I went to the main street. I turned toward the Yalu River. People stared at me as I walked past. I wondered if I’d put on too much lip paint. I kept my head low.
I got to the bridge, to the line of people waiting to cross. The woman in front of me glanced at me and shook her head. The line moved forward, so that I was seven people from the front, then four. I was close to the Kempei tai guards wearing their white armbands with the red Japanese character. They inspected each person as they came to the front of the line. They asked questions. Then it was my turn to face the guards.
“I have not seen you before,” a guard said, examining me. “Who are you and why do you want to go to Sinuiju?”
“My name is Miyoko,” I said, bowing and remembering to use my Japanese name. “I was told I could find work in Sinuiju.”
“What kind of work are you looking for?” the guard asked.
“I want to work in the brothel,” I said.
“Ha!” the guard laughed. “Is that why you painted your face? Well, I hope they will hire you. If they do, I will be sure to visit.” He leered at me for a second, and then said with a nod, “You may cross.”
The bridge’s ironwork curved above my head, and the giant concrete piers rose from the river below as I walked across the bridge. Trucks rumbled along the roadway, making the bridge shake. The walkway was high above the brown water of the river. It hurt my stomach to look down, so I kept my eyes on the person in front of me. I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.
Before I got to the other side, I wiped off the lip paint and eye pencil on my sleeve. I ran my hand over my lips to make sure I’d gotten it all off. I reached the end of the bridge and stepped onto the dock. I had made it to Sinuiju.
The town was much the same as when I’d been here before with Hisashi. There were fewer people here than in Dandong. Fishermen worked on their nets, and crews on boats unloaded cargo. Downriver the brothel was guarded by the Kempei tai soldiers.
I walked upriver to the park where Hisashi had bought the red scarf for me. I looked from side to side, afraid that someone I knew might see me. I quickly walked through the park and into the part of town with houses. I tried to remember which way it was to the Saito house. I turned a corner, then another. I saw a house I recognized. I walked a block farther, where I recognized more houses. I was in the right part of town.
I was out of breath as I came to the street where the Saito house was. I only thought of Young-chul. He would be three years old now. He wouldn’t remember me, but I had to see that he was all right. I needed to be careful. If Mr. or Mrs. Saito spotted me, or Haru or Yoshiko or Kiyo, they would call the police and have me arrested.
Two houses down was the huge Saito house surrounded by the chest-high wall. The blue roof hung above the white plaster walls like blue sky over white sand. I snuck up to the wall and crouched low so only my head was exposed. I scanned the grounds. They had covered the vegetable garden with straw for the winter. They had raked the Zen garden. As always, everything was square, neat, and clean.
It was quiet in the compound. The gardeners were gone and Mr. Saito was not sitting in the Zen garden. There was no one on the veranda. It was almost as if they’d abandoned the house. I thought about climbing over the wall, going to the house, and looking in. But it would be too risky. If someone was there, they would catch me. So I sat on the ground below the wall and tried to think of what I should do. I hadn’t known anyone in Sinuiju other than the friends of the Saitos. If I went home to my village, my parents wouldn’t be there. Perhaps the blacksmith, Mr. Kwan, would take me in. I thought of my aunt and uncle who lived up the road from us. I could go there. But it would take hours and there was no guarantee they would still be there. Anyway, I just wanted to see my son.
I heard voices coming from the house and lifted my head above the wall. Yoshiko, her hair up and wearing her white kimono, stood on the veranda. At her side, holding her hand, was a young boy, three years old. He wore a blue kimono and his hair was in a topknot.
It was my little prince, my son, Young-chul. My heart broke when I saw him. Tears welled in my eyes. I stifled a cry. My son was so handsome in his kimono. He looked like a little man—a three-year-old copy of Hisashi. And he was alive! The rebels had not put him on the street as they’d threatened to do. He looked healthy and happy, just as I’d prayed he would be. I wanted to jump over the wall and sweep him into my arms. I wanted to tell him I was back and I’d never leave him again. I wanted to hug him, kiss him, and tell him how much I loved him.
Through my tears, I saw him hug Yoshiko’s leg. She put her hand on his head and smiled down at him. He held on to her for a second, then held her hand again. They casually strolled along the veranda.
My son had bonded with Yoshiko. My joy at seeing Young-chul turned to anger at Yoshiko for taking my place. I should be the one my little prince hugged. I should be the one whose hand he held. She had stolen him from me, and I hated her for it.
I rose from behind the wall and glared at Yoshiko. I wanted to scream at her for what she’d done. Then, she looked out from the veranda, and our eyes met. She froze for a second, then said something to Young-chul. He ran inside the house.
She’d seen me, and soon the police would be after me. I ran down the street past the houses and into the park. People strolling on the pathways stared as I ran, and I realized I was making a scene. I stopped running and walked. I didn’t hear sirens or see the police. I was exposed, so I had to go somewhere to hide. But where? There was the train station, but there would be too many people there. I came to the dock, but there was no place to hide. I saw two women wearing makeup and dressed in kimonos heading toward the brothel. I ran to them before they reached the guards.
“Please,” I said. “I need help.”
The taller one said, “Why do you need help?”
