by Julie Lee
“Sora-ya, up here!” Abahji called from the top of the sloping road between our house and the millet field.
I ran toward him.
“Set the tray down and sit. I’ll give you a little push,” he said.
I plunked it on top of the hill, then stopped. “Shouldn’t we wake Youngsoo?” I asked.
Abahji rubbed his chin. “Not this time. You’re ten now, and soon you won’t want me to push you on a sled anymore. I’m sure he’ll understand this once.” He winked at me.
I grinned. It was what I had hoped—only better. He pushed and spun me at the same time, and I slid down the road in circles. I laughed and ran to the top again.
“One more time, please?” I held my breath.
“No, Sora-ya. I have another surprise for you. Look.” He pointed at the horizon.
Streaks of pink and orange covered the sky. A piercing diamond light peeked over the edge of the mountain. I gasped. It grew bigger and bigger, until it rose high enough to shed light on all things ordinary—thatched roofs, picks and shovels, wooden carts.
“I have to go to work now. Get back inside before everyone wonders where you’ve been.” He tousled my hair.
My shoulders deflated. I watched Abahji swing an axe over his shoulder, then head toward the pine trees. The day had begun.
A ray of sun hit me in the eye. Through the barn window, I could see a brightening sky beyond the mountains. It was dawn; stray beams of light were shafting in.
Youngsoo snored beside me in the dim. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he groaned.
“Shush!” I pinched him hard.
He jerked awake, and I clamped my hand over his mouth. Our eyes met, and after a moment I could see he understood: Be quiet. I rose slowly with him, blood pulsing in my ears.
Holding his arm, I took a step toward the door. Hay crunched under our feet as loud as broken glass.
I froze and held my breath. Surely, they could hear.
No. They slept on. Nineteen more steps to go, an eternity away.
We crept like cats already arched, on the verge of tearing across the room. But I held back and went slowly, quietly, until we reached the door. It was huge and heavy, wide enough to fit a bullock cart and horse. The latch was cold and my fingers stiff. I slid the metal bolt.
It squeaked.
Someone shifted on the hay. The hen stirred. I whipped around and saw the mother turn on her back, yawning. But how could I see her in the dark? Ai! I flicked my gaze to the window. Golden light flooded the barn.
The sun had risen.
My thoughts raced. What did the mother even mean—sell me to soldiers? Why would they ever pay to have me? I couldn’t understand it, but it scared me more than guns or bombs. My hands shook.
Youngsoo hopped from foot to foot. “Noona, hurry!”
“Shush!” I hissed.
I wiggled the latch. The chicken started clucking. Someone stirred and moaned.
A blast of cold air shot inside as I pushed the door open. I shoved Youngsoo through and darted out behind him.
Then I grabbed his arm and ran.
We trampled over thorny brush and knotty hills, through drifts of snow and ice. Biting winds slashed our faces. We didn’t stop until the sun was high—two small figures on the frozen plains.
nineteen
After running all day, we found shelter in an abandoned cottage. House slippers lined the wall by the door, and red armbands lay neatly folded on the dresser, as if the owners could return at any moment. But I knew they wouldn’t. Dust covered the furniture, and all the bedrolls were gone.
“Help me move this table,” I said, grabbing the wooden legs on one end.
“Where do you want to put it?” Youngsoo asked. He stood in the middle of the shadowy room, shivering.
“Against the door.”
“Why?”
“Because the lock is broken, and we don’t want anyone coming in.” I glanced toward the window at the trees’ moving shadows—they sometimes looked like bodies with arms and legs.
Youngsoo lifted the other end, and together we carried the table across the room. “What if someone tries to separate us again?” he asked.
“It won’t happen. I promise.” But I couldn’t look at him when I said it.
We pushed the low table flush against the door. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it would have to do. I lit a match to a kerosene lamp sitting on a wooden chest, my hands trembling slightly. Youngsoo, still standing, didn’t say a word.
