I sat in the sleeping room trying to do my studies. I picked up the book Mr. Saito had given me—The True Meaning of the Ancient Way, by Hirata Atsutane. I opened it and began to read. It detailed what it called the “pure ancient Japanese culture and traditions,” and laid out a case for rejecting Chinese, Confucian, and Buddhist thinking. The author called it “Kokugaku”—Japanese national learning.
As I read about the history of Japan, the image of my aunt’s comb with the two-headed dragon came to me. I saw the dragon’s eyes and claws, and a sense of foreboding washed over me. I thought of what my aunt had said—that the spirits of the dragon would haunt me if I married a Japanese man. I quickly closed the book, and the image of the two-headed dragon went away.
Father still hadn’t come home by the time we had our evening meal of chicken broth and vegetables. I was beginning to believe that he’d indeed fled to Manchuria without us and I would never see him again. I couldn’t imagine life without my father. He had always been good to me, even when he was angry. He worked hard to support our family, and I always felt safe with him near. Now that he was gone, it was as if our family had lost a leg and would fall over in the slightest breeze. I was racked with guilt because I’d defied him.
Mother and I cleaned up from our meal and went to our mats for sleep. But I didn’t sleep right away. I lay awake, thinking of Father, hoping that he was okay. I wondered if he was thinking about Mother and me. I wondered how far he had gone in one day. I tried to envision where he might be on his journey. Was he still in Korea, heading north through the mountains? Or had he crossed the Yalu River into China and then turned north? I tried to picture a map from my studies to see what the best route for him would be. I began to think that Mother and I should have gone with him.
I was getting drowsy when the front door opened. Mother rushed to the main room, and I followed close behind her. My father stood in the door. There were dark circles around his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in two days. His hair was a mess.
“Seong-ki!” Mother cried. She ran to him and embraced him. He did not return her embrace. Mother pulled away and lowered her eyes.
“I’m hungry,” Father said, and went to the table and sat. Mother hurried to the stove and started a fire. As I stood in the doorway, Mother put on a kettle of tea and a pot with water and rice she had hidden in a small sack under the pots. She chopped some vegetables and tossed it in with the rice.
Father sat at the table hunched over. “Suk-bo,” he said.
I took a step into the room. “Yes, Appa?”
“Since you refuse to go to Manchuria, you and I will start working on the Pak farm tomorrow. You still have eight days to be a Korean, and I expect you to work like one. We will go before it is light.”
“Yes, Appa,” I said.
“Go to sleep now,” he said. “You will need the rest.”
I went to my mat, but I stayed awake a long time. I listened to hear Mother and Father talk, but I heard nothing.
The next morning Father woke me when it was still dark. We ate a quick breakfast and went to Mr. Pak’s farm. All that day, I worked alongside my father, cleaning the farmyard, pulling carrots and daikons in the root field, and weeding the soybeans. Mrs. Pak did what she could, and at every turn, she bowed and thanked Father for his help. She brought us tea and made lunch and dinner. When dusk came, she said that we should go home, but Father refused to quit. We worked until it was too dark to see, then we worked another hour. All the time, Father only talked when he said what we were going to do next. I wanted to talk with him as I had done all my life. I wanted to tell him that we had tomorrow to do more work and that we should go home and rest. But I didn’t dare say anything. I knew Father was punishing me for defying him, and I quietly accepted the punishment.
By the time we headed home, my hands were bleeding and my back and legs ached so much I could barely walk. As I collapsed into bed, Father said, “We start early again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Appa,” I said as I fell asleep.
We kept to the same schedule for the next two days. By then, my hands were even worse than they’d been before. Every day I wrapped them in rags, but all the same, yellow calluses grew thick on my fingers and palms. Mother made a solution of vinegar, onion, and salt to soak my hands in at night so the calluses would not build up. I could soak them for only a few minutes before I fell asleep. The sun was baking my skin and it was turning dark. Each night, Mother rubbed oil into me. My back and legs no longer ached, but I was so bone-tired that I didn’t eat well. I was losing weight and turning hard. I worried that I would look like a poor farm girl on my wedding day. The way Mother ministered to me, I knew she was worried, too, but she never said anything to Father.
