A few months earlier, a wealthy Pusan resident had wanted a special painting for a wedding cushion, and Father Lee had told him about Mother. When people saw how beautiful and delicate her silk screen paintings were, many began asking Father Lee to ask Mother to paint for them. Father Lee always made sure that Mother was paid and that the paint and the silk were supplied for her.
“Thank you,” Mother said to Junho as she took the package. She was pleased, for she loved to paint, and we always needed the money. “But it is so far for you to have come,” she added. “Come in. You must at least have a cup of tea before you venture downhill.”
I quickly nodded with enthusiasm, but stopped short, afraid Mother would see how inappropriately pleased I was at the prospect of his staying for tea. It was clever of Junho to have had such an appropriate excuse for coming to see me. And I was glad that Inchun happened to be out on a science field trip, for he would have given me disapproving stares all through Junho’s visit.
Junho sat by the door and I sat on the opposite side of the room. In silence, he looked around the tiny room that served as both our living room and bedroom. The blankets were neatly rolled up in one comer, and one small wooden bookcase stood in the opposite corner. A small sketch of a Buddhist temple done on a piece of yellowed rice paper caught his eye. I saw him carefully study the delicate pine branches and the three small birds flying around the Buddhist temple.
“What a beautiful sketch. Is this your Mother’s work?”
“Well, this is just doodling for her. Here she doesn’t have large silk canvases, brushes of all sizes, and fine paint as she used to in Seoul. In Seoul, we had many large, beautiful paintings that Mother had done.”
Junho fell quiet and stared down at the shiny floor. “I didn’t exactly tell your mother the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, Father Lee didn’t exactly ask me to come up here. After Mass, we talked about you and how you had been absent from choir practice yesterday and from all four Masses today. He mentioned that he had planned to give you a package to take home to your mother. I quickly offered to deliver it. It seemed like a good excuse to come and see you.” He smiled.
“Where were you yesterday and today?” he then asked. “Were you sick?”
“No, I wasn’t sick. I was just too sad. My shouting poet died and I just couldn’t sing. Mother and I went to dawn Mass and then went to visit his grave this morning, and it took several hours.”
His soft dark eyes intently studied my face, and he fell silent. We heard Mother preparing our tea, and I smelled something delicious. It smelled like honey and cinnamon, which we had not had for a very long time.
Junho, who had been looking at my pufify eyes, said softly, “You know, your shouting poet is still alive in many people’s hearts. Today Father Lee was asked by many to say a special Mass for the shouting poet. You mustn’t cry and grieve for him. He doesn’t need the normal kind of grieving. He is above all that.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, mustering a smile. “I cried for a while, but then I realized he was in my heart and I decided that he would live on. I’m happy that we will be having a Mass for him.”
Junho smiled, and reached inside his chest pocket. Placing a thin paperback in front of me, he said, “Here, this is for you. This is what I really came for. You once mentioned how much you love the half moon, and when I saw this book, I thought of you.”
“Half Moon: a book of poetry by foreign poets, ” I read aloud.
The pale blue book jacket had a half moon poised over a mountain top. I smiled as I flipped through the pages. There were poems by Shelley, Keats, Blake, Gide, Longfellow, and Tagore, my favorite of them all. I couldn’t utter a word. My head was spinning and my heart was pounding. I had never had a boy come visit and bring me presents. I held the book close to my heart, hoping to silence the thumping I heard within. I stared at the book again, pretending to read, but the small print just looked like millions of ants rushing about their daily duties.
I didn’t know how to thank him. If it were Bokhi, I would give her a hug, and we would lean our heads together and start to read aloud, or we would go for a long walk with our pinkies hooked together and pledge our eternal friendship for the umpteenth time. This was perfectly acceptable to do with a girlfriend, but with Junho, everything was forbidden. So I sat opposite him and just flipped through the pages aimlessly, trying to bring the words into focus.
"Good, I am glad you like it. When you finish reading it, let me know which poem is your favorite. Did you notice my inscription on the front page?”
