by Hyeonseo Lee
‘I told them she was paying me big money, so I’ll have to give them something when I go back.’ Min-ho hesitated, and I saw worry in his eyes. ‘The funny thing was, while we were talking, more guards appeared. They were relieving the guards on duty further up the path. Suddenly, there were nine of them who’d stopped to talk. Some of them tried to persuade me not to cross with this woman. They trusted me, but they didn’t know who she was. Leave her behind, they said. So we got delayed a bit while I argued with them.’
I told him he should have waited until they’d gone.
‘It was getting light and I didn’t want to run into a Chinese patrol on the other side. Anyway, the guys all know me. It’s not a problem. I just said goodbye and crossed.’
The group of nine guards watched as he took my mother’s hand and waded waist-deep with her through the water.
The irony was all too much. I started giggling and couldn’t stop. The border crossing is the most dangerous moment for anyone attempting to escape. But my brother and mother had been waved off by every armed border guard along that stretch of the river.
Next thing I knew all three of us were weeping with laughter.
As we went down in the elevator the next morning I told my mother and Min-ho not to speak too loudly at breakfast. I would say something to them in Mandarin from time to time. Otherwise, we’d keep quiet, and not draw attention by speaking Korean. I was worried that Min-ho stood out. He was the youngest person in the hotel. The other guests were middle-aged or elderly.
After breakfast, we ventured out, disciplining ourselves to say as little as possible. Even though many people in Changbai spoke Korean as a first language, strong North Korean accents would be conspicuous. We went shopping at a market so that I could show them the wealth of goods on display. Then I took them to lunch at an upmarket Korean restaurant. I’d figured, again, that this was the last place anyone would expect to spot escaped North Koreans. But I also wanted to treat them. Soon Min-ho would be leaving us, and I wanted us all to have a wonderful memory of our last time together.
Back in the hotel room, Min-ho turned his cellphone on. It rang straight away. It was Yoon-ji.
She was shouting the moment he answered. My mother and I could hear every word. ‘Where are you? Who’s the bitch you were with?’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you know what’s happening?’
‘Calm down. What’s the matter?’
‘Everyone is going crazy here. The senior guard who let you across is here at the house. He’s in a panic.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone informed his commander that you’d gone across with a woman. The commander says if you come back with her right now, you’ll be all right. But if you come back alone, you’ll be in deep trouble. And so will the guard, for letting you cross. They’ll accuse you of human trafficking.’ Min-ho’s eyes bulged in disbelief. ‘The guard is here. He’s begging me to make you come. Right now,’ she said. ‘And who’s this bloody woman you crossed with?’
‘She’s visiting relatives,’ Min-ho sounded evasive, sheepish.
‘Well why didn’t you just take her across and come back?’
‘She’s paying me a big fee.’
‘We’ve got money. Why take such a risk for this bitch?’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Bring her back,’ she shouted.
‘I’ll call you later.’
He hung up and collapsed onto the bed with his hands over his face.
My mother and I had heard everything.
Min-ho was in an impossible dilemma, the worst of his life. He had to go back but couldn’t return with my mother – or they’d ask what she was doing in China. The answer could only be to meet me. If he went back alone, he’d be accused of human trafficking and interrogated. The Bowibu would break him and quickly get to the truth – that he was helping his mother to defect. He’d face political prison, a zone of no return. His life would be over.
I went to the window and my forehead hit the glass with a thump. Not in any of the disaster scenarios I’d envisaged had I imagined a complication such as this. For several minutes we said nothing, sunk in our own thoughts.
I broke the silence.
‘Min-ho, if you go back, you’ll be in terrible trouble,’ I said, speaking slowly and evenly.
Min-ho looked as if he’d been cast in wax. My mother said nothing.
‘If you both go back, it’ll be worse. Omma can’t go back with you. That leaves us two choices. We can hope that your connections with the guards will get you out of this …’ I was talking to him but he made no sign that he was hearing me. ‘The other choice … is don’t go back.’
My words filled the room.
‘Your friend the guard will be finished. I’m very sorry about him. But we’re your family. Min-ho, you can’t go back. You just can’t. It’ll be so dangerous. You have to come with us. I hadn’t planned for this, but we’ll figure it out, somehow.’
I knew there was no choice, but I had to let him decide. Both options were extremely risky. Min-ho would have to travel across China as an illegal. Also, I had budgeted for my mother and for the broker’s fee, but didn’t think I had enough money for him, too. I had no confidence we could all make it. But if he really thought he could go back, brazen it out, and bribe his way out of the problem, it had to be his own decision.
Min-ho was in shock.
‘I can’t go back.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘We all know that.’
I took his hand and my mother’s hand, and held them. ‘We’ll leave together. We’ll do the best we can.’
His phone rang. Yoon-ji again.
‘Are you on your way?’ she asked.
‘It’s going to take me one more day,’ he said quietly.
He was buying time to figure out how he was going to tell her. Her parents liked him and had connections that could help him. But if they thought he was running out on her, they also had the power to stop him getting far. The Bowibu were permitted to operate in China to track down escapers.
‘You’ve got to come back,’ she cried. We could hear her weeping.
