Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story

by William Andrews

  As a Korean, I’m willing to do what I can for the country where I was born. As an American, naturally I want to help keep my country great. I guess what I’m saying is that I want to make both of my countries proud—the one that gave me life and the one that gave me a family—because I’m proud to be a child of both.

  As the cab drives through Itaewon, I reach inside my backpack and feel the envelopes that I’ve been carrying since I left home. Inside one is twenty thousand dollars cash. Inside the other, is ten thousand.

  I’m anxious to get to my meeting. In spite of the fourteen-hour flight, I’m not tired. I’m excited to see Mrs. Hong and tell her that I’m there to keep my promise to her. But I have to admit that all the secrecy about this meeting has me more than a little nervous.

  *

  The cab pulls up to a glass building. I see the open space for the Han River a few blocks away. I pay the cab driver and roll my suitcase into the lobby. I give the receptionist the name of the man I’m supposed to meet. She tells me to wait. I take a seat in one of the lobby’s Le Corbusier chairs. Ten minutes later, a short man in a dark suit with eyes to match, greets me. “I am Mr. Choi,” he says with a slight bow. He doesn’t extend his hand.

  I bow respectfully and in Korean, I introduce myself.

  In Korean Mr. Choi says, “Shall we go for a walk?”

  I assumed we’d meet in Mr. Choi’s office. Then I remember Mr. Han saying that meetings between people from the North and South are done off the record. So I give my suitcase to the receptionist and follow Mr. Choi out to the street. He walks with his hands behind his back as if he’s out for a midday stroll. I start to talk, but he quickly cuts me off with a wave.

  “Let us walk a little before we talk,” he says.

  We walk toward the Han River. White clouds roll across the sky. The humidity is low and the temperature is comfortably warm. We reach a small park and sit on a bench facing the river. Mr. Choi folds his hands in front of him and lifts an eyebrow. “This is a generous thing you are doing for Mrs. Hong,” he says.

  “She’s my grandmother. I made a promise to her.”

  “Yes, we know about Mrs. Hong. She was an ianfu for the Japanese, and she was sympathetic to the communists. She even worked for them. She also worked in a kijichon after the Korean War. She has a thick file. She has had—how should I say?—a questionable past.”

  Excuse me? Questionable past? I turn toward Mr. Choi, ready to tell him what my Korean grandmother did for her country. I catch myself before I do. Perhaps he knows. But, like a typical Korean, he’s more concerned about his country’s honor than the rights of an individual.

  I look at the river and nod. “Yes, Mr. Choi, I know all that about Mrs. Hong. She’s had a tough life.”

  “Why, Ms. Carlson? Why would you spend so much of your money to do this thing?”

  I meet his eyes. “Because she’s my grandmother,” I say speaking Korean. “I have a duty to her.”

  Mr. Choi half smiles. “You speak Korean well. Korean-American adoptees rarely learn our language. So, do you have the money?”

  I reach in my pocket and give him the envelope with twenty thousand dollars in it. He thumbs through the bills and is satisfied that it’s all there.

  “It is arranged for tomorrow,” he says, tucking the envelope inside his suit coat. “You will need another ten thousand dollars for the North Koreans.”

  “I have it,” I say. “So what’s next?”

  He gives me a slip of paper with the address of a bus station in the Shinchon area of Seoul. He tells me I should take Mrs. Hong there tomorrow morning before 8:30AM. He says we have to find the bus to Munsan. It’s not an official bus, he says, so I won’t need a ticket. There, we’ll meet a man named Mr. Ryu who’ll collect the fee for the North Koreans. The bus will take us to the American military base outside the Demilitarized Zone. The Americans will do an inspection. Then, they’ll take us to Panmunjom where our meeting will take place.

  Mr. Choi puts on a serious look. “Ms. Carlson, do exactly as you are told. Panmunjom is not a place to be taken lightly.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  Mr. Choi pushes himself off the bench and heads back to the government building as if I’m not there. I walk behind him in silence. When we get there, he goes to his office without saying goodbye. I grab my suitcase, go outside and hail a cab. I give the driver the address for Mrs. Hong’s apartment.

