When I was about to say good-bye, Sŏl Chin-yŏng held me back, and presently Ok-sun, who had left, returned. “It’s nothing special,” she said, “but some Korean dishes are ready. You might find them interesting.” I could easily have refused, but that might have hurt their feelings. Besides, I was drawn to these people. I accepted, something unusual for me, because I had always been reserved, even unsociable.
I was led into a small, Korean-style room with a heated floor. The simple decoration was a red carpet. A variety of dishes were laid out on the table. The liquor was rice wine, and the cups held almost three ounces. As I ate dishes of braised meat and dried fish, I emptied several cups. The drink went to my head, and I began to feel a dull ache.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng began to hum an old Korean folk song. A sense that I was really in Korea crept over me. His song was a familiar one, about young women in springtime gathering the white flowers called toraji for their edible roots. The simple song somehow troubled me, and I drank more.
“I have never seen my father like this,” said Ok-sun, who seemed straightforward in expressing her feelings. She poured me another cup of the hot liquor and, almost under her breath, said, “Please don’t torture my father. I feel so sorry for him.”
I felt as though I were being whipped. As she watched her tipsy father, I stared at her pleasing face. I was not torturing Sŏl Chin-yŏng, but what could I say? I nodded and finished my cup. Why were these Korean songs so sad? Were these melancholy tunes telling me the fate of this race? Heightened by her appeal, the pathos of the melodies overwhelmed me. My corruption tormented my conscience. . . .
Almost three months passed. Winter was severe. Outside, the wind from the northern mountains blasted the frozen streets. In our office, the limit on coal consumption meant that we were always cold. Standing in front of the chief’s desk, I tried to warm my toes by wriggling them in my shoes. As usual, the chief looked severe, furrowing his brow as he studied some papers. I knew that they were reports from my districts.
He raised his head. “Ah, Mr. Tani.” His tone was cold. By this time I had learned to ignore his affectations, and besides, I had been working diligently. I made schedules, visited district offices, and met, encouraged, and persuaded influential Koreans in my territory. My weapon was to state, “Even Mr. Sŏl Chin-yŏng has presented an application to change his name.” It worked. Many landholders in the district decided to comply. By the New Year season, almost 80 percent of the Koreans in my districts had applied for Japanese names. The change was remarkable. I concentrated only on my job. The chief seemed surprised at my success and appeared to have a higher opinion of me. Complacently I told myself, “Now you see what you can do if you really try.”
“One of your districts has sent me this report. You know Sŏl Chin-yŏng, do you not?”
A sense of foreboding sobered me. “So,” I thought, “it didn’t work.” I had known that Sŏl Chin-yŏng’s application would not be easily accepted. That was why I had met with the chief clerk of the district office, explained the situation, and sought his understanding.
“Yes, I do. He is very pro-Japanese. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, something is wrong. He has not changed his name.”
“That can’t be true. I know that his papers have been filed. I remember that he changed his name to Masaki Eiichi.”
“Do you really think that is a proper change? Did you permit him to use that name?”
Then I remembered the greed on the face of the district chief clerk as he repeatedly said, “Sŏl Chin-yŏng is the richest landowner around here. They say he can go from Pyŏngjŏm to Suwŏn without leaving his own land. He owns so much land. . . .” Why didn’t I realize that he was hinting at a bribe? Maybe I should have alerted the Sŏl family. Seeing me wordless, the chief was about to continue. Hastily I began.
“But Chief, the Sŏl family has a remarkable clan record stretching back seven hundred years. In this family-oriented country, landed families have kept detailed clan records to hand down to their descendants. Most of their precious records were destroyed in Hideyoshi’s invasion. The survival of the Sŏl records is very rare. Changing the way their name is written will extinguish the records of the Sŏl clan. That is why Sŏl Chin-yŏng resisted so strongly. So I tried—”
“So you permitted him to change Sŏl to Masaki without changing the way his name is written. Is that what you are saying, Mr. Tani?”
