The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

  On yet another sunny day in Los Angeles, I dressed and went to the apartment lobby. I asked Mrs. Park how to get to the address in Mr. Saito’s letter. “Three streets down and two to the left,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”

  I found the address—a small, two-story building. I went to the blond receptionist and said, “Mr. Fredrik,” trying to pronounce the name correctly.

  The woman shook her head and said something in English. The only word I understood was “No.”

  Again, I said, “Mr. Fredrik.” The woman rolled her eyes. She lifted a finger, picked up a telephone, and said something to someone on the other end. She hung up and pointed for me to sit in a chair.

  A few minutes later, a young man came into the lobby. He wore a suit and glasses with black frames. The receptionist pointed at me and the man came to me. “My name is Peter Kim,” he said in Korean. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, standing and bowing. “I am here to see this man.” I gave him Mr. Saito’s letter. He read it and grinned. “You want to see Fredrik Weinberg,” he said. “America is not like Korea. Here they say the given name first and the family name second. Mr. Weinberg is the director of our organization. Come with me. I will take you to him.”

  As we walked up a flight of stairs, Mr. Kim asked, “Do you speak Japanese? Mr. Weinberg speaks it quite well.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Good.”

  We went into an open area where several men and women sat at desks. They talked on telephones or worked on typewriters. None of them were Asian.

  Mr. Kim took me to a woman sitting at a desk. She had brown hair and wore a light-green dress. Mr. Kim said something to her in English. The woman studied me as she said something to Mr. Kim.

  “This is Carol, Mr. Weinberg’s secretary,” Mr. Kim said to me. “He is on a call and will see you when he is done.” He pointed at a chair. “Sit here and Carol will let you know when Mr. Weinberg is ready.”

  I waited ten minutes, then twenty. Every so often, I would catch Carol staring at me. Then, she’d give me a condescending smile and look away. Finally, a man’s voice came on a box. Carol pushed a button and said something. Then she opened the door to Mr. Weinberg’s office. I went in, bowed, and said, “Konnichiwa.”

  He was a middle-aged man with thick graying hair. He wore a dark wool suit with a vest, white shirt, and a bow tie. He was average height and a little thick around the middle. He nodded to me. “Hello,” he said in Japanese. “Please sit.”

  Mr. Weinstein had a letter in his hand. He studied it and then said, “I have a letter of introduction for you from a Mr. Saito, the president of Yamamoto Bank in Tokyo. His bank is an important donor to our organization. He recommends that I hire you.” Mr. Weinstein placed the letter on his desk. He studied me.

  “Do you know what we do here, Miss Yi?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I answered.

  “We are the Worldwide Alliance for Human Rights. We promote the articles set forth in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, sir,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  “It is a declaration adopted by the United Nations after World War Two. It affirms that all humans, regardless of their race, religion, gender, or language have four fundamental freedoms—freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from fear, and freedom from want.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t speak English, do you?” Mr. Weinberg asked.

  “No, sir,” I answered. “I only know Korean, Japanese, and some Chinese.”

  Mr. Weinberg sighed. “If you don’t know English, you can’t type or answer the telephone. You can’t be a receptionist, either. I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can use you.”

  “I am learning English,” I said.

  “It will take you a long time to learn it,” Mr. Weinberg countered. “In the meantime, I don’t have a job for you. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” I said with a nod. “Thank you for your time.”

  As I stood to leave, I remembered what Yoshiko had told me when I’d said I didn’t know what I could do to help fight bigotry. If you are committed, you will find a way. My son had died because of bigotry. My parents had died fighting for freedom. And my husband was sick because his country had forced him to kill others.

  I lifted my chin and faced Mr. Weinberg. “Tell me again, sir,” I said. “What are the four fundamental freedoms?”

  “Freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from fear, and freedom from want,” he replied.

  “With all due respect, sir, have you or anyone you loved ever been denied any of these freedoms? Do you know firsthand what you are fighting for?”

