Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Dedication
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Map of Korea
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
In memory of Nungho and his dreams
and
To Audrey and Kathy with love
In tribute to the brave veterans of the Korean War, to those
who gave their lives in battle, and to all the unsung
heroes and heroines who endured those sad
and difficult years.
Text copyright © 1993 by Sook Nyul Choi
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selec-
tions from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Choi, Sook Nyul.
Echoes of the white giraffe / by Sook Nyul Choi.
Sequel to Year of impossible goodbyes.
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Sookan adjusts to life in the refugee village in
Pusan but continues to hope that the civil war will end and her family will
be reunited in Seoul.
HC ISBN: 0-395-64721-5 PB ISBN: 0-618-80917-1
1. Korea—History—1945—Juvenile fiction. [1. Korea—History—1945
—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C44626EC 1993 92-17476
[Fic]—dc20 CIP AC
HC ISBN-13: 978-0-395-64721-9
PA ISBN-13: 978-0-618-80917-2
Printed in the United States of America
HAD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgments
I am deeply touched by the warm reception my first bookYear of Impossible Goodbyes received. I would like to thank the many librarians across the country for their enthusiasm; their letters, phone calls, and invitations to visit and read at their libraries provided me encouragement during the lonely days writing this book. The enthusiasm of my old and new friends at the Women’s National Book Association over my first book, and their frequent inquiries as to my progress on this sequel has been a source of strength. And again, my sincere thanks to my editor and friend, Laura Hornik, for her continued interest in my work.
My heartfelt thanks to my daughters, Audrey and Kathy, for their frank critiques and for their constant loving support.
Sook Nyul Choi
Cambridge, 1993
Chapter One
The sun was setting and a faint breeze stirred over our flushed faces as we put down the last of the sand bags. Two wood-frame single classroom buildings finally stood before us. Father Lee, my younger brother Inchun, and all the teachers and students stood staring in silence as they proudly beheld the grand buildings. As Teacher Yun gazed at the first classroom, she seemed to caress every beam, board, and brick with her large dark eyes. She then turned to the second classroom, and again, lovingly examined every inch of it, from top to bottom. I could almost tell which pieces of brick, wood, and concrete my best friend Bokhi and I had carried. “Oh, I can’t stand it anymore,” one girl finally shouted with excitement. “I want to go inside and walk around.”
The teachers smiled as they watched us rush into the classrooms. How proud we were to have helped build our very own school. My shoulders and back ached, and my callused hands throbbed. Hot tears flooded my eyes. I was exhausted, but it was a happy exhaustion, and I felt overjoyed.
“You all go home early for a change,” said Teacher Yun. “Let us teachers take care of the rest. No need for you to come back this weekend. We will finish up, and on Monday, we can use our new classrooms.”
Our teachers were so thoughtful to let us all go home and have the weekend to ourselves. This would be the first Saturday and Sunday we would not be working at the site since construction had begun several months before.
How glad we had been when Teacher Yun first found this small plot by the seashore, in an area of Pusan where many refugees, including Bokhi, had settled. Teacher Yun and a few other teachers from the Ewha School in Seoul had managed to flee to Pusan, and they were anxious to teach refugee students like Bokhi and me. We were even more anxious to resume our studies. We had not attended any school since the war began, over eight months earlier. Pusan was so crowded that there was no place for us to gather and study, so we had decided to build our own classrooms. When Teacher Yun found this site, we quickly began to build our small school, using whatever materials we could find. We collected driftwood, bricks, stones, rocks, pebbles, and even shells. We carried these things to the building site, while we dreamed of having a place to sit and study, protected from the monsoon rains, the howling winds, and the scorchingly hot sun. Now that dream stood right before us.
Wonderful as it was to see the two rooms finished, suddenly, I couldn’t help feeling a strange sadness deep within me. Our country was still at war, and we were still refugees here in Pusan. I felt sad at how content we were with these two simple wood-frame buildings. I wondered what had become of our beautiful brick Ewha School in Seoul, with its sparkling classrooms and its beautifully tiered garden. Maybe we could make a small garden in front of these humbler classrooms, I thought.
Inchun put away his tools and nails and we headed toward the refugee information center where Mother worked. As we dragged our tired feet through the streets of Pusan, we passed many Pusan School students. Swinging their book bags and chatting like magpies, they looked so energetic and carefree. Their school uniforms were clean and freshly pressed. I looked at Inchun’s work clothes and my own. No one would think that we, too, were students. I thought of the happy days before the war when I used to run out my front door each morning dressed in my school uniform: a navy blue skirt and a white blouse, proudly adorned with a silver school pin embossed with a pear blossom, the ewha. The war had even robbed me of my school pin.
I sighed sadly. Inchun looked at me and shrugged his shoulders with resignation. So, we are refugees, he seemed to say. The war broke out in Seoul and we couldn’t help it. We had no choice but to flee south to Pusan, away from the bombing and fighting.
