Her son says nothing, though he is unable to disguise his anger. The tips of his ears flare a deep red.
‘You can’t understand, I know,’ Emi says softly.
‘Mother,’ YoonHui whispers. ‘We want to. Help us understand.’
Emi cannot look at them. She stares at the tiny yellow flowers dotting the white bedsheet. She touches them with her fingertips, each little flower a replica of the next. They remind her of yellow chrysanthemums, and her hand flinches away from them. The flowers blur into a mass of specks against a white background, and she wipes her tears away. It takes all her willpower to speak.
‘It is my shame,’ Emi says, each word more painful than the last. Her heart aches.
‘No, it’s their shame … the Japanese,’ her daughter says in a strange high-pitched voice Emi does not recognise. ‘They are the ones who should feel ashamed for what they did, not you.’
Emi wipes her eyes with the back of one trembling hand. She looks up at the ceiling and squeezes her eyes shut before confessing her heart’s deepest, darkest secret. A secret she has never confessed to herself, not even quietly in her mind.
‘I crouched below the rock that day and let them take her in my place. She offered herself as a sacrifice to save me … and I let her. That is why I could never tell you … or anyone. Because I was ashamed of my cowardice.’
Emi’s head falls down into her hands and her shoulders hunch together as though she might fold into herself and disappear. The fear that coursed through her that day rears its head and spreads through her limbs again, as though she is there now, cowering below the rocks. Hana stood up to the soldier, and her words drifted down to Emi’s ears. Her sister lied to the Japanese soldier, and then two more approached and dragged her away. Emi could hear their voices fade the further they retreated from the shore, back towards the road. She knew they wouldn’t be able to see her if she rose and peered above the rocks to watch them go, but she was too afraid. She remained lying beneath the rock until her mother rushed to her side.
‘Are you hurt? Emi, what’s happened to you?’ The alarm in her voice did nothing to snap Emi out of her fearful trance. ‘Emi?’ Her mother’s voice grew in concern.
Emi suddenly began to cry. Huge sobs wrenched from her chest. Her mother’s concern increased to alarm.
‘Emi, where’s Hana?’
‘They took her,’ Emi finally answered in between hiccups and sobs.
‘Who took her?’
‘The soldiers.’
Emi remembers the horror on her mother’s face in minute detail. Her eyes widened into black inkwells that seemed to pour into Emi’s own eyes. The edges of her mouth sagged into a child’s frown, her lips trembling, and then she exploded into a grief-stricken wail that not even the wind could blow away. It was then the shame filled young Emi, shame for hiding in the sand, covered in seaweed, as her mother’s first daughter, the source of her pride and her partner in the sea, disappeared with the Japanese soldiers, while she did nothing.
‘Your sister saved you,’ YoonHui says gently, nudging Emi’s head up from her hands. She caresses her mother’s cheek. ‘And I’m grateful to her for that. Mother, I’m grateful to your sister … to my aunt. She chose to save you by going with them. She was the big sister, and you were just a child. She did her duty to you, and she deserves to be remembered for it, yes. But you owe her no guilt. She wouldn’t want that from her little sister.’
Emi can’t accept her daughter’s readily given absolution. She remembers waking up the day after Hana was taken. She sat up slowly, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and turned to wake her sister. At first the empty blankets confused her, but in a split second, she remembered.
‘Hana! Where’s Hana!’ she shouted over and over again, until her mother rushed into the room and encircled her in her arms, rocking her back and forth, soothing her into silence.
They remained in that embrace, swaying to and fro in collective grief. When she peered up at her mother’s face, she saw silent tears trailing down her soft cheeks.
‘Don’t cry, Mother. Father will find her. I know he will.’ She stood and walked through the still house, without really seeing anything. She headed outside and sat on the wooden stoop, waiting for her father to bring her sister home.
