Snowball cocks his head sideways. Emi shuffles into the living room with her tea. She sits down on the sofa so she won’t disturb her daughter’s sleep. Snowball hops up beside her and snuggles against her leg. Emi doesn’t want to close her eyes. She’s afraid that she’ll see the dead girl floating in the ocean, black lifeless eyes staring up at her. She pats the dog’s head and sips her tea until the sun’s early rays glint upon the windowsill.
Hana
Korea, Summer 1943
The train travels only during the night, when the bombers flying overhead can’t see it driving supplies north. There are many stops along the way, but the girls are forced to remain on the train. They are given very little food and water. Hana is starving. Her stomach feels like it is eating itself from the inside out. Waiting for daylight to pass is excruciating. The girls are ordered to sit in silence, while the soldiers smoke, eat and joke.
The two girls who joined them when the train paused in the station are friendly, but Hana isn’t very talkative after what happened to SangSoo. The moon-faced girl who witnessed SangSoo’s death seems relieved to have new friends to talk to. Her expression is pretty once more; the shock has worn away. Sometimes, the four of them are left alone, and it is then they share their stories.
The three girls seem desperate to tell their life histories to one another. Hana sits quietly and listens, one eye trained on a sliver of sunlight streaming through the blacked-out window. Shadows pass across the thin line, and she wonders if they are from passing soldiers or civilians, civilians who might be inclined to help.
‘My mother sent me to keep house for my aunt in Seoul, but I never made it there,’ one girl says. She is the oldest of the group, probably nineteen, and she has a dimple in one cheek. Her hair is curly and frizzed into an unruly mass, which she ties at the nape of her neck.
‘I was waiting for the bus at a station along my route. I had three stops before I would arrive at Seoul, and this army officer drove up. He asked me where I was going, and I told him. He said the bus was delayed and it would be hours before it would arrive. He offered me a ride.’ She looks guiltily at the others, waiting for them to judge her, but no one says a word, so she continues.
‘I know I shouldn’t have believed him. My mother said not to believe a Japanese. That they’re not really our friends because they see Koreans as inferior citizens, but … he seemed so friendly. I thought he really meant to help me.’ Her voice fades to a whisper. ‘I’ve never been away from home before,’ she adds.
Hana looks back at the sliver of light and the shadows dancing across it. She has never been away from home either. Her mother is also suspicious of the Japanese. She didn’t let the girls out of her sight, except when she had to, and then Hana was placed in charge with very strict orders to stay away from strangers. Her father was often gone all day, fishing for the scraps the Japanese boats left behind. He often returned home late at night, long after Hana and her mother and sister returned from the market, and he revealed his haul to them with great fanfare.
‘Look what I have brought for our feast tonight!’ he would call as he entered their small traditional house.
Hana and her sister would squeal with delight and run to him before he could even step over the threshold, each attaching to one of his legs. He would stomp into the house like a sea monster rising from the dark ocean depths. Even at sixteen, Hana continued the tradition, for her sister’s amusement. Her sister would giggle with delight as their father struggled to move his overburdened leg. Hana would have to help him along, just enough so that her sister wouldn’t notice. The small performance was their way of incorporating happiness into their home, even though their father was bone tired and prematurely ageing from exhaustion and stress.
‘Where’s my queen?’ he would say before settling down to open his sack.
‘In the kitchen, where else?’ her sister would shout, and her mother would peek her head through the doorway.
‘Ah, there is my fair bride, and what a lovely scent permeates through our palace tonight. Here, my soldiers of fortune, our feastly spoils are yours to bestow upon my beautiful cooking wife.’
That was the cue for Hana and her sister to rummage through the sack and emit sounds of pleasure and surprise at each fish, morsel of seaweed, or bag of rice pulled from it. Sometimes, her father would surprise them with pears he had managed to trade fish for, but those were a special treat not revealed more than once or twice a year. The night before her abduction, her father had brought home two large pears. She can almost taste their juicy flesh, the flavour sitting on the edge of her memory.