“Was I wrong? Since I understood his situation, I thought an exception could be made in his case. Some Japanese have a one-character name. I thought it was interesting to keep his character and read it in the Japanese way.”
“What? What do you think you are doing? Are you Japanese or Korean? You thought it interesting! You must be joking. The conversion of names is not for amusement. You had no right to do this. Go and have him change his name at once!”
“But Chief, Mr. Sŏl is highly regarded by the military headquarters because he donated rice. So I thought that for him an exception might be made.”
“What are you talking about? Such an exception can be made only by the governor-general. Besides, according to this report, all of his tenants have taken one-character names like Kin for Kim or Boku for Pak. I’m sure it’s his idea.”
“No, Chief. Sŏl Chin-yŏng is not that kind of man.”
“You really stick up for him, don’t you? At a time like this, no one should be concerned about such things as family records. You must force him. That’s the only way.”
“But Chief, I understand that the royal family, the Yi, have not changed their name.”
“Don’t speak disrespectfully. I don’t want to send you to the military police for this. The Yi family is the royal family. Sŏl Chin-yŏng is a mere commoner. If he is so pro-Japanese, he should be happy to create a new clan record with his generation. Make him change his name. Do you understand, Mr. Tani?”
“I will do my best.” I bowed angrily.
“Wait. Look at this.” His voice was harsh. He pushed a paper in front of me. It was from one of my districts.
“This is about the conversion of names. What’s wrong?”
“Read the name.”
“Hirokawa Hitoshi. Isn’t it acceptable?”
“For an artist, you’re not very sensitive, are you? It’s not a mere name. He dared to ridicule the name of our Emperor Hirohito. He has inserted kawa between hiro and hito using the same characters as emperor’s name. This is apparently a case of lèse-majesté.”
“But Chief, that’s too far-fetched.”
“You always talk back with a ‘but.’ That’s not good. Only liberals use that word. Go to the military police immediately.”
“The military police?”
“Yes, to the military police, where the one who called himself Hirokawa Hitoshi is being interrogated. They want one of us to be present at the interrogation. Go and tell them very politely that since your chief is in conference with the governor, you have come in his place. Be sure to apologize. Say that we did not know about the name and that nothing like it will happen again.”
“You mean I have to apologize?”
“Of course. As my representative.”
“I see.”
“They’re irate. They say that this Korean has insulted our imperial family, so take care with your language.”
“I understand.” I was imagining the interrogation by the military police. I recalled the insane brutality suffered at their hands by my Domino Bar friend. When I bailed him out, he couldn’t stand by himself. He was half-dead. His face was bloody and swollen; his breath came in harsh gasps; he could scarcely speak. The military police said arrogantly that they had given him “a little kick” because of his erroneous ideology and glared at me for looking angry. “Little kicks” were games they played to spice their daily routine. The only way to avoid such interrogation was to make a false confession; then one would either land in a cold jail or be forced to enlist for immediate shipment to the battlefield. I knew that that poo
r Korean would be beaten senseless.
From Pyŏngjŏm Station I again walked along the highway. It was frozen white. The bare branches of the poplar trees trembled in the piercing north wind. My toes were numb in their thick boots. My ears ached, and the cold blasts penetrated my coat. The snow-covered rice fields were a frigid expanse. There would be more snow.
As soon as I had returned from the military police, the chief had ordered me to go to Sŏl Chin-yŏng’s. It was already late; I told him I couldn’t get back that day.
“You fool!” he shouted. “Stay there until he changes his mind. No matter how many days it takes, make him change his name. Otherwise, don’t come back.”
Walking the frozen road I became more depressed, more reluctant to face Sŏl Chin-yŏng. “Why do I have to go through this ordeal? It’s only to bring credit on the chief.” I dragged my heavy boots.
