She sits back and looks into her bora cha again. “I was one of the homeless and destitute. I was fluent in English, as I said, and that helped. But I still struggled. Soo-bo and I were always close to starving. In the middle of a war, a poor young woman with a sick baby is a nuisance to everyone. You need know nothing more, other than we survived through effort and luck.”
I think about how hard her life had been at my age and feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself and for being afraid. I mean, really. Compared to what she had to go through, what do I have to be afraid of? “You’re life was tough,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, but I survived,” she says. “And for me, that is what was important.”
She eyes me for a few seconds and then she asks, “And what about you? What is important to you?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I used to think it was being successful, you know? Doing well in school. But I’m not in school anymore,” I confess. “I had to drop out when Mother got sick.”
“Do you plan to go back?”
I shake my head. “I really don’t know. I haven’t got a clue what for.”
She continues to stare at me and I can see she’s expecting more of an answer. I fidget and then tell her that at one time I was thinking about medical school. I tell her I took the pre-med classes and I did enough to get in, but I’m not sure if I want to be a doctor. I say then I thought about law school and that I made a pros and cons list for each one, medical school versus law school. I tell her that after all that, I thought maybe I should do something completely different. “Now,” I say, “I don’t know if I should even finish school.”
“You made a pros and cons list?” she asks. “Do you always think things through that way?”
“Yes. I try to.”
“And, does it work for you?”
“I guess.”
“You have a very good mind, Anna, that is obvious. But you are a Korean and Koreans make decisions differently. We use our hearts as well as our heads. When we say, ‘I think,’ we point to our hearts.
“So let me tell you what I think,” she says, pointing to her heart. “I think you are trying to find what is in your heart, but your head keeps getting in the way. You came to Korea to try to discover something about yourself, something you cannot simply make a pros and cons list for. After I gave you the comb, you came to meet me for the same reason. You did not give in to those government officials even when they threatened you. If you had thought through those decisions—if your heart wasn’t tugging at you—you would have never done them.
“So tell me, Anna Carlson,” she says, “what does your heart say about your future?”
I shrug. “I really don’t know.”
She smiles and says she understands. She says that after she finishes her story, we’ll talk more. She asks if I’m ready to hear the rest of her story. I say that I am.
She straightens and puts her hands in her lap. She tells me that after the Korean War, South Korea was in chaos and that everyone was angry, looking for people to blame. She says there was a backlash against anyone who might have been sympathetic to the communists and that she was caught in that backlash. People knew she had worked for the North so she was blacklisted, unable to get work. They cut her off from assistance. She was in real danger and had to disappear for a while.
She takes in a breath as if she’s about to start again, but she hesitates. She gives an embarrassed smile. I wonder if she’ll be able to continue.
Finally, she says, “I’m sorry. This last part is hard.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Maybe we should rest a while.”
She shakes her head. “No. I must do this.”
T HIRTY
April 1954. U.S. Military Base Camp Humphreys, South Korea
I stood in the backroom of a bar with three-year-old Soo-bo clinging to my side. I could feel my daughter’s bones pressing through her dress. Soo-bo’s sunken cheeks and eyes worried me. And she was feverish again. It had been three days since we’d had anything to eat. I was terrified that my daughter was going to starve to death.
American jazz pulsed from the barroom on the other side of the wall. A man in his early thirties with green eyes and a deep scar in his cheek reclined in front of me with his feet on a desk. He had his blonde hair cropped short, in the style of a U.S. military man. His name was Alan Smith.
Alan leaned back and inspected me professionally. “We don’t give away food here. You hafta earn it. It’s called capitalism.”
I had read all of Jin-mo’s books written by the world’s greatest economists that argued the merits of capitalism versus socialism. I doubted if Alan had read even a single word on the subject. “I see, sir,” I said. “How does it work?”