We needed food and water. I was so hungry, I felt nauseated.
“I’m going to check the kitchen for something to eat,” I said. “I’ll need to take the lantern. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m coming, too!” Youngsoo said, rushing to my side.
The kitchen was only feet away—even if I brought the lamp in there, it would still glow into the main room—but I let him follow.
I stepped down into the tiny, dirt-floor kitchen, banging my head against a hanging pot and ladle. They swung on their hooks, clanging into each other like noisy footsteps. My hand shot up and stopped them mid-swing.
I paused to let my heart settle.
A large earthen jar sat on the floor, big enough to fit two small children. Straining, I managed to shift its heavy lid with both hands—it scraped against the top of the jar, stone against stone, like a rock rolling away from a tomb.
We peered inside and gasped.
“Kimchi!” Youngsoo said.
My hands couldn’t move fast enough. I reached for two tin cups on the open shelf, fumbling and knocking over plates and spoons. I filled each cup with the kimchi and its juices, handed one to Youngsoo, then tipped back my head and coiled a long, speckled cabbage leaf into my mouth. It was fresh from kimjang season, when everyone made batches of kimchi for the winter. Crisp and tangy. Perfect.
“Why would they leave it behind?” Youngsoo asked, between bites.
“Because it’s too much. How could anyone pack and carry all this kimchi?”
I crunched on the thick base of the cabbage leaf, my favorite part, then drank the juices. And for a second, I forgot myself, and this dark place, and the winds whistling outside like a woman screaming.
“Noona, can you believe we were almost kidnapped?” Youngsoo asked. He coughed into his arm, then took another bite of kimchi.
I stopped to think. It was unbelievable. “Kidnapped,” I said, as if to convince myself that it had really happened. “We were almost kidnapped by those people.”
“And their chicken,” Youngsoo added.
We looked at each other, then broke out laughing. “If that chicken was here, we’d be having it with soy sauce right now!” I declared.
Youngsoo’s head popped up from his bowl. “Ooh, Omahni makes the best chicken with soy sauce.”
We stopped laughing.
“Noona, do you think Omahni, Abahji, and Jisoo are looking for us?”
“Of course. We just have to keep heading south, and we’ll run into them,” I said, turning my face away to hide my worry.
“But how do you know which way is south?”
“Well…there are guides like the North Star. And we can follow the trails people are leaving.”
He paused to consider this. “How do you find the North Star?”
“Well, it’s the brightest one in the sky, isn’t it?”
“They all look pretty bright to me,” he said, blowing his nose against the bottom of his shirt.
I wanted him to stop talking. “Let’s go to sleep. We’ll need our rest,” I said, stepping back into the main room.
We huddled on the stone floor, and Youngsoo fell asleep. But the kimchi churned inside me, its acids burning a hole through my stomach. In my mind, I retraced our steps from the barn to here. Had I gone the right way? I hadn’t looked at the North Star; I was never good at finding it. The map crinkled softly inside my pocket, and I reached in and pulled it out. The Korean peninsula was so tiny compared to the rest of the world; when I
put my thumb on it, it disappeared. Which animals lived in Africa? What foods did people eat in France? Were there really hairy cowboys in America?
The room grew colder. A strong wind blustered, rattling the windows. Something light and tinny, like a watering can, blew against the side of the house. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for morning.
twenty
Maybe December, 1950
For the next few days, we found deserted homes full of kimjang kimchi and ate nothing but pickled cabbage to sustain ourselves. Sometimes we curled into balls, our stomachs cramping and gurgling, but we ate it anyway.
We never stopped walking. Hillsides, once full of rice paddy terraces, were stripped bare. An ox lay on its side, vultures feasting on its abdomen. Thatched-roof houses were charred to the ground. Fallen trees, destroyed by bombs, were everywhere. Walking south according to the sun was easy, but at night, I lost the North Star in the sky.