Finally the village came in sight. I stood for a moment. The face of the district chief clerk came back to me. He had got even with me by sending that report to my chief. If only I had been alert enough to tell Sŏl Chin-yŏng that he was greedy. Sŏl Chin-yŏng would have done anything to protect his seven-century-old records. He would have bribed the man lavishly with entertainment and expensive gifts. Why didn’t I realize what had to be done? Now Sŏl Chin-yŏng and I must suffer.
Again I was amazed by the chicanery of bureaucracy. Its gears were corroded, but a secret application of golden oil would smooth its operation. My chief coveted that oil.
It was dark when I reached the village. As I walked through it, I looked at the names on the tenants’ houses. Just as the chief had said, the surnames had all been changed to one-character names like Ch’oe, which in Japanese could be read as Sai; or Chŏng: Japanese, Tei; or Hong: Japanese, Kō. Only the given names were truly Japanese.
The villagers watched me suspiciously. There was menace in the air. In my head a gear spun futilely. I seemed to be walking through a distorted scene in a distorted time.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng was in bed with a cold. Ok-sun helped him to the drawing room. He said he had caught cold five days earlier from waiting in the cold corridors of our provincial office building. He attempted a smile as he coughed painfully.
“How are you now?” I asked.
“I’m all right now.” Then he tried to make light of his illness: “My cold must depart because my daughter is to be married next month.”
So Ok-sun would soon marry. Early marriage was customary among the Koreans. Rich families usually selected marriage partners when their children were born.
I learned that Ok-sun’s fiancé, Kaneda Hokuman, was a relative, the son of a doctor and himself a medical student. Although his family was prominent, they had long since changed their name from the Korean Kim to the Japanese Kaneda; they had no clan records to concern them, and the name change was an advantage to them in running their hospital.
Kaneda Hokuman was now an intern. “Maybe that’s why she takes such good care of me,” Sŏl Chin-yŏng said with a happy smile, but his cough was painful. Ok-sun put a fur vest on her father and blushed as she gently stroked his back.
The affection they displayed almost softened my resolve, but I reminded myself that I was no longer an artist; I worked in a government office. I waited desperately for an opening to state my business. I could not be too sympathetic.
“Mr. Sŏl,” I began formally, “Mr. Sŏl, your Japanese name Masaki Eiichi has been disapproved. I was chastised by my superior, and I have come back to ask you to change your name again.”
“I know why you have come tonight,” he said drily. “I too was called in and castigated.”
“I truly understand how you feel about your lineage. But Mr. Sŏl, I am only a worker in a government office. I can’t help you; neither do I intend to force you. But since you have filed one application to change your name, can’t you reconsider and take a different name?” I felt tongue-tied, threatened by the chief’s livid face and grim edict.
“Is that so . . . just as I thought.”
“I explained your special circumstances to my superior. But all of your neighbors have imitated you, Mr. Sŏl.”
He remained silent. Wiping the perspiration from my forehead, I asked him not to complicate matters any further. I wanted him to survive this ordeal with as little pain as possible, yet I could not bring myself to suggest that he bribe my chief. Would that be only a cowardly way to protect myself ? There seemed to be a strange beast inside me, coldly watching my behavior, scornfully telling me not to let sympathy supplant justice.
With a hopeful voice, Sŏl Chin-yŏng told me that a professor of history at Keijō Imperial University (Keijō was the Japanese name for Seoul and hence the name of the university the Japanese founded there) had urged him to preserve the clan records as precious documents. “Mr. Tani, what do you think of my asking the professor to speak to your chief on my behalf ?”
For an instant I thought, “That’s a way out.” In the next instant I knew that such action would only provoke my chief to more cruelty against the Sŏl clan. The seven hundred years of history in the clan records had no interest for the chief. All he cared about was carrying out the orders of the governor-general.
I had failed. I had failed to be heartless. I had exposed my weakness to Sŏl Chin-yŏng. I felt like crying.
“Mr. Sŏl, my chief told me not to return until you were persuaded.”