  He took a second to answer. “My parents were killed by the Nazis in Dachau,” he said, finally.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I do not know what happened to my parents. They were probably killed in a prison camp, just like your parents were.”

  Mr. Weinberg invited me to sit again. He unbuttoned his suit coat and asked me to tell him more. For the next hour he listened as I told my story. I told him what it was like living under Japanese rule, how my parents escaped to Manchuria and died there, how there were times in my life when I had nothing to eat for days and nowhere warm to sleep, how bigotry had killed my son. At the end, I said, “Like you, I know what you are fighting for here, Mr. Weinberg. I know all too well, and I will fight harder for it than anyone.”

  Mr. Weinberg nodded. “I believe you will,” he said. “We don’t pay much. But come back tomorrow and you can begin working for us.”

  Mr. Weinberg gave me an advance on my pay to buy clothes for the office. He also paid for English classes and even set me up with a tutor, who I met with three times per week. I worked hard to learn English, studying late into the night and using it when I went out. I watched television and looked up words and phrases the television people used. Eventually, I began to understand what they were saying. Although it was different than the Asian languages I knew, in a few months, I was talking to Mr. Weinberg in English most of the time.

  At first, I ran errands and learned how an office worked. I helped with anything involving Asia. I did research in documents written in Korean, Chinese, and Japanese. I did interviews and helped Mr. Kim translate them. I made sure I was the first one in the office in the morning, and I was usually the last one to leave. Along with English, I quickly learned how I could help. Mr. Weinberg gave me Japanese, Chinese, and Korean books to read about human rights. I studied them whenever I could.

  Every night I went to the Silla restaurant where Hisashi worked. I always wore the silver hairpin, and I always took the table next to the kitchen. I became friends with the waitress who wore too much makeup. She called herself Angel. As it turned out, the food at Silla was quite good. There was everything I remembered from Korea—bulgogi, galbi, japchae, bibimbap, and, of course, kimchi. Over time, I’d ordered everything on the menu, but I never enjoyed the food. I always ate staring through the swinging doors to try to see Hisashi. And when I heard the cook scold Hisashi and call him names, I lost my appetite completely. Angel got used to taking a full plate away. I think she knew I was there for Hisashi. Thankfully, she never once asked me about him.

  After I ate, I’d wait outside the restaurant until it closed. When Hisashi was done working, I walked alongside him as he went home to a shabby boardinghouse just west of downtown. I made small talk, saying things like, “The restaurant wasn’t busy today,” or “I hear it will rain tomorrow,” or “It is a good day to be alive.”

  Hisashi always kept his eyes on the sidewalk. I could tell that my being there was hard for him, but I was determined to reach him. He never said anything until we got to the boardinghouse. Then, without looking up, he’d say, “Please do not do this.”

  I always replied, “I have to.”

  This went on for months. I tried to get him to respond by talking about our life in Korea. I reminisced about the ti
me we first met or when he gave me the hairpin. I told him about our son. He never said anything until we got to the boardinghouse.

  Then, it was, “Please do not do this.”

  “I have to.”

  After I’d been at the Worldwide Alliance for Human Rights for a year, Mr. Weinberg put me in charge of uncovering human rights violations in Asia before and during World War II. I had great passion for the work. After all, I’d lived it. Still, it was almost unbearable to read the reports of inexplicable inhumanity and talk to survivors. There was the rape of Nanking that Byong-woo had told me about—a horrific two-month massacre that murdered hundreds of thousands of Chinese. There was the forced labor of tens of millions of Koreans, Chinese, and Pacific Islanders. There was the torture and murder of rebels.

  But it wasn’t just the Japanese who committed atrocities. It was other Asian countries, too. There was the imprisonment, torture, and murder of tens of thousands by Kim Il-sung in North Korea. And there was the imprisonment, torture, and murder of tens of thousands by the American puppet Syngman Rhee in South Korea. There was the repression and slaughter of millions of Chinese at the hands of Mao Zedong and the communists. There were wars and atrocities committed in southeast Asia and the subjugation of Tibet by the Chinese. I didn’t understand how people could be so inhumane. It seemed sometimes that the entire world had gone mad.