She’d sensed he wasn’t going to come.
In the morning, we decided to leave Changbai as fast as possible. Min-ho was dreading turning on his phone. It rang within seconds. Yoon-ji was calling again. She was calmer now. She said she had a feeling that he wasn’t coming back. Her parents were in the room with her.
‘Tell me … the woman you’re with. Is she really a stranger? Or is she your mother? Just say the truth.’
‘She’s my mother,’ he said. ‘My sister came for her. That’s why I crossed.’
Her parents had figured it out. She started crying again.
‘Min-ho, please come back.’ She was begging him. ‘You left me a note but all the time you knew you were going for good. How could you leave me sleeping without saying goodbye?’
My mother clasped her hand to her mouth. This was breaking her heart.
Min-ho’s lip trembled. ‘Please believe me. I wanted to go back. I still do. But I can’t take Omma back. So how can I go back alone now? Check the money in the drawer. It’s all there. If I were going for good, would I leave it all there?’
‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘Just come back.’
‘Min-ho.’ A man’s voice, now. Stern. Yoon-ji’s father. ‘Please return right away. I’m begging you, for Yoon-ji.’
Min-ho didn’t answer. He was breathing deeply. The look on his face was one I remembered from when he was a little boy and wished something wasn’t happening to him. I took the phone from his hand.
‘This is Min-ho’s sister,’ I said, hearing the coolness in my voice. ‘We want him to go back; he wants to go back. Whatever he does now is dangerous. But please understand that returning now is the more dangerous option.’
‘I know it’s a serious problem,’ he said, ‘but we will do whatever we can, whatever the cost, to take care of this.’
‘Good. Thank you.
We will also try to think of a way,’ I said. ‘Let’s speak again tomorrow.’
I could hear Yoon-ji in the background crying almost hysterically. I ended the call. The scale of this disaster was clear. These two were in love.
I turned off the phone, and without expecting to, burst into tears. I was exhausted. I looked over at my mother, who had remained silent this whole time. I could only imagine the guilt she was feeling. She had been the rock of our lives, always able to solve any problem, fix any situation. Now, she could only watch as her children struggled with a calamity that had struck just a day after our reunion.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ Min-ho said.
My mother shot me a puzzled look. He closed the bathroom door. We heard him turn on the taps and flush the toilet. Then the shower came on with a hiss. My mother and I glanced at one another and then we looked down. We could hear him sobbing. It was agonizing to hear. He had nothing left but his body and the clothes on his back. His mother and his sister could do nothing. No words would be enough.
A few minutes later, he came out, dressed and towelling his hair dry. We pretended we hadn’t heard. He had regained some composure.
‘So, Nuna, what’s the plan?’ He’d called me older sister on the phone, but it was gratifying to hear it from him in person.
‘We’re leaving this town in under an hour.’
Chapter 44
Journey into night
I left Min-ho with my mother in the hotel room while I went to the coach station to buy tickets. Outside in the bustle of the town I seethed with nerves, as if everyone I passed was reaching for their phones to call the Bowibu. At the station, I realized what was unsettling me. There were police everywhere – Security Police in navy uniforms, People’s Armed Police in olive-green uniforms. What was going on?
When I asked for the tickets, the woman at the counter held out her hand. ‘Your ID and those of the other travellers.’
This was a surprise. ‘IDs?’
‘It’s National Day,’ she said flatly, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed.’
That explained the police. It was 1 October. Nor was it any ordinary National Day. This was 2009, the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China. There was always heightened vigilance on this date to prevent anything marring the celebrations. But the sixtieth was considered so propitious an anniversary that security was at maximum.
I gazed about in disbelief. Not only had I picked the worst possible night for my mother to cross the river, I’d picked the worst day in a decade to travel.
‘Min-ho, could you borrow an ID from someone in Changbai? Anyone.’
Min-ho said he could try a few business contacts.
The first man ran a used motorcycle shop. He came out as he saw us approach, wiping his hands on an oily, stained T-shirt.
‘What’re you doing here? Who’s she?’ was his greeting. He wasn’t fat, but his posture was so slouched that his gut hung over his belt.
Min-ho said that he was buying family gifts for Chuseok, the Korean harvest festival that was two days away. He introduced me as a cousin from Shenyang, and said he wanted to go to Shenyang, but needed to borrow an ID for a few days.
‘If I lend it to you and you get into trouble, what am I supposed to do?’
Min-ho had told me this man was honest, but a born coward when it came to bending the rules.
‘Report it stolen,’ I said.
He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head slowly.
Min-ho’s second contact was a motorcycle parts trader, a friendly man with a patchy beard. We took him for lunch, and gave him the same pretext. I also offered to pay him 1,000 yuan ($150), and to return the card to him in a week’s time.
‘What if you get caught?’ he said, lighting a cigarette.
‘Say you lost the card, and get a new one.’
He blew out a mixture of laughter, nerves and smoke. ‘There are an awful lot of cops around. They’re checking everyone.’ I could see that he wanted to say no. Instead he said: ‘Give me a day. I’ll think about it.’