Night took ages to arrive, yet still her father did not return. Her mother sat with her on the stoop, and they gazed in silence at the dimming horizon. Emi must have fallen asleep, and when she awoke the following morning, she found herself alone in her blankets and again cried out for Hana. Her mother rushed to her side and held her until she quietened. Then they sat on the stoop watching the sun arc across the sky like a silent witness, as they waited another day for her father to return.
After a couple of weeks, Emi awoke already aware Hana would not be next to her. She covered her head with the blanket and tried to go back to sleep. Her mother found her later in the morning and gently rubbed her back, urging her to rise.
‘Not until Father brings Hana home,’ she protested from beneath the blanket.
‘We will go hungry if I do not dive today,’ her mother said matter-of-factly, removing her hand from Emi’s back.
Emi instantly missed her mother’s soothing hand, but she fought the urge to turn.
‘I won’t eat again until Father returns home with Hana.’
Her mother didn’t immediately respond. The silence unnerved Emi, but she stood her ground and refused to turn round.
‘I have to return to the sea. I must do my part to keep us fed. We cannot rely on the charity of our friends forever.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Emi lied, even as her stomach groaned with morning hunger pangs.
‘Well, I’m hungry. Come, daughter, off to work we must go,’ she said, nudging Emi softly at the small of her back.
‘You go, I’m waiting for Father.’
The silence was thick with something Emi could not discern. Had she angered her mother or saddened her? She could not tell. This time, she did turn over and gaze at her mother’s face. Her expression was unreadable. Emi feared she might be in trouble.
‘I cannot leave you here. It’s not safe,’ her mother said in a voice so low that Emi wasn’t certain she had heard her correctly.
‘Not safe?’ Emi repeated.
‘The soldiers may come back.’
Images of faceless men in Japanese military uniforms sifted through her mind and she quickly sat up.
‘Why will they come back, Mother?’
‘For the rest of our girls. For you and anyone they left behind.’ Her mother touched Emi’s cheek with such tenderness that she finally understood. Her mother was afraid of losing her, too.
‘They’ll never get me, Mother. I know I’m not a strong swimmer, but I promise I can become one. Like Hana was. And I will stay beside you in the sea. I can do it.’ She stood and towered above her kneeling mother. She held her head up high and straightened her back so that she seemed to grow a whole inch.
‘I know, daughter. I know.’ Her mother’s smile wasn’t the same one Emi was used to; it was a weak imitation that never touched her eyes.
They walked down to the sea together that day and every day thereafter.
When her father finally returned home a month later, he was alone. She knew from the thinness of his face that he had travelled far searching for Hana. She didn’t ask why he had given up. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt him when he was already heartbroken.
Emi holds her hand to heart, remembering the first day she became a haenyeo. It was her mother’s fear that gave her strength. If only she had had that strength before Hana allowed herself to be taken.
‘You have no shame to bear for her choice and your survival,’ YoonHui says again, tearing Emi away from her memories. ‘And there’s no shame if your sister was forced to serve as a “comfort woman”. You went through so much. You deserve to be happy. Let it go, so at last you can be happy in what’s left of this life.’
Shame is a heavy word in Em
i’s mind. It hurts her ears to hear it spoken. The shame she feels is wholly ingrained and has nothing to do with her sister’s forced prostitution. It is deeper than that and has become a part of her that she knows will never disappear. Her shame is her han. Shame for surviving two wars while those around her suffered and perished, shame for never speaking out for justice, and shame for continuing to live when she never understood the point of her life.
Sometimes, she has felt as though she was born into the world merely to suffer. People these days seem content to search for happiness in life. That is something her generation never fathomed, that happiness is a basic human right, but now it seems like a possibility. She sees it in her daughter and her life with Lane. Even her son is happy, in his way, though he is often like his father, a policeman used to carrying out tasks as though they are orders from a commander. But it suits him, and Emi is satisfied. That is more than she ever hoped for, until now. The image of the bronze girl haunts her. She must see it, one more time.
