‘I’m so sorry if I made you sad,’ Hana urgently whispers.
The girl looks back over her shoulder as she moves towards the tailgate. ‘I could hear her,’ she says, and smiles.
Her brief expression of happiness warms Hana, until she leaps down from the truck and follows the other prisoners. The feeling quickly sinks into fear as she stares at the two soldiers leading them through the darkness. They are barbarians, tall and thick with crude muscles. They could tear her in half in a tug of war. She envisions each man taking hold of one of her legs, ripping her in two, but her head cannot crack in half so it tears off with the left side, and that soldier cries out in victory. At least she would be dead. It would be easier then.
Campfires dot the horizon. In the darkness, she remembers her mother’s words: With night come terrors. Her sister’s laughter cannot exist in this place, yet she wishes she could hear it one last time. A girl behind her whimpers, but no one comforts her. Hana, too, walks in silence. They are like ghosts entering another realm.
The Soviets stop in front of a large beige tent and motion for the prisoners to enter it. They obey, ducking their heads dutifully beneath the low opening. When Hana reaches the doorway, one of the soldiers places a hand on her shoulder. Too afraid to look up into his face, she keeps her eyes focused on the people inside the tent. He says something to her, but she does not understand him. He repeats it, louder this time. She must tear her eyes away from the group.
He inspects her face before pulling her from the queue. He motions for the others to continue into the tent, though he never releases her arm.
The soldier barks something to the other guard, who then takes position in front of the door, rifle at the ready. Hana is led away, back the way they came. It’s going to happen now, she thinks. They’re going to ‘break her in’, just like Morimoto did on the ferry. She stumbles in the dark, stubbing her toe on rocks littering the trampled grass. His grip on her arm is a vice, keeping her from falling or getting away. Kidnapped again, but this time by a man twice her size and ten times her strength.
They pass many other soldiers on their way to the trucks. The men walk in groups of two and three. Some of them notice her as she passes, others are too busy to look. A thrum of electricity surrounds the men even as she is led further away from the camp. There’s a charge in the air she didn’t notice before, when she was cushioned by the other prisoners. Now that she is alone, she feels the taut energy from each soldier as they pass.
He stops her in front of a tank from the convoy. Its red flag droops in the still night air. Two Soviets stand on top of the metal beast, pointing their rifles at a man kneeling in the dirt. A campfire burns a few feet away, illuminating the Soviet soldiers in a semicircle near the kneeling man. The man’s face is swollen to twice its normal size. A slit above one eye bleeds down the side of his cheek, covering half of his features like warpaint. He stares at the ground, and she wonders if he can see at all through his swollen, bleeding eyes.
Two men from the small crowd of Soviets step towards the beaten man. One of them says something to him. The other soldier, a large Soviet, then translates into Japanese.
‘Save yourself from more agony and tell us what we want to know.’
The interpreter speaks in heavily accented and slightly broken Japanese. The first man, the leader of this interrogation, glances at her, and she begins to tremble. The bleeding man is Morimoto. She stares at his unrecognisable face, and her body begins to violently shake. There is no satisfaction in seeing him like this. Instead, she is filled with terror. Why have they brought her here? Will they beat her, too?
‘She will tell us if you won’t.’
The Soviet officer nods his head. The soldier guarding her wrenches her arm behind her back, forcing her to kneel on the ground. She is ten feet away from Morimoto. He does not lift his head or speak. He merely breathes through his broken nose. The sound is a painful rattle of air sliding through a river of blood.
The officer punches Morimoto, knocking him over. Two soldiers rush to his side and quickly sit him back onto his knees. Dirt and grass stick to the blood on his face. He looks like a creature now, all humanity beaten from his broken flesh. This is what men do to other men in times of war. Hana does not know if it is worse than what they do to women. She cannot tear her eyes from his monstrous face.
‘Where are your accomplices?’ the interpreter shouts. ‘We know you are a spy, crossing the border to gather intelligence for your emperor. We know the Mongol traitors are helping you. Where are they? What are their names?’
