The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

  “Your husband must have done good work for the doctor,” Haru said coolly. “They promoted him to captain. Captain Saito of the Imperial Army. Captain Hisashi Saito, a war criminal.”

  “Be quiet!” I said. “You are lying! Hisashi worked in a medical camp.”

  “It does not matter if you believe me,” Haru replied. “As I said, you will not see your husband again and your son will never meet his father. Yes, Hisashi was here, but he is no longer. Those suspected of war crimes were sent on the first boat to Japan. I imagine your husband is in prison awaiting trial.”

  Haru’s grin changed into a sneer. “There you go,” Haru said. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now, go away with your bastard son or I will call the guard and tell him you are passing contraband.”

  I stood at the fence and watched Haru walk away. I was too numb to shout at him.

  Young-chul took my arm. “Ummah,” he said. “Father is not here and we must go.”

  In the growing heat of the day, we walked a while until we reached a fork in the road. I pointed for us to turn south instead of up into the hills where my village was. “Where are we going, Ummah?” Young-chul asked.

  “Far away from here,” I answered.

  As we began our journey, I remembered when I first saw Hisashi in the forest behind my house. I tried to image him as a war criminal conducting research on prisoners. It made no sense. It simply was not possible. I had to see him again, talk to him about it. I had to see if the man I loved was gone from me forever.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Present Day, Los Angeles

  “Lemme see if I have this right,” Detective Jackson says. He leans his chair back and watches Ms. Yi carefully. He has a pad of paper on his lap and a pen in his hand. “Your husband worked for this Unit 731 during World War Two. Your parents died there, didn’t they?”

  Ms. Yi keeps her eyes on the table in front of her. “Years later I learned that my parents were killed in Manchuria,” she says. “I do not know where they were killed.”

  “They coulda been sent to Unit 731,” Jackson says. “Your husband worked there and that’s why you murdered him.”

  I lean forward. “She’s not admitting to anything, Detective. You don’t know if the deceased is her husband or, for that matter, if he was murdered.”

  “What happened to your brother?” Jackson says, ignoring me.

  “I discovered he was killed fighting for the Japanese in the Battle of Guadalcanal,” Ms. Yi answers.

  “And what about this dragon comb?” Jackson asks me. “Her aunt gave it to her daughters, but now you have it? How’d you get it?”

  “My grandmother gave it to me,” I answer.

  “Your grandmother?” Exasperated, Jackson shakes his head. “And one more thing,” he says, still addressing me. “If this is all true, why’s her name Yi and not Saito? I mean, if she married this Hisashi guy, she should be Mrs. Saito, right?”

  “No, Detective,” I say. “In Korea, it is customary that a married woman keeps her maiden name.”

  “Is that so?” Jackson says sarcastically. He tosses his pad and pen onto the table. “I don’t get it. I need answers. I bet they’re gettin’ impatient outside.”

  “I understand, Detective,” Ms. Yi says. “There is one more part of my story. Once you hear it, you’ll have the answers you need.”

  “Do you need a break, ma’am?” I ask.

  “No,” Ms. Yi replies.

  “Okay,” Jackson interjects. “Let’s get on with it. You were saying something about starting a journey.”

  “Yes, a difficult journey,” Ms. Yi says, still staring at the table. “After I left Sinuiju, I made it all the way to Seoul with Young-chul. It took us several months. To get there we had to sell all the valuables Yoshiko had given us. A ride on a truck to Pyongyang cost two silver chopsticks. The cost to cross to the American side was the ivory carving from the kami dana altar. We had to beg for food. We usually slept outside in the cold.”

  Ms. Yi looks at Detective Jackson. “The journey was difficult, Detective, but once I got to Seoul, it was better. The Japanese were gone, and though we were all still very poor, everyone was optimistic. We had our country back. People were starting businesses. For the first time in my life, it felt like we had a future.