‘He took me to an army depot, and they made me sign a form, but I can’t read Japanese. I never went to school,’ the girl continues shamefully. ‘I had no idea what was going on. He left me there with a Korean man who told me my aunt no longer needed my services. He said the emperor needed me now. That I was to work for the glory of Japan.’
Hana looks at the girl’s face and sees innocence in her eyes. The soldiers haven’t raped her. Hana wonders if the soldiers only raided the cabin she was held in on the ferry. She can’t possibly tell these girls what happened to her. They are silent, waiting for her to speak because it is her turn to share her story. Hana glances at each of their expectant faces, apologises, and turns away, focusing on the fading sunlight.
By the end of the week-long train journey, Hana finds herself alone in the compartment. The other three girls were removed at earlier stations. Morimoto hasn’t spoken to her the entire way; he has hardly even looked at her. It is as though he has forgotten she is there, until they arrive at their destination in Manchuria. Suddenly, he is all business: ordering her off the train, handing her paperwork to the officer in charge, and marching away as though he has not dragged her halfway across the world. The new soldier leaves to procure a transport vehicle, and she is for the briefest of moments left alone.
She scans her surroundings and very nearly darts across the road, when she sees Morimoto already on his way back. He is holding a packet of cigarettes. Standing next to her, he lights one. He takes a few drags and then holds the cigarette out to her.
‘Do you know how to smoke?’
Hana stares at the cigarette and then at him, wondering if it is some sort of trick. He laughs at her, a light sound, as though he is a casual friend offering a silly girl nothing more sinister than a cigarette.
‘It’s easy, watch me,’ he says, and takes a long puff. He squints as the smoke curls upwards into the night sky.
He then takes the cigarette from between his lips and slowly pushes it into her mouth. She remains still, afraid he might burn her or worse.
‘Breathe in,’ he says.
Hana shakes her head, and he drops the cigarette. He smacks her. The sting brings tears to her stunned eyes. He retrieves the cigarette from the dirt and lights it again. He pushes it between her lips.
‘You will learn to do as you are told. Breathe in.’
To refuse him would be madness, so she does as he wishes and inhales, immediately coughing as the burning smoke singes her tender throat.
He laughs, slapping her on the back like a big brother would. The cigarette falls from her lips back into the dirt. He smashes it with the toe of his boot. When the other soldier returns, Morimoto chats with him as though Hana isn’t there. Morimoto pats him on the shoulder, they laugh, the soldier salutes, and Morimoto returns the gesture. The other soldier leads Hana towards a jeep parked beside the train station. Morimoto lights another cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as they pass him on the dirt road. Hana tastes the tobacco on her tongue as they drive away.
It is dark, so she can’t see very much of the Manchurian countryside besides shadows of scattered bushes and tall grassy pastures as they drive past. The night sky is darker than she has seen in a long time, with no moon to light their way. The truck’s headlamps barely help the driver navigate the bumpy dirt road. Hana falls asleep and is surprised when a rough hand shakes her awake.
> ‘We’re here, get out,’ the soldier orders.
Lit up by the truck’s headlights, a large wooden inn looms over them. It is two storeys tall with barred windows along the upper floor. The door opens and another soldier steps out, beckoning them inside.
‘Is this the replacement girl?’ he asks as they gather in the entrance hall.
‘Yes, from Corporal Morimoto.’
‘Of course,’ he says with a grin.
They salute one another, and without glancing at Hana, the soldier jumps back into the truck. Hana watches as he revs the engine and drives away. The soldier in the inn shuts the door behind her and bolts it. He calls for someone, and an old woman appears, wearing Chinese-style clothes. She places one arm around Hana and steers her further into the inn. Hana follows her, relieved to be with a woman. Perhaps she is at a workhouse. The thought gives her a small amount of courage.
‘Can you tell me where I am?’ Hana asks, speaking in the mandated Japanese.
The woman doesn’t reply. Hana tries again, but the woman just leads Hana into a large entrance hallway and ushers her towards an old wooden staircase. It leads to the upper floor, which is bathed in darkness.
‘What’s up there?’ Hana asks.
