The Dwarf

by Cho Se-hui

  “I don’t have the energy to do anything for others.”

  “Don’t think you can deceive me.”

  “If you know, then why do you say that?”

  “All right.” Mother stood up. “It was a mistake to come to Ŭngang. Every night I dream about your father.”

  “So you had a bad dream,” Father had said. “You’re always having bad dreams, all of you.”

  “But it’s okay!” said Yŏng-ho. “I fly all over the place! I fly across the river!”

  “You’re growing up,” I said. “That’s why.”

  Father rested a hand on my head. “Look at those children.” He pointed outside the gate. The neighborhood children were sitting on the bank of the sewer creek where the lady’s-thumb grew; they were eating dirt. As Yŏng-hŭi watched them she ate uncooked rice.

  “I used to eat dirt, didn’t I?” I asked.

  “Not me,” said Yŏng-ho.

  “Yes, you did,” Yŏng-hŭi said as she emptied the rice into her mouth. “Children with worms eat dirt.”

  “You mean roundworms?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yŏng-hŭi, please don’t eat rice that’s not been cooked,” Mother said.

  “But it’s good!”

  “When you make some money buy us a big chunk of meat. They’re not fed right so they’re eating up all our rice before I can cook it.”

  “All right.”

  Father stepped outside the gate. He went off into the distance scraping two kitchen knives together as sharpeners do. From that moment on we had waited for Father.

  “Father made a mistake, didn’t he?” Mother said. “We should have moved to a place in the countryside—anyplace. Then your father wouldn’t have passed on.”

  “What could he do there?”

  “Better to work the soil, isn’t it?”

  “Did we have land to work?”

  “Working someone else’s land would have been better than being in this place.” Tossing aside the remaining bark, Mother turned toward me. “Why can’t you just stick to your factory work?” Her voice had risen. “What in God’s name do you figure on doing? Why can’t you keep to your own job?”

  “Mother,” I said. “I want to live like a human being.”

  “Who told you you couldn’t?”

  “There are bad people stopping us. And the other kids don’t know it.”

  “Let them do their stopping, and let the others keep on not knowing. Don’t listen to me and you’ll get yourself hauled off. You commit a crime, you’ll go on trial, and then you’ll find yourself in jail. Unless you want to see your mom and your brother and sister pounding their heads against the jail door, you had better tone down.”

  I crawled up into the loft. Mother kept spreading out the bark to dry. The tide cycle in Ŭngang was twelve hours and twenty-five minutes. Mother probably didn’t know that the moon pulled the ocean in and let it out. When a large freighter made its way from the ocean to a dock in the inner harbor Mother would go out to the lumberyard. Along with everything else the logs in the lumberyard only floated at high tide. Mother was obsessed with the thought that she might lose her elder son to Ŭngang. The city of Ŭngang was too large and too complex. As Yŏng-hŭi said, Ŭngang was not only a dangerous city but full of crime. Attached to the bark wall of the one-eyed old man’s house were wanted posters. The suspects were charged with murder, attempted murder, aggravated robbery, forcible rape, impersonation of a public official, armed robbery, fraud, bribery, and other crimes. The names of the criminals I knew of did not appear. Some of the photographs of these various criminal suspects were stamped “arrested.” The big lawbreakers would be found someplace far from us.

