by Hyeonseo Lee
My friend was anxious to cross over with me as soon as possible. The river was frozen solid. Naively, I expected my mother to give her consent. She always encouraged me in everything I did. But when I asked her she became very stern.
‘Absolutely not.’
I was put out. ‘No one’ll know.’
‘Do not ever, ever cross the river,’ she said. ‘It’s a serious crime.’
‘Min-ho goes.’
‘He’s too young to be punished. Anyway, he’s a boy and a boy needs to learn how to stand on his own two feet. You’re a woman now. You’ll be eighteen next month.’
My spirits sank. I must have been the only teenager in the world who didn’t want to be eighteen.
‘I’m not eighteen yet.’
My mother told me that made no difference. Women had to be more careful than men in their attitude to everything in life. There was no persuading her about this. She said only starving parents would agree to let a daughter go to China. I had no reason or excuse to do something so dangerous.
‘Well, one day I’m going,’ I said, trying to have the last word.
‘You will not,’ she said, almost in a shout. ‘Don’t you ever leave our country. Do you understand?’
As if to mollify me, a day or two later she came home with a very stylish pair of shoes for me. ‘I could have bought seventy kilos of rice for what I paid for those,’ she said. She so wanted me to be gracious, and grateful, but could not help spoiling me.
I understood why she was refusing me, but I couldn’t stop longing to go. I wanted to see something of the world, and for me China was the world. Most of all, I wanted to see if what I had been watching on television was real.
Lying on my mat, I thought about that time all those years ago in Anju when I’d run out into a thunderstorm to wait for the terrifying lady in black to come down with the rain. I thought of the day I’d pushed my way through that crowd beneath the bridge to see something a seven-year-old girl should never have seen, a man hanging by the neck. My curiosity had always been greater than my fear – not a good trait to have in North Korea, where fear keeps your senses sharp and helps you stay alive. Part of me knew very well that crossing into China was highly risky. It could have serious consequences, and not just for me.
But I was still seventeen. And in a few months, I would be starting college. After that, there would not be another chance.
Now was the perfect time.
Chapter 18
Over the ice
The Yalu River in front of our house was just eleven yards wide and not deep – waist height for an adult in the middle. Before people started fleeing North Korea during the famine, the border wasn’t strictly controlled. By my late teens, however, it had become heavily guarded. River life had all but disappeared. Any activity along the bank invited intense suspicion. The kids now played elsewhere. Border guards had started closely watching the women who climbed down the bank to fetch water and wash clothes, in case they were receiving contraband or waiting for a moment to cross. By that time the women who actually were trading had come to discreet understandings with the guards, and were paying them off. The river ran more quietly than before, as if it were depressed by its role as a prison fence.
Not long after we had moved to the river, the guard whose beat it was along the fifty yards outside our house came to befriend us. He would regularly drop by for a chat and my mother would give him something to eat and drink. His name was Ri Chang-ho. He was six years older than me, tall, and very handsome, like the soldier in the propaganda posters. In fact most of the border guards were good-looking, chosen to represent our country to the foreigners on the Chinese side. Their songbun had to be from the loyal class. These young men were privileged, but they were often lonely and far from home.
Chang-ho was good-natured. Military duty didn’t suit him. He didn’t like being ordered about, and was frequently assigned menial duties as punishment for something or other. When they were off duty, border guards had to remain on base, but he would slip out, and often came to our house. He was charming, but I sometimes found him a little simple. He once told me that as part of his training, he had been shown a documentary film about weaponry.
‘We have the most amazing weapons, Min-young.’ His voice was excited, like a little boy’s. ‘We can beat South Korea. And the Yankees. I can’t wait till we’re at war. It’ll be over in no time.’
I knew that I could trust Chang-ho. On a cold night in spring the previous year, when I was sixteen, I was returning home around midnight from a friend’s house. It was late for a girl to be out alone. As I approached my house, I made out his silhouette sitting at the side of the road.
‘What are you doing there?’ I was surprised.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘For you. I was worried.’
He was like the big brother I never had. I was too naive to recognize his interest in me. He took a letter from his coat and asked me to deliver it to his mother in Hamhung. He knew I was about to make a train journey there to visit Aunt Pretty.
‘Don’t open it,’ he said, with an odd, private smile.
In Hamhung, I found the address and delivered the letter to his mother, and she read it in front of me. She, too, gave me an odd smile.
‘Do you know what it says?’ she asked.
‘He said it was private.’
She seemed to find this amusing, and treated me very affectionately, giving me snacks and juice bought from a dollar store. She was an attractive woman. I could see where Chang-ho got his looks.
When I got back to Hyesan Chang-ho told me with a broad smile what he’d written in the letter – ‘Mother, I wish to marry this girl so please treat her well.’
I had not seen that coming. I glared at him in shock, and his face fell.
‘I’m too young to marry,’ I said flatly, taking a step back from him.
I felt immediately sorry for him. It was a declaration of love I could have handled a lot more sensitively. To his great credit, he took the rebuff in his stride, which made me like him even more. We remained friends, and he continued dropping by the house.