I had been so excited that it hadn’t even occurred to me to look. I quickly opened to the first page. It read, “To Sookan, a lover of poetry and of the half moon. From your everlasting friend Junho. 1952, Pusan.”
Everlasting, everlasting ... What a comforting word! Just the word I needed to hear when everything I loved seemed to be slipping away from me. An everlasting friend. I savored the sound and repeated it over and over again in my mind as I held the book tight.
I felt so happy that all my nervousness melted away. I hugged the thin book as if it were the dearest thing I had ever owned and said with excitement, “Oh, Junho, thank you, thank you so much. Everlasting friend, how wonderful, how wonderful!”
For a second, Junho’s face turned crimson with embarrassment at my sudden effusiveness, but soon a broad smile spread across his face and his eyes twinkled. He looked so handsome that I forgot my manners and just stared at him. It was fortunate that Mother came in with the tea tray before I made a fool of myself.
The aroma of ginger tea filled the room. Then I saw the paper-thin rice biscuits coated with honey, sprinkled with cinnamon, and dotted with white pine nuts. I hadn’t seen such delicacies since I had left Seoul. I didn’t even know Mother had these ingredients here and was amazed at how she always managed to do just the right thing. Later, I learned that when Mother heard about the shouting poet’s death, she had started to prepare these biscuits to comfort me. I felt as though the spirit of my shouting poet was helping to bring my friendship with Junho into reality.
Mother looked very happy to be drinking tea with us. I could almost hear her thinking, “How nice to have a young man in the house. He is the same age as my third son.
But suddenly, Mother’s face turned somber, and she looked as if she were about to cry. Taking a deep breath, she got up, and said, “Junho, you must excuse me. I must get my painting started. It is a small canvas, but small things seem to take even more care and time. It is still raining very hard, so why don’t you stay and enjoy your tea. It is too dangerous to go downhill in this weather.”
Junho, trying to contain the smile spreading across his face, thanked my mother politely. He looked out at the dark sky gratefully. Were it not for the rain, Junho would have felt compelled to get up and say goodbye. I hoped that the rain would not stop for a long time. As I gazed down at the book he had given me, I wished I had something to give him in return to remember the day by. But I had nothing. I looked around the empty room in despair. If we were in Seoul, I would simply pick one of my favorite books from my tall bookcase and give it to him. With a sigh of frustration, I stared at the sad little bookcase that held my three used notebooks and Inchun’s rock collection.
“Is that a picture of your dog?” Junho asked, looking at the pencil sketch of Luxy that rested on top of the bookcase. “You must miss it very much. Please, don’t look so sad.”
“Oh, that,” I said, flustered and surprised. “Yes, that’s my boxer, Luxy. ” I missed my dog, but I hadn’t talked about her with anyone since we left Seoul, except once with my mother when she first drew that picture for me. Inchun and I never talked of Luxy either. But I knew all three of us thought of her often and missed her. I frequently thought of how Luxy used to wait eagerly at the top of the stone steps in front of our house for me to come home from school. Then, at night, she would sleep at the foot of my bed. But I never talked of Luxy,
for I was afraid that people might think I was childish and insensitive to mourn the loss of my dog when so many people were dead or missing. Junho was different, though. He wore a look of anguish as he studied my face, almost reading my thoughts, and sharing my sadness.
“I like the sketch Mother did. She really captured Luxy’s personality. She was a ferocious-looking boxer, but at the same time she was so gentle and intelligent. She always sat up straight like that, showing off her handsome figure. Those big brown eyes studied everything that went on. No one ever had to order her around. She somehow always knew just what to do.” I rambled on as I thought of our happy days in Seoul. “She was so intelligent, she even delivered the right magazines to the right readers. She carried Time magazine to Jaechun, the newspaper to my father, and science magazines to Inchun. She was an amazing dog. She had us all convinced that she understood what we were saying, and sometimes even what we were thinking.”
“She is the best-looking boxer I ever saw,” said Junho, smiling warmly.