“We give you a loan for your first and last month’s rent. We also give an advance for food and clothing. That’s the ‘capital’ part of capitalism, understand? I charge ten percent interest every month. Rent is due at the beginning of the month, no exceptions. A hundred bucks. Another twenty for the bed and chair. Anything you buy we charge against your account. You’ll also have to pay for food and laundry.”
I was anxious to end the interview so I could get something to eat for Soo-bo. But I didn’t want to appear too desperate. “What do I have to do?” I asked.
Alan kept his eyes on me as he worked a toothpick between his teeth. “Well, some girls start by helping out around here—working the bar, cleaning, laundry, running errands and such. You’re lucky. I need someone for that.”
“I see. How much will I be able to earn?”
He took his toothpick out and pointed it at me. “Depends on you. That’s how capitalism works, see? The more you do, the more you make. I pay fifty cents an hour.”
“I understand,” I said. I pressed Soo-bo close.
Alan eyed Soo-bo impassively. “‘Course, if you can’t earn enough just by helping out, you can be a juicy girl. You’re older, but you’re pretty and you speak English good. Could make a lotta money. Here’s how that works. If a customer wants to spend some private time with you, they pay what’s called a bar fine to take you upstairs. On top of the bar fine, they give you a tip for your services. I get half of your tip. It’s the same deal for everyone. It’s the same at every bar in this kijichon.”
I could hear Soo-bo’s stomach growl. My stomach clawed at me, too. “No. I won’t do that,” I said. “I would like the other job please. Can I start right away?”
Alan grinned and the scar on his face twisted. “Sure. If that’s what you wanna do.”
Alan led me and Soo-bo up a set of wooden stairs to a long, dimly lit hallway on the second floor. At the end of the hallway, he opened a door and pointed inside. “Your room,” he said.
I stepped inside the room, leading Soo-bo by the hand. It was small. A grimy window looked over the only street in the kijichon. It reeked of stale sweat and semen. I recoiled at the all-too familiar stench.
Before I could pick up Soo-bo and run out the door, Alan held out a dark green can and an opener. “And here’s your lunch,” he said. “Should be enough for you and the kid.”
Soo-bo grabbed at the can. “Umshik, Ummah!” she cried. “Food! I’m hungry.”
I closed my nose to the stench in the room and took the can and opener. “Thank you,” I said.
Alan Smith jammed the toothpick in his mouth. “I need help at the bar this afternoon. Get yourself an outfit at one of the tailors on the street. Can’t work dressed like that. This is a classy joint.” As he headed down the hallway, he said over his shoulder, “I need the can opener back when you’re done with it.”
I closed the door and pushed my rucksack beneath the American-style bed. I sat on the floor, pulling Soo-bo’s scrawny frame into my lap. As Soo-bo anxiously watched, I opened the can. Inside was a gelatinous, gray-green mass. I picked at it with my fingers and tasted it. It was salty and slimy, but it was something to eat. I scooped out a finger full and fed Soo-bo who greedily slurped at it. In less than a minu
te, we had eaten the can’s entire contents.
Soo-bo, her starving body finally satisfied, drooped with fatigue. I laid her on the bed. I kissed my daughter on the head, and soon she was sound asleep.
The meal made me tired, too, but as I listened to the American servicemen gathering in the bar below, I knew I had to start earning money right away. I left Soo-bo and went downstairs to the street. At the end of the street was a paved road and a gate to a military base with an American flag flying atop a flagpole. Above the entrance, a sign read ‘Camp Humphreys’. The shabby bars that lined the street advertising Korean girls reminded me of the comfort station. I wondered how I had come to this. I thought I had put places like this behind me. But here I was again, and I wondered if I’d ever be free of the comfort station.
I walked a few doors down and turned into a tailor shop. A balding man wearing half-glasses was at a sewing machine. “Do you need an outfit?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes, sir.”
“What bar are you with?”
“The Hometown Cat Club.”
The man examined me over his glasses. “You need something that makes you look younger,” he said. “I recommend a short black dress.”