He was still patrolling the border the following year as I plotted my sneak visit to China. By now, my school friend had given up waiting for me to convince my mother, and had gone across on her own. This had disappointed me, but it made me more determined than ever to go, even if it meant going alone. The more I thought about it, the more daring my plan became. Why slip across just for a few hours? Why not visit my father’s relatives in Shenyang? It was a longer journey, but perhaps Mr Ahn or Mr Chang would take me. I’d still be back home within four or five days. I decided I’d ask Mr Ahn. He was friendlier than Mr Chang.
I started preparing the way. I told Min-ho that if I didn’t come home one evening it was because I had crossed the border to visit Mr Ahn and his wife. We could see their small house among the trees in Changbai from our riverbank. Min-ho went quiet when I said this. I could see he wasn’t happy with the idea. He was ten years old now, almost old enough to feel protective of me.
The date I chose was in the second week of December. I was resolved to leave after dinner. There was little I could take. I had no Chinese currency, and I could hardly let my mother see me leave the house with a bag of spare clothes.
That evening my mother was cooking an unusually elaborate meal.
‘Why’ve you made so much food?’ I said.
She had prepared much more than we normally ate. The kitchen was warm and smelled wonderful, of spicy stew and marinated pan-fried meat. She had even made bread in the steam pot. Her back was towards me as she stirred the pan.
‘I just want to give you both a nice meal,’ she said simply.
My heart missed a beat. I don’t think she’d guessed what I was about to do, yet it felt like a farewell supper. That evening I ate as much as I could. After the bowls were cleared, I put on my coat, as if it had just occurred to me to go out.
‘Where are you going at this time?’ she asked.
‘Just to a friend’s house,’ I said, without looking at her. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours.’
She put on her own coat and walked me out to the front gate holding a kerosene lamp.
‘Don’t stay out long. Come home quickly.’
She smiled at me.
Over the years to come, I could never shake the memory of that moment and the look on her face in the glow of the lamp. I saw love in her eyes. Her face showed complete trust in me.
I turned away guiltily.
I heard the gate clang shut behind me. This is it. My heart began to pound. It was a clear night, and so cold the air burned my nose and turned my breath to plumes of vapour. I tightened my scarf, and zipped my padded coat up to my chin. I stood still for a moment and listened. Dead silence. Not even a breeze to stir the trees. There was no one about. I looked up, and the vault of the sky was lit with stars.
I began to walk. My footsteps seemed very loud. Eventually, there, about ten yards ahead, I could make out the figure of Chang-ho in his long coat, patrolling the riverbank with his rifle on his back. Luckily, he was alone.
There was just enough light to see by. The river beside me was a winding road of ice – pale and translucent, as if it were absorbing the starlight.
I called Chang-ho’s name in a low voice. He turned and waved, and switched on his flashlight.
Before he could say a word I said: ‘I’m crossing over to visit my relatives.’
I saw his eyebrows shoot up. I’d never mentioned relatives to him before. He thought about this, and shook his head slowly.
‘No,’ he said dubiously. ‘Too dangerous.’ His mouth turned down with concern. ‘You could get into big trouble. And how would you get to where your relatives live? You don’t speak Chinese. And you’re alone.’
‘I know people just there who’ll help.’ I nodded in the direction of Mr Ahn’s house. He stared at me for several seconds. It was as if he was seeing a different person.
‘All right,’ he said slowly. ‘If you’re sure.’ He was extremely reluctant about this. ‘Don’t be longer than a couple of hours.’
‘I’m hardly going to be long if I’m wearing these,’ I said, pointing to my feet. He shone his flashlight onto my expensive new shoes, gleaming in the beam. I’d worn them thinking they would help me blend in on the other side.
Suddenly we heard a twig snap underfoot on the other bank and our heads turned. A dark outline of a figure was lurking on the other bank, obviously a Chinese smuggler waiting for a contact to exchange goods.
‘Hey,’ Chang-ho called over to him. The figure looked as if he was about to run away, so he must have been surprised when Chang-ho’s next words were: ‘Would you help this lady across and take her to where she needs to go?’
There was a pause. Then a faint voice called back. ‘Sure.’
It was just a few slippery steps. I’d be across in under a minute.
For the first time I was scared.
If any of the other guards saw me they’d have no hesitation in dragging me back, even from the Chinese bank, where they were not supposed to tread. This was the first time I had ever done something so flagrantly, criminally illegal.
I didn’t feel guilt now – just a rushing, hair-raising danger.
I stepped onto the ice, one foot then the next, wobbling and sliding in the new shoes. Ahead of me the Chinese stranger had emerged from the shadows of the trees to help me, holding out his arm.
My mother would be fine, I told myself. Later tonight Min-ho would tell her where I’d gone. By the time I returned she’d have forgotten her anger. I’d only be away for a few days. I was so sure of this that I didn’t even look back.
So why did I get the feeling that my life was about to change for ever?
