Chore day comes, and Hana rises early to wash her clothes in the yard. The guard stops her at the kitchen door.
‘Go back upstairs. The doctor comes today.’ He blocks her way with his body.
Hana knows not to question the guard. She goes back upstairs and waits in her room. It is her first visit with the doctor. The Chinese woman comes in first, bringing Hana a pitcher of water and pours it into Hana’s basin. She motions for her to clean herself.
As the woman leaves, Hana wonders why she and her husband manage the brothel. Are they forced to run it? Are they prisoners, too? A light knock at the door interrupts her thoughts.
A soldier enters her room, and Hana leaps to her feet. The soldier must see the alarm on her face because he raises his hand in a surrender motion.
‘I’m the physician,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m here to check your health.’
He holds up his other hand to show a black satchel. He motions for her to sit back down. Tentatively, she does as he wishes, but she is still prepared to flee. He sets down his satchel and sits in front of her.
‘Open your mouth,’ he says, and then proceeds to inspect her throat, her teeth and gums and tongue. ‘Good, all good. Now, lie down.’
Hana stiffens. She has never been to a doctor and is still not certain this man is who he claims to be. His military uniform unnerves her, but slowly, she obeys and lies down on the mat. He lifts her dress, and Hana sits back up.
‘What are you doing?’ she demands.
‘I need to examine you.’ If he is insulted or angry, he does not show it. ‘Lie back down, bend your knees and lift your dress. I need to examine your vagina, and don’t waste any more of my time.’
‘No, I don’t want you to,’ Hana says, and scoots away from him.
‘You don’t have a choice. I am required to examine all of you every two weeks. I have to check you for venereal diseases, infections, pregnancies, wounds. It’s for your own good. For your health, and the soldiers’ health.’
Hana stares at him. The health of the soldiers. That’s what he’s really here for.
‘Now, lie back down, bend your knees and lift your dress.’
She lies down in humiliation. The examination goes quickly after that. He inserts a cold metal instrument into her vagina, feels inside her with his fingers, and then douches her with an orange liquid. Then he inoculates her left arm with a serum he says will ward off future venereal diseases.
After a fourth week passes, officers arrive in a jeep late one evening. They have been drinking, and two are falling-down drunk. The others help carry them, half walking, half stumbling, into the brothel, where they stagger straight upstairs, shoving the queuing soldiers aside as they force their way to the front.
‘Everyone, go back to your barracks,’ the captain shouts above the dissenting grumbles. ‘We are taking command of this outpost for the remainder of the evening.’
The soldiers at the front of the line aggressively protest, claiming they have been waiting for hours. The soldier in Hana’s room opens the door and peers out. When the captain’s first lieutenant unsheathes his sabre, the soldiers grow quiet, but no one turns to leave. The soldier retreats back into Hana’s room and quietly begins to dress. Hana moves so that she can see out the door.
‘Go on, get out of here,’ the captain shouts, pointing his sword at a private standing at the front of the line.
The private is undecorated. His uniform is neat but shabby. He takes a step backwards but does not immediately leave.
‘You have a problem, Private?’ the captain asks as he moves beside the first lieutenant. The two of them standing together is an impressive sight. They are taller than most of the non-commissioned soldiers, and their decorated chests shine as though gilded with silver- and gold-encrusted gems. The private seems to shrink in stature beneath their gaze.
‘We are going to the battle lines in the morning, sir,’ the private says, his voice low and unchallenging.
‘Is that so?’ the captain responds.
‘Yes, sir,’ a few of the men mumble in unison.
‘Well, that’s good to know. First Lieutenant, don’t you agree that’s good to know?’
‘Yes, yes, very good intelligence, Private. Solid work,’ he says mockingly.
The captain takes a step towards the private, towering above him. The men behind the private shrink away.
‘And who do you think will be leading you onto this battlefield, soldier? Any thoughts as to who your superior officers might be? You know, the ones who will lead the charge and die first should the battle not turn out successfully?’