Hana
Mongolia, Autumn 1943
For a week, each morning begins the same as the last, and Hana follows the woman throughout the day and falls asleep in the ger at night wondering how long this routine will continue. Then one morning, Hana awakens at the woman’s touch, and they exit the ger while the others remain asleep. This time Hana is given both metal pails. The woman nods towards the pen before heading in the other direction. Hana is now on her own.
A pail hangs from each hand, but her injured shoulder hardly notices the extra weight. The sun has barely crested above the horizon of the flat land. The woman shimmers in the distance. Hana searches beyond the ger, shielding her eyes against the sun. Endless grassy fields roll into the faraway mountains. The woman’s deep-purple coat, which Hana has learned is called a del, appears black so far away.
Slowly, she turns and heads towards the pen. She has learned a few Mongolian words. Dog is nokhoi. Horse is mori. And hungry is olon. She lets the unfamiliar words repeat in her head so she can remember them when needed.
The dog yaps at her as she passes. Nokhoi, she thinks, and sets down one of the pails to offer her hand in greeting. He licks it happily, and she kneels to rub his exposed stomach. He is off his leash, free to wander, but doesn’t. Scratching the dog’s stomach fills her with a peculiar warmth she hasn’t felt in so long. When she realises she is smiling, Hana abruptly stops, takes the pail’s handle, and trudges off. The dog rolls onto his feet and trots in the direction the woman has gone.
The ox sniffs the air upon her arrival. The ponies greet her, their soft noses nudging her arms.
‘I have nothing for you yet,’ she says, patting the littlest one’s neck.
She pushes through them and kneels beside the ox. Footsteps approach, and she doesn’t have to turn to know it is the boy. He has kept his distance from her while his mother was near, but she has left Hana on her own, making him bold. The boy is light of foot, unlike the Mongolian men, who stamp about like soldiers. He greets her. She ignores him, concentrating on her task as though milking the ox is the most important duty in the world, but her ears follow his movements. He hovers beside her awhile, his chin on his arms as he leans on the outside of the pen looking in.
‘Altan,’ he says.
She looks at him then, and he touches his chest.
‘Altan,’ he says again, patting his chest with his open hand. Then he motions towards her, and his expression changes into one of questioning. He waits, but she doesn’t want to speak. He tries again, going through the same motions, but she remains silent.
When he begins a third time, a giggle escapes her, and she covers her mouth. Laughter spills out of her as though a dam has burst from intense pressure, and soon she is holding her stomach, unable to keep it back. She hasn’t laughed for so long. It’s as though she can’t control herself. Tears stream from her eyes. The boy’s face is blurred, and she cannot tell if he is upset. He climbs the pen and leaps over it, heading towards her. Her laughter fades to nothing as he approaches. She stands up to meet him, wiping her eyes dry with the back of her hand.
Face-to-face, they are nearly the same height. He is only slightly taller in the shoulders and his head tilts downwards when he stares into her eyes. She knows her face must still be bruised from Morimoto’s beating and her neck as well from his hands, but she doesn’t let her appearance make her weak. Preparing herself for anything he might decide to do to her, she clenches her jaw and balls her fists. She isn’t certain if she should fight back. This boy is not as strong as a grown man, but he would be a formidable opponent. She gives him her most defiant stare, hoping if she stands up to him, he will learn to leave her alone.
He lifts his hand, and she flinches. He touches his chest.
‘Altan.’
He smiles at her with a genuine, wide grin that reaches his eyes. He touches her chest in the same manner and raises his eyebrows. It is a question no one has asked her since her capture. She isn’t sure what her name is any longer. Should she use the name they gave her at the brothel or tell him her real name? As she contemplates which name she should say, she is aware that his fingertips still rest on her chest. She touches his hand gently, pushing it away. His arm falls to his side.
‘Hana,’ she finally says.
He repeats her name a few times, and she laughs at his pronunciation.
‘Ha-nah,’ she says deliberately, correcting him.
He repeats her name again, then he points at himself without a sound. She smiles.
‘Altan,’ she says.