Altan. He is in danger. If Morimoto confesses, they will be slaughtered. Altan, his mother and father, and Ganbaatar, ignorant of the Soviet troops only a few days’ drive away. What loyalty remains in Morimoto to his Mongolian friends after Altan helped her to escape? Would he betray their location for revenge? He looks at her, and suddenly his eyes seem to focus. His expression is unreadable beneath the ravages of his battered face.
Afraid that any movement might trigger his confession, she remains completely still. They would hunt down the Mongolians like missiles in black waters, surprising them in the night and wiping them out without a moment’s pause – and it would be Hana’s fault. The officer shouts at Morimoto again while the interpreter translates, but then Morimoto lifts one hand. Hana’s heart rises into her throat, beating like thunder in her ears.
‘I told you,’ he says, his voice hoarse. A dry click in the back of his throat seems to make his words stick, and they take more time to come out. ‘I transport –’
‘Yes, we know, you transport women,’ the interpreter says, irritated. He sighs. ‘Tell us,’ he says to Hana. ‘Is he speaking the truth? Are you a prostitute for the Japanese military?’
The question is like a knife in her stomach. Morimoto told them she was a camp whore for the emperor’s soldiers. Memories of her captivity flash through her mind: the moment he seized her from the beach, the first time he raped her, the long line of men that followed, the beatings, the forced medical examinations, the starvation, the hunger, her escape – everything blurs into a golden light, which shines onto Altan’s mother and her soft hands, and that first kindness glows like a good spirit. Time becomes thick, and it is as though she is reliving the memories ten times over before she can speak.
‘I am what he says.’
The words taste like ashes in her mouth, but she holds on to Altan’s image. Morimoto spits a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. She wishes she could look away from his mouth, full of broken teeth.
‘So where was he taking you?’
She stares straight ahead, unable to look away from him. The story of one of the girls at the brothel leaps into her mind.
‘He said I would repay my father’s debts by working in Manchuria.’
The interpreter relays the information to the officer, and they converse for a few moments before returning their attention to Morimoto.
‘How did you end up in Mongolia?’
Morimoto keeps his eyes fixed on Hana. He does not move as he answers. His words come out flat.
‘She escaped … I tracked her here. I was about to take her back to Manchuria, but then you came upon us.’
‘You want us to believe that this ragged, starved girl travelled here all the way from Manchuria on her own?’
‘She’s feisty,’ he says, half laughing, half coughing. He doubles over and vomits blood. When he sits back up, he focuses his attention on the interpreter. ‘I wouldn’t let that one out of my sight if I were you.’
The interpreter relays the information in Russian. Hana feels all their eyes on her then, measuring her against his words. They are curious, but their curiosity is not as strong as the hate emanating from Morimoto’s body towards her. If she ever had a chance, he has erased it by revealing her purpose for the Japanese army. He has ensured her continued suffering with these men.
The officer says something to the interpreter before heading back towards the camp. The interpreter and th
e other Soviets stay behind. An excited murmur erupts among them. The interpreter slowly unsheathes Morimoto’s sword from the scabbard now hanging from his own belt. Hana wonders that she didn’t notice it before. The metal blade glints in the firelight. Morimoto threatened to cut off Altan’s head with that sword. The interpreter tosses the sword to the ground in front of Morimoto and takes a step back.
‘Pick it up.’
Morimoto doesn’t move. Hana wonders if he is too badly beaten to move, let alone lift it.
‘We’ve often heard of your fascinating samurai rituals,’ the interpreter says, as though not bothered Morimoto hasn’t picked up the sword. ‘Though none of us have been witness to one.’ He glances at the small gathering crowd, who encourage him to continue.
‘So you have a choice. You can perform this ancient ritual and have a chance at dying with dignity at your own hand, or you can let them kill you.’ He motions towards the men crowded behind him. ‘I promise you, it will be anything but dignified.’