  The very first thing to startle Mother was the appearance of my name on the blacklist. The employers at the Ŭngang plants had put me on the list of blacklisted workers deeply involved in union activities. In the eyes of the employers I was a little devil. The person they disliked most was the minister at the workers’ church. They disliked saintly people, those who epitomized love and sacrifice. The minister seemed a perfect saint to me. Every time I saw the eyes behind the fish-eye lenses I thought of him as a saint. But for me he was almost impossible to understand. I believed that as long as we made an effort, we could attain salvation for ourselves. When I voiced this thought, all he did was smile. In his presence I was always the young student. Apart from the fact that he had a weakness—the weakness of his body—he was a man of wisdom. There was nothing he didn’t know about politics, philosophy, history, science, economics, society, and labor. He likened wealth to water pouring from a spring called Production and said that if it didn’t pass from hand to hand it would collect in one place and grow stagnant. When someone who heard these words responded, quite sincerely, “That’s how it happens in history,” the minister raised his glasses to his forehead and said: “What all of you have to understand is that you yourselves are the producers of wealth. That’s the point.” This had come up in the Social Studies Group. “I’ve seen you and your co-workers working hard to produce wealth,” the minister said one day. “But I have never seen a single person who received that wealth and then shared it properly.” Through a kind of consciousness raising, he installed an engine in my mind.

  I learned a lot from a six-month educational program he arranged. I learned about the structure of industrial society, the human social system, the history of the labor movement, current issues in labor/management relations, labor relations law, and more. I learned about politics, economics, history, theology, and technology. There were fourteen of us in all, and every Saturday afternoon we gathered to eat, sleep, and study together until Sunday evening. We students came from the appliances, iron and steel, chemicals, electronics, milling, textile, lumber, railway carriage, aluminum, motor vehicles, glass, shipbuilding, clothing, and other plants. We were all sons or daughters of poor families. We were able to grow close through one thing alone that we had in common: We had all tasted tear-soaked food. We sang a song:

  When I suffered from hunger were you there?

  Were you there when I sought food?

  When I suffered from thirst were you there?

  Were you there when I sought water?

  When I was sick in bed were you there?

  Were you there when I wished to be cared for?

  And before we went our separate ways after finishing our course we sang another song:

  Together sharing joys and sorrows

  Together experiencing hopes and fears

  If life was inhuman in those factories equipped with massive production systems, the minister said, we would be remiss if we didn’t single out the problems and restructure them. He emphasized that our parents never had the experience of working in factories this large. He categorized us as a generation forced to sacrifice itself in a completely new environment. Our silence only harms our rights, he said. So fourteen of his students returned to the plants and set themselves difficult tasks. Six succeeded in organizing a union. Only later did I learn that in one respect the minister was an utterly conservative moderate. He was a man who could not live for an instant without his god. As part of our instruction he called in a man of science. Every Sunday afternoon the man of science would come and talk to us about technology. As I listened to him, I couldn’t help imagining an unskilled laborer operating one of several coal-black machines. He himself managed a small workshop. A very small workshop. He called it a tool shop. His shop’s facilities consisted in sum of an automatic lathe, tool lathe, screw-cutting lathe, screw grinder, drilling machine, milling machine, and small crucible. At any one time no more than ten workers worked in his shop operating these tooling machines. The workshop’s main product was a Z-one-and-three-eighths screw. Virtually the entire output was exported to the United States. His screws were used in the manufacture of the lunar module and other spacecraft, weather satellites, the Venus probe, remote control rockets, test robots, and computers. All of the small parts he made were used in the manuf
acture of intelligent machines. But the man of science was ashamed at the thought of the work he did. His dream had been to become a scientist. He hadn’t been able to realize that dream. “My circumstances prevented me from becoming a scientist,” he said. His feeble voice always had a metallic ring to it. And he made you feel depressed. His voice put him at a disadvantage. At first, no one was prepared to accept his words at face value. According to him, technological developments caused skilled workers to lose their jobs—and unskilled factory labor was filled by young laborers working long hours at low pay. And so the population concentrated in the factories and slums appeared in the cities. He spoke, in his usual metallic voice, telling us what we already knew. But the simple suggestion that the workers’ loss was the owner’s gain struck us forcefully. He showed us that an increase in wealth was always associated with an increase in the number of low-paid workers. Now we believed him.

