the floor just below it. Omahni untied Jisoo from her back and set him down. He swatted the thick spiderwebs rounding the corners of the room, then stomped on the dried leaves nestled behind table legs.

  Abahji dropped the jigeh from his shoulders with a dull thud and rubbed the back of his neck. He raised his arms and stretched his body from side to side, half smiling and half grimacing. And then, without wasting a single minute more, he announced that he would search for firewood and went back outside.

  Immediately, Omahni whipped around to me. “What was that about back there in the cornfield? How could you make Jisoo cry like that? Do you want to get us all killed?”

  I stared at my feet. If I could go back in time, I would undo all of it—shushing Jisoo in the cornfield, leaving home. Omahni was right:
What was I thinking?

  I snuck a sideways glance at Jisoo, who was pulling the map from inside my coat pocket.

  “No, Jisoo! That’s mine!” I snatched it from him. He howled, and tears sprang from his squinty eyes.

  Slap.

  Omahni’s handprint burned into my cheek.

  Her eyes flashed like a wild animal defending its cubs. Only, I was the danger she had defended against. My stomach tightened. Wasn’t I one of Omahni’s children, too?

  “Get some sleep. All of you. We need our rest before we walk again,” Omahni said. She pounded her lower back with a fist and headed slowly into the kitchen as if every joint in her body ached.

  I sat on the floor and yanked off my shoes. Youngsoo and Jisoo stared at me.

  “Are you okay, Noona?” Youngsoo asked quietly.

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” I said. I felt something wet and wiped the side of my face. Was I crying?

  “Because your cheek…” Youngsoo said, pointing.

  I found a silver spoon on the low table and checked my reflection. My cheek was bright red, but I could no longer feel the sting.

  A hard knot formed inside my chest. Little brothers would always cause trouble. And I would always be their keeper. The realization sank like a rock to the pit of my stomach.

  I peeled my damp socks from my blistered toes; the sores oozed, but I blew on them till they dried. Until we reached Busan, I just needed to do my part by not messing up. I folded the map and tucked it back inside my coat pocket. It was still whole, though I’d worried away the edges overnight.

  Abahji returned with the smell of the outdoors. He carried firewood for the stove. “Why are you children still awake? Get some sleep.”

  Loud blasts echoed over the mountains, closer than before. The windows rattled slightly.

  Youngsoo and Jisoo spread blankets on the floor, then fell asleep in seconds. Jisoo sucked his thumb hard, as if trying to draw milk from a stone.

  I curled up beside them. How odd it felt to help ourselves to a stranger’s house, even if it was dim and musty. But our own home was now just a memory. It had been only one night since we left, yet it already felt like a lifetime ago.

  I closed my teary eyes, my head heavy. Soon, I slipped into sleep the way that fish glide through waters, to a place so deep even dreams couldn’t go.

  Hours later, the starchy smell of rice filled the house, waking everyone. Omahni was rolling the sticky grains into perfect little balls.

  My stomach rumbled, but I waited for Abahji to take one first, then my brothers. Finally, I ate. Mmm. Soft, warm, and slightly salty. Nothing ever tasted so good. I barely chewed, swallowing so fast that I had to pound my chest with a fist to coax the food down. Who knew that a simple rice ball could be so delicious?

  Youngsoo couldn’t stop grinning. He popped the rice balls into his mouth as if we were sitting at a picnic. “When we get to Busan, I’m going to buy us a big house,” he announced.

  Abahji laughed. “Is that so? And how will you pay for that house?”

  “Busan is by the ocean, so I’ll be a fisherman. And I’ll catch fish for dinner every night for you, Omahni.”

  This time, Omahni laughed.

  “Noona, what kind of fish do you want?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “No, really.” He stretched out his arm as if offering me the world. “What kind of fish do you want? You can have your pick of any fish in the sea.”

  fourteen

  November, 1950

  During the night, it snowed heavily. After a breakfast of leftover rice balls, Youngsoo stood and stared out the window. “Look. There are hundreds of them.”

  “What, snowflakes?” I said underneath a blanket.

  “No, people!”

  I went over to see and pressed my face against the glass. A long procession of people marched through the snow-covered valley. Dressed mostly in white, they looked like ghosts.

  Abahji leaned over my head. He ran his fingers through his hair, locking his gaze on the steady stream of marchers. “We can’t afford to stop and rest while everyone else heads south. Let’s go. Quickly.”

  In a flurry of activity, Abahji and Omahni gathered our belongings. I found my socks drying by the kitchen stove and pulled them over my blistered feet, the warmth soothing my soreness. A good rest and hot food seemed to have worked a miracle on my aching body. Omahni strapped Jisoo onto her back while Abahji hoisted the jigeh onto his shoulders.