He seems pleased when she pronounces it correctly. The ponies stamp their feet, and Hana realises they have an audience. The young man from the other ger is watching from his doorway. He has a smirk on his face. Hana blushes, but the boy waves at the man, who shakes his head and retreats behind the ger to relieve himself. The sound of his urine stream against the dry earth embarrasses her. She returns to the milking, and her silence signals to Altan that their conversation is over. Dutifully, he leaves her alone in the pen. She watches him jog after the woman. Ekh, Hana corrects herself. Mother.
Words are power, her father once told her after reciting one of his political poems. The more words you know, the more powerful you become. That is why the Japanese outlaw our native language. They are limiting our power by limiting our words. Hana repeats the new Mongolian words in her head as she works, concentrating on each one, increasing her power.
Once both the pails are full, she tries to lift them, one in each hand, to return to the ger, but they are too heavy. She lifts one pail with both hands and carries it back. She is careful not to awaken the man still asleep next to the stove. His grumbling snores soothe her nerves. As long as he is asleep, she feels safe in his company. She hurries to the pen to retrieve the second pail, but the young man from the other ger is inside with the ponies.
She hesitates before entering the pen, watching him smooth his hands over the first pony’s coat, checking it for burrs or thorns. He plucks a couple from its thick fur, then he lifts each hoof, one by one, to check its foot health, before walking twice around it, eyeing it up and down, and then moving on to the next pony. Hana remains by the pen’s opening, waiting for him to finish. He moves on to the third pony before he acknowledges her presence.
He grunts at her, but she doesn’t react. He points to the pail next to the ox. The stoic creature still stands obediently next to the pail as though urging her to return. The sun is well up by now, and she notices he is not much older than some of the youngest soldiers from the brothel. Perhaps he is Altan’s big brother. He is much taller than her, at least a head higher. His shoulders are broad, his legs stocky and thick like tree trunks. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
When she doesn’t enter the pen, he laughs and mutters something to the pony. He tugs its tail, and it starts towards the gate at a trot. The other two ponies follow, and soon they are galloping past the ger and heading out into the fields. Hana watches with surprise at the ponies’ fr
eedom. The fourth pony loiters behind the others, watching Hana as though curious.
The man says something to her. Hana jumps, frightened by his sudden communication. He laughs at her as he walks towards her. She stands tall, feigning indifference. He pauses in front of her. They stand toe-to-toe in silence. He looks her in the eyes, and she stares back, again defiant. He smiles, and his teeth are tinged yellow with tobacco. His tanned skin shines with exertion. He speaks again, patting his chest.
‘Ganbaatar.’
He smiles, and she realises he is teasing her after witnessing her exchange with Altan. She narrows her eyes but says nothing. The wind picks up, blowing dried grasses from the fields into the air. She turns away from him and hurries to the pail to shield it from the debris. He chuckles again and leads the last pony out of the pen. He, too, heads towards the mountains, in the same direction as Altan and the woman.
When Hana returns to the ger with the second pail, she is startled by the silence. The Mongolian man sits beside the stove, half undressed, eating his morning meal of cheese and salted meat. As quickly as she can, she empties the milk into the cistern and whirls round to leave.
‘Wait,’ he says.
Hana pauses. He spoke in Japanese. She turns back to him. He stands and pulls on his cotton undershirt. He’s still chewing on the dried meat. Her stomach grumbles. When he is dressed and his del is properly pinned at his shoulder, he sits back down.
‘Join me,’ he says, indicating a pillow beside him.
Hana weighs her choices. She can run from him now and hope to find where the woman and the rest of the camp have gone, but he would still be there when she returns. Or she can face up to him now and get it over with. Her fingers clench into tight fists, her fingernails digging into her palms.
She lowers her eyes and follows the invisible trail leading to the pillow beside the man.
‘You haven’t said a word since you arrived,’ he says as she sits. He doesn’t look at her; instead he continues to chew on the meat and inspects it after each bite as though it is interesting and new. He offers her a strip, which she declines.
White Chrysanthemum Page 20