  When at the close of our educational program we went on an outing to the beach we invited him along. We took snacks and things to drink. At the polluted beach we ate, debated, sang. If we jumped in the water we came out smelling of oil. The minister didn’t know how to swim. When I broke through the waves and swam out, he waved at me to stop. I swam out a hundred feet or so, then returned. My body was covered with flecks of waste oil. The minister cleaned me off with a towel. The white towel turned black and water drops ran down my oil-smeared skin. I squatted down on the sand and retched. The man of science borrowed a wooden boat and rowed out on the water. He placed a white disk on the surface of the water, which had once been a fishing ground, and used it to measure how far down he could see. At one place in the East Sea that depth was fifty-nine feet, but here the transparency was only nine feet, the man of science said, tsk-tsking in disapproval. We spent the night beside that stagnant sea. I got to thinking about injustice, and I couldn’t get to sleep. Yŏng-hŭi and Yŏng-ho were working the night shift that day. Yŏng-hŭi was rushing among the weaving machines and Yŏng-ho was working the polisher—a very unsettled night for Mother. At the time, I was doing almost nothing in my role as elder son. We were living and eating on the money Yŏng-ho and Yŏng-hŭi brought home. Of course I was earning money, but I had to spend it all.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry to Yŏng-ho, sorry to Yŏng-hŭi.”

  And then my brother and sister spoke up.

  “Don’t worry, Brother.”

  “It’s all right, Eldest Brother.”

  Mother was different. “I really wish you would just concentrate on your job at the factory.” The same thing she always said. “I don’t know how long it will take, but won’t the day come when we have peace of mind and body?”

  “Haven’t you gotten worn down?” I said. “In the long run, we’re all getting old and dying.”

  “No,” Mother said in a low voice. “Not you. Your father didn’t live out his natural life span.”

  If I had listened to Mother, I might have moved up from assistant mechanic to mechanic in the Maintenance Department of Ŭngang Textile. My pay would have increased as well. I could not be the son Mother wanted. On my own initiative I chose a difficult path. Right after the educational program at the workers’ church I went to the Institute on Labor Issues affiliated with Ŭngang University. To take a three-week course there, an assistant mechanic in Maintenance at Ŭngang Textile had to work three consecutive weeks on the night shift. At a time when people slept, I worked instead. I grew terribly weak. The food was bad enough, but I couldn’t eat at regular mealtimes and was always short on sleep. At this time I was told that a man from an industrial complex in the southern part of the country was coming up to see me. The minister had told me about him. And I had heard other accounts of this man. He had experience working at several factories, and his method of labor activism was so unique that labor unions sprang up at the factories where he worked. Not only that, but the workers brought the wheels of the factory owners’ wagon to a halt, lessened that wagon’s load—profit—and shared it with the employees. I had heard that wounds had been inflicted on various parts of his body. And as was often the case with people who knew a lot, he tended to speak very slowly but was quick to assess. Of course I did not believe everything I heard about him. But I did believe he was someone who had seen a lot of trouble and worked on behalf of others and not in his own interests. When I received word that he had arrived at the workers’ church and was waiting for me, I knew I had to rush over there. It was Chi-sŏp. I wasn’t surprised. When Mother saw him she could say nothing. A few seconds later she turned away and touched the hem of her sleeve to her eyes. She had thought of our deceased father. Yŏng-ho and Yŏng-hŭi too said they had thought of Father the instant they saw Chi-sŏp. He brought back memories of our last days in Felicity Precinct in Seoul. Through smoky glass we looked back to the past.