  “But then, Korea became the battleground in the cold war between America and the communist nations. Talks between the north and south broke down. The country became divided—the communists in the north led by Kim Il-sung, and the American puppet Syngman Rhee leading the south. Families were separated and both countries put up fences to keep their people from leaving.”

  Ms. Yi shakes her head. “We did not care about global politics, Detective. All we wanted was to be one nation, to reunite with our loved ones. But then our civil war came, what you call the Korean War. It destroyed everything—two and a half million Koreans died, and our hopes and dreams died with them.”

  Ms. Yi looks at the table again. Sadness fills her face. “That was the most difficult time of my life.”

  THIRTY

  Seoul, June 1950

  “We need more honey,” I told Young-chul as I stood over my worktable rolling out sweet rice dough. “And more chestnuts for the yakgwa.”

  It was well before sunrise and Young-chul, now almost twelve years old, was getting ready to go out to buy the ingredients I needed for the sweets I sold in the Namdaemun market. From under his sleeping mat, he’d gathered the money I’d given him from the previous day’s sales. “Sugar is easy,” he said, pulling on his shoes. “Chestnuts are not so easy. People steal them right off the trees before the farmers can harvest them. If I can find them, they are expensive.”

  “It does not matter what they cost,” I said. “Yakgwa cakes fetch two won more than anything else we sell. I run out of them before noon and could sell more if I had chestnuts.”

  “I’ll get them,” Young-chul said confidently. He shouldered his rucksack and slipped out the door.

  I smiled to myself as my son ran down the street. He was taller than me now. He was still in his awkward stage, but it was clear that in a few short years, he would grow into his body and be the very image of his handsome father when I’d first met him. He was smart like his father and resourceful, too. He seemed happy, although he often went dark, sometimes for days. I knew why. He was half Japanese in a country where everyone hated the Japanese. And his Japanese side showed. He wasn’t tall like a Korean, and his skin was dark like the Japanese. He had Japanese mannerisms, too, like a tendency to look people in the eye instead of diverting his gaze like Koreans did.

  We’d been lucky since we’d come to Seoul four years earlier. We lived in a small house not far from the market. It was one room, filled with the pots and cooking utensils I needed to make my confections. It had a stove, a large oak worktable, and a cupboard where I stored ingredients. I loved the house. It was a smaller version of the house I’d grown up in, only it was in the middle of the city instead of surrounded by fields and forests.

  I could afford the rent because I was a successful merchant in the Namdaemun market. I sold my confections in a stand on the main street, and everyone said mine were the best. At first, I’d only sold dduk. I made the sweet rice cakes just like Mother had shown me when we made them for the Dano celebration. But I’d always sell them all before noon, so soon, I added other confections like bukkumi dumplings with sweet red beans, dasik tea cookies and, of course yakgwa. I took care to make them the best I could. I’d pull myself off my mat hours before daylight to make them in the morning so they’d be fresh. I used the best ingredients that Young-chul was always able to find.

  After Young-chul left, I finished preparing the confections and packed them into a small one-wheeled cart that Young-chul had found for me when I could no longer carry my wares on my back. It was now light outside, the sun having risen above the mountains in the east. I pushed my cart over the narrow dirt streets, past the low houses of my neighborhood. After several blo
cks, the streets were wider and cobblestone. Here were brick buildings, some three stories tall with signs in Hangul. Up and down the street the people of Seoul were starting their workday. Some swept walks in front of their stores. Others opened awnings with long cranks.

  When I got to Namdaemun market, street merchants were laying out their goods on tables and mats. The smell of kimchi hung in the air, and the market stalls held all kinds of merchandise—Western-style shirts as well as traditional hanboks; blue and white and pink stationery; books in Hangul, Chinese, and English; kites and dolls and cheap jewelry; traditional herbs and medicines; foods of all types. When I came to the place where I had my stand, I took the confections and a white cloth out of the cart. I removed the wheel and turned the cart upside down to make a table. I spread out the cloth and arranged my goods in neat groups. Soon, people started to stroll by and inspect my confections.