“I need a place to hide,” I answered.
The shorter one stepped forward. “Hello, Miyoko,” she said coolly.
It was Kiyo. I barely recognized her in her makeup and fancy kimono. In place of the delicate prettiness she’d had before, her face showed a hardness.
“Kiyo!” I exclaimed. “You are a Korean. Help me.”
She sneered. “Help you? You who married a Japanese? A chinilpa?”
She grabbed my arm, and over her shoulder she said, “Guards! Here is someone you have been looking for.”
“No, Kiyo,” I begged, trying to pull away. “Please.”
Kiyo held me firm, and the guards came before I could break free.
“Who is this?” one of the guards asked.
“She is Miyoko Saito,” Kiyo said, still holding my arm. “She is the daughter-in-law of Director-General Saito. She escaped two years ago after she betrayed the director-general’s son.”
“Are you Miyoko Saito?” the guard asked. Anger welled inside me. I had endured life in the rebel camp for two years. I had escaped their treacherous plot to kill me. I had made it to Sinuiju and I had seen my son. And now, they’d caught me.
“I am Suk-bo Yi,” I answered, staring at Kiyo.
“What is your Japanese name?” the guard demanded.
“I am Hisashi Saito’s wife,” I said defiantly. “I am not a rebel and I am not a chinilpa. I don’t care about any of that. I just wanted to see my son.”
“Come with me,” the guard said, taking my arm from Kiyo. “You need to go to the police station so we can learn who you really are.”
As the guard led me away, Kiyo said, “Goodbye, Miyoko.” Then she turned and headed to the brothel.
It was the same police station Mother and I had walked to before I met Mr. and Mrs. Saito for the first time. The Kempei tai soldier never let go of my arm. When we got inside, he had me sit on the floor against a wall while he talked to a desk clerk. The clerk glared at me, then went into an office. A few seconds later, he came out with a fat police sergeant. It was Sergeant Yamamoto, the same man who had escorted me to the Saito house that first day.
“It i
s you!” the sergeant said when he saw me. “Guard,” he said to the Kempei tai soldier, “take her to the interrogation room.”
They took me to a windowless room with a three-legged stool and a chair against a wall. The Kempei tai guard told me to sit on the stool, which was so short that when I sat, my knees came to my chest. The guard brought the chair to the door and sat.
We stayed there for quite a long time—the guard leering at me every so often—until finally, the door opened and a short, slim man in a suit came in carrying a bowler hat. He nodded for the guard to leave, then sat down. He had a light mustache over thin lips that curled up ever so slightly at the corners. His eyes were close set over a pointed nose.
“I am Major Ito,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He took out a pack of American cigarettes and took one out. He brought it to his lips and lit it with a match. “I am Kempei tai. You are Miyoko Saito. Your Korean name was Suk-bo Yi. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I was terrified. I remembered what I’d heard about how the Kempei tai tortured people. I thought it was all an exaggeration, and that even if it were true, it would never affect me. But here I was, being interrogated by a Kempei tai major. My legs started shaking and it was difficult to breathe.
The major took a long draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You escaped two years ago with a known rebel, Byong-woo Chung, whose Japanese name was Isamu. Correct?”
“He forced me to go with him, sir. I did not want to leave my son.”
“You mean, Byong-woo’s son. He is the boy’s father, correct?”
“No, sir. Hisashi Saito is the father.”
Major Ito flicked ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “We have information that says otherwise. Have you ever had sex with Byong-woo?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I mean, not before then.”
“Oh, but you have since then? So, you had sex with him after you escaped and you expect us to believe that you were not romantically involved before? Then why is your child one hundred percent Korean? We have a report from a Doctor Suzuki . . .”
“It’s not true!” I cried. “It was a plot by Mrs. Saito. Young-chul is Hisashi’s son!”
“If he was Hisashi’s son, why did you run off with the rebels?” The major took another puff from his cigarette.
“I told you. Byong-woo . . . Isamu forced me to go with him.”
“I see,” the major said. “What did you do for the rebels while you were with them?”
“I mostly fetched water, sir,” I replied.
“Water? Hmm. Did you do anything else?”
I knew I couldn’t tell him about making bombs with Byong-woo, even though I’d never made a bomb that hurt anyone. Yes, I had lived with the rebels, but I was never truly one of them. They had used me and I had escaped from them just as I’d escaped from the Japanese. But how could I make the major understand? It was best if I said nothing.
“I just fetched water, sir,” I said.
Major Ito shook his head. “I do not believe you are entirely forthcoming in your answers, Miyoko Saito. And we have questions about where you were with the rebels, who their leader was, their planning, etcetera, etcetera. However, we will have to continue in another place. Somewhere more . . . quiet.” He snuffed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. He picked up his bowler hat from the floor. He stood and opened the door.
“Sergeant,” he said, “have the prisoner transported to our interrogation post outside of town at once. I will meet her there.”
He faced me. “I will see you in a little while, Miyoko Saito. Until then, you should think about how you will answer my questions.”
I stood from the stool. “Please, sir,” I cried. “I am telling the truth!”
“Well, before the sun rises, we will have the truth from you.” His eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned up. He put on his hat.