  And there was Unit 731. One day when I was at my desk, Mr. Weinberg dropped off a thick envelope from the US State Department marked “Top Secret.” I asked him what it was and how he got it.

  “Read it,” he said. “And don’t ask how I got it.”

  I opened the envelope. A few pages were written in English, but most were in Japanese. I quickly saw that they were documents the Japanese had turned over to the United States after they’d surrendered. They described a research camp the Imperial Army set up after they invaded Manchuria and how the Japanese conducted experiments there. Outwardly, the research was for preventing epidemics and purifying water. However, the real purpose was to develop chemical and germ weapons. They also did experiments on people. Experiments like live vivisection, extreme frostbite, drowning, forced infections, weapons testing. According to the documents, they murdered thousands of Chinese, Filipinos, Indonesians, and Koreans. Doctor Shiro Ishii led the unit.

  I immediately thought of my parents. I wondered if the Japanese captured them and sent them to Unit 731. As I sat at my desk, images of the soldiers torturing and killing my mother and father began to form in my mind. I quickly pushed them away. I had to believe the Japanese had killed my parents and didn’t capture them, or I wouldn’t be able to continue doing my job.

  And then I thought of Hisashi. What everyone had said about Unit 731 was true, and Hisashi had worked there. I couldn’t deny it anymore. I hadn’t heard anything about Unit 731 after the war, so I had questioned if the rumors about it were true. But there it was in the documents in front of me. Doctor Ishii and the Japanese who worked at Unit 731 were war criminals, including Hisashi.

  I wondered if I was doing the right thing by continuing to love him. I was angry that he’d abandoned me and Young-chul. Working for Doctor Ishii, he’d committed war crimes—the documents proved it. Perhaps I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. After all, I’d spent only a year with him.

  But it didn’t make sense. I’d felt his tenderness when we lay together. His mother and Yoshiko had said he was sensitive. And he’d been troubled when he’d come home before going to Manchuria. I wanted to know what had happened to my husband. I wanted to talk to him about it. For months I’d tried in vain to get him to talk to me, but he never did.

  As I read through the documents, I wondered why I hadn’t heard more about Unit 731 before now. Everyone knew about the Nazi experiments by Doctor Mengele in Auschwitz, but no one knew about Doctor Ishii and Unit 731. I flipped to papers in the back. There were documents translated from Russian that detailed trials and convictions for war crimes committed by the Japanese that the Russians had captured in Unit 731. It accused the Americans of refusing to prosecute the Japanese they had captured—specifically, Doctor Ishii.

  I took the pages to Mr. Weinberg’s office. “Have you read this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Is it true the Americans didn’t prosecute Doctor Ishii?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  A disgusted look crossed Mr. Weinberg’s face. “It’s simple,” he said. “The Americans gave him immunity for his war crimes in exchange for his research. Doctor Ishii lives in Tokyo now, a free man. He never stood trial for torturing and murdering tens of thousands of people.”

  Now I was disgusted, too. “What can we do?” I asked.

  “All we can do is publish this information. The American government will deny it. They’ll spin it as Russian propaganda. It could make trouble for us.”

  “I see,” I replied. Typically, I’d express my indignation and tell Mr. Weinberg that I didn’t care if we’d get in trouble with the American government, but I had to consider Hisashi. I had told Mr. Weinberg the Japanese had forced my husband to join the Imperial Army and that he had died. I hadn’t told him that he had worked for Doctor Ishii. All along, I’d kept secret that my husband was alive and working less than a mile away from the Worldwide Alliance for Human Rights office. I knew I should tell Mr. Weinberg the truth, but I couldn’t.

  I went back to my desk. Although I knew I should work on publishing the information about Unit 731, I set the papers aside. I told Carol that I had to go outside and get some air. I left the office and didn’t come back that day.