The soldiers within hearing distance begin to slink away before the captain finishes his tirade, but the poor private and the few soldiers caught in the firing line are forced to remain at attention.
‘Yes, sir, my apologies, sir,’ the soldier says, saluting the captain.
‘Your apologies? Do you hear that, First Lieutenant? He apologises.’ He laughs in the private’s face, leaning dangerously close to the trembling man. ‘I could have your head on a bayonet if I wanted it. Perhaps to warn future privates of your ignorance and remind them not to question an officer, ever. Now bow,’ the captain orders, his voice a low growl in the private’s face.
The soldier bows deeply, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck. The first lieutenant places his sword against the skin with increasing pressure. A hairline of blood sprouts beneath the blade.
‘What is your command?’ the first lieutenant asks the captain.
The soldier trembles beneath the first lieutenant’s blade, which pushes the razor-sharp edge deeper. Blood drips down one side of his neck, staining his collar.
‘I’m in a good mood. I don’t want to spoil the evening. Send them away.’
‘You heard the captain. Get out,’ the first lieutenant shouts, shoving the private against the wall. ‘All of you, get out, before I charge you with insubordination.’
A clatter of retreating boots hurries down the stairs. The soldier in Hana’s room swiftly exits as the first lieutenant marches in. The captain heads towards Keiko’s room next door.
Hana does not look up at the officer. She keeps silent, waiting for him to come to her. She tries not to notice the sabre gripped tightly in his right hand or the sway in his step as he moves towards her. They all have scars on their bodies from drunk and angry soldiers. Hana has heard a few of the assaults through the thin walls as she serviced a soldier in her room. The first lieutenant kneels in front of her and orders her to get to her feet. She does as she is told and stands shivering in front of him. He stares at the triangle of hair between her legs. He leans in as though to inspect her, and using the tip of his sword, he searches through her pubic hair.
‘This will have to go,’ he says. ‘Remain still, or I will cut you.’
Using the sword, he proceeds to shave her, nicking the tender skin, drawing blood. Hana trembles as the cold blade scrapes across her skin. She bites her tongue when it cuts her.
‘Your kind are all diseased,’ he mutters as he works. ‘You practise improper hygiene. You’re full of parasites. I will not be infested.’
Hana closes her eyes. She’s infested? The soldiers are the ones who bring their diseases to the brothel. Every girl here arrived innocent and clean. The soldiers are the infested monsters, the reason the girls are subjected to humiliating medical check-ups and injected with chemicals so harsh their arms sometimes swell and grow numb. This soldier is the infested one. Hana squeezes her eyes even more tightly to keep her rage from spilling out.
When he finishes shaving her, he tosses the sword to the floor and orders her to wash herself. She goes to the basin of water in the corner of the room, which she has learned is for soaking used condoms, and crouches over it. She uses a hand towel. He watches as she washes, instructing her at times to scrub harder, to clean herself more thoroughly, and to ensure she is sanitised. When he is satisfied, he orders her to help him undress. Once naked, he lies down on the mattre
ss and instructs her to straddle him.
‘Ride me until Yasukuni is in my sight. If I die tomorrow, I want to see the shrine where my soul is going!’ He is too drunk to climax. After an hour of useless intercourse, he shoves her off him and falls into a deep slumber.
Soldiers often call out to the sacred Japanese shrine in Tokyo – that is not new for Hana – but the humiliation the officer inflicted upon her is. The officers stay overnight. As Hana lies on her tatami mat, listening to the first lieutenant’s rumbling snores, she is too angry to sleep. Instead, she remains awake all night, listening to him breathe. Each intake of breath disgusts her, each alcohol-infused exhalation turns her stomach. Each of her own breaths makes her wounds cry out for attention.