PART TWO
To the Heart of the Dragon
Chapter 19
A visit to Mr Ahn
The door opened, casting a wedge of yellow light across the frozen ground.
‘Good evening, Mr Ahn,’ I said, bowing my head.
Mr Ahn’s tall figure filled the doorway. He frowned. It took him a moment to recognize me.
‘Hello there.’ He was most surprised. ‘Min-young, isn’t it?’
My teeth were chattering now, and I was regretting my fashionable new shoes. My toes were already swollen and numb. He invited me in. He was a large man with a few strands of hair ribbed across the top of a bald head, and enormous bulging eyes. A face like a jolly fat fish, was Min-ho’s joke. My mother knew him through connections of my father’s among the border guards. They said he was the nicest and the most trustworthy of the Chinese traders. I much preferred him to Mr Chang, his grouchy next-door neighbour, my mother’s other occasional business partner.
The interior of Mr Ahn’s house was warm and inviting. He and his wife lived with their daughter, who was my age, and their son, who was Min-ho’s age. They were Korean-Chinese, and their accent more sing-song than mine. Seeing them together around the low table on the floor, I knew this was a close-knit, loving family. Mrs Ahn was very small and slight compared with her husband, with quick, nervous movements, like a bird’s. After she had given me hot tea and they’d asked about Min-ho, whom they liked very much, they looked at me expectantly. What on earth was I doing here?
I explained that I wanted to visit my relatives in Shenyang for a few days.
‘I was wondering if I could spend the night … and if you could help me get there tomorrow. I don’t have any money. My relatives will pay you back.’ I lowered my eyes. I had not thought this through. It had been years since I’d seen my relatives from Shenyang. I felt my face redden. ‘Or if they don’t, my mother will, when I get back.’
Mr Ahn frowned again and scratched the back of his neck. He must have known then that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. After a while he said: ‘Do you know how far it is to Shenyang?’
I had only the vaguest notion of this city. I thought it was nearby, maybe an hour away on the bus.
‘It’s an eight-hour journey,’ he said, watching his words sink in. ‘And the bus is dangerous because you don’t have ID and you don’t speak Mandarin. There’s a police checkpoint along the way.’
This was another serious matter I had not fully considered – the possibility of getting caught. Any North Koreans found illegally in China were handed over to the Bowibu.
‘It’s all right.’ The stricken look on my face amused him. ‘I can take you, if you really want to go. But we’ll have to get there in a taxi.’
I realize now what an extraordinary imposition I was making on him and what a kindness he was doing me. I thanked him, but he held up his palm. He’d been trading with my mother for years, he said. He valued her custom and trusted her.
In the morning, after we’d eaten breakfast, Mrs Ahn began cooking a huge pot of nooroongji. This is the rice at the bottom of the pot that gets a little burned and is crisp on the outside.
‘I make this for the North Korean visitors,’ she said. ‘They stop by here at night. Some of them we know. Others are strangers. It happens all the time. If I make this, it’s easy just to add some water and heat it up.’
She told me about two strangers who had knocked on the door a year ago. They were emaciated and very weak. They ate a whole potful, enough for twenty people. ‘It was awful to watch. They were like wild animals afraid the food would be taken from them. I knew they were eating too quickly. They had to rush outside and puke it all up.’
I could see that the Ahns were not rich. Their home was not like the ones I had seen in the Chinese TV dramas. They had no servants, or a microwave, or a bathroom with gold taps. In fact, it wasn’t as nice as our house. But they had plenty of food.
That morning, Mr Ahn showed me Changbai. It felt most odd to be walking among buildings I’d been seeing all my life from the other side of the river, as if I’d passed through a mirror. It was a small town, with pharmacies, window
displays filled with ladies’ shoes of many styles; cosmetics shops, and food everywhere – in cheap canteens, in supermarkets; in colourful packages displayed in kiosks; in the hands of school kids with spiky hair, eating in the street.
Mr Ahn gave me cash to buy some warm winter half-boots and a light-green Chinese-style padded winter coat. These would make me look more Chinese. I had already cut my hair in the style that was fashionable then for girls in China – like men’s, long at the front and short at the back.
The next morning we set off as the sky was lightening. Mr Ahn sat next to me in the back of a new taxi car. This in itself was a thrill. I had seldom been in a civilian car. This one had a sound system for the radio. The road ran for a short distance along the river, the border itself. I could not take my eyes from the view of Hyesan. It had snowed heavily overnight, giving the houses domed roofs, like white mushrooms. I could see the Victorious Battle of Pochonbo Memorial in the park, its statues wearing wigs of ice, and my elementary school. The city seemed lost in time. Every building was weathered and grey. Only the snow-clad mountains in the background looked new – brilliant against the neon-blue tint of the dawn.
Two North Korean guards in long coats were patrolling the path along the far bank, watching the women, padded and muffled against the cold, who had climbed down to the river and made holes in the ice to fill their pails.
Rabbit-fur for the soldiers who keep us safe; scrap iron for their guns, copper for their bullets.
