Once everyone had left, we sat down across from each other at the back of the church, and he handed me a small white envelope. Trembling, I slowly pulled out the photo. The second I saw it, I was filled with delight. It was a beautiful picture of us, smiling, without a care in the world. A soft white glow around our faces made the picture look warm and natural. I had no idea I had looked this content and peaceful sitting next to Junho in the studio. Junho looked handsomer than ever and I couldn’t think of a better souvenir of our friendship. I felt lightheaded and I blushed as I stared at the picture. Although we had never even held hands, I felt infinitely close to him.
As I sat mesmerized, he whispered gently, “Isn’t it a wonderful picture of us? We look alike, don’t you think? Now you will never forget me. Don’t be afraid. I know I asked you to do something highly unusual, but it’s all right. We stand side by side at choir, and here we’re just sitting together side by side. There is nothing wrong with that.”
I nodded my head in agreement, but I was unconvinced, and doubt started growing within me. We were not merely sitting together. This picture was sweeter than any wedding picture I had ever seen. I was terribly afraid of what others might say if they ever saw it.
Junho looked into my eyes and reassured me. “These pictures are only for us and no one else shall see them.”
When we were just about to say goodbye and go our separate ways, a church lady saw us smiling and putting things into our pockets. Walking hurriedly toward us, she shouted, “What are you doing, whispering in an empty church all by yourselves? You should have left long ago. What are you hiding? Let me see.” She stretched out her hand.
Junho walked quickly toward her, blocking me from sight. “Oh, please don’t worry. It’s me, Junho, the one who sings your favorite songs. We are on our way.” She smiled at Junho, but she gave me the evil eye.
“What’s going on?” said Haerin as she walked into the room and saw the lady’s sour face. “Tell me what’s going on!” The lady walked away, shaking her head.
Placing his hand on Haerin’s shoulder, Junho chuckled and said, “Nothing for you to be concerned about, my little sister. You are back just in time. The hymnals are all arranged in the closet. Let’s go home.”
Haerin shot a puzzled glance in my direction, but she did as her older brother said, and led the way out the door. I wondered if she would try to talk to the church lady. I prayed she would never find out about the picture. She would be furious to find that we had kept a secret from her, and she would be horribly jealous of my special relationship with Junho. She would feel betrayed by Junho, but she would forgive him; she would blame it all on me. She was intrigued by my life experience and she needed me to sing in her choir, but she had no great affection for me. I think she knew Junho liked singing duets with me, but I don’t think she suspected anything more. She would surely not allow anything to come between her and her oppa if she could help it. What would happen to my friendship with Junho if she ever managed to find the photo?
While I walked in fear and discomfort, Junho looked into my eyes and smiled, whistling a tune to harmonize with Haerin’s humming. I took a deep breath, and tried to convince myself that Junho would never let Haerin find out about the picture.
With my secret safely tucked away, I resumed my afterschool walks with Bokhi. Bokhi walked with me but didn’t talk much for several days. I would catch her staring at me, wondering what it was that I had hidden from her that day. But after a while, she gave up as it was clear to her that I wouldn’t talk about it. We began to study together and test each other on English and French vocabulary again. I was thankful that she didn’t pry, though I felt guilty for having hurt her and for having kept this secret from her. But I just knew I couldn’t talk of Junho. It would sound outrageous, and I could picture Bokhi gasping with surprise and disapproval. Besides, my relationship with Junho was so special; I was afraid that if I told anyone, something might happen, and our friendship would no longer be so precious.
The following Saturday, Inchun left the house early for his science field trip. He had been collecting rocks, fossils, rare plants, roots, and even caterpillars. Before I had even begun to get ready for choir practice, Mother said, “Sookan, now that Inchun has left, I need to talk with you. You are not going to be in the choir anymore. Sit down.” Her face was drawn and her voice was flat.
I felt as if a huge boulder had been hurled at me, crushing all that I cherished in life. I knew it had something to do with the picture. My heart tightened and my face burned. I sat still, with my head hung low. I saw thousands of fingers pointing at me and I heard the mocking laughter of the mountain people as they said, “Look at her. She’s the one. She has no scruples. She had a picture taken with a boy, and she hid it from her mother. What a bad daughter! What anguish she is causing her poor mother!”
“Sookan, do not look so frightened. I am not angry with you. But I am disappointed that you kept this from me. I know you are at the age where your heart rules. But, you could have told me, even after the photo was taken. Then, I would have been somewhat better prepared to deal with Mrs. Min’s harsh words. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. And I did tell Junho’s parents how I felt.”