Finally, we came across a line of windburnt refugees heading south through a snow-covered valley. There were at least fifty people. Was it a mirage? Were there really others like us here? Youngsoo and I looked at each other, our hopes rising. I dropped his hand and sprinted toward the group, ducking between strangers and searching their faces.
But Omahni, Abahji, and Jisoo were not among them.
I found Youngsoo at the back of the line. “Let’s stick with these people. It’s safer to travel together,” I said. I didn’t need to tell him that I hadn’t seen our parents.
He nodded.
But I knew the group couldn’t stay together for long. How would we all fit in one house? At nightfall, everyone would splinter off in different directions. I studied the crowd, searching for a person we could follow, someone we could trust to look out for us. We couldn’t be alone anymore. Youngsoo had caught a cold; he needed a mother to take care of him. And I needed someone to lead the way.
A lady and her little daughter walked on the edge of the crowd. The scarf wrapped around the woman’s head came together in a tight knot under her chin, the two ends hanging perfectly even. I watched the way she walked with her arm around her daughter’s shoulder, the way she took bits of food from her bag and fed the girl at just the right times to keep her going. In the evening, when the crowd split into different houses, I followed the group that the mother had chosen into a small stone cottage.
Inside, there were chests and a table covered in dust. An old man stepped into a pair of tattered house slippers left behind by the owners. I pulled Youngsoo across the crowded floor to where the mother and child sat, and we settled ourselves beside them.
The woman was busy spreading blankets when she glanced at us and smiled. “Joonie-ya, say hello,” she said to her daughter. The girl smiled shyly, a beauty mark dotting the edge of her upper lip.
Youngsoo peeked around me, his eyes brightening. Then he dropped my hand and rushed to Joonie’s side. My mouth hung open in disbelief. Now I knew: one pretty girl, and Youngsoo would desert me in a second. I smirked and pretended to glare at him.
The mother laughed, then handed us a bowl of cold rice from her bag. I bowed deeply. Youngsoo took half but had to stop after three bites, his cough unrelenting.
“Is he sick?” the woman asked, eyeing him carefully.
“It’s just a little cold.” I tried to flash the same smile that always got Youngsoo out of trouble with Omahni, but I knew I had failed when she frowned at me. “It looks like Youngsoo and Joonie have become instant friends,” I tried, hoping to win her back. “My brother is eight. How old is she?”
“Seven,” the mother said, studying the dried snot on Youngsoo’s sleeve. I tucked his arm behind me. She looked at me and smiled slightly. “You have a lot of common sense.”
I wasn’t sure how she would know, or whether it was even true, but I beamed anyway. I couldn’t help it. Omahni would never have said so.
The woman turned her attention away from me. “Joonie-ya, come sleep on this side.” She patted the space on the floor farthest from Youngsoo and me. Joonie went and curled up in the curve of her mother’s body.
In the middle of the night, Youngsoo broke into a wheezing, coughing spasm. I patted him on the back, not wanting him to wake the entire house; a man across the room was already sighing and grumbling.
“It’ll be okay,” I whispered, my eyes half-closed, soothing him long after he had quieted and fallen back asleep.
The next morning, I awoke to an old man looming over us.
“Did you get any sleep with all that hacking, boy?” he asked, his voice hard.
“Yes, sir. I did,” Youngsoo said, bolting upright. The old man walked away to gather his bags, muttering a string of profanities.
I looked around the room. Everyone was packing to resume the daily trek. But where were the mother and daughter?
I saw the back of Joonie’s shiny long hair flutter out the door. They were quick. I nearly missed them.
“Hurry, Youngsoo, let’s go!” I said, shaking his shoulder. “We don’t want to get left behind!”
Without any possessions, we needed only to button our coats, scramble to our feet, and run out the door. There were fewer people walking south today. I grabbed Youngsoo’s hand and searched the loose chain of marchers for Joonie and her mother until I found them walking briskly in the middle of the line.
“There they are!” I said. I pulled Youngsoo so we could walk alongside them.