“No,” I answered. “I’m not doing that.”
He shook his head and laughed. He pointed to the back. “You can choose from that rack. The prices are in dollars. Sizing is extra.”
I went to the rack. Hanging from metal hangers were all sorts of provocative women’s outfits—long, formal dresses; short sequined dresses; several Japanese kimonos and even an American cowgirl outfit. At the end was a green yukata with pretty white and pink flowers.
I ran my hand across the cool, green silk of the yukata and tried to think of what I could do other than this. I couldn’t think of anything. I was trapped. But if I stayed here, I would be able to hide for a while and feed Soo-bo. I would have a roof over my head and, if I worked hard enough, perhaps I could pay off the debt I now owed. Then, I could move to Seoul once things settled down.
I turned away from the yukata and looked for an outfit more appropriate for me. On the rack was a simple blue dress with a knee-high hem that was about my size. It was thirty dollars—the cheapest on the rack. I took it and presented it to the balding man. He looked from his sewing machine. “You sure you want that cheap one? You would be better off with…”
“I want this one,” I said.
The man shrugged. “Okay. Do what you want. What’s your name?”
I gave it and he wrote it down. “I’ll charge your account at the bar,” he said, and returned to his sewing. “Good luck.”
T HIRTY-ONE
Soo-bo was in a deep sleep when I returned to my room. From the rucksack, I took a blanket and laid it in the corner on the floor. I carried Soo-bo from the bed and put her on the blanket. She moaned and rolled toward the wall. I was so relieved to see her sleep like that again.
I took a rag from my rucksack, cleaned the window and wiped the floor. I placed the photograph of my family next to the bed. I grabbed the rucksack to push it under the bed and the flap opened. Inside was the coarse brown cloth package of the comb with the two-headed dragon. I wondered how much it was worth. Perhaps enough to go to Seoul and stay low until I could find a job there. After all, I had a gift for languages and South Korea was beginning to rebuild after the war. Surely, someone could use a person like me.
But I had promised Soo-hee and Jin-mo to carry on and tell their story. I promised to keep the comb. So I closed the rucksack and slid it under the bed. I stripped off my clothes and put on the blue dress. I pulled on my tabi and zori and went downstairs to the Hometown Cat Club bar.
Beer and cigarette smoke had stained the bar’s plywood floors brown. Behind a long, flimsy bar was the red and black emblem for the United States Eighth Army. Red linoleum tables, chipped and leaning, were scattered in front of a large, dirty window that looked out at the kijichon’s dusty street. A jukebox played jazz music and a soldier danced cheek-to-cheek with a young Korean girl. The room smelled like stale beer.
When I came into the room, sixteen servicemen and six working girls studied me. I pushed myself to the bar. Alan Smith, his toothpick jammed in the corner of his mouth, was behind the bar pouring drinks. He motioned for me to come over. He nodded toward three soldiers at a table. “Get their drink orders,” he said. “Your job is to keep them drinking. Go.”
I approached the table. A young, uniformed lieutenant with thick, dark hair and a slim build, smiled at me lasciviously. “Hey baby,” he said, curling an arm around my waist. “You speak-e English?”
Instead of bowing like I should, I faced him straight on. “As a matter of fact, lieutenant,” I said, careful to pronounce each word correctly, “I am fluent in English.”
He smiled broadly at the two soldiers next to him. “Holy shit! D’ju guys hear that? She speaks English like a damn school teacher.” The soldiers grinned at me expectantly.
“You from America or somethin’?” a stocky sergeant asked. He clutched a mug of beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.
“No, sergeant. I have never been to America. I just have a good ear for languages. My name is Ja-hee. I’m here to get your drink orders.”
“Fuckin’-a,” the sergeant said. “Good ear for languages, eh? We got ourselves a regular Margaret Mitchell juicy girl here. You ever write a book like Gone with the Wind?”