Hana remains on her knees, watching Morimoto. Slowly, he reaches for his sword, nearly crashing to the ground with the effort. She holds in a gasp. He regains his balance and then straightens as he lays the sword across his knees. Visibly winded, he catches his breath. The sound is audible pain, air rushing through his destroyed face, gurgling through spilled blood.
Morimoto squares his shoulders and lifts the sword to inspect the blade. He slides his finger down the razor-sharp edge, drawing blood. Hana cringes, not wanting to continue looking at him but unable to turn away.
He looks in Hana’s direction, but his swollen eyes give away nothing of his thoughts. She imagines he is smiling behind those puffy lids, enjoying his final act, as she will be left in the hands of an even greater enemy.
‘Well, what have you decided?’ the officer abruptly asks, but then Morimoto stabs himself in the stomach, and everyone freezes.
Even Hana seems rooted to the earth in that moment. The sword is buried deep within Morimoto’s abdomen. Without uttering a sound, he cuts through his guts horizontally towards his right side. His face is contorted in pain. The white of his teeth appears jagged in the light of the campfire. His bloody, swollen face is grotesque in the flickering light. She wants to flee, but the Soviet grips her arm so tightly that she can only stare in horror as Morimoto completes the seppuku.
A Soviet soldier abruptly turns away and retches, but Morimoto is still not dead. With trembling hands, he slowly lifts the blade, and in one swift motion, he slices his own throat. Purged of life, his body falls limp to the earth, staining it black. Morimoto is no longer the death god. Instead, Gangnim has come to reap his soul.
Silence follows Morimoto’s fall, uncomfortable and thick, like the lifeblood draining from his corpse. The relief Hana thought she would feel at his death does not come. There is merely emptiness now. Not even fear of what will happen to her next can penetrate the nothingness that fills her. It is as though the violence he enacted against his own flesh is infecting her with a sense of hopeless loss.
The remaining soldiers depart, one by one. Even the man holding her on her knees seems to disappear, as if they want to see what she does when she is left alone with the dead man. She rises to her feet and walks towards him. Hana kneels in front of Morimoto’s lifeless body and pauses, taking in the grotesque carcass that was once a man who tortured her with his mere presence. Morimoto’s once-crisp uniform is soaked with his blood. In death his beaten face has become more animal than human. His eyes glaze over like the eyes of a rotting fish. His stillness begins to unsettle her. Now he is nothing but a pile of blood and flesh on the Mongolian plain.
Without looking to see who might be watching, Hana reaches into his pocket. She pulls out the black-and-white photograph of the girl she used to be. It’s covered in Morimoto’s blood. Quickly, she wipes it on her del and slips it into her pocket, relief washing through her. He no longer has any part of her.
After a long moment, she finally looks away from Morimoto’s remains. Just as she does, the interpreter appears beside her. He inspects her face as though surveying her thoughts. She saves him the effort.
‘I hated him,’ she says flatly, wondering if he saw her take the photograph.
Her words sound as empty as she feels. The interpreter doesn’t respond. Instead he leads her back towards the camp. They reach the tent where the other prisoners were taken. The guard moves aside to let her enter. She takes one last look at the interpreter before ducking inside. If he has seen her take the photograph, he doesn’t care.
Dozens of faces greet her as she steps inside. Some weep quietly into their hands, too afraid to make a sound, while others, seemingly numb to the events to come, absently stare at her with vacuous eyes. She searches the lamplit space for the Korean girls from the truck. They are tucked into the furthest corner, hidden behind two Chinese men whose hands are bound behind their backs. Hana squeezes past the men and sits beside the girls.
‘There’s blood on your coat,’ the older girl says.
Hana looks down at the del and sees that the girl is staring at the upward spray of tiny dark droplets staining her chest. She wipes at it with her sleeve.
‘What did they do?’ Her eyes are full of innocence.
‘They killed the man who kidnapped me. A Japanese soldier.’
