Year of Impossible Goodbyes

by Sook Nyul Choi

  Inchun and I had almost reached the last compartment when the old conductor drew closer behind us and started talking to a straggling vendor still trying to make a few more sales. "You must get on the train, now." Then he whispered to us, "I'll shield you from view. Quickly, crawl underneath the train, and when you're on the other side of the tracks, run down the hill just part way. Stay put until you see the train pull away. Then you can run to the bottom of the hill and cross the field."

  The conductor looked around and squatted over as if to pick something up. Inchun and I bent down and crawled under the train. The vibration of the tracks was scary and the metal felt cold as I grabbed onto part of the wheel to steady myself while Inchun clung to me. We crawled out the other side of the train and ran a little way down the hill and crouched down until the train pulled away.

  The dark cornfield up ahead seemed to be harboring all sorts of evil creatures and I imagined them whispering, "Go back to the old man and stay with him. You won't make it through here." I looked at the package I was clutching, opened it, and gave a rice cake to Inchun. He ate in silence and I knew he was swallowing his tears as he ate. We waited a long time, squatting against the pebbly hill. The pale moon was high above us, but dark clouds soon covered its light. It was damp, and chills ran through me like sharp little needles. I reached out and hugged Inchun, hoping to warm us both. I wanted to walk down the hill and get to the cornfield, but I was afraid of the searchlight. I wanted to see what it looked like before we started on our way.

  Inchun shivered and said, "Nuna, how long are we going to sit here like this? These little stones are hurting me and I have to lock my knees and dig my heels in to keep from sliding. My legs are getting tired already."

  I knew what he meant. I realized that I, too, was holding myself up by digging my heels into the dirt, and my calves were aching. "We will run down soon, but I just want to know what the searchlight is like. All the cornstalks are cut short. They won't hide us very well."

  Inchun sat quietly and then exclaimed, "Look, look over there! It's like a rainbow. Look how it moves." He pointed to the left side of the field and then to the right. I saw a bright greenish-colored beam covering the ground.

  The search beam passed over the cornfield and then passed near us as we sat crouched very still. Then, Inchun and I looked at each other, grabbed each other's hands, and started to tun and slide the rest of the way to the cornfield. The pebbles that we dislodged as we ran came tumbling down the hill, making a hissing noise as they scraped against each other. We fell and ended up rolling part of the way down. It hurt as the pebbles dug into us, but we were glad to be at the foot of the hill. We stopped at the base and picked the bits of stone and dirt from our hair, our shoes, and even from out of our pockets. As we were busily dusting ourselves off, the search beam passed right in front of us. We sat quietly until the beam was over the hill, then we ran through the cornfield.

  It started to rain, and we heard dogs barking in the distance. I was glad for the rain. It might prompt the soldiers and dogs to stay in the guardhouse a little longer. My wet shoes began to squelch in the muddy fields. I was afraid the noise would attract the dogs, so I took off my shoes and tried to walk barefoot through the corn stalks. But the sharp, freshly cut stalks pierced my already sore, tender feet. With each step, I couldn't help but let out a whimper of pain. We heard the dogs and the soldiers again, and we stood still in the middle of the field with the rain pouring down upon us. The search beam started panning the field, and we lay down in the mud. I forgot all about how much my feet hurt, and how cold and damp I was. We lay there without even breathing. I could feel Inchun's little body trembling in fear.

  After a few minutes it was dark again, and there was only the sound of the pouring rain. I was thankful we had survived, and we kept walking. My feet were all bloody, and it was hard to keep silent. I moaned like a dying animal. After what seemed like several hours, we reached the foot of the hill. I looked at the ominous shadows the trees cast against the dense gray clouds. Inchun and I were drenched, and shivered in the darkness.

  I was too scared and in too much pain to think or to say anything. Inchun pulled his little hand out of mine to wipe away his silent tears. I told him not to cry, and just to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. We started slipping in the mud as we tried to make our way up the hill. I clenched my teeth as I tried to get a foothold. It stopped raining, hut the ground was still slippery. The dark branches loomed above and seemed as if they would reach out and grab us. We were all alone in the cold darkness. I couldn't feel the pain anymore. I felt numb.

  We saw the searchlight over us again, but we were comforted that the trees were taller than we were. We stood still next to a big tree and we pretended to be a part of it. While we were waiting for the searchlight to pass the hill, we realized we had almost made it to the top. Far off in the distance, illuminated by the searchlight, was the barbed-wired fence.

  I pulled Inchun's sleeve. "Look, do you see it? I think I can even see one or two little tents behind the fence, just as the old man said."