The other soldiers laughed at the sergeant’s joke. A man in civilian clothes who had been sitting alone at a table by the window came over and joined the group. I hadn’t noticed him when I came into the bar. His left arm was missing. “What’s going on, men? Who’s the new girl?”
“Name’s Ja-hee, Colonel,” the lieutenant said, still clinging to my waist. “Says she’s good with languages. She talks like a goddamn English professor, even though she’s never been to America.”
I was surprised the man was a colonel. He looked young for that rank. He inserted himself between me and the lieutenant. “Where’d you learn to speak English?”
I looked back at four sets of eyes eagerly awaiting my answer. It was a careless thing what I did next, but I wanted them to know I wasn’t like the other girls there. So I said, “I was a translator for the government for four years. I worked on important contracts, statements and speeches. In fact, in 1948, I helped translate into English the declaration that established the Republic of South Korea, the country you now occupy. Now, what can I get you men to drink?”
The soldiers looked at each other wide-eyed for several seconds, then burst into laughter. The sergeant knocked over his beer and dropped his cigarette on the floor. The lieutenant almost fell down. Everyone in the Hometown Cat Club stared at me.
“Where’d you get this one, Al?” sputtered the lieutenant. “She’s good!”
The Colonel pushed himself further between me and the others. He stood inches from me. “Come join me at my table,” he said.
I bowed my head. I noticed the Colonel was wearing polished shoes tied tightly and my ianfu instincts kicked in. Be careful, I said to myself. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I have to help at the bar.”
The Colonel said, “Don’t worry, Al won’t mind. Get these men what they want and put it on my tab. Then come sit with me.” He went to his table.
After the soldiers stopped laughing, I took their drink orders and gave them to Alan. I told him the Colonel asked me to sit with him.
“Do as he says,” Alan replied.
I brought the soldiers their drinks, then went to the Colonel’s table next to the big, dirty window. He told me to sit with him for a while.
The Colonel was tall and trim. His eyes were the blue-green of jade and his hair the smooth, dark brown of polished rosewood. He wore pressed khaki slacks and a white safari shirt. The empty sleeve, where his left arm had been, was neatly pinned to the front of his shirt. He was well tanned.
He told me his name was Colonel Frank Crawford. He had a light Southern acc
ent. He asked what my family name was and I told him.
“Anayhesao, Hong, Ja-hee,” he said. He continued in Korean, “What brings you to the Hometown Cat Club?”
I kept the conversation in Korean. “I’ve come here to work. It’s difficult to find work in Korea right now.”
“What will you do here?”
“I’m helping Mr. Smith at the bar and with his chores.”
“You won’t make it just doing chores,” the Colonel said, switching to English. “You’ll have to be a juicy girl like the rest.”
“I’m a very hard worker,” I replied.
“It doesn’t matter. There aren’t enough hours in the day to earn what you need. Everyone who starts like you is forced to be a juicy girl.”
I did some quick math in my head and realized the Colonel was right. At fifty cents per hour, I would earn less than ten dollars per day. I was already in debt for the first month’s rent, my blue dress, and for the food that Soo-bo and I had for lunch. I would never be able to catch up.
The Colonel raised a brown eyebrow. He asked me if it was true what I said about being a translator before the war. “Your English is certainly good enough,” he said.
I knew I had to be careful what I told the Colonel. As a senior military officer, he would know the names of people that I would have worked with. I told him no, that I was only making a joke.
The Colonel looked out the window and said, “I’ve seen a lot of Korea over the past several years. It’s a beautiful country, although it’s hard to see anything through this filthy window. Where are you from?”
“I’m from the North. I escaped to the South after World War II.”
“Do you have family there?”
“No, sir. They were killed by the Japanese.”
The Colonel took a sip from his glass and held it in his hand. He was drinking what looked like bourbon. “I’m sorry to hear that. If it wasn’t for the damn communists, we would have the entire peninsula on the right track.”
“You mean we would all be capitalists under the American system,” I said.
Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story Page 17