  Youngsoo tugged at his sliding-down socks and drooping pants, gathering himself together like a boy made of sand, everything slipping through his fingers. He had slack shoulders and puffy half-moons under his eyes, and I wondered suddenly if the journey would be too hard for him.

  Abahji put his hand on the doorknob. “Is everyone ready?” He looked at me.

  I reached into my coat pocket. The folded map was still there, its corner dull against my finger. I nodded.

  We stepped outside. Snow-capped mountains jutted up into the sky like many daggers. The air nipped my nose, and snow crunched beneath my feet. I braced against the bitter winds that funneled through the valley.

  Before us were the refugees. Their expressionless faces floated by in a white fog of snow, as if passing from this life to the next. I shuddered, but I fell in step with their silent march. What choice did we have? It was safer to travel in a group than alone, and we joined the long line of others heading south.

  “Elder Sohn!” Abahji called suddenly.

  A gray-bearded man with a furry hat turned to look. He pushed a bullock cart filled with his belongings. “Pak Sangmin? Is that you?”

  Abahji grinned. “Yes, it’s me! It’s been so long!”

  Elder Sohn bowed and clasped Abahji’s arm. “It’s unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances.” He pointed to the jigeh. “Take that load off your shoulders, old friend, and put it in my cart. I can push it easily for both of us.”

  “No, no, no.” Abahji shook his head. “I can carry it.”

  “Don’t be a stubborn mule.”

  “Then let me push the cart. I’m younger and stronger.”

  “There you go again. Just like the time you objected to my nomination of Mr. Chung as church elder! Stubborn as always.”

  “Stubborn, but right,” Abahji said.

  They chuckled, then grew quiet, as if they could hardly believe there was a time when deciding who should be church elder mattered at all.

  Youngsoo lagged two feet behind me, his nose running and his head drooping. “Noona, wait for me.”

  “Hurry, Youngsoo. We have to move quickly,” I said.

  He shuffled closer. “Are we almost there?”

  “Where?”

  “Busan.”

  I stopped and looked at him the way Omahni looked at me when I said something stupid. “Of course not. Busan is on the southern coast of South Korea.”

  He squirmed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well then, how long will it take?”

  I sighed and kept walking. “Weeks, months. Not sure.”

  “When will we be able to go back home?”

  “Maybe after the war.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know!” I shouted. “Save your breath and stop asking so many questions.”

  He wiped his wet nose and then reached for my hand, but for once I pulled my arm away.

  I looked out at the crowd and noticed other children. Some were younger and crying; others were older and solemn. Many clung to their mothers’ coats, but a few marched on their own, an irritable stomp in their step. Several of them—girls—were around my age.

  I found myself hoping to make a friend. But I never got the chance.

  fifteen

  A speck from the edge of the sky headed toward us.

  As its buzzing grew louder and louder, everyone in the crowd stopped to look, squinting toward the sun. A fighter jet was soaring across the thinning clouds, swooping down low.

  “A
white star! A white star!” a woman said, pointing at the belly of the plane. “It’s the Americans!”

  “No!” a man cried from behind us. “It’s a red star! Communists!”

  I held up a shielding hand, but only caught a glimpse of the star. It was red. No, it was white. No, red. The sun glinted and danced against the sharp metal wings, playing tricks on my eyes.

  All at once, everyone ran.

  Feet rushed. Voices rose. Faces streamed past in a blur. The crowd broke apart, running amok in thoughtless chaos. They scattered in all directions—across the white lowlands, through dried cornfields—but mostly toward a hill. I stood rooted like a tree.

  “Omahni! Abahji! Youngsoo!” I shouted, hardly able to hear myself.

  Faces flashed past like the flicker of a newsreel. A mother with a baby strapped to her back. Boys with gray mittens. A man with a jigeh on his shoulders. I spun in confusion.

  “Move! Move!” a woman screeched, shoving me to the ground.

  I fell on my hands and knees. So many feet trampling. Around me. On top of me. Someone gripped my head as if it were the knob of a wooden post. “Get off!” I screamed, struggling up.

  On top of the hill, the crowd regrouped, raising arms above their heads. “Look at us!” they cried in a chorus. “We’re civilians!” They waved their tattered sleeves, held babies up toward the sky, unraveled their long scarves to flutter in the wind like an SOS.

  I clutched my chest—I was nothing but a pounding pulse. My legs wouldn’t move. I looked toward the hill. Should I run there? Or stay here?

  Then, through the thinning crowds, I saw him.

  “Youngsoo!”

  He stood alone, his mouth distorted in a terrible cry. Tears streamed down his face. I felt strange, as if I were looking at my own heart ripped from its body.

  I raced toward him, grabbed his hand, and then ran left and right, stopping and going. What was I doing? Where should I run? Omahni, Abahji, and Jisoo had to be near, but there was no one left on the icy road. How could they have disappeared so quickly?