The woman lights a candle and begins ascending the staircase. At the foot of the staircase, Hana pauses. Framed portraits of girls hang in two rows on the wall above the first step. Each girl has identically bobbed hair and a solemn, unsmiling expression. There is a number beneath each frame. Their dark eyes seem to watch her as she follows the woman up the stairs, and she does her best not to feel afraid.
The candle flickers on the walls of the gloomy hallway, but it doesn’t shine enough light for Hana to see all of her surroundings. They pass a few doors, and then the woman pauses in front of one and opens it with a key. Hana steps inside and the woman turns to leave.
‘Wait,’ Hana calls to her. ‘Please tell me where I am,’ she begs, but the woman’s slippers are already slapping against the wooden stairs as she heads back down.
Hana is left alone to inspect the small room in near darkness. It is barely large enough to contain the tatami mat laid out in one corner against the wall and the basin beside it. Hana rushes to the basin and finds it filled with cool water. She lifts it to her lips and the water rushes down her throat. She drinks and drinks, not questioning the cleanliness of the water or what it’s there for. She swallows every last drop. Then she lies on the tatami mat and waits for the old woman to return.
Hana wakes from a fitful slumber when the old woman enters the room. She carries a bowl of soupy rice on a tray with a side dish of Japanese pickles. Hana sits up and a rush of questions fly from her lips.
‘Where am I? Why am I here? When can I go home to my mother?’ She is desperate for answers. She even repeats the questions in Korean.
The woman shakes her head. She speaks in another language that Hana assumes is Mandarin. She motions for Hana to eat the rice and turns to leave. When she opens the door, a deep, unearthly moan drifts into the room.
‘What’s that?’ Hana can’t help asking, but the woman again shakes her head. She leaves the room without saying anything more.
Hana goes to the door and peers out. The woman shuffles away, her small shoulders sagging inward. Hana feels certain it can’t be such a bad place if the old woman didn’t bother to lock the door to the room. It is as though Hana might be free to roam the inn, as though she is no longer a prisoner, or if she is still a prisoner, the woman might not care whether Hana tries to escape. Or perhaps there is nowhere to escape to, her mind interjects, stopping her hope from growing too large.
The sound comes again, a wail, inhumanly low, like death. Hana wants to shut the door and huddle in the furthest corner of the room, but she has to know what creature could make such a terrible sound. Perhaps if she finds the source of the sound, she will know where she is and why she was brought here.
The door to her room is one of many that opens onto a balcony that overlooks a small lounge with more doors leading off it. More candles have been lit downstairs, and Hana can see the space more clearly. It is bare, as though the inn’s furniture has yet to arrive.
The moan comes again, and Hana thinks it came from the door nearest the bottom of the stairs. It sits ajar, and she can see shadows moving within. Without thinking of her safety or anything more than finding the source of that sound, she creeps down the wooden staircase, cringing after every creak of the wooden steps. She glances at the girls on the wall as she reaches the bottom step. They seem to hover above her, watchful and accusing. Hana turns away from them, tiptoeing to the door. She holds her breath and looks into the room.
A woman with her legs splayed and her thighs covered in blood lies on a mat against the far wall. A man with a cloth mask over his nose and mouth crouches between her legs. The hairs on Hana’s neck stiffen when she realises the death moan is coming from the bloody woman.
‘She must push,’ the Japanese man says to someone next to him. Hana can’t see the other person but hears her voice.
‘The doctor says you must push,’ she says in Korean.
Hana involuntarily sucks in a quick breath. The woman is Korean. She cries out, a deep, hollow sound that is more animal than human. Hana turns to run back up the stairs, partly afraid of the woman giving birth and partly relieved that she has ended up somewhere with other Koreans.
‘She’s not going to make it,’ the doctor says in Japanese, and Hana freezes.
‘What about the baby?’ the woman beside him asks.
‘It’s already dead.’
‘Can you save her by operating?’
‘The risk of infection is too high.’
‘What’s to be done about her, then?’
‘Either she pushes it out, or she dies with it. Tell her if she wants to live, she must push harder.’