For a moment his face went hard, but he quickly regained his composure. In the instant that he showed anger I forgot my resentment against the conversion of names and the unification of Japan and Korea. I no longer felt guilty. I just wanted Sŏl Chin-yŏng to change his name without more trouble. Or should we, at the risk of being thought cowardly, actuate the machine with oil?
I remembered the miserable figure of the young Korean who had called himself Hirokawa Hitoshi. His bloody, swollen face, the forehead torn by hobnailed boots, was superimposed on the gentle face before me. Instead of Sŏl Chin-yŏng I saw the tortured young Korean. I wondered if Sŏl Chin-yŏng could stand up to that hellish brutality. I sank into irritation and frustration.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng did not give in. He insisted that he was not anti-Japanese. He declared that his patriotic loyalty to Japan was genuine. He was humble but he refused to change his name.
“Unless you change your name, the consequences may be terrible. I can foresee. . . .” My voice had become strident. Sŏl Chin-yŏng stared and mocked me with deliberate calm.
“I have sincerely contributed to the welfare of Japan. I don’t believe that the Japanese government will treat me badly just because I won’t change my name. You say ‘the consequences will be terrible’! Do you mean they will impose higher taxes and a bigger rice quota? Japan is at war: I don’t mind paying bigger taxes and donating more rice. Besides, the conversion of names is not required by law. If it were, I might have to reconsider.”
I realized that we Japanese had nothing to match the faith and trust of the Korean. I was utterly baffled. My head sank.
I spent the night at Sŏl’s. The room with the heated floor was warm and comfortable. I was confused and worn out. I slept the sleep of exhaustion.
I stayed for three days. When we met at every meal I tried to persuade him. Finally I gave up.
The next morning I received a telegram from my chief: “Return immediately.” I took my leave.
“Next time, Mr. Tani, come for pleasure, not business.” Sŏl Chin-yŏng shook hands and bowed to express his sadness.
Ok-sun insisted on accompanying me to the station, though I repeatedly asked her not to. The sky was clear and blue and empty. The wind across the frozen fields shook the poplars.
“My father is obstinate, Mr. Tani. Please don’t feel bad.” She saw my black expression and apologized, but she added that her father was right.
“Do you know the Japanese expression that it’s safer to go with the strong one?” Again I tried to explain that refusing to change their name would hurt their family. The governor-gener
al was trying to transform the Koreans into Japanese by changing their names. In actuality the intent was to destroy the strong nationalism of the Korean people. That meant destroying their clan records. The Sŏl family would soon find that refusing to change their name would bring greater tragedy than changing their name.
“Do you want your father in jail?”
“In jail?” It was as though she were whispering to herself.
After that she walked in silence. Repeatedly I told myself that this was a chance to tell her that her father could escape this dilemma if he would just bribe the chief. I tried to speak before we reached the station, but her silence stopped me. I could not speak of bribery. I couldn’t let her think that I too wanted a bribe. Lamely I said, “I may look like a devil to you. I don’t like this kind of job. But there are times when one can’t paint. I want to produce one good painting. But I can’t.”
As I gazed out the train window on the way back, anger grew in me. Sŏl Chin-yŏng’s firm determination was admirable, but I was stung by his refusal to take my advice. Doubts assailed me. I felt disgusted with myself. The motion of the train numbed me. It seemed that only the shell of Tani Rokurō swayed there.
The chief was impatient to hear my report. My four days’ effort was of no concern. When he heard the bad news, his voice rose. “What? That man pro-Japanese? He must be a nationalist.” He called the chief clerk and dismissed me. “We’ll handle this now, in a different way. It’s a good case. Leave this affair to us and go on with your other duties.” His tone indicated that I had failed because I was weak.
I was relieved that I would not have to face Sŏl Chin-yŏng again, but when I saw the chief wearing the same expression I had seen on the faces of the military police as they tortured the poor Korean, relief turned to worry.
Name conversion had stalled at about 90 percent. Most of those who had refused to change their names were persons of influence—landowners, ministers, doctors. The chief saw the case of Sŏl Chin-yŏng as a chance to teach them a lesson.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 104