We had no choice but to wait. I went to Mrs Ahn’s house to see if she could help. The house was boarded up. A neighbour said that she had moved away.
We were out of options. It would have to be the second trader or nothing. In the meantime I had to book another expensive night at the hotel.
I was back in one of those tight corners where I found myself closing my eyes and muttering to my ancestors, beseeching, desperate, asking for their help. But I expected no miracles. Our predicament seemed hopeless.
The trader called the next morning as we were eating breakfast.
‘I’m scared shitless about this, but Min-ho has helped me make a lot of money. I owe him.’
When we had the ID in our hands I noticed that the man’s age was thirty-eight. Min-ho was twenty-two, and looked nothing like him. Still, it was the gender that counted. I figured that’s all the police would look at. The card was also in a different format from mine – it was in both Chinese and Korean scripts, which I’d never seen before.
The parts trader told us the police had launched a massive nationwide social clean-up campaign prior to the sixtieth anniversary celebrations. Travellers were facing checks and roadblocks everywhere. The sensible thing would have been to wait two weeks until things had calmed down, but I didn’t have enough money. We had to move. I did not want to panic my mother and Min-ho. I reassured them that I had faith in our good luck. If fortune was with us, we’d be protected no matter what. If it wasn’t, there was nothing we could do.
At the coach station I bought three 160-yuan ($25) tickets for the coach leaving at 2 p.m. the next day. It had sleeper bunks on two levels and in three rows, split by two aisles. I asked for the three bunks at the back of the bus on the second level. My hope was that if the coach was stopped, the police would come through and collect all the IDs. At the back they would neither see us nor check closely that the IDs were ours.
The coach left on time. Our epic journey had begun. My stomach tightened with trepidation. But I was also hopeful. Getting that ID for Min-ho made me think fortune had turned our way. We travelled southwest out of the town, along the Yalu River. The first leg of the journey, to Shenyang, was about 250 miles. It wound through hilly countryside and would take twelve hours.
I held my camera up to the window. I had taken a few shots of Hyesan the previous day. This fleeting view would probably be the last time I’d ever see the place. It made me reflective and sad, glimpsing the high white wall of our old home on the riverbank. I thought of far-off days in spring, before the famine, when my father skimmed stones with us across the water, when the world beyond the river had seemed vast and mysterious.
The coach passed the customs post at the end of the Friendship Bridge. I took a few last pictures. Then, less than five minutes into our journey, the coach slowed, and pulled over.
We leaned into the aisle to see what was happening. The hydraulic door opened with a hiss. A soldier in green uniform and cap climbed in, carrying an automatic rifle.
I felt my guts coil.
I looked out of the window on Min-ho’s side. A group of People’s Armed Police was manning what looked like a temporary checkpoint. Jeeps were parked along both sides of the road ahead.
The soldier moved down the aisle. He was not demanding IDs, he was checking people’s eyes, looking each passenger in the face. Why? For signs of nervousness? For anyone who doesn’t belong? It was only at that moment that I realized Min-ho was the only man on the coach. Every other passenger was a woman. Min-ho did not even look Chinese. He was weathered and had darker skin than Chinese men his age. Sunblock is unheard of in North Korea. In the street earlier, I’d given him my baseball cap to keep the sun off his face. Now he had pulled it over his eyes and pretended to be asleep.
The soldier moved slowly, taking in each face. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. He had now checked more than half of the passengers.
&n
bsp; I glanced at the bridge with its flags flying. I could see North Korean guards on the far side.
The soldier was just feet away. He met my eye. Then he spotted Min-ho.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. I swung my legs off the berth and blocked the aisle. I felt something metal and hard in my hand. It was my camera. Without thinking, I pointed it at the soldier’s face and took a picture. Somehow, the flash was on.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said.
Then I swung around and pointed it through the window and started snapping pictures of the armed police at the checkpoint.
He grabbed my arm. ‘No photos.’
‘Oh.’ I smiled stupidly with my hand over my mouth. ‘Sorry. You look awesome in your uniforms.’
Behind him I noticed that every passenger on the coach had craned their heads into the aisle to watch.
‘It’s illegal. Delete them now.’
‘Aw,’ I said, sounding put out. ‘Can’t I keep this one?’
‘No. Now. Quickly.’
The passengers all looked like locals from Changbai. I looked like a girl from somewhere foreign and fashionable. With luck, they all thought I was some clueless tourist. The soldier was embarrassed and annoyed. He knew the whole coach was watching.
‘Here’s the one of you,’ I said. His face looked blanched and stunned. ‘Look, I’m deleting it.’
Then he turned and stomped down the aisle to escape the stares. The automatic door closed behind him.
I slumped back into my berth. What just happened? I had a sensation of coming back to reality, as if I’d just come off stage and the performance had left me exhausted. We had more than 2,000 miles ahead of us. How often would this happen?
For the rest of the journey to Shenyang we lay in our berths without speaking. When the sun set the other passengers also settled into sleep beneath rough blankets.
I lay awake listening to the hum of the engine, as the road unrolled endlessly from the darkness. I was too unnerved to sleep. My mind was running far ahead of the coach, probing for danger.
Chapter 45