When we approached the small gray house that housed Father Lee’s church and the refugee information center, Mother came rushing out. “Stay there, I’m coming! We must hurry so we can climb the mountain before the sun goes down.” Knitting her brow, she looked up at the setting sun. “We need to fetch some water from the well tonight, too. I went at dawn, but the water line was already too long.”
By the way Mother rattled on, I knew she had not received news about Father or my brothers. We hadn’t heard a thing since our separation from them. Were they still alive? Were they trying to contact us? Each day, many new notices went up on the already crowded information board at the refugee information center. Whenever I passed by, I stopped to read the notes myself. “Looking for my brother Chang Kyu. I am at our cousin’s house. Your third sister, ” said one. Another said, “Dear Sung, your wife has been injured, but is still alive and is recovering. Contact Father Lee. Your Uncle Ho.”
Every day, Mother feverishly wrote down any information she heard and contacted people for any possible additional clues. Each time she successfully reunited one family, she was filled with renewed hope that our famil
y would soon be reunited, too, and she enthusiastically told us all about it. But today she pursed her lips and walked quickly toward the refugee mountain where we lived. Her face was drawn and expressionless, as if she were too upset to show the slightest emotion.
In an attempt to cheer her up, I said, “Mother, our classroom buildings are finally standing.”
Mother smiled and patted me on the head. “You all worked so hard. It’s about time to hit the books now.”
We fell silent again as we wove through the clean streets of Pusan toward the steep, jagged mountain at the edge of the city. I was tired, and I felt a tightness in my legs from the long day’s work. Looking at the low brick houses we passed so quickly, I wished one of them were ours. The smell of rice, hot beef broth, and sweet peppers wafted out one of the windows. A woman called to her children, and suddenly a little boy and girl shot past me. They pushed open the low wooden gate and rushed in. I thought of our beautiful house in Seoul.
A blue marble rolled toward me, and as I stooped to pick it up, the little girl came running back. I handed it to her, and thought how lucky she was. I must have been staring at her, for she looked at me uncomfortably and dashed back in, calling to her mother. Yellowed lace curtains hung in the windows, and red geraniums bloomed in the wooden flower box, faded and covered with a layer of rich green moss. Everything bore signs of the tranquil passage of time. What a soothing and reassuring sight for me after seeing my whole world destroyed by bombs and enemy tanks. The sounds and smells of peace surrounded me. I took a deep breath and realized how grateful I should be to walk without fear on such a peaceful old street. Though my feet ached and my shoulders were stiff, I decided never to complain about life as a refugee in Pusan.
After walking through many side streets, we finally reached the foot of the mountain. Mother quietly got ready for the climb, pulling up her long skirt, called a chima, and tightening the string around her waist.
“I don’t want to get red mud on my slacks,” Inchun said as he rolled up his pants legs.
I stared at the steep mountain before me. How ominously it loomed above us. Rows and rows of small plywood shacks covered the barren red-brown mountain from the bottom to the very top. As we were among the last to arrive in Pusan, our place was at the very top and we had the longest way to climb.
“Nuna, let’s go. You always stare up at the mountain as if you were seeing it for the first time,” Inchun said to me impatiently.
I shot him a disapproving look for speaking to me, his nuna (meaning “older sister”), that way. “I can’t help it,” I said measuredly. “The height and steepness still amaze me.” The mountain always seemed to be standing straight up, defying me to climb it.
“Come on Sookan, we are not going to get there unless you start moving your feet,” Mother said as she gently reminded me of the old saying, “The eyes say, ‘oh, no,’ but the feet say ‘one step at a time and you’ll be there in no time.’ ”
It began to drizzle. Inchun squinted up at the dark sky and said with a wry smile, “Well, pretty soon, our hands will start talking, too—saying ‘One grab at a time, we will get there sometime.’ ”
On rainy days, we had to get down on all fours to climb up the muddy, treeless mountainside. Inchun, with his long legs, bounded up the mountain with a look of determination, and Mother followed. I reluctantly began the long trip up with a sigh. Although I promised myself not to complain, it was hard to be cheerful about climbing in the rain. I was already so tired that I could barely manage putting one foot in front of the other. As Inchun and Mother walked ahead of me, small pebbles came loose, rolled down the mountainside, and pelted me in the ankles. My worn sneakers were no help on this slippery terrain. I kept losing my footing and tried to dig my nails into the earth to keep from falling. My palms and fingertips throbbed, and the red mud caked on my shoes made me feel very heavy. There was no sense in scraping the mud off; it would only accumulate again after another few steps.
Suddenly Mother slid past me with her arms outstretched as she looked for something to grab hold of. Completely losing her balance, she fell, rolled down the hill sideways, bumped into the wall of a little shack at the next crevice in the mountain, and then landed with a thump on her behind. Her hairpin had been dislodged, and her long braid hung down to her waist. Her chima was caked with red mountain mud. Her handsome oval face was ashen, and she sat stupefied, looking down at herself. Then, embarrassed, she desperately began fixing her hair, straightening her chima, and scraping the mud from her sleeves.
