She looks down at the bloody and soiled del, then looks up at him, thinking how she could answer without putting Altan’s family in danger.
‘You are a Japanese, aren’t you? Yet you wear that ridiculous costume,’ he says, motioning towards her del.
He unbuttons the first two buttons of his uniform. She doesn’t answer his question or tell him she is Korean. She watches his hand as it disappears inside his breast pocket and emerges with a brown metal flask.
‘Vodka. The last of it, I’m afraid. I’ve had to conserve it over these last months in this godforsaken country. Now it is nearly gone.’ He takes a sip, swishing it around his mouth before swallowing and letting out a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Tell me the truth. I will know if you are lying.’
She takes in a small breath before responding and then lets the words rush out in one long sentence.
‘The Mongolians found me crossing the mountain range. I was nearly naked because the brothel didn’t provide us with clothes, so they gave me this to wear.’
‘How long were you with them?’
‘A few days.’
‘And where is their camp?’
She hesitates.
‘Don’t think about it, just answer the question.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying. Truly, I don’t know where the camp is.’
‘I told you not to lie to me.’ He tucks the flask back into his pocket and steps towards her, his hand crossing his waist as though preparing to backhand her.
‘I’m telling the truth. When – when I learned the soldier …’ she stutters, thinking of Morimoto’s recent demise. His bloody face appears in her mind, and she has to physically shake her head to erase it. ‘When I learned that he was in the Mongolians’ camp, I escaped on the pony. All I could do was make it run as fast as it could so I could get away. It was dark. I couldn’t see where I was going. I only knew that I had to escape or he would take me back to the brothel. I just ran …’
She waits for the impact, his hand against her face, but it doesn’t come. Instead he straightens up and crosses his hands behind his back.
‘He must have been a spy, I’m certain,’ he says, staring at her as though she will answer. His expression shifts; one eyebrow arcs above his eye. ‘Or perhaps he is an opium trafficker. That’s how your emperor affords this war. Did you know that? That the great Hirohito smuggles opium like a lowly drug trafficker? The West buys it all up, turning it into other things, heroin, special tea … This man, he had opium packed in his belongings.’ The interpreter reaches behind a small table and holds up Morimoto’s pack. It is stained with blood. ‘Not enough to pay for an army, but enough to sell for good cash. Did you know he had this?’
Exhaustion suddenly sweeps through her, and she rests her forehead on the cot. How long has she been in this nightmare? It feels like a thousand years have passed, and still she is trapped in this misery. Perhaps Morimoto was going to sell the opium and use the proceeds to start up their new life. Or perhaps he was a smuggler. She will never know.
‘I don’t know about any of that. I only know he took me from my home and sold me to a brothel. I can tell you nothing else.’
She realises her eyes have closed when she feels his hands untying the sash. Forgive me, Hana whispers to her family across the miles. She sees Emiko standing in the haenyeo ceremony all alone and it pains her heart, but she shakes the image from her mind. With all her might, Hana shoves against the Soviet’s chest. Unprepared for her sudden attack, he loses his balance and falls to the ground. She scrambles over him and seizes the pistol from the holster on his belt. Standing above him, she points the gun at his chest.
‘If you shoot me, you’re dead. And they won’t be as kind to you as I would have been.’
She laughs at him. The sound is bitter, like an old woman’s scorn.
‘You, show me kindness? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You call us dogs. Your kind, soldiers, men, all of you are the worst creatures that plague this land. You bring your hatred and pain and suffering with you everywhere you go. I despise all of you.’
Before he can respond, she pulls the trigger. The gun doesn’t fire. Tingling sweat seeps from her pores. She pulls the trigger again, harder, but still nothing happens. He makes a move towards her. She backs away, desperately searching the gun for a safety latch. He’s on his feet and then lunges at her. Hana falls and struggles beneath him, but she is no match for his size and strength. He twists her wrist, prising the pistol from her hand. He smacks her in the head with the side of the barrel. Her mouth fills with blood.
‘Get up. On your knees,’ he orders.