  That night I went to the Silla restaurant as I always did. I ordered japchae and bori cha tea. Angel brought my food, and once again, I didn’t eat it. I wondered why Hisashi hadn’t refused to work for Doctor Ishii when he learned what they were doing there. I wondered what made him abandon me and throw his life away. I was angry at him.

  “You stupid wae-won!” I heard the cook say. Anger swelled inside me, but I wasn’t sure what I was angry about. I hated when the cook abused my husband, but I’d never done anything about it before. Now, I thought that Hisashi was getting what he deserved—or at least what he wanted. Whatever it was, I hated it, and I wanted it to stop.

  I left the table and pushed open the door to the kitchen. Hisashi was hunched over a sink working on a pile of dishes. The fat cook was at a stove, stirring something in a wok. They both turned when I came in.

  “Stop calling him names!” I shouted at the cook.

  “But he is Japanese!” the cook replied with a puzzled look.

  Angel came into the kitchen and put a hand on my shoulder. Before she could lead me away, I said, “He is my husband.”

  The cook’s eyes went wide and he looked from me to Hisashi and then back at me. Hisashi turned to the sink again.

  After a few seconds, Angel said, “Come with me.” She led me out of the kitchen, back to my table. All the restaurant customers stared at me.

  “Hisashi is your husband?” Angel asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “You married a Japanese?”

  “Yes.”

  Angel looked disappointed. “I don’t think you should stay here,” she said, glancing at the restaurant patrons. “You do not have to pay today. You never eat much, anyway.” She took my plate from the table.

  I went to the door. Before I left, Angel said, “You should not come back. I am sorry.”

  I hesitated, thinking I should give everyone in the restaurant a lecture about bigotry. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good. They thought I was a chinilpa and they wouldn’t care what I said. So I pushed through the door and left the restaurant.

  As usual, I waited for Hisashi to finish work and walked with him to his boardinghouse. I was angry at what had happened in the restaurant. I was angry at what he did at Unit 731 and for not fighting back. Mostly, I was angry at him for leaving me.

  When we got to the boardinghouse
, my rage spilled out. “Why did you leave me?” I cried. “We were in love! We had a beautiful son. I needed you!”

  I’d never talked to him like this before, and I wasn’t sure what he’d do. He kept his eyes low and didn’t reply.

  “Why?” I pleaded. “Why didn’t you fight for me?”

  “You don’t know what they made me do,” he said.

  I was surprised that he said something. It was the first time he’d said anything except “Please do not do this” at the end of our walks. My anger quickly changed to pity.

  “Yes, I do know,” I said. “Unit 731.”

  He looked incredibly sad. “You know?”

  “I’ve read reports about it for my work.”

  “Then you know why you must leave me alone,” he said and started walking again.

  I walked with him. “I cannot leave you alone,” I said. “I still love you. I will always love you. I just don’t understand why you didn’t refuse to work for Doctor Ishii. Why, Hisashi? Tell me.”

  He’d bowed his head and was crying. I put my arm around him and he didn’t pull away. I started crying, too.

  “It’s killing you, isn’t it?” I said, holding him. “I want to help. Let me help you.”

  He pushed away from me. “It will kill you, too,” he said. “They kicked you out of the restaurant because you married me. Imagine what they would do to you if they knew what I did.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Love is a commitment you make every day for the rest of your life.”

  “A commitment . . . ,” he said.

  “Yes. I will not leave you, my husband. Come home with me. Let me take care of you.”

  Hisashi shook his head. “No.”

  “Then just talk to me. It will help to talk about it.”

  “No,” he repeated.

  The look of sadness on Hisashi’s face broke my heart. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I will not drag you down with me.”

  As he went into his boardinghouse, I whispered, “I’m sorry, too.”

  I never again ate at the Silla restaurant, and although I was angry at Hisashi, I walked with him to the boardinghouse every night. He still didn’t talk on our walks, but he didn’t say “Please do not do this” anymore. I knew I shouldn’t push him to talk about Unit 731. I hoped that if I didn’t abandon him, he would talk about it someday.