All I could do was stand there and look at her; it had all happened so fast. She was so frail that I was terrified she had hurt herself. Mother had fallen many times in our last few months here on the mountain, but never all the way down like this. Inchun ran after her, sliding and tripping, and almost landed on top of her. Stunned, they stared at each other, then looked up at me.
“Are you hurt Mother?” I yelled down to her.
“We’re all right,” she shouted back.
Pensively, she sat there pulling the clumps of mud from her chima. She looked around her and smiled with resignation. Then suddenly, she tossed her arms way up, tilted her head back, and started to laugh hysterically. She laughed until tears came running down her cheeks. Deep laugh lines emanated from the comers of her closed eyes and covered her cheeks as unbridled laughter spilled forth from her wide-open mouth. It was the first time I had heard my mother laugh so heartily.
My heart pounded with a strange mixture of relief and anger. Then I heard my own laughter burst forth, too. I laughed uncontrollably, wiping the tears from my eyes. What else was there to do? What was the sense of getting angry? The war had brought us here to be taunted by this giant mountain. We were helpless. All we could do was laugh, pick ourselves up, and start all over again.
I saw Inchun watch us with a bewildered smile. He stood calmly, waiting for us to get up and continue the climb up the mountain. Although he was only twelve, three years younger than I, he acted as though he were the oldest, the leader and protector of our small family. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was the only male, now that we had not heard from Father and our three older brothers since we fled Seoul.
The drizzling stopped. Peeking through the slow-moving gray clouds, the setting sun spread its last glorious rays of orange and red upon the rows of little plywood houses. We continued climbing hurriedly and passed the only well on this side of the mountain. A long line of women and children stood there, holding buckets, bottles, and jars. Many women had small babies tied to their backs, and we could see the silhouettes of these young mothers swaying back and forth as they tried to soothe the crying babies.
I watched the shadows of these tired-looking figures and felt sad, for I knew Inchun and I would soon be a part of that line. Mother drew most of the water we needed at dawn when the line was shortest, but Inchun and I often fetched the water for the evening cooking. Even though we carried bucketfuls each day, we never had enough water to skip a day.
In silence, we kept climbing. We passed a woman bent over a small wire-frame stove. A baby was tied on her back with a large cotton strap, and as the mother leaned over to blow on the little pile of twigs to get the fire going, the smoke wafted into the baby’s face, making it yelp with discomfort. At the next shack, an old man was fiercely sweeping the little patch of red dirt that was his front yard.
From the front door of our hut, we could see all the way down the mountain. Our home consisted of one room made of four thin plywood walls with a sliding door separating a small kitchen area from the main part of the room. Behind the shack, there was a steep drop-off, and it seemed as if a strong wind could blow our house off the mountain into the jagged crags below. Across the way was another mountain, also studded with rows and rows of refugee huts. The sun had already gone down, and as I looked down the mountain, I saw dark shadows moving about. Feeling afraid that the dark valley might swallow me, I quickly sat on the little wooden ledge by the sliding rice-paper pan
eled door, and looked down at the city of Pusan.
The pale round moon rose over the mountain, and the stars were sprinkled about the sky. Here at the top of the mountain, I felt very close to the moon and stars as I gazed down at the hundreds of dwellings now softly blanketed by darkness. Flickering candlelight danced out from some of the little houses and cast a warm glow on the plain plywood walls. The clinking and clanking of dinner being prepared and the low murmur of dinner conversation filled the air like a comforting tune. The moon rose higher and more stars appeared overhead.
I pretended that the ugly huts were special guest houses for the stars that came to visit Earth for the night. “Inchun, bring the bottles and bucket out,” I called, suddenly feeling warm and happy. “The moon is bright enough for us to see our way. Let’s go and fetch some water.”
Inchun and I, swinging the empty buckets, headed down to the water line. “Sit down and rest while waiting your turn,” Mother called while chasing after us. She handed us two small apples to munch on while we waited.
Chapter Two
The early morning light began creeping through the cracks in the rice-paper paneled door. Stretching out over the wooden rafters, the slivers of light danced overhead. From under the door, a wider beam of light glistening with color shone through, intersecting the dancing rays. The fusion of these beams of vibrant light turned the walls into a wondrous canvas. But the cold wind seeping through those same crevices made me close my eyes again, and draw my knees into my chest to curl up under the thin blanket. I wanted to sleep a bit longer before heading down to fetch water.
Suddenly, a voice rang out through the sleepy mountain.
“Good morning, all you refugees. Good morning! Rise up and greet the sun!”
The mountain echoed, “morning ... morning ... rise, rise ... greet the sun, sun, sun-...”
I sat up, my eyes wide with delight. I turned toward the far right side of the room where Inchun lay. With his head resting on his folded arms, he was staring up at the beams of light dancing on the ceiling.
Echoes of the White Giraffe Page 1