Dazed, she does as he says. He unlocks the safety latch. Hana stares at his boots as blood trails down her chin. She is a hundred miles away on a black, pebbled beach. The sun shines above her, warming her long hair. Her sister’s laughter rolls in with the waves of the sea.
‘Any last words?’ He is breathless. His chest heaves.
‘I was never a prostitute.’
He laughs at her. ‘Is that all you have to say? Who cares what you were? You are nothing.’ He takes aim, his finger on the gun’s trigger.
‘I am a haenyeo,’ she says, and glares at him. Her words rush over her lips like a confession. ‘Like my mother, and her mother before her, like my sister will be and one day, her daughters, too – I was never anything but a woman of the sea. Neither you nor any man can make me less than that.’
He snorts, but she doesn’t hear him. She is somewhere else, in another time. Hana closes her eyes. The sun’s rays warm her blood, and she tastes them on her tongue. The wind rushes through her hair. The ocean swells beneath her, calling her name, Hana.
She feels the pain before she realises what has happened. Her eyes open, but her vision is clouded with blood. She focuses just in time to see the interpreter raise his hand and smash the gun against her temple once more. Hana falls to the ground. The last thing she sees is the tip of his boot as he steps towards her.
Emi
Seoul, December 2011
When they arrive in front of the Japanese embassy Emi doesn’t want to sit in the wheelchair, but her son won’t hear of her attempting to walk to the statue. The strain on her heart and her bad leg would be too great.
‘Either I push you in the wheelchair, or I take you back to the hospital. Your choice.’
Emi doesn’t remember talking to her son this way when he was a child, but she thinks she must have. She loved her children greatly, but she had difficulty showing her affection for them without also having to show that same affection to their father. He would have demanded it if he thought her capable of such actions. So it was easier to love them from within, so that she could survive.
Their father was never unkind to her after his son was born. Perhaps it was because they rarely spoke. Practically useless as a fisherman, he preferred to look after the children when she went diving. He would bring them to the market where she sold the day’s catch. Her daughter would sit on his shoulders, clapping her hands to onlookers, elated at being so high up. Her son would follow his father’s every step, like a shadow; they were inseparable. Perhaps that’s why her son became so angry when his father died. He had lost his shade on this earth and was left to burn in the scorching sun.
Emi gives in to him, and he retrieves the wheelchair from the trunk of the car. Soon they are progressing across the road and up onto the pavement towards the memorial statue. As they pass the embassy, the red-brick building seems so small and unimposing. The windows no longer loom over her like vacant eyes. Tearing her gaze from the building, she sees the statue.
A young girl, ageless, sits in a straight-backed chair. Beside her is an empty chair waiting to be filled. The girl is wearing a traditional hanbok dress, and her bare feet dangle slightly above the ground. Someone has clothed the statue in winter gear, a knitted hat for her head and a scarf and blanket to keep her warm. A few yards away, Emi stops
her son.
‘I want to walk,’ she tells him.
He begins to protest, but she holds up one hand. He falls silent. She grasps the armrests of the wheelchair and presses with all her might until her feet support her weight, and then she stands. Slowly, as though it is the early hours before sunrise and she is heading down to the water’s edge, she shuffles towards the seated girl.
Her bad leg drags pitifully behind her, but she does not take her son’s offered hand. Each step feels like wading through thick mud. Her eyes are locked on the young girl’s face. She finds strength in the expression of deepest understanding, of pain and loss, of forgiveness and patience. The expression of endless, weary waiting.
When she finally reaches the statue, Emi flops into the empty chair beside it. She catches her breath, slowing her heaving chest into a resting state. Then she reaches for the bronze girl’s hand. It is cold, and she rubs it gently, warming it with the heat from her wrinkled hand. They sit together in silence. Emi steals a few glances at the girl’s profile. It is the girl she remembers from her childhood. It is Hana.