Hana doesn’t wait to hear more. She rushes up the stairs quietly, ducks into her room, and sits, shaking, with her knees pulled into her chest. Even as she listens to the labouring woman’s cries of pain, Hana’s eyes keep drifting to the bowl of soupy rice and the pickles on the tray. Her stomach grumbles. It sickens her to recognise her hunger in the midst of another woman’s death throes. Yet, that is not enough to stop her from satisfying it. The train journey was too long.
She reaches for the bowl and slurps up the rice. When the bowl is empty, she eats the pickles, all at once, and then she wipes her face with the hem of her dress. Another moan slides beneath the shut door, and Hana feels sick. Nausea overwhelms her, and she crawls to the basin against the wall and vomits.
Rice, water and pickles splash into the curve of the metal basin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she rises to her feet to carry the basin downstairs to dump it. Halfway to the staircase, she hears the woman again and can’t bear to go down. She rushes back to the room.
As she nears the door, she notices a wooden plaque next to it. It is carved with the name of a flower in Japanese script and a number: Sakura (cherry blossom) – 2. The other doors on the landing have a plaque with the name of a flower next to them, too. She passes them one by one: Tsubaki (camellia) – 3, Hinata (sunflower) – 4, Kiku (chrysanthemum) – 5, Ayame (iris) – 6 and Riko (jasmine) – 7. When she reaches the last one, she hears a noise at the other end of the hallway, near her room.
Hana is hesitant to investigate but heads back towards her room and sees another door beyond hers. The plaque beside it displays not a flower but a name: Keiko (blessing) – 1. Hana hears a shuffling noise inside. Desperate to find someone who will tell her where she is and why she was brought to this place, she quickly places the basin on the floor and reaches for the door handle. Fear sends her heart into an unsteady beat, too fast, too hard, restricting the air to her lungs, but the handle turns easily.
The room is identical to the one she was placed in. A candle burns on the floor beside a woman kneeling on the mat with her hands covering her face. She is crying without making a sound. Her sho
ulders shudder with each muted sob. Hana starts to shut the door, but the woman notices her presence and lowers her hands. They stare at one another.
‘You must be the new Sakura,’ the woman says in Japanese.
Hana is relieved that they can communicate.
‘Are you Keiko?’ Hana asks, recalling the plaque outside the door. The woman nods. The plaques are names. Hana’s is now Sakura.
‘You’re so young,’ Keiko says, shaking her head. ‘How many years are you?’
‘Sixteen,’ Hana answers, embarrassed at the quaver in her voice. By the light of the candle, Hana estimates Keiko’s age as somewhere in her thirties.
‘I was your age once. It seems like a lifetime ago.’
The woman downstairs moans, and Keiko covers her mouth with her hands, stifling a sob.
‘Do you know her?’ Hana asks.
‘She is my friend,’ Keiko says after a long pause, her voice trembling.
‘The baby is dead,’ Hana says, before she can stop herself. Her stomach churns.
‘Good.’ A dark expression sweeps over her porcelain features.
Hana is taken aback by Keiko’s anger.
‘She might die, too,’ she says, wondering if Keiko will be glad at that news, as well.
Keiko’s face softens, and she looks down at her hands lying limp on her lap.
‘That would be good, too.’
The woman sounds as though it would be the worst thing to happen, the very opposite of the words she spoke.
‘I don’t understand,’ Hana says softly.
‘You will soon enough,’ Keiko answers without looking up. ‘Go back to your room. If they find you here, we will both answer for it.’
Hana wants to ask what she means, but a man’s voice comes from below.
‘Go!’ Keiko whispers harshly.
Hana quickly leaves Keiko’s room, picks up the basin, and slips back into her designated room. It soon begins to smell of bile, and she wonders if she should pour the vomit out of the window, but she recalls Keiko’s fear and thinks better of it. Hana lies down on the tatami mat and wonders about the ominous words Keiko said to her. No one else enters her room that night, and Hana falls asleep clutching her empty stomach.
White Chrysanthemum Page 7