The cock crows at dawn, rousing the soldier, and he orders her to help him dress. When Hana finishes tying his bootlaces, he kicks her aside. She remains on her hands and knees, hoping he is too hungover to do any more harm. He stands, runs his fingers through his scruffy hair, and then calls loudly for his friend to join him as he exits her room. After a moment, they descend the stairs together, laughing about their respective nights. When she hears the front door shut and the jeep’s engine speed away from the brothel, Hana leaves her room and quietly heads downstairs.
Keiko follows Hana to the kitchen.
‘I heard what he did to you,’ she whispers into Hana’s ear.
Hana’s shoulders sag inwards.
‘Let me see,’ Keiko says.
‘I’ll be fine.’ Hana pulls away.
‘Don’t do that. If he cut you badly, it’ll get infected. Come,’ she says, taking Hana’s hand. She leads her into the storage cupboard and shuts the door. ‘Lift your dress.’
Hana does as she is told. Keiko sucks air through her teeth, shaking her head.
‘The bastard butchered you,’ she whispers vehemently.
Keiko swiftly retrieves disinfectant and soaks a small towel in the solution. Gingerly, she washes Hana’s wounds. The other girls arrive in the kitchen to prepare their morning meal just as Keiko finishes.
‘Don’t tell the others,’ Hana says, her eyes downcast.
‘Why not? They should be warned about him.’
‘Please, I don’t want them to pity me more than they already do.’
Keiko cups Hana’s face in her hands and looks into her eyes. Her hands are soft and strong and her gaze fierce. Chatter from the kitchen drifts towards them. Hana worries one of the girls will open the cupboard door at any moment, but she doesn’t want to upset Keiko by pulling away.
‘Pity is a kindness,’ Keiko says, her voice absolute. ‘Each of us deserves pity, but no one in this forsaken land has the compassion to give us this kindness. So we are stuck here in this humiliation, tortured day after day. There is nothing left for us but to bestow what little kindness we have onto one another.’
Hana reflects on Keiko’s words. None of the other girls have shown her ill will, but neither are they as kind to her as Keiko has been since her arrival. Like Hana, the other girls are all Korean, and that should have created an instant bond between them, but it hasn’t. Hana has kept to herself, offered almost nothing and therefore received nothing. Lost in her own misery, she has failed to notice that the other girls are experiencing the same miseries, too. There is no difference between any of them. They are all trapped in this unspeakable prison together. Perhaps if she allows the others to see her humiliation and pain, it will bring recognition. Like looking in a mirror, the others would see themselves, bloody and ashamed, and welcome her into their circle.
When Keiko exits the cupboard, Hinata comes to the door to see what has happened, and Hana does not hide herself. Riko comes up behind Hinata and peers over her shoulder. Her hand goes quickly to her mouth. As Hana finishes dressing her wounds, she exits the storage cupboard and the girls all sit around the table, waiting for her to join them. When Hana sits, Tsubaki sets about making a pot of rice tea. As the water boils, she recounts the time an officer decided to carve his name into her back with his bayonet before he went to the front line.
‘He didn’t die, as he had feared he would,’ Tsubaki says, her eyes narrowed. ‘When he returned he came out of hours and I refused to service him, not that I would have ever let him touch me again. But then he threatened to kill me!’ She shook her head, recalling her anger. ‘So I grabbed the bayonet from his hands before he knew what was happening, and I stabbed him in the neck.’
Tsubaki grins with pleasure at the memory.
‘We buried him in the garden in the middle of the night. We disguised the grave as a vegetable patch.’
The girls giggle at that, covering their mouths.
‘When the night guard questioned us later, wondering where the officer had disappeared to in the middle of the night, we all feigned ignorance,’ Keiko says.
‘Which is easy to do when they already have such low opinions of us,’ Hinata says, and they all laugh.
‘That year, we had a bountiful vegetable crop, so now, whenever the garden refuses to flourish, we are tempted to do it again,’ Tsubaki says, nudging Keiko’s shoulder. ‘So if that first lieutenant is not killed in battle and returns, you let me know, and I will help you put an end to him. Then we will eat well!’
Hearty laughter follows Tsubaki’s words, and Hana finds she can’t suppress a smile. It is her first since arriving at the brothel.