  "I see it, too, Nuna," Inchun said.

  We hurried up and over the hill, hoping we would be there soon. We slid down the hill most of the way, and were cut and bruised from falling on the rocks and twigs. The heavy clouds began to dissipate, and we kept running. We finally reached the bottom of the hill and looked ahead, hoping to see the barbed-wire fence in front of us as the old man had told us. But, instead, we heard the whispering of a swollen river, and up ahead I could see steel railroad tracks bridging the water.

  We kept walking and finally reached the tracks, which would be our bridge to the South. The railroad ties of the tracks were made of wood and were spaced several feet apart. A grown-up would just be able to make it from one tie to the next. If we made one false move, we would fall into the rapidly flowing river, and would surely die. We looked in terror at the task ahead of us. Gripped with fear, we looked around. Now we could clearly see the barbed-wire fence and the well-lit tents ahead.

  "Nuna, the old man said nothing about a river and railroad tracks. We must be in the wrong place."

  "Look," I said, "that is the South. We have to cross this river by going over these cross-rungs. Then we can run to the fence. The sky is lighter now and we can see better. Mother might be there waiting for us. I don't know if this is the right place, but I don't see another way."

  Inchun stared at the railroad ties and cried. "Mommy, Mommy," he kept sobbing.

  We sat there for a long time staring at the long distance between the railroad ties and the river below. "Well, Inchun, I think we can do it. Get down on all fours and stretch out your arms one at a time and try to grab onto the next rung. I'll go first and we'll take each step slowly and carefully. Don't look down. Make sure you grab the wooden bar with your hands first, then move your legs one at a time. You can hold on to my ankles. I'll grab onto the next rung and tell you when your hand and my ankle can move to the next one. Come on, there are the dogs and soldiers again." I had to reach out to grab the splintery rung, and my head started to spin when I looked at the dark turgid waters below. I was sure I would fall into the river, dragging Inchun with me.

  Little Inchun looked at me and stretched his arms to reach the first rung. I turned and looked, and the gap between the rungs looked even larger than before; his little arms could barely reach. My whole body felt as if it were on fire. I was terribly afraid for him. He was brave. He said nothing, clenched his teeth with determination, and reached out to grab the rung and my ankle and carefully pull himself over. Rung by rung, we slowly continued. The light of dawn helped us to see the rungs. But the better we could see the path, the better the Russians would be able to see us. We kept crawling slowly from rung to rung until the land rose up beneath the tracks. We had crossed over the river and had about a quarter of mile to go.

  How inviting that barbed-wire fence seemed! Only that small distance separated us now. Mother might be waiting for us i
n one of those tents with the warm glowing lights. Inchun and I looked at each other and started running toward the fence. At any moment the Russian guards might spring upon us. It was misty and wet. We soon heard the fierce barking of dogs. They must have discovered our scent. We froze and stared at each other. The dogs were getting closer and closer and the barking grew louder and fiercer. We heard the soldiers' footsteps in the distance. We heard them shouting to one another.

  It wasn't worth trying to hide anymore. It was now or never. We could see the fence right in front of us. We locked our hands together and ran as fast as we could. We just ran and ran, and finally reached the barbed-wire fence. Using all my remaining strength, I pulled at the bottom of the wire. It would not budge. There was no time to think. We fell to our knees and started to dig. We only made a tiny little space. Then I tried to lift the fence as much as I could. "Go, Inchun!" I urged. "Flatten yourself out like a snake and slide through, then keep running. I'll be right behind you."

  Little Inchun slipped under the wire and then, instead of running as I had told him, he tried to lift the wire with his little hands. I heard the dogs drawing closer and I thrust my body under the wire. The barbs dug into me. My hair was caught, my clothes ripped, and I could feel the blood pooling in the cuts on my back. I kept going, and finally, I made it through. I grabbed Inchun's hand. We cried and kept running.

  I did not look back to see how close the soldiers and the dogs were. I was too afraid. I could only look forward.

  Inchun said, panting, "Are we in the South now?"

  "Yes," I said, clutching his hand tighter.

  "But I still hear the dogs and the soldiers," Inchun said.

  "Don't worry, just run!" I squeezed his hand and pulled him forward. I had heard that once you were in the South, the Russians and the North Koreans could not shoot you, even if you were an escapee. But still we ran. They sounded as though they were right behind us. We kept running toward the lit tents. Then I saw four people rushing out of the tents and running to us. I saw the Red Cross sign on their white hats. They were carrying stretchers and medical bags, and I finally felt that we didn't have to run anymore.

