The Beloved Daughter

by Alana Terry

  “So you have been looking out for my protection?”

  “More than you would know,” Moses answered. “I owed your father many debts of kindness. As I already told you, one of my deepest regrets is that I couldn’t help him before his death.”

  “But your jurisdiction is over Chongjin. What could you possibly have done for him in Camp 22?”

  Moses furrowed his brow. “Camp 22?”

  “Where they took Father after he was shot at the precinct building.” I wondered why Moses, who appeared so familiar with every other aspect of my family history, now looked so confused.

  “I’ve seen the death record myself,” Moses replied. “Your father died in Hasambong.”

  I didn’t understand. “That’s not true,” I insisted. “Father died in detainment. He …” I stopped, unable to speak to Moses of Father’s suicide.

  “Sister,” Moses said, with a gentleness I wouldn’t have thought possible beforehand, “I can only imagine what your guards must have told you when you were a young girl.” I remembered my torturer Agent Lee, his sarcastic laugh, his gleeful expression when he told me of Father’s hanging. “If I knew,” Moses continued, “I assure you that I would have done everything in my power to dispel their lies many, many years ago.”

  “What are you saying?” My head was faint again.

  Moses took a deep breath. “Hyun-Ki was killed by a bullet the night your family was arrested.”

  I put my hand up to my head to try to control the spinning. Moses reached out and touched my shoulder. “Your father was never a prisoner at Camp 22.”

  Revelation

  “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

  For several minutes, I could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. The weight of Moses’ words was crushing. Perhaps, beloved daughter, you would expect me to rejoice that my father’s memory was no longer tarnished by his alleged apostasy and suicide. But joy was not my initial reaction when Moses told me the truth about Father’s fate. Instead, I had to face the horrific realization that everything in my past – my heart hardening against the Lord, my decision to become an office maid, my inability years later to fully trust in God’s goodness – was based on a lie. Perhaps this was what my torturer intended all along.

  Beloved daughter, how I wish that you and I had more time together so that your memories of me would be of joy and lightness and merriment. I imagine that when you read my story, you will come to know me as a wounded, pitiful character from your distant past, instead of the laughing, gentle mother I hoped to be for you. But truth can’t be changed. My life has been filled with much sadness, and I’ve shed many tears. But never do I remember crying as I did beside Moses in that van. I cried for the innocence I lost in the detainment center, for the shame I carried around in my young soul about my father’s supposed fate. I cried for my own rebellious heart, for my unwillingness to trust in God’s sovereignty when the Almighty had indeed sustained Father and gave him boldness to his dying breath.

  Moses drove on in silence. By the time the Tumen River came into view, my throat was sore from sobbing, but my tears had run dry.

  “They say that truth will set you free.” Moses referenced one of Father’s favorite verses. I nodded. “And now that I have told you the truth about your father,” Moses added with uncharacteristic humility, “I wonder if you would repay this unhappy guard. You see, you have some important information that I’ve been seeking for years.”

  I wondered what I might know that Moses couldn’t learn from my prison records. I waited curiously.

  Moses rubbed the coarse hair on his chin. “I must confess something to you. The respect I harbor for your father and the many debts of kindness I owe him were not the only reasons I chose to rescue you from the Chongjin jail.”

  “They weren’t?”

  Moses shook his head. “I also revealed myself to you because I hoped that you could tell me about my mother.”

  I wondered how Moses expected me to understand his words. “Your mother?”

  “Before she died, my mother was a prisoner in the underground detainment center at Camp 22.” Moses exhaled loudly. “Your records show that you were her cellmate for nearly a year.”

  “You are Chul-Moo?” I asked when I realized that I was talking to the Old Woman’s eldest son. Moses winced at the mention of his birth name.

  “I see that she told you about me,” Moses replied, and for the first time since I met him, the prison guard slouched down in his seat. I did not know what to say to the officer who was responsible for the annulment of his parents’ marriage, the murder of his younger brother, and the twenty-four-year detainment of his mother in an underground torture cell. Then I remembered the Old Woman’s words: “I am not the Lord God Almighty; I do not pretend to know his plans for Chul-Moo, which may yet be for good.”

  Moses watched me intently. “Can you please tell me if my mother ever forgave me for what I did to her? For what I did to our family?”

  I couldn’t help but smile when I remembered the grace and gentleness that flowed from the Old Woman. “Your mother was incapable of bitterness. She was heartbroken, I believe, but even in her sorrow she recognized that God might still take hold of your life.”

  “That he did.” Moses had a distracted look in his eyes. I wanted to ask Moses how he became a Christian after condemning his entire family to labor camp, but he just stared ahead, talking as if to himself.

  “I have witnessed countless atrocities against mankind. Each and every time, I tell myself that I am doing the only thing I know how to do, that the Almighty must see that my efforts are to serve him even if I am incapable of saving everybody.” I didn’t have the wisdom to either confirm or assuage the guilt on Moses’ conscience. “But the one thing I haven’t been able to forgive myself for is what happened to my mother. And my brother.”