Hana so often fantasised about Morimoto’s death, and she nearly enacted it in the ger. It was Altan who preserved her humanity, or at least reminded her of its existence. His disgust at her actions brought her back from the brink of evil. He spared her from becoming the worst version of herself, at least for a little while longer. Out on the steppe, after watching Morimoto beat Altan to a pulp, she tried a second time to kill him, but she failed.
‘No man should die like that,’ she finally says.
The girl nods. She touches the sash around Hana’s waist. ‘This is lovely.’
Hana fingers the silk. The red and yellow flowers alighting each black and green swirl of vines against the dark blue silk seem to move, an endless pattern of beauty in this fearful place.
Morimoto told the interpreter that Hana was a prostitute. She knows he will send for her sooner or later. Her fate is sealed. Suddenly, she feels exhausted. This time, she will fight, she decides, and the thought ends with the realisation that it will probably mean her death.
‘I have to tell you something,’ Hana hurriedly whispers to both of them. ‘In case they come for me and I don’t return, I want someone to know my story.’
They both nod, urging Hana to continue.
‘My name is Hana.’
Hana starts at the beginning. Her life as a haenyeo, swimming in the waters of her island and spying the Japanese soldier heading towards her sister on the beach – the words fall from her lips like water rushing over a cliff. The thought of perishing compels her to tell these girls everything. Hana tells them about the brothel, the other girls, and Keiko. She tells them about the Mongolian family and their animals and about her friend Altan. But to keep them safe, she says she hasn’t seen them in over a month. When she finishes, she feels spent, as though she has emptied all the best parts of her, leaving her hollow.
The two Korean girls also share their stories with Hana. They tell her they are sisters from a village in northern Korea near the Manchurian border. They were tricked by the local police into climbing into their truck for a lift home one night after their duties in the apple orchard. The police drove them straight to the border and turned them over to a Japanese trafficker. He put them on a train with five other girls and sent them far north into Manchuria. Before they reached the station, the sisters managed to jump from the train at night and walked as far as they could. They crossed a mountain range and didn’t realise they had crossed the border into Mongolia. They were caught at dawn, a few days before Hana was found.
The three girls clasp hands, forming a small circle in the cramped space. Their tears flow freely as they gaze at each other, memorising each nuance of the others’ face
s. The flap lifts open and the interpreter enters. The prisoners nearest the door scuttle backwards until they nearly sit upon the laps of those behind them. He ignores their fearful withdrawal, scanning the room until his eyes rest on Hana.
‘You, come with me,’ he orders.
The room follows his gaze. The two Chinese men in front of her turn to look at her. Their faces are apologetic. They know it is her turn to be tortured. Hana rises to her feet. She looks down at the sisters and whispers to them in earnest.
‘Don’t forget me,’ she says, and reaches into her coat pocket. She retrieves the photograph of the girl she once was and truly wishes she could be again.
‘Hurry up!’ the soldier shouts.
Her hand trembling, Hana gives the photograph to the older sister before quickly turning away.
‘We will never forget you,’ their reply comes as Hana follows the soldier into the night.
She stumbles after the interpreter, deeper into the camp. He ushers her inside a small tent, which she thinks must be his personal sleeping quarters. He motions for her to sit upon a cot. The muffled activity outside the tent fills the air between them. Soldiers talking as they walk past, motors revving as trucks drive away, and yet Hana can still make out the quiet burning of a kerosene lamp inside the tent.
The interpreter stands at the far end, near the door, fishing for something from his pocket. He is a massive man and must duck his head to stand in the small tent. Hana has never seen men as large as the Soviets. Sitting so close to one feels like being in the gaze of a hungry bear. He leans against one of the metal poles, and Hana watches as he taps tobacco from a small canister onto a thin square of white paper. With practised fingers, he rolls the paper and then slowly licks the edge, sealing it.
He lights the cigarette and takes a drag. He smokes it as though she is not waiting and he has all the time in the world. When it is merely a nub between two fingers, he drops it to the ground and takes two steps towards her. Two more and he will be upon her. His expression is serious.
‘Why are you dressed like a Mongolian?’ he asks.
White Chrysanthemum Page 26