  1 stopped and grabbed Inchun. "We can stop now," I told him. "We're safe, we're safe." My trembling legs collapsed under me and I fell to the ground. Inchun tumbled down on top of me. Exhaustion and relief overwhelmed us. I looked at him, and his eyes were closed. I felt dizzy and looked up at the sky, which was spinning above me. As I was lifted onto a stretcher, my eyes filled with tears. I heard the soothing voice of an older woman saying, "These poor children ... all alone ... Look at their feet. Hurry, let's get them inside. Hurry."

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  Epilogue

  Inchun and I must have slept for days at the Red Cross center at the 38th Parallel. By the time we awoke, the information center had located our father's address in Seoul. The nurse fed us and bandaged our feet, and said she would put us on the bus to Seoul when we were ready. Anxious to see whether Mother was already at home waiting for us, we decided to leave on the very next bus. Clutching the little piece of paper with our new address, we rode down the dusty, bumpy country roads.

  We made our way through the noisy, bustling streets of Seoul, and asked with nervous excitement for directions to our house at 23 Ulgiro 4-ka. We finally found the house and stepped through the open front door. Father and our three older brothers, sitting at the dinner table, were shocked to see us and immediately asked where Mother was.

  She was not there waiting for us as we had hoped, and Father had received no news of her. Sad, exhausted, and still suffering from fever and infected cuts, Inchun and I remained in bed for several weeks recuperating.

  When we recovered, Father enrolled us at the Younghi School near our house. It was strangely comforting to meet many other girls like me who had come from the North and were still waiting for members of their families. A group of us started a poetry club, and befriended and comforted each other as we waited day after day.

  Meanwhile, Father started a soy sauce factory in the city of Inchon. He offered shelter and employment to many refugees from the North, and the factory became an information center and meeting place of sorts for refugees. Father tried to get every bit of news he could that might help us find out about Mother.

  Our oldest brother, Hanchun, was attending the veterinary school at Seoul University and would bring sick dogs, birds, and even monkeys home on weekends to nurse back to health. Jaechun was still recovering from tuberculosis, which he had contracted in the Japanese labor camps; he only went to the university in the mornings, and in the afternoons, he stayed home, listening to classical music and reading. Hyunchun had decided he wanted to be a diplomat and was studying at the Foreign Language University.

  Inchun and I liked our new school, and liked being home with all our brothers. But each day, we prayed that Mother would join us. After six long months, Mother suddenly appeared at the house. She was supposed to have been shipped to a labor camp in Siberia with the others who had been caught trying to escape. But one of the Russian colonels who lived near the border town needed someone to cook and clean for his young wife, who was expecting their first child. Mother became their housekeeper and governess. They forbade her to speak to anyone or to go beyond the front gate of the house, and soldiers often patrolled the area. But one foggy, drizzly afternoon, she decided to walk out and try to make it to the border. She had no specific plan, and she didn't know where she would be able to get across. She couldn't stand it there another minute without us, she said, and decided to risk everything. It was a miracle, she told us. No one saw her in the dense monsoon fog, and she walked and walked. She stumbled in a pile of branches and leaves, and fell deep into a small tunnel. She saw a glimmer of light at the other end and crawled toward it, without knowing where it was leading. When she reached the end, she found she had tunneled under the barbed-wire fence and was on the southern side of the 38th Parallel We later found out it was one of many secret tunnels the Communists were constructing to invade the South.

  With Mother safe and at home in Seoul, life in the South was almost everything I had ever hoped for. But each day we still longed to hear some word of Kisa, Aunt Tiger, my sister, Theresa, and the sock girls.

  Our freedom and happiness did not last long. In June 1950, war broke out. North Korean and Communist soldiers filled the streets of Seoul, and were soon joined by Chinese Communist troops. Russian tanks came barreling through. In the chaos, many more North Korean refugees made their way to Seoul. Theresa and the other nuns finally escaped, and made their way to our house. They told us that the Russians and Town Reds had found out about Kisa's and Aunt Tiger's other activities. They died as all "traitors" did. They were shot with machine guns, and then hanged in the town square to serve as a lesson to others. We never heard any further news about the sock girls, or about my friend Unhi. I still wonder if they are alive in the North.

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  About the Author

  Born in Pyongyang, North Korea, Sook Nyul Choi immigrated to the United States to pursue her college education. After graduating from Manhattanville College, she taught in New York City schools for almost twenty years while raising her two daughters. She now resides in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she devotes most of her time to her writing.

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