The hard work didn’t seem to affect Father. He did twice as much as I did, and though he wasn’t a farmer, he knew just what to do. Mrs. Pak was always thanking him, but he didn’t reply. He said almost nothing both at work and at home. He never smiled. His expression was a combination of resolve and resignation—resolve that he would make the Pak farm an example of what he could do; resignation that he had to do it for the Japanese.
On the fourth day, the Kwan girls came to help us weed the soybeans. As she scratched around the plant stalks with her hoe, Soo-sung said, “I hear you are marrying a Japanese man. So you will be a chinilpa.” She twisted the word “chinilpa,” as if it was a curse word.
“I am not a chinilpa,” I countered. “I am not collaborating with the Japanese. It is what the authorities say I must do. If I refuse, they will throw Father in prison, and then the village will not have enough to eat.”
“We still have Mr. Kim’s farm,” Soo-sung said. “We will have plenty to eat. You should go to Manchuria instead of marrying a Japanese. It is too bad you didn’t marry the farmer’s son Jung-soo before he left for Seoul. I heard he liked you. Who are you marrying?”
“He is the son of the director-general. He lives in Sinuiju.”
Soo-sung looked at me askance. “Hmm, the son of the director-general. You are a chinilpa.”
I didn’t respond. I took my hoe and worked two rows over where I didn’t have to talk to Soo-sung.
By the sixth day, Father had the farm in good order. The fields were clean of weeds and the farmyard was neat. We had harvested the first crops of carrots, daikons, and cabbage. When the administrator came in a truck to take our harvest, he looked at the farm and didn’t say anything to Father about falling short of his quota. Father loaded the truck, and the administrator said he would be back in two weeks.
All those days, Father and I worked side by side as if we were strangers. I wanted to say I was sorry for defying him, and truly I was. But even with the hard labor Father was putting me through, I did not regret staying instead of going to Manchuria.
That night, we went home before it was dark. Mother prepared a meal of rice and beans. I ate well. I was less tired than the previous days. I think I was getting used to the hard work.
Mother said, “In three days, Suk-bo will have her wedding. She should rest tomorrow.”
To this, Father said nothing. He finished his rice and went to his mat to sleep.
TEN
When the wedding was only two days away, I had many questions. I didn’t know what I should take with me. I didn’t know what I should do to prepare for the wedding. I didn’t know what I should wear or how I should wear my hair. And I didn’t know how to make love to a man. I wanted to ask Mother for advice, but I sensed she wasn’t in a mood to talk. She was concerned that our defiance had broken Father. She watched his every move and attended to his every need. She rarely said anything to him unless he spoke first.
When I woke up, it was light outside and Father was already gone. I had slept late. I wasn’t tired and my body didn’t ache like it had each of the previous six days.
Mother was at the stove when I went into the main room. When she saw me, she said, “I have made rice and egg for you.”
I was surprised she had an eg
g. We only had eggs when the Paks or Kims smuggled them to us instead of giving them to the Japanese. “Where did you get an egg?” I asked.
“Your father gave it to me last night and said it was for you. I saved the rice from our allotment. Here, take it.”
Mother held out a bowl. It was nearly full with rice, onions, and a cooked egg. It was twice as much as I usually ate. I took it and sat at the table.
“Eat it all,” Mother said as she brought me a bowl of tea and sat across from me.
I had no trouble eating everything. When I finished, Mother gathered the bowl and took it to the rinse bucket. I sat at the table, imagining what my life soon would be like. I thought of Hisashi. I thought of our wedding night.
Finally, the question spilled from me. “Ummah, how do you make love to a man?” I supposed Mother wouldn’t answer my question or would say that I shouldn’t worry about it. So I was surprised when she put the bowls aside and sat at the table. She smiled gently, the way she smiled years earlier. Her loose braid fell gently down her back.