Her son smokes a cigarette a few feet away, coughing uncomfortably a few times before tossing the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. He crushes it with the toe of his shoe. Emi smiles at him. She is transported back to a time when she knew nothing of war. Her innocence untouched, she was enveloped by her small family beside the sea, where she frolicked on the beach chasing seagulls. Her only job was to keep them away from the day’s catch. Sitting hand in hand with her sister, Emi can feel the sun shining on her face, hot with summer’s heat. She can smell the ocean breeze and taste the salt upon her tongue. It is no longer winter but summer, a summer’s day before everything happened, when they were still a family.
‘What is it about this statue that makes you smile so?’
Her daughter’s voice sounds as though it is coming from somewhere far away across the ocean. She wants to focus her eyes upon YoonHui’s face and see her again, but it takes too much effort to travel across time, away from that summer’s day, and back to her.
‘Tell me, Mother,’ YoonHui says. Her voice is suddenly close and her breath warms Emi’s ear.
‘It’s Hana, my sister. I have finally found her,’ she whispers.
‘You mean she reminds you of your sister?’
Her voice sounds closer now, as though it is coming from inside Emi’s head and she is asking the question of herself. The sunshine begins to fade, and the ocean breeze ceases to blow against her cheek.
‘It’s Hana,’ she says again. ‘My sister, she’s here.’
Emi’s heart feels near to bursting. It’s beating fast and hard inside her chest. She presses her hand against her breast, and the cold winter air rushes up the sleeve of her coat. Snowflakes cool her burning cheeks. When she opens her eyes, she knows she has returned. Her daughter kneels next to her, one hand on her shoulder. She is shivering from the cold.
‘Mother?’
She is a little girl again, worried and uncertain. Emi leans towards her daughter and kisses her forehead. YoonHui looks up at her, and Emi sees her mother in the soft line of YoonHui’s jaw. Emi is surprised when she does not feel sadness at the thought of her mother. Instead, she feels only peace.
She wishes it hadn’t taken a lifetime to reach this moment, but the past is unchangeable. The present is all she has left.
‘I was always proud you went to university,’ she says, her voice a hoarse whisper.
YoonHui’s face crumples, and she buries it in Emi’s lap. Her rough wool coat catches her daughter’s tears.
‘I was proud of both of you,’ she says, and turns to look at her son. He is kneeling in front of her, too, doing his best to refrain from crying.
Emi smiles and turns back to the statue. I never forgot you, she thinks, even though for so many years she pretended that she had. The statue sits beside her as though in forgiveness. Hana was always out there, waiting for Emi to find her. Emi wishes this moment would last a lifetime.
Hana
Mongolia, Autumn 1943
Hana drifts in and out of consciousness. When she manages to open her eyes she sees only dirt, black and solid. She tries to lift her head, her hand, her leg, something to signify she still inhabits this world, but nothing moves. Perhaps she is mistaken and is already dead, her body waiting for her spirit to rise and flee this wretched life.
Her mind skims through childhood memories; echoes of happiness fade in and out. She sees her mother’s face looming above her, bright and shining, beaming like a brilliant sun countless worlds away. The heat reaches Hana’s cheeks and warmth rises in her numbed skin. She turns her face towards the glow, a flower following the heat of sunlight. The light calls to her, Hana, open your eyes.
The late-morning sun dazzles her. A shout from far away pierces the air. A man’s voice. Hana realises she is tied up and bound to a stake in the ground. The Soviets are breaking down the camp and preparing to set out. She is still alive. He did not shoot her after all.
She gazes at the morning sun, waiting to find out what they intend to do with her. When the final tent is packed away, the interpreter arrives, wielding a hunting knife.
‘You’re awake,’ he says, the grin on his foreign face so similar to that of all the soldiers she has known in her short life.
Hana doesn’t respond. Her head aches, and she has difficulty focusing for too long on one thing. He kneels behind her and cuts her hands free. Then he cuts the ropes from her ankles, before pulling her up into a seated position.
‘Your freedom has been negotiated,’ he says, and his voice holds an excited note.