Joonie squirmed out of her mother’s grasp to hold Youngsoo’s hand. He grinned. I knew he would start offering her gifts, even though he had almost nothing to give. Maybe he would promise her any fish in the sea.
Instead, he pulled a river rock from his pocket. I watched him wipe it clean against his coat, smudging the tan fabric with dirt before handing it to Joonie.
“Joonie-ya,” her mother said. “Don’t touch that. It’s dirty. Come, hold my hand.”
Something about the way she said “dirty” made my cheeks hot with shame. The girl frowned, but returned to her mother’s side.
The woman wrapped a protective arm around her daughter, her long coat flapping like a curtain between us. A nameless fear swelled inside me as I watched her clutch Joonie close.
Youngsoo shrugged and wiped his nose against his sleeve. He continued walking, undaunted, like his fishing days by the river. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever walked away empty-handed, and I supposed he was used to it by now.
We marched in silence, following a churned-up road. At dusk, when the group separated into different shelters, different abandoned homes, we followed Joonie and her mother. Days passed this way; I couldn’t keep count. Our group kept changing as newcomers joined and others fell away, but Joonie and her mother were always there—I made sure of it.
It was dark one night when our group entered another deserted home. The house looked hollow and sad, like a family member left behind. The rice-straw roof had partially blown away. The eaves drooped on one side. Spiders had moved in.
An old halmoni dropped to the floor and began rubbing her feet. “We’re getting close to Pyongyang. I can feel it!” she announced.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I grew up there,” she said. “Besides, all roads end at the capital, and we’re almost at the end of this one!”
I shivered thinking what the end of this road would bring. What would a city look like? How could two country bumpkins like us find our way through its streets?
There were ten others in the house tonight, including Joonie and her mother. As always, I waited for them to sit, so we could settle beside them.
The mother looked at us and sighed. She offered us another bowl of rice but didn’t smile or say a word. I accepted it with both palms facing up, my head bent low. Was I begging? Or was she offering?
Youngsoo grabbed a clump from the bowl, and I noticed the grime under his nails, the dirt creased in the dried skin of his fingers. For a second, I wished we had washed our hands in the snow. I glanced at the mother, and her eyes d
arted away. I wondered if she disapproved. But how else would we eat in the middle of a war, if not with our dirty hands? I chewed neatly, covering my teeth and minding my manners.
I spread our coats on the floor and told Youngsoo to get some rest. He curled into a ball and closed his eyes, and we huddled close for warmth as winds screeched outside the door.
We were asleep when the woman nudged me. “Wake up. Your brother is having another coughing fit.” There were deep grumbles across the room as Youngsoo rasped uncontrollably. Hardly able to keep my eyes open, I patted him on the back and hushed him, hoping he hadn’t annoyed anyone. We wouldn’t want to get kicked out of the house. That was all I could think as I fell back asleep.
Hours later, still exhausted, I nearly missed Joonie and her mother leaving before dawn.
The mother packed her bag quickly, making every effort not to make a sound. Why the rush? Why so early? I looked around the dark room. No one else had yet woken.
Then, all at once, I knew.
She had fed us but never agreed to take care of us.
I sat up and touched her arm in the dark. “I know how you feel about my brother. But he can be really sensitive sometimes, so I’ll make sure he doesn’t find out why you left us,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Left you? You were never with me. You don’t even know my name, child,” the mother said, her face tight and guarded. “Listen, I have my daughter to protect, and I fear what your brother has is contagious. He is your responsibility, not mine. You’re all that he has left.”
My face burned in embarrassment. All this time, I had been chasing. And she had been running—from us.
Of course he was my responsibility, not hers. Had I tried to unload the burden of caring for him? A yarn of guilt balled up in my throat.
The woman’s face softened. “Let me give you some advice. You won’t have much of a future as an orphan girl. Your only saving grace is your brother; at least he is a son who can carry your family name and support you once he has grown. Take care of him; put his needs before your own. That’s how you survive in this world.”