“I was only a year older than you when I married your father,” she said. “I did not know what to do, either. I was afraid to ask my mother. She did not like Seong-ki. I think it was because he was a Yi. Or perhaps it was because she thought he was a rebel.” She grinned. “She was right about that.”
Mother closed her eyes as if she was dreaming. “I was so in love with your father then. He was handsome and strong and full of life. My heart raced every time I saw him. I could not wait to be with him. And though I worried about what to do when we were finally together, when it happened, it was . . . well . . . We loved each other and it made our lovemaking beautiful.”
Mother took a sip of tea and regarded me over the top of her tea bowl. “So, tell me,” she said, “how do you feel about this man?”
I shrugged. “I do not know. I have seen him so little.”
“How do you feel when you see him?”
“Well,” I said, blushing, “like you with Father, I suppose. My heart races a little.”
Mother nodded. “I think then, making love to him will be beautiful, as it was for me.”
My mother’s words made me feel less afraid, and I was grateful she had talked to me. Then I asked, “Do you still love Father?”
Mother’s smile faded. She nodded weakly and looked inside her tea bowl. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “Very much. But his spirit is broken. Men are not strong like women. When a man’s spirit is broken, it never heals. Still, I love him. True love, Suk-bo, is not conditional. It is much deeper. It comes when the passion ends. Then it becomes a commitment you make every day for the rest of your life.” She looked at me and smiled, but it was once again her sad, forced smile.
A lifetime commitment. Was that what I was agreeing to? Could I commit myself to a Japanese man for the rest of my life?
She stood from the table. “You should rest today. Pack your books and some clothes. Mr. and Mrs. Saito will give you what you need when you go there tomorrow.”
“Is Father going to the wedding?”
“I do not know,” Mother said simply. I wanted to probe, but I knew it wouldn’t be wise.
Mr. Saito’s car came for me the next day as the sun climbed over the hills in the east. It was a bright, warm day with not a single cloud in the sky. The birds sang and flitted about as birds do on a sunny day. You could almost hear the grass grow in the field behind our house. I stood at the front door and watched as the car rolled up the road trailing a cloud of dust. I half hoped that I would see Hisashi driving the car, but as it drew near, I saw that there was only Mr. Saito’s driver, Isamu. The car pulled to a stop in front of our house, and its trail of dust drifted away in the breeze. Behind the wheel, Isamu spotted me, and for a second, I thought I saw him scowl.
Isamu got out of the car and gave me a stiff nod. “I have been ordered to take you to Mr. Saito’s house,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Mother had woken me early that day. As usual, Father had left for the Pak farm before it was light outside so it was just Mother and me. I took a bath in the metal washtub behind the house. Mother put salts in the water and lilac petals, too. As I soaked in the soft, fragrant water, Mother filed the calluses on my hands and scrubbed the dirt from under my fingernails with a stiff brush. After my bath, Mother combed my hair, braided it, and tied it with the red silk ribbon. She had pressed my gray dress and helped me put it on. From somewhere, she had found white maquillage that she rubbed on my face, neck, and hands to lighten my sun-darkened skin. When she finished, she stepped back, looked at me, and said, “Suk-bo, you are beautiful.”
Mother had never doted on me like this before, and she had never told me I was beautiful. Right then, I wanted to throw my arms around her, hold her, and never let her go. But I knew those days were gone for me. So I nodded and said, “Thank you, Ummah.”
Now from the doorway, I stared at Isamu and couldn’t say if I was ready. I was unable to move or utter a single word. Mother came behind me with my rucksack. She put a hand on my shoulder. “You must have courage, Suk-bo. This is what is best for you.”
Until then, I’d never had to have courage. I had lived under the protection of a loving mother and father, and an older brother who looked out for me. Now I was going to live in a strange house with people I didn’t know. My family would be miles away. Mother was right; I had to have courage.