I stared at Luxy’s picture, and I imagined how scared she must have felt when we all abandoned her. Suddenly the acrid smell of bombs and sweeping fires filled my lungs, and the sound of sirens and planes flying low overhead buzzed in my ears. My mind raced back to that horrible day in late June when the dark airplanes roared through the skies and dropped a shower of dark, eggshaped bombs from their bellies. The bombs had exploded violently, erupting into a mass of red flames that rose into clouds of heavy black smoke.
I shook my head and swallowed hard to make sure that I did not have the gritty taste of ash in my mouth.
“What is it, Sookan? What are you thinking about?” Junho said, looking very concerned.
“Oh, Junho, I was just remembering the first bombing of Seoul. It was horrible. The city was transformed into a burning Hell before my eyes. All I could do was stand by the window and watch the bombs explode. Hyunchun, my third brother, came rushing into my room, shouting, ‘There you are! Come on. Those planes will be right on top of us next. Let’s go.’”
“Did you all get out safely?” Junho asked anxiously, his dark eyes staring at me.
“Oh, yes. We put thick blankets over our heads and joined the throngs of people headed up Namsan Mountain. We stayed up on the mountain all night and watched the bombs erupt into flames in the city below. We heard buildings crumble, trees crack, and then, screams of death. As we were sitting there, I realized my brother Jaechun was holding a large bundle in his arms, which he rocked back and forth like a baby. I instantly realized it was Luxy wrapped in that bundle. I had been so frightened, I hadn’t even thought of Luxy until I saw Jaechun holding her. While I had stood by my window in shock watching the bombs fall, Mother had been wrapping up Luxy. It was a good thing that Luxy was bundled up to look like an infant, for other people on the mountain would have been afraid if they knew a dog was with them. They would have panicked, fearing that a dog would go crazy with the noise and the crowds and might bite them.”
“You mean Luxy sat through the bombing without making a sound?” Junho asked incredulously.
“Oh, no! Jaechun said she moaned and whimpered a lot. But Luxy’s ears were well covered with rubber shoes and pillows, and even her eyes were covered. Mother left only Luxy’s nose exposed so that she could breathe. Jaechun thinks it was the smell of the bombs that bothered Luxy most.”
“How long were you on the hill?”
“All night long. The bombing finally stopped at dawn, and we began making our way back home. We found our house half bombed and smoldering. We were hungry, and exhausted, and didn’t know what we would do next. We sat on the stoop and started to unwrap poor Luxy. When we uncovered her, she gave such a loud, joyous bark. She shook her body vigorously and started jumping and running around the yard, celebrating her freedom. She made us laugh and forget that we were sitting in the middle of a bombed city.”
Junho’s face brightened. “I’m glad everyone was all right. Luxy was lucky to be so well loved and cared for.”
“Well, I don’t know where she is now. Things got worse. About six months after that, we had to leave Seoul. I left her all alone. I don’t know what happened to her. When the North Korean Communists and Communist Chinese came in January, they were shooting everyone in sight. There were more bombs, and we had to run and follow the retreating South Korean and U.N. soldiers going south. It was chaos, and Mother, Inchun and I were separated from my father and my three older brothers. The three of us, along with thousands of other refugees, walked the whole day in the bitter cold snow to Inchon harbor. I was terribly cold and scared. My feet were frozen, but I didn’t even realize it until we were aboard a big gray ship headed for Pusan. It was only once we were on the ship that I even thought of my Luxy. Can you believe it? I felt so guilty and ashamed that I never mentioned Luxy to Mother or to Inchun.
“Mother must have known how much it bothered me, because she drew this sketch for me. Each time I see a dog or hear a dog bark, I feel guilty that I did not love Luxy enough to save her; she, my dog, who depended on me. I had thought only of myself. Mother tried to make me feel better by saying it couldn’t be helped, that it was too crazy and too horrible. But I still can’t help feeling guilty and sad whenever I think of it.”