  *

  It’s late afternoon when we pull up to the eight-story apartment building. I take my backpack and suitcase and climb out of the cab. As I walk up to Mrs. Hong’s building, I’m surprised at how nervous I am.

  I press the number 627 on the intercom and wait. There’s no answer. I press it again. Finally, a voice comes over the intercom and says something in Korean. I can’t tell if it’s Mrs. Hong.

  “This is Anna Carlson. I’m looking for Mrs. Hong.”

  There’s a pause. Then, “Ja-young. How nice of you to pay a visit. You may come in.” The security door buzzes and I walk through. I take the elevator to the sixth floor and go to Mrs. Hong’s apartment. I knock and the door opens.

  It’s only been a year since I saw her last, but she looks several years older. Her hair is grayer and the wrinkles on her face are deeper than they were before. Her head shakes slightly with what looks like the early onset of Parkinson’s disease. She doesn’t stand as straight as she did, but her eyes are still bright.

  “Anyahaseyo,” I say with a proper bow.

  “Anyahaseyo, Ja-young,” she replies.

  “It’s very good to see you,” I say in Korean.

  “Your Korean is very good,” she says, keeping the conversation in Korean. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

  “I’ve been told I have a good ear for languages,” I say.

  My Korean grandmother smiles and tells me to come in. I take off my shoes and follow her to the low table in front of the window. A fresh mugunghwa blossom floats in a bowl on the sill. The frame that holds the photographs of Mrs. Hong’s family and my birthmother still sits on the table. And of course, the room smells of kimchi. I can’t believe I’m back here in Mrs. Hong’s apartment. It’s surreal.

  I take a seat at the table and put my backpack on the floor. Mrs. Hong leans in to the table. “Ja-young, do you have the comb?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “It’s safe at home.”

  “And how do you feel about having it?”

  I sigh. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”

  Mrs. Hong sits up straight. “Yes,” she says, “I know.”

  After a moment, I say, “I brought you something.” I reach inside my backpack and pull out the photo album that I made a year earlier. “I thought you’d like to have this. I made it for my birthmother. I’ve added pictures from my senior year in college. I didn’t have a chance to tell you much about myself last year.”

  Mrs. Hong bites her lower lip. “I am honored,” she says, taking the album as if it were a treasure. “I want you to tell me everything about each photograph.”

  Since Mother died and I had to move back home, I haven’t had anyone to share my life with. Dad has his own issues and anyway he’s my Dad if you know what I mean. All my girlfriends want to talk about is men and sex. And even my adopted friends don’t understand how I feel about being Korean. But now I have Mrs. Hong, my Korean grandmother who’s been through so much. I know I can talk to her about anything.

  So I pull my chair next to her and open the photo album. We go through it together, page by page, like best friends catching up after a long time apart. We talk in both English and Korean. She listens carefully as I tell the story behind each photo. She asks questions and nods thoughtfully at my answers. We laugh a lot.

  Two hours later, we close the photo album and I pick up Mrs. Hong’s photos from the table and study them. “I’d like a copy of these, if it isn’t too much to ask. I want to know more about them. And your grandparents and aunts and uncles, too.”

 
; “Of course,” Mrs. Hong answers. “They are your family, too. It is important that you know.”

  “But not tonight,” I say, setting the photos down. “I’ll be in Seoul for five days. We’ll have plenty of time to talk. I need to go to my hotel and rest. You should rest, too. We’ll have to get going early tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Hong raises an eyebrow. “Tomorrow?”

  I pick up the bowl with the mugunghwa and stare at the purple blossom with the yellow pistil in the center. I say, “Last year, I promised I’d help you meet your sister. I’m here to keep that promise.”

  Her eyes soften and her mouth opens a bit. “Soo-hee? Do you know something about my onni?”

  “Yes. She’s living in Pyongyang. She never married or had any children. After the Korean War, she became a nurse.”

  “That sounds like her,” Mrs. Hong says. “What else can you tell me?”

  I set the mugunghwa blossom on the table. “Well ma’am, you can find out for yourself. You and I are going to Panmunjom tomorrow, where you’ll meet her. It won’t be a long meeting—less than an hour.”