  “Your mother was full of grace and gentleness.” And as we continued to drive along the Tumen riverbank, I told Moses about my time in the Old Woman’s cell, about the miraculous healing she performed for Shin’s daughter, about the way I was healed from my deadly fever when I first met her. Moses was relieved when I told him of the privileged treatment his mother received in detainment and shocked to learn about her foiled execution so many years ago, which was never recorded in the Old Woman’s prison record.

  Moses asked several questions, which I tried to answer. Thankfully I never had to tell Moses what happened to his mother’s body after she died. By the time our conversation ran its complete course, it was almost evening. We drove on in silence. I still didn’t know how Moses planned to get me across the patrolled border. When the sun was low on the horizon, Moses maneuvered the van and parked it a short way from the bridge that crossed the Tumen River into Jilin Province, China.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Exactly what my namesake did in the Bible.” Moses grinned as he glanced at my midsection. “Leading a captive people to freedom.”

  Watchman

  “I have made you a watchman for the house of Israel; so hear the word I speak and give them warning from me.” Ezekiel 33:7

  Staring wide-eyed at the border patrolman stationed on the middle of the bridge, I waited for Moses to explain how I was to cross the border. After a long period of silence in the parked van, Moses reclined in the driver’s seat and stretched out his legs. “Your escort will be arriving soon,” he announced. I was about to ask for more information when Moses turned toward me. “I hope that you don’t despise me for my position.” He held my gaze with unwavering eyes.

  “No,” I insisted, but I knew it would be difficult to sort out how I really felt about Moses and his work for the National Security Agency.

  “It’s a lonely life,” Moses explained. “Perhaps that’s another reason why I chose to rescue you personally. I wanted someone to know who I was.” Moses rubbed the palm of his hand against his stubbly chin. “In case something happens to me one day.” I grimaced wh
en I recognized the resignation in Moses’ voice.

  “Aren’t there others who know who you are?”

  “No one but you,” Moses admitted. “At least … no one who remains alive today.”

  I couldn’t fathom why Moses entrusted me with such weighty knowledge. It was a burden I didn’t want to bear. “Why me?” I inquired.

  Moses paused, staring up toward the ceiling of the van before he spoke. “No one at the Chongjin jail would even suspect the truth about my identity.” Remembering Moses’ mannerisms during the interrogation, his admission didn’t surprise me. “And although I know of a handful of sympathizers within the National Security Agency, even they don’t know that I’m on their side.” Moses flinched, and I found myself wondering how many prisoners this officer was forced to condemn in his role as a National Security agent.

  “As head official of the Chongjin jail, I’ve had access to classified reports. In addition, I have ‘accidentally’ discovered certain memos from Pyongyang, information that not even my superiors are supposed to know. There’s no doubt you’ve suffered much, but even you wouldn’t believe me if I were to tell you of all the atrocities that our government carries out against its own citizens. What you experienced in the labor camp was not even a fraction of the cruelty that our vile nation inflicts upon its own people.”

  I wanted to cover my ears. Could anyone suffer more than I had?

  “If I were to defect now,” Moses explained, “they would search for me from one end of the globe to the other. I have seen too much. I know too much. I will never be free.” I couldn’t guess how Moses had come to possess such nationally-incriminating intelligence, but I couldn’t argue with the haunted expression in Moses’ eyes.

  “And so I am relying on you to be my mouthpiece of truth,” Moses declared. I sat up rigid in my seat in the van. “You must tell the outside world what is happening behind these closed borders.”

  “But there are hundreds of defectors,” I protested. “And some of them were guards and officers themselves,” I added, remembering my guardian Shin. “What could I tell others that they haven’t already heard?”

  “Tell them that the state of North Korea as we know it is going to collapse.” I clenched my jaw at Moses’ fateful proclamation. “There’s already such instability that the end will probably come soon.”

  Once again I wished I could close my ears to such prophetic utterances and blind my eyes to Moses’ fiery black stare, but he wouldn’t release my gaze.

  “What do you want me to do?” My voice was nothing more than a pitiful squeak.

  “You must tell believers on the outside to prepare for the day when the prison walls that surround our nation finally collapse. There will be a flood of refugees who will require both practical and spiritual care. The body of Christ in both China and South Korea must be prepared to minister to the needs of these exiles.” Moses didn’t pause for breath. “Within these borders, there will be a need for a concerted missionary effort unseen in recent history. We will need Bibles, missionaries, relief workers, doctors, humanitarians. And if the global church doesn’t start preparing now, they won’t be ready when the time comes.”

  “I’ll tell them,” I whispered, even though I didn’t know how I would even begin such a daunting task.

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” I hoped that Moses couldn’t detect the uncertainty in my voice.

  Homecoming

  “See, I will bring them from the land of the north and gather them from the ends of the earth. Among them will be the blind and the lame, expectant mothers and women in labor; a great throng will return.” Jeremiah 31:8

  Before Moses could say anything more, a high-pitched buzz sounded from his coat pocket.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The signal.”

  “What signal?”