  My customers that day were mostly well-off—women in silk hanboks carrying parasols, and men in suits. As usual, I sold all the yakgwa before midday. There were many working-class and poor at the market. They looked longingly at my confections, but only a few bought them. “It is my husband’s birthday,” one said. “I can only treat myself once per week,” said another.

  In the afternoon, a woman dressed in a tattered chima skirt and soiled jeogori blouse led two young children past my stand. The youngest, a barefoot boy, pulled on his mother’s hand to go to my stand. “No, Jung-yoo,” the mother said, pulling him back. “We cannot have sweets today.”

  As the boy fell in step with his mother, he looked at me beseechingly. I remembered how much I loved the dduk my mother and I made for the celebrations in my village. I remembered wishing I could have them more than just a few times per year.

  “Mother,” I called to the woman. “I need your help.”

  The woman faced me. “I am sorry, but I am poor and cannot afford your treats.”

  “That is not what I want,” I said. “I have made too much dduk today and will not be able to sell it all. I am giving it away. Would you be so kind to take some with you so I do not have to carry it home?”

  The woman eyed me suspiciously. “It is okay,” I said with a smile. “I understand.” The woman nodded and brought her children to my table. “One for each of your children,” I said, “and two more for you and your husband. Let the children choose the ones they want.”

  The children stood wide-eyed over my table and selected their dduk cakes. I took two more and wrapped them in paper and handed them to the mother.

  “Thank you,” she said with a bow.

  “Thank you!” I replied. “Now I do not have to carry so much home.”

  By the end of the day, I’d sold everything I had and was preparing to leave. It had been a good day and I’d made a handsome profit. As I started to fold the white cloth, a man in a suit and bowler hat came to my stand.

  “Anyohaseyo,” the man said.

  “I am sorry, sir,” I replied, “but I have nothing left to sell you. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

  “It is my bad luck you have nothing left for me to buy,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I hear your confections are the best. But that is not why I am here.”

  “I see,” I replied, looking away. A pang of fear gripped me. I’d heard of men in suits forcing merchants like me to pay them a fee to sell in the market. This man looked like he could be one of them.

  “I am Mr. Park with the Namdaemun Merchants Association,” he said. “I am here because I want to place an order.”

  “An order?” I said, stopping the folding.

  “Yes. The association wants to hire you to make confections for the summer festival. The festival is next week, and we will need quite a large quantity.”

  “How much will you need?”

  He gave me a number and I set down the white cloth unfolded. “I will need help to make that much,” I said. “And I will need to buy a lot of ingredients.”

  “I am prepared to give you half your fee in advance if you accept.” He held out an envelope. “Take it. Use it to hire the help you need and buy your ingredients. My address is in there, too, in case you need to contact me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, staring at the envelope. “I accept your order.”

  “Good. I will come back in a week with a truck to get the confections. I will pay the balance then.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  He nodded at me and winked. “And if our partnership is a success, there will be more opportunities like this for you. Other festivals. Perhaps hotels and restaurants.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  I opened the envelope and saw there was a large sum of money inside. I did a quick calculation in my head and realized I’d earn a big profit. And Mr. Park had said there would be more opportunities. I quickly finished folding the white cloth and headed home. If I was successful, in a year or less, I could earn enough to take Young-chul to Japan and find Hisashi.

  When I got home, Young-chul was reading a book. “I got the honey and chestnuts,” he said without looking up. “I put the leftover money on the table.”

  I looked at the money. “Why is there so much?” I asked. “I thought you said the chestnuts would be expensive.”

  He still didn’t look up. “They were not as expensive as I thought.”

  I was his mother and I could tell he was lying. I wanted to ask him if he’d stolen the chestnuts, but I didn’t. I was excited about the order from Mr. Park and I’d need the chestnuts. And I’d need Young-chul and his resourcefulness to fill the huge order.