I turned to Mother, and this time I threw my arms around her. I squeezed her tight as a tear rolled down my cheek. She hugged me for a few seconds and then pushed me away. She looked into my face and wiped the tear from my cheek. “Go now,” she said softly. “Your father said he is coming to your wedding. We will be with you tomorrow.”
Right then I thought I should run into the forest to hide. But inside my rucksack, I had packed the hairpin that Hisashi had given me. I remembered how nervous he was when he gave it to me. I remembered how he smiled when I said I liked it. So I took in a deep breath and went to the car. Isamu didn’t come around to open the car door for me as he should have. So I opened the door myself and climbed into the back seat of Mr. Saito’s big black car, and we drove away from my house.
Isamu and I didn’t talk as we drove to Sinuiju. I had hundreds of questions I wanted to ask, but I could tell he didn’t want to talk to me. So I looked out the car window and tried to think of the answers to my questions. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t know the answers and would just have to see what happened.
When Isamu pulled the car up to the house, the bald butler named Haru and the woman who had served the tea when I visited weeks earlier stood side by side at the front door. Haru wore the same buttonless white shirt, loose pants, and leather slippers as when I saw him before. His face showed no emotion. The woman looked elegant in her white kimono and hair arranged so that it framed her face. This time, Isamu jumped out of the car and opened my door. But with his back to Haru, he gave me a hard stare as he offered his hand to me. I looked away from him and climbed out of the car with my rucksack. I bowed to Haru and the woman.
“Welcome, Miyoko, to this household,” Haru said with a professional nod. He gestured to the woman next to him. “This is Yoshiko. She is the head housekeeper here. Come. You have much to do today.”
Haru and Yoshiko led me into the house. I was careful to remove my shoes and bow when I entered the main room as Haru had instructed me to do weeks earlier. They took me to a room in the back with a low bed on a frame. I saw a simple blond-wood chair, the likes of which I had never seen before, and a shoji screen. A chest with brass hinges sat next to the bed. Two young women, one petite and pretty, one tall and gangly, stood by and bowed when Haru and Yoshiko came in. They wore plain purple kimonos and had light skin, so I assumed they were Korean.
“Yoshiko will take care of you,” Haru said evenly. “First, you must be fitted for your wedding dress. Later, we will go over what you will do in the wedding. I expect you to do exactly what we tell you. Do you understand?”
“
Yes, sir,” I said.
Haru left and Yoshiko stood in front of me. “Put your rucksack next to the bed,” she said. Her voice was gentle and comforting. She nodded at the chest. One of the young women opened it. Inside was a white kimono and a large headpiece that looked like a round kite with a long tail.
“Try on the tsunokakushi first,” Yoshiko said. “Sit.”
I sat on the chair as the gangly assistant took the headpiece out of the chest, and with the help of the pretty assistant, they put it on me. It was heavy and cumbersome. It covered my head and shielded my eyes from the sides.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I have a hairpin that Hisashi gave me. I would like to wear it for the wedding if I may.”
Yoshiko shook her head. “No, this is a Shinto wedding. The tsunokakushi headpiece symbolizes your resolve to become a gentle and obedient wife. It hides the horns of jealousy and selfishness. A hairpin would be inappropriate.”
Yoshiko pushed the headpiece lower on my head so that it nearly covered my face. She stepped back and examined me. “It will do as is,” she said evenly. “Now, take it off and put on the kimono.”
The assistants lifted the headpiece from me and set it aside. As I took off my gray dress, they took the kimono from the chest. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing I’d ever seen. It was white silk covered with subtle raised designs of peacocks. A thick white bow and tassels hung from the front. In the back was a much larger bow with a strap that hung the length of the kimono.
The young women raised the kimono over my head, and I ducked into it. It was heavy and made me feel small. Yoshiko stood in front of me and pulled and tugged on it. “It is the right length but it is too big in the middle,” she declared. “You were larger when I first saw you.”
The Spirit of the Dragon Page 8