Emi
Seoul, December 2011
Demonstrators chant in front of the Japanese embassy. Bundled up in their warmest winter coats and hats, their gloved hands waving banners, they shout: Japan must admit its crimes. Reparation for the grandmothers. A man shouts through a megaphone, Admit your war crimes, no peace with Japan without admission of guilt! Someone near the gate cries out, All wars are crimes against the world’s women and girls!
The red-brick building seems to hide behind the wrought-iron gate in shame. There are more policemen than usual stationed in front of it, standing shoulder to shoulder in an orderly line. Their emotionless faces disguise their humanity.
‘We should have made some signs,’ Lane says. ‘Everyone seems to have one.’
Emi scans the crowd. Even the children have something in their hands to wave.
‘Perhaps there’s a station to make one,’ YoonHui replies. ‘Look there, in that tent.’
Emi’s daughter points to a white tent set up beside a makeshift stage. Chairs are set up in front of the stage, shrouded in banners that call for reparation, admission of crimes against humanity, admission of guilt, admission of crimes against the Geneva Conventions. Large speakers emit white noise into the charged air, electric with discontent.
‘Shall we go and see?’ her daughter asks, stopping to touch Emi’s arm. ‘Mother?’
‘What?’ Emi asks.
‘Perhaps we can make some signs, too?’
Emi follows her daughter’s lead towards the tent. Two women standing behind a large table covered in poster boards and markers welcome them. Lane picks up a red marker and begins writing Japanese characters across the white poster board. Emi watches the fluid lines spilling from Lane’s red marker, marvelling at her perfect handwriting.
‘You know Japanese?’ Emi says.
‘She does, and Mandarin, too,’ her daughter answers for Lane.
Emi nods appreciatively, though she wonders why an American would want to learn these languages. What drives her to go so far away from home and surround herself with foreignness? Lane looks up at Emi and offers her the marker.
‘Do you want to make one?’ she asks.
Emi shakes her head. Her daughter concentrates on her own sign written in English, as though not to be outdone by Lane. Emi cannot read it.
‘For the cameras,’ YoonHui explains as she motions towards the news trucks lining the street.
Anxious to get a good look at the group of old women gathering near the side of the stage, Emi slowly fades out of the tent, and no one notices her exit. As she shuffles in the direction of the stage, her ba
d leg gives her trouble. The pain slows her pace, but she doesn’t stop. She recognises three of the grandmothers from past demonstrations. The survivors. Two others are not familiar to her, and she moves closer to get a clearer view of their faces.
They are Emi’s age and even older. Time has obscured their once-youthful skin. Unsure she would recognise an aged version of her sister, Emi pays close attention to their mannerisms. The shorter one gestures with her hand, which is clad in a red mitten. The other one nods her pink-hatted head while toeing the ground with one pointed boot. Emi watches, waiting for déjà vu. Then one of them laughs. Has she heard that laugh before, perhaps in a higher pitch from a younger throat?
She cranes her neck to get a better view of the grandmother, waiting for that sound again. The old woman is telling a story and gesturing with her red mittens. She claps them together and laughs again. The sound is unusual, raspy and harsh. It’s not familiar after all. Emi turns her attention to the other survivor. She is a little taller than the first one, but her back is to Emi. She has just taken a few steps to one side, hoping to get a better view of her face, when the woman turns round. They all stare at Emi.
‘We know you?’ one woman calls out.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Emi says apologetically, and begins to turn away.
‘You sure? Come over here,’ the woman wearing the red mittens kindly says.
Emi stalls, looking back towards the white tent. Lane is talking to the women behind the table, and her daughter is still working on her sign. The old women whisper among themselves but never take their eyes off her. She starts towards them. Her leg drags behind her a little more dramatically than usual, and no matter how hard she tries, she cannot make it obey her. She wishes she could go for a swim; that would loosen her joints up and give her some relief.
White Chrysanthemum Page 12