  I told Young-chul about Mr. Park, and his eyes lit up. “You can count on me to get everything you need,” he said.

  “Good,” I replied. “Just be careful, my son.”

  Young-chul somehow got the ingredients I needed, and I hired two neighbors to help me make the confections. I planned to have the four of us work all night before I had to deliver them to Mr. Park. But before that day, war came to Seoul. I’d heard that there’d been clashes along the border with the communists in the north, but I never imagined that the fighting would come to the city.

  That morning, rumors spread that the communists were advancing on Seoul. They said President Syngman Rhee had fled to Pusan, and people by the thousands were heading south across the Han River. I was terrified that if Kim Il-sung’s soldiers reached Seoul, they would recognize me and shoot me for betraying them.

  When the artillery fire started—a concussive booming from the north followed by white explosions within the city—I said, “We must leave!” Young-chul went out to investigate while I huddled inside the house. When he came back, he said, “The streets and bridges are jammed with people. We will not get anywhere. It is safer to stay here.”

  I’d never told Young-chul that I’d betrayed the rebels. I only told him that I lived with them for a while and then escaped to come back to him. He hadn’t asked questions about what I’d done during that time. Now, however, I was in danger. So I told him how I helped make bombs for the rebels, and how I failed to set off a bomb during an important raid. I told him that I’d deserted and if they caught me, they’d shoot me. I didn’t tell him about Byong-woo.

  Young-chul asked, “How will they know where to find you?”

  “Everyone has registered with the government. If the communists take Seoul, they’ll look through the records and know where I live.”

  “Then we need to move,” my son said simply. “We’ll take food and clothes and go to another house. Everyone is leaving, so we can find an abandoned house. Let’s go.”

  I was amazed how my son knew exactly what to do. It was as if he was much older and experienced than other boys his age. It was the time he spent on the street getting things for my business. Although I felt guilty about making him streetwise, I was relieved that I could depend on his cleverness now.

  We quickly gathered food, some clothes, and all our money and stuffed them inside Young-chul’s rucksack. We went to the street where the peopl
e of Seoul were in panic. They carried sacks heavy with their belongings and dragged children by their hands. They hurried south as the artillery shells fell not far away.

  “This way,” Young-chul said.

  I followed him as we pushed against the crowd, bumping into people who shoved us aside. We turned east and then north again. Soon, we were near Gyeongbok Palace. “There is a wealthy neighborhood just east of here,” Young-chul said. “We’ll find a good house there.”

  The streets here were not as crowded, and Young-chul found an abandoned, unlocked house. The house was brick and had a sturdy tile roof. We slipped inside. It was much larger than our one-room house, but not extravagant. It felt like the house of a successful merchant. It had Western-style furniture and, separated from the main room by a sliding shoji wall, a kitchen with an iron stove.

  Young-chul dropped his rucksack on the floor and went into the kitchen. “They left food,” he said. “Canned peaches, kimchi, and dried pork.”

  “Is there water?” I asked. “We should fill containers with water.”

  Young-chul nodded and found several large containers. Though the water came out of the tap in only a dribble, we filled them all up.

  We settled into the main room. “Look!” Young-chul said, pointing. “They have a radio!”

  There against the wall was a wooden cabinet with a round glass window and knobs on the front. Young-chul went to the radio and turned it on. He rotated a knob and found a channel that was broadcasting. As explosions thumped the city all around us, we sat on the floor and listened to the announcer calmly read reports. He said communist forces were inside Seoul and tens of thousands of refugees were fleeing south. “The communists are progressing quickly,” the announcer said. “The South Korean army is preparing to destroy the Hangang Bridge. Everyone is advised to stay away.”

  “There must be thousands of people on that bridge,” I said.

  Young-chul gave a serious look and nodded. I could see him starting to slip into one of his dark moods again.