Sergeant Yamamoto stepped into the doorway. “Sir,” he said, “there is a problem.”
“A problem?” the major asked. “What kind of problem?”
The sergeant glanced at me, then looked at the major. The major stepped out and closed the door behind him.
I heard talking on the other side of the door. It was low at first, then it grew louder. The major started shouting. “I do not care!” I heard him say. The sergeant said something in reply, but I couldn’t hear.
“This will not stand!” the major said. I heard him stomp away.
A few minutes later, Sergeant Yamamoto came in. “Someone is here for you,” he said.
I quickly followed him out of the room to the lobby. There, waiting at the desk, was Yoshiko, dressed in her white kimono. When she saw me, she held out her hand. “Come with me, Miyoko,” she said.
I took her hand and followed her outside. Night had settled in and it was dark. There, in front of the police station was Mr. Saito’s black car. “Get in the back,” Yoshiko ordered. I did, and she climbed behind the steering wheel. She started the car and put it in gear. She pointed the car toward the Saito house.
“What is happening?” I asked.
“I am taking you to the house.”
“But Mrs. Saito will have me arrested again!”
“She and Mr. Saito are in Tokyo,” Yoshiko replied as we turned a corner. “They will not be coming back.”
“But how did you get the police to let me go?”
“I made a call to Mr. Saito in Tokyo. He is still the director-general here in Sinuiju, although not for much longer, I’m afraid. I convinced him to set you free.”
“How did you do that?”
“Well, you see, Miyoko,” Yoshiko said, looking at me in the rearview mirror, “Mr. Saito is my father.”
TWENTY-SIX
Yoshiko pulled the car to the courtyard and led me through the front door. I expected to see Haru, but no one greeted us. We stepped through the entryway and into the main room. Yoshiko bowed and gave me a look that told me I should bow, too. “This is still a Shinto household,” she said. I bowed to the room as I’d done when I lived there.
It felt strange to be back in the beautiful house with the shoji sliding walls, low ebony table, and tatami mats covering the floor. Though it was strange, it was comforting, too. It was a place I’d been happy.
“Fumiko!” Yoshiko said. “Come at once.”
A second later, Fumiko, looking thinner and more gangly than the last time I saw her, came in and bowed. When she saw me, her mouth opened.
“Prepare Miyoko’s room,” Yoshiko said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Fumiko replied. “Which one?”
“Her room. The one she had with her husband. And have Ai make tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fumiko said with a bow. She gave me a quick smile as she left.
Yoshiko motioned to the ebony table. “Sit,” she said. “We must talk.”
“I would like to see my son first,” I said. “Please?”
Yoshiko nodded. “Of course.”
As she led me to the room, she said, “He is sleeping, and we must not wake him. He will be confused about who you are and won’t go back to sleep. You can see him for only a minute.”
She slid open the door to a room. There on the mat was a small lump covered with a blanket. I went to him. They had taken out his topknot, and his black hair was a tangle. His face was perfectly proportioned. Under the blanket, his body was lithe and athletic. He was perfect.
I had prayed for this moment, but I’d never dared believe it would come. And now that I was inches away from my little prince, tears of joy ran down my cheeks. All the suffering I’d endured with the rebels and the hardship of getting to Sinuiju faded from my memory. I’d have endured a thousand times as much for this one moment of joy. I wanted to wake him and tell him I’d returned. But Yoshiko was right: it would only confuse him, so I held back. Through my tears, I looked at Yoshiko. All the anger I’d had for her for taking my son was gone. “Thank you,” I whispered. She returned a simple nod.
> I wiped away my tears and we went to the main room. We sat at the ebony table. Fumiko had set out tea that Yoshiko poured into two bowls.
“I’m sure you have many questions,” Yoshiko said, cupping her tea bowl. “In time, your questions will be answered.”
As we sipped our tea, Yoshiko told me that her mother had died when she was young. Her father, Mr. Saito, was destined for high government office. “Governor-general of Korea,” she said. “Maybe Japan’s prime minister someday.” But he needed a wife to fulfill his political ambitions, so he married the current Mrs. Saito when Yoshiko was just five years old. They had Hisashi two years later.
“Because I was a daughter from a previous marriage,” Yoshiko explained, “once they had a son of their own, I was no longer an important part of the new family. My older brother was away in school then, so he was out of the house. Still, my father insisted that I move with them to Sinuiju when the emperor appointed him director-general. Even so, my stepmother insisted that no one knew that I was Mr. Saito’s daughter from his first marriage. So I fell into the role of house supervisor and supported my father any way I could.”
Yoshiko went on to explain that the government had assigned Haru to be Mr. Saito’s assistant in Sinuiju. Haru hired Kiyo and Fumiko. Yoshiko never trusted Haru. “We discovered he was a government spy,” Yoshiko said. “He was a snake. He gave reports about my father to the Kempei tai. The military does not like my father. They think he is sympathetic to Korea and China. In time, they moved against him with the help of Haru’s reports. They denounced him, effectively ending his career. Haru left shortly after. He is now an officer in the Kempei tai.”
The Spirit of the Dragon Page 22