Hana follows his gaze and starts when she sees Altan walking towards her. His father and Ganbaatar trail behind him. They came after her. A lump blocks her throat, and she suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. She is worried they are in danger but also grateful they are here. Did they truly convince the Soviets to release her?
‘You have generous friends,’ the interpreter says when they near.
Altan quickly bows his head at the soldier, who salutes him with a jovial laugh. The Mongolians don’t even glance at Hana. It is as though they do not see her, although she knows that they must. She says nothing, following their lead, but she cannot stop staring at Altan’s bruised face. Morimoto punished him dearly.
Altan’s father steps ahead of his son and says something in Japanese to the interpreter. His voice is low, and she cannot hear him. She stares at his face as the two men communicate. The interpreter looks down at Hana and grins again.
‘You’re free to go,’ he says, and walks away without looking back.
Only then do the Mongolians acknowledge Hana’s presence. Altan and his father reach for her arms and help her onto her feet. They carry her between them, helping her walk, and quickly exit the remnants of the Soviet camp. Their ponies stand in a huddle waiting for their masters, and Hana is overjoyed to see Morimoto’s beautiful horse among them. Altan helps her onto one of the ponies and climbs on behind her. As the ponies begin to gallop away from the camp, an eagle’s cry pierces through their hoof beats.
Hana looks over her shoulder and sees Ganbaatar’s eagle perched on the interpreter’s forearm. Her heart drops into her stomach. It squawks again, its sharp eyes easily making out its master galloping away. Ganbaatar traded his dearest possession for her freedom. Morimoto said Mongolians treasure their eagles above wives and children, yet Ganbaatar gave his away for a girl he hardly knows.
She tries to look at his face, but he races ahead of her, leading the small group back towards the mountains. Altan’s arms encircle her as he urges the pony on. She doesn’t know how much he gave up to convince Ganbaatar to trade his best possession for a girl. Hana only knows that she owes them both her life.
YoonHui
Jeju Island, February 2012
‘I know, Auntie. I do,’ YoonHui answers, and lowers her mother’s old mask over her eyes. A crack in one corner obscures her view, but she doesn’t care. She
won’t dive too deep, just far enough to remember what it is like to be a haenyeo, to be like her mother.
JinHee nods and lowers her mask, too. This signals to the other diving women that it is time. They wade out further into the sea and one by one somersault into the ocean and dive down to Earth’s sea floor in search of treasures that will feed them, send their grandchildren to school, while keeping alive the memory of a favourite diver, a matriarch lost but never forgotten.
YoonHui dives and at first is shocked by the cold winter sea. She holds her breath, though she struggles against the current that threatens to lift her back to the surface. She releases a stream of bubbles from her nostrils in slow succession, allowing her to go further down, where the ocean pulses against her ears. The underwater world opens up in welcome as fish dart in and out of seaweed stalks swaying with the current. A crab scuttles on the seabed, scavenging for food. A red octopus lurks nearby, watching, waiting for the crab to come near. Losing her breath, YoonHui rises slowly to the surface, watching the octopus creep ever so slowly across the ocean floor.
JinHee greets her as she heaves air into her lungs.
‘Not bad for your first time.’
‘I guess I still remember,’ YoonHui says. She smiles, pleased to recall her mother’s teachings. She was only a girl when she left; now she is a middle-aged woman. Why did it take her so long to find her way back home?
‘She was proud of you,’ JinHee says.
‘I know,’ YoonHui replies. She turns to look back at the shore. Some of the oldest women are sitting on rocks, waving at her. Their frail bodies won’t allow them to stay in the cold February waters too long, but they came out of respect.
She left her brother in Seoul, and her nephew, too. But before she travelled to Jeju Island, YoonHui visited the statue for the first time after her mother’s death. Lane went with her and so did her nephew. When they arrived at the site of her mother’s final moments of peace, she was overwhelmed with sadness. The January wind dried her tears as soon as they fell, so she didn’t have to try to hide them from her nephew. He looked so tall standing in front of the statue, staring at it as though he thought it might stand up and greet him.
White Chrysanthemum Page 27