  Moses smiled and shrugged his shoulders, his mood reverting again from deadly serious to flippant and cavalier. “I’m escorting you across the bridge.”

  “You can’t just drive me across the border!” I protested.

  “I can if you have this.” Moses tossed a Chinese passport into my lap. I opened it and saw a picture of an unsmiling Korean girl.

  “What does it say?” I asked, squinting as I tried to read the small script.

  Moses looked at the passport over my shoulder. “‘Song Chung-Cha,’” he read, “‘Chinese citizen. Jilin Province.’ Down here is where your date of birth is recorded. Did you know that you were born in Seoul? Your family immigrated to China when you were a baby.”

  “How did you …” I started to ask, but Moses interrupted me.

  “The picture is the closest representation I could find without having met you personally. I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t come close to capturing your beauty, but it will certainly serve its purpose. You will also need this.” Moses handed me a small yellow card.

  “A residency paper?” I remembered So-Young’s identification card that I took with me whenever I went walking outside with Kwan. It seemed so long ago when my betrothed and I enjoyed our evening strolls together through the forest behind the safe house.

  “It says you are a legal resident of Sanhe, Jilin Province. Hold on to it carefully. I don’t want to see you on this side of the border ever again.” Moses’ voice was firm, but he winked at me playfully.

  “These documents must have been expensive.”

  Moses flicked his wrist as if to wave my comment away. “I wasn’t the one who paid for them.”

  “Then who did?”

  “A citizen of Sanhe. A certain man you know as Mr. Kim.”

  For three weeks, I tried to make sense of Mr. Kim’s betrayal. “Was that part of the plan all along?” I finally asked, figuring there were hundreds of less dangerous ways to get me proper identification.

  Moses shook his head. “No. What Mr. Kim did to you was a grievous mistake, but perhaps the Lord ordained it so that you would have these.” Moses tapped my passport and residency paper. “Mr. Kim used the bribe money he received from the Jilin police to purchase your documents, although that was not his original intention.”

  “He said he did it for So-Young.” I didn’t bother to ask how Moses had so much contact with Mr. Kim when he worked full time in the Chongjin jail.

  “A father will do nearly anything for his child,” Moses observed. “So will a mother.”

  I didn’t want to think about my own test in the interrogation room or how quickly I faltered when I imagined my child was in danger. “Do you know what became of So-Young?” The only solace I found over the past three weeks since my betrayal was the hope that Mr. Kim’s actions indeed saved my friend. When Moses shook his head, I sighed and stared at the Tumen River.

  “Are you ready?” Moses turned the key to start the van and drove slowly toward the bridge. I tried to ask Moses what was going to happen, but I couldn’t find my voice. I held my breath as Moses rolled the van toward the customs office that stood in the middle of the bridge and hoped that my deliverer had a plan for my safe crossing. A Chinese border guard scurried out to meet us and bowed to Moses.

  “Can I help you?” he offered in Korean, eyeing me curiously.

  “You’d better hope so!” Moses roared, his face growing red. “This woman, cousin by marriage to the mayor of Sanhe, was deported to my jail in Chongjin. Although South Korean by birth, she is a citizen of Jilin Province, but apparently she was so frightened during a surprise raid by your barbaric police that she didn’t understand the questions those animals were shouting at her. They assumed she was a defector and sent her to my jail, yet here is her residency paper and even a passport. I would like to know how she got so far into our country without this mistake being discovered.”

  The guard lowered his head. “I am exceedingly sorry, Sir,” he exclaimed, careful not to address me directly.

  “I hope that whoever is responsible for this grievous error decides to stay away from her cousin the mayor for quite some time.�
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  “Certainly. My deepest regrets.” The man bowed again as if he himself were to blame for the alleged mistake.

  “I am also convinced that you will see fit to offer this young woman safe passage back to her home without any further delays.”

  “Of course,” the guard stammered. “I will escort her myself over the bridge. Do you wish for me to arrange a car to take her to her home in Sanhe?”

  “I wouldn’t entrust her to your care for a thousand yuan,” Moses retorted, the blue veins in his neck throbbing from beneath his officer’s collar. “I have already sent word to her brother. He is probably waiting for her on the other side of this bridge. If you have any sense, you will not make her brother angry. I’m also certain that you will compensate him for his trouble coming all the way out here to pick up his sister after such a horrendous display of your nation’s incompetency.”

  “We will arrange all the details,” the Chinese guard assured Moses. “Whenever the young lady is ready, I will drive her across in my van.”

  “Good. Good-bye, Miss,” he bid me formally. I realized that there would be no chance for me to thank Moses for his rescue or to say good-bye. I wondered if I would ever see Moses again. “My sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding.”

  I hoped that the guard wouldn’t try to speak to me in Mandarin as he helped me into his van. He apologized several times in Korean as we drove to the Chinese side of the border. “Is this your brother?” the guard asked once we stopped.

  I looked out the window and there, pacing in front of a parked car and cracking his knuckles, was my husband Kwan, looking angry and nervous, but very much alive.