  She stays silent for a long time and her head shakes a little. I can almost see the images of her sister in her mind as she takes in what I just said. Her eyes turn watery. She gazes at the photographs and says, “Since I discovered that Soo-hee was alive, I have dreamed of this. But I never let myself believe it would happen.”

  She looks from the photos and smiles at me. “Tonight will be a very long night.”

  F ORTY-EIGHT

  The next morning I get up before my alarm goes off and take a cab to Mrs. Hong’s building. Before I can press 627 on the intercom, the security door buzzes open. I take the elevator to the sixth floor and go to Mrs. Hong’s apartment. Her door is open when I get there, and I go in.

  She’s standing in the middle of the room facing me. She’s wearing her yellow hanbok, with long, loose sleeves. She has braided her hair and pinned it back with a beautiful ebony binyeo. She is stunning.

  I greet her with a bow. “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “I am,” she replies.

  I pick up her travel bag and she takes my arm. We walk out to the cab. I help her in and climb in the other side. I give the driver the bus station address. We pull onto the street and make our way across the Han River and into the Shinchon area of Seoul. The streets are steep and all around are green hills, some topped with granite cliffs. The flat spaces between the hills are crammed with apartment buildings. Shinchon is alive with energy. We make our way through narrow streets and arrive at a bus terminal. I pay the cab driver and then help Mrs. Hong. She holds my arm as we walk through the bus station filled with college students carrying suitcases and backpacks. The students stare at Mrs. Hong in her hanbok. She keeps her eyes forward.

  We find the bus to Munsan. Before I can help Mrs. Hong aboard, a short man in a black suit comes up to us. “I am Mr. Ryu,” he says from underneath twitchy eyebrows. “Who are you?”

  I tell him and he checks us off a list. “Do you have the fee?” he asks.

  I give him the envelope with ten thousand dollars inside. He does a quick count and lets us on the bus. We take seats near the front. The bus is less than half-full of people waiting silently.

  “Are you comfortable?” I ask Mrs. Hong.

  Her head shakes a little and I think she’s saying ‘no’. Instead, she says, “I am a little nervous.”

  Yeah, I’m nervous too, although for a different reason. I’m not sure if Soo-hee will be in Panmunjom when we get there. It seems like this entire arrangement was a little too easy, a little too dependent on money. I’m worried that I’ve been scammed.

  After a few minutes, an overweight bus driver in a white shirt and black cap climbs aboard and starts the bus. We pull away and Mr. Ryu takes a seat in the front row. The bus grinds through its gears and we head north. Soon, we’re out of the city. Rice paddies in amazing geometric patterns cover the hills. The morning sun makes diamonds in the paddy water. Farmers in straw hats bend over rice stalks. A crane stands like a statue at the edge of an irrigation pond.

  Mrs. Hong sits straight with her hands in her lap. She looks out the window. Her reflection doesn’t show her wrinkles and scars and she looks like a much younger woman. Her head shakes again, as if she approves of what she sees outside.

  The countryside changes from fields to forest. We pass through the city of Munsan and cross the Imjin River. I remember reading in my history class about the battle that took place here in 1592. The Japanese army defeated the Korean cavalry, forcing King Seonjo to seek an alliance with the Chinese. The battle of Imjin created a divided Korea. And now, over 400 years later, it’s still divided. How ironic.

  A few miles later, we come to a gate and a high fence surrounded by razor wire. The sign over the gate reads ‘Camp Bonifas – In Front of Them All.’ Behind the fence are green military buildings and a huge tank with its gun facing the gate. An enormous American flag flies atop a tall flagpole. An American soldier holding some kind of assault rifle raises his hand. The bus stops and the soldier stands in front of it with his rifle at his chest. Another soldier walks around the bus with some devise that lets him see underneath.

  An American sergeant sporting a crew cut, and a Republic of Korea soldier in a white helmet come through the gate and get on our bus. The American sergeant comes down the aisle asking to see everyone’s papers. My heart beats faster when he looks at my passport and says, “You’re an American?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. “I’m here with my Korean grandmother. She’s meeting her sister.” I notice the large, black pistol on his hip.