Junho listened intently, with his hands folded tightly in his lap. “You couldn’t have walked with her in that cold snow. She may still be alive in Seoul. You shouldn’t feel bad.” He then took a deep breath and asked with concern, “Do you have any idea of what happened to your father and brothers?”
“I don’t know. Mother thinks they probably joined the army. I saw many young men hopping onto the army trucks that drove by. The streets were so crowded with people and with retreating soldiers that I didn’t even see my father and brothers after we left the house. We were pushed along by the crowds all the way to Inchon harbor. We thought we might find them here in Pusan, but we still have had no news of them.”
Junho was silent for a while. Then he looked up and said, “Well, maybe they did join the army and are busy protecting us. Maybe you’ll hear from them soon, and they’ll join you here. I’m so sad that you have suffered so much, Sookan. But life is strange, isn’t it? As awful as the war is, it is because of the war that we’re sitting here talking together now. The war brought us our friendship, which is something we shall keep forever.” He looked at me expectantly.
I nodded in silence, overwhelmed by a surge of strange, new feelings.
I heard Junho take a deep breath and clear his throat. With tremendous gravity, he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Can you tell me what you want to do when you finish Ewha High School?”
“Oh, I know exactly what I want to do. I’m going to America to study history,” I said with confidence. “Then, I’ll come back to Seoul and join my sister Theresa in the convent. She often tells me how happy she is helping the less fortunate. She is waiting for me to join her. And I want to teach and write as well. There’s so much I want to do. ”
“But why America? It’s so far away. You can study history at Korean universities, too, you know,” he responded incredulously. “And do you really want to be a nun?"
“Yes, I’m positive—after I get my history degree in America, that is. I know I could study history here, but ever since I was little I’ve wanted to meet people beyond the Pacific Ocean. I want to know about them, and I want them to know about me. I want to see what it’s like there. But most of all, I want to study history there.
“I often wonder what Americans think about a small country like Korea. Our peninsula is so tiny and yet it is constantly being occupied or fought over. My family and I ran away from the Russians in Pyongyang; then, once we settled in Seoul and were living a normal, happy life, we were driven away by the North Koreans and Communist Chinese. I don’t understand how history and politics work, and maybe if I study in America, I will understand better.”
Junho knit his brow as he listened. “Well, I still think America is too far
to go. But if that is your dream, I suppose you should follow it. You sound as if you have given a lot of thought to the matter.”
He seemed puzzled and disturbed, and fell silent. I watched his somber expression and could almost see him ruminating on our conversation. Having lived in Pusan all his life, I wondered if he could understand a girl’s desire to go so far away. I saw him trying to form a smile to mask his confusion.
“Well, it’s still a long time before I even graduate from Ewha High School,” I said. “What about you? Do you know what you want to be?”
“I know what I have to be. My parents expect me to go to Pusan College this coming spring and then on to Pusan Medical School. I am expected to open an office right next to my father’s. I am to be the town doctor, just like my father and his father before him. I must not break the Min family tradition.” He stared gloomily at his folded hands.
“You could sing for your patients to ease their pain. You could be the first great singing doctor,” I said cheerfully, not quite knowing the right response.
Junho’s face brightened at the thought, but then he sighed deeply. “I am more interested in philosophy. I love reading the works of the great philosophers, but my parents think it’s a waste of time. They wish I would pore over the medical books we have at home instead. I’ve just finished reading a book on Thomas Aquinas, and Father Lee said he would be happy to discuss it, if I wanted to. Maybe I will go see him.”
“Sookan, look, look at the beautiful rainbow!” Mother exclaimed as she came back into the room. Junho and I looked out. I hadn’t even realized that the rain had stopped. A brilliant rainbow shimmered gloriously in the western sky. But for the first time I was not happy to see such a magnificent sight.
Junho got up, took his hat and coat, and quietly mumbled to me, “I must be going. I have no business staying now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood up beside him and stared out at the blue-gray evening sky, wishing it would suddenly start to pour again. There was so much more that I wanted to talk about with Junho, but I knew he couldn’t stay any longer.
Echoes of the White Giraffe Page 5