  “Dying is easier than living,” said Mother. “But I’ve never resented the children’s father for that.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” said Chi-sŏp. There were scars beneath his eyes. His nose looked a bit squashed. With his right hand he covered his left hand, whose ring and little fingers had been severed to stumps. Mother had gone to the market for him. She had bought some beef, used part of it for soup, and grilled the rest. Yŏng-hŭi had lit some bark in the fuel hole. Our home was thick with smoke. Mother had transferred the glowing coals of the bark to the cook-stove and grilled the meat. This was the first time we had sat down to a full table since coming to Ŭngang. And no barley was mixed with our rice. The scene was similar to that of our last day in Felicity Precinct. Chi-sŏp added his rice to the soup and Mother placed chunks of grilled beef in the guest’s rice bowl. Mother said she had cooked only a small amount, afraid the aroma would spread. While she was grilling the meat the neighborhood urchins smelled it and came to a stop in the midst of their games. Chi-sŏp transferred meat to Yŏng-ho’s rice bowl. Yŏng-ho’s hand at first blocked it, then dropped. Yŏng-hŭi rose from our cramped veranda, went into the kitchen, and returned with scorched-rice broth. Her face was haggard. Yŏng-hŭi’s work and sleep schedule changed from week to week, just like that of all the other young people who worked in factories that operated round the clock. There she stood, the youngest child, whom Father had loved so much, and I saw, spread out behind her face, the gloomy night sky of the factory zone. Father was always offering Yŏng-hŭi a piggyback ride, but she disliked it.

  “Not in daytime,” little Yŏng-hŭi had said. “The kids make fun of me, and I don’t like it.”

  “Why do they make fun of you?” Mother asked.

  “They point at me.”

  “Look!” the children had said. “The midget’s giving a piggyback ride to a kid bigger than he is!”

  Yŏng-hŭi would go out riding piggyback on Father only at night. From where we sat we could hear their laughter. For several years our neighbor The Lush would try to get little Yŏng-hŭi to drink, and we could hear him chasing after them. Father with Yŏng-hŭi on his back would return crossing the sewer creek on the plank bridge. Yŏng-hŭi’s giggling would precede Father across the creek and home.

  “You ought to get married,” Mother said. “A man won’t settle down otherwise.”

  “No hope for me,” Chi-sŏp laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll be wandering about like this for the rest of my days.”

  “Now don’t talk like that—our Yŏng-su is listening.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that, Mother?”

  “I’ve given up on the boy.”

  Yŏng-ho and Yŏng-hŭi took Mother’s hands.

  “What are you doing that for?” Mother said. “Let go.”

  “Let go,” Father had said. “Let go of my hand. You’re always using force to stop your dad.”

  “It’s still cold out there, Father—that’s why.”

  “The children don’t understand me either,” Mother said. “I’m a minority of one.”

  “Now why should that be?” Again Chi-sŏp laughed.

  “Put it in,” Father said from
where he stood beside the sewer creek. The hard ice of winter had begun to thaw and disappear. I pushed the boat out. Father, who had spent all winter at home, took me aboard the small boat and out we went on the water. Chunks of floating ice hit against the sides of the boat and were pushed aside.

  “The children’s father doesn’t have a burial mound,” said Mother. “We had him cremated. Less than a handful of ashes, and we spread it over the water.”

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I’m fine.” Father had drawn in the oars. “You’re the eldest son. And so I wanted to have a talk, just the two of us. It wouldn’t do for your mother to hear.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll get to that.” Father had glanced back at our house as it receded into the distance. “I’ve decided I’m not going to live any longer,” he said in a voice ever so soft. “Since you’re the eldest, you’re the only one I’m telling. I’ve made my decision.”

  “But why?” I shuddered at the frightening thought of it.

  “Why? You ask me why?”

  “Yes. Why have you been thinking about dying?”

  “Because of you three children and your mom. And because of that house.”

  “For a while I didn’t think I could go on living,” said Mother. “But the living just go on living.”

  “Why us, Father? What have we done wrong?”

  “It’s not a matter of what you’ve done wrong.”

  “Then what?”

  “Don’t you understand? Do I have to say more?”

  “No. I understand,” I said. “But is your dying supposed to solve anything?”

  “I don’t want to be a burden on all of you.”

  “Who thinks you’re a burden? But you’ll be a coward if you kill yourself.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Father said serenely. “But if you can take my side, I won’t think any more about dying.”

  “All right, then, that’s fine.” I inched closer to Father.