  He points at Mrs. Hong. “Why’s she dressed like that?”

  I’m flustered and only manage a shrug. The sergeant glares at me over the top of my passport. “I don’t like it,” he says. “This is the most dangerous place on earth. We don’t allow just anyone through here. And I don’t like the way she’s dressed. Both of you need to go back.”

  Then, someone inside me takes over and I’m not flustered anymore. I stand to face the sergeant. “Sir,” I say, “I’m here to help my grandmother. I won’t cause any trouble. She’s dressed like this because it’s what Korean women wear on special occasions. Surely you and the American government don’t want to stop a meeting between two sisters who haven’t seen each other in over sixty years. Do you, sergeant?”

  I return the sergeant’s stare. After a few seconds, he closes my passport and gives it back to me. “Be sure you follow the rules,” he orders. He goes back to the front of the bus and I take my seat next to Mrs. Hong. She nods at me.

  The ROK soldier steps forward and talks to the passengers in Korean. He tells us the bus will take us to Panmunjom where there will be North Korean soldiers. He tells us to stay together and not make any gestures or even make eye contact with them. He says an ROK soldier will take us inside a building where our meetings will take place.

  The ROK soldier and the American sergeant get off the bus. The soldier with the rifle in front of the bus steps aside and we drive on toward Panmunjom. The road goes past open fields and through another high fence with razor wire on top. We pass through a security gate and come to a row of pale blue, one-story barracks. Between each barracks is a ROK soldier at the taekwondo ready position. At the other end of the barracks, North Korean soldiers stand holding rifles to their chests. Mr. Ryu tells us to get off the bus and go inside the building in front of us. “Do not say anything until you are inside,” he says, firmly.

  We let the other passengers go ahead of us and then follow them outside. The sun makes me squint. As a ROK soldier hurries me to the door, I catch a glimpse of a North Korean soldier at the other end of the barracks. He looks at me with hate-filled eyes.

  We enter a long, plain room with metal tables and chairs. There are windows all around and a door at the opposite end. I help Mrs. Hong into a chair and sit next to her. As we wait, the North Korean soldier I saw outside peers through a window at us. I turn away before
our eyes meet again.

  One-by-one, people come in through the door at the far end and North Korean and South Korean loved ones meet again. They bow, hug, cry a little, and settle in to tell each other about their lives.

  Mrs. Hong and I wait five minutes, then ten. I’m a basket case. There must have been a mistake—or maybe they've scammed me. I look at Mrs. Hong. She has her hands in her lap, watching the door at the far end of the room. Her head no longer shakes.

  We wait another five minutes. I’m about to ask Mr. Ryu where Soo-hee is when the door at the end of the room opens. Sunlight pours through and an old woman steps in. Her back is bent and she leans heavily on a cane. She’s wearing cheap gray slacks and a blue sweater over a white blouse. Deep wrinkles line her face and her left eye is white with cataract. She searches the room with her good eye.

  Mrs. Hong slowly stands and steps to the middle of the room. In her hanbok, she moves with dignity and grace. Soo-hee sees her and comes to her. They stand apart, looking at each other for several seconds. Then, Soo-hee raises her hand and her sister reaches out and tenderly takes it. They clasp each other’s fingers making a single fist, and do the same with their other hands. As everyone in the room goes quiet, the sisters step close to each other, holding each other’s gaze. Without a word, they turn around each other in a slow dance and nod their approval.

  *

  I see Ja-hee and Soo-hee sitting in front of their home in the hills outside of Sinuiju playing yut. From the kitchen window, their mother looks on with a smile. Their father leans against the front door, arms crossed, watching his girls with obvious pride.

  Ja-hee tosses the yut sticks in the air and all four land with the flat side down. She has tossed a mo, the highest possible score, and has won the game. She giggles with delight. Soo-hee pretends to be upset that she has lost. Ja-hee sidles up to her onni and Soo-hee puts an arm around her. “You are lucky at yut, little sister,” Soo-hee says. “You are lucky in everything. I think, someday, you will be an empress.”