At the mention of }unho’s parents, I stared panic-stricken at Mother. She told me that yesterday afternoon, a letter was left on her desk at the refugee center. It was an invitation from Dr. and Mrs. Min, Junho’s parents, to come for afternoon tea. Mother guessed that she was being summoned to explain my friendship with Junho. She did not know the Min family and there was no other reason for them to ask her to tea, she said. Mother knew that these unpleasant and awkward discussions sometimes occurred, but she decided not to make too much of it. After all, we were both just high-school students and our friendship was very innocent, she thought. There was certainly no reason for alarm. So Mother went, prepared to defend our friendship.
Dr. Min greeted Mother cordially, and had her take a seat. Mrs. Min then stormed into the room, threw the photo in front of Mother, and shouted, “Look at this! Just look at this horrible sight! Our good son is ruined! Your daughter is bad news. Look what she did. She lured my boy to the studio and coaxed him into sitting with her like lovebirds. We have been raising him to become a respected doctor just like his father and his grandfather. Now all he talks about is becoming a priest. He has gone crazy. This picture explains it all.”
In shock and disbelief, Mother picked up the photo. She stared at it, bewildered that I could have behaved so rashly. She was ready to apologize to the Mins and rush home to scold me, but she was struck by how lovely the photo was. She couldn’t put it down.
Instead, she spoke to Dr. Min, who sat in pensive silence. “Dr. Min, I hope you are not angry about this photo. Please do not punish your son for this. To me, it looks like nothing more than an innocent photo taken to preserve their brief friendship during this turbulent time. The war has brought us together, but soon we will all be going in different directions. I believe their friendship is pure. They must find comfort in each other during these uncertain and sad times. They need friends to talk to of their dreams, fears, and sorrows. As for your son, he is a fine, intelligent, young man, and I am sure he knows his mind and knows what he wants out of life. My little girl cannot make up his mind for him. She knows only what she wants to do.”
Dr. Min’s face softened and he glanced at his angry wife. Looking a bit embarrassed, he said, “Thank you for coming,” and he sighed. “I will give this photo back to my son. You are only young once.” He reached to take the photo back from Mother, but Mrs. Min snatched it away.
“Not if I can help it!” she shrieked. “He will not have it!”
Dr. Min graciously escorted Mother to the street, apologizing for his wife’s behavior and thanking Mother again.
Filled with shame for putting my mother through such a humiliating experience, I took the photo out from its hiding place and gave it to her. She patted my head and unfolded the many layers of wrapp
ing. She looked at it again for a long time and smiled calmly. “How peaceful and happy you both look. I’m sure even Mrs. Min’s bitter heart would melt if she looked at this picture long enough. You can keep it, but make sure no one else sees it.”
With a deep breath, she said, “It’s not the end of the world. It is all over now. But you must remember that most people do not understand a special friendship between a boy and a girl of your age. You must behave like a proper young lady now. ” Then she shook her head with a smile of resignation. “My daughter, I must say, you are a daring child. You always were. I never know quite what you will do next; you’re a constant source of wonder to me. But, for now, your old mother has had quite enough excitement.”
She threw her arms open and hugged me. “Promise me you will not do such a thing again. If you do, at least don’t keep it a secret from me. ” She looked me in the eye sternly, and I nodded, intending to keep this promise to her at all costs.
From that day on, I did not go to choir practice or to any of the choir Masses. Every Sunday I went to Mass at dawn with Mother to avoid running into any choir members. Each time Mother and I walked back home, I wanted to ask if she thought Junho would really become a priest. But since my friendship with Junho had caused her so much trouble already, I decided it would be best to keep silent. Perhaps he had just said that to annoy his mother. Or had he decided to become a priest once he heard that I planned to be a nun? He had never mentioned it to me, but I remembered how interested he was in philosophy. Did he ever have that discussion about Thomas Aquinas with Father Lee? Had Father Lee influenced his decision? Junho often spoke with admiration of Father Lee’s dedication to the people. My brother Hanchun, who had spent lots of time with Father Lee before the war, had also decided he wanted to be a priest.
One Sunday morning when I was returning from dawn Mass with mother, I saw Haerin rushing toward the church with an armful of hymnals. Her large, pink hair ribbon was flying in the wind, her long skirt ballooned as she ran, and her baton case swung at her side. I could almost hear Junho’s sweet voice. I missed our singing and talking.
When Haerin saw me watching her, she glared at me disdainfully. She tossed her shiny head of black hair, and sneered at me as if I had sullied something that belonged to her. The look in her eyes stayed in my mind as I climbed up the mountain. I realized it was she who either spoke to the church lady or found the photo and told her mother. It was probably she who placed the invitation to tea on my mother’s desk. She would see to it that no one stood between her and her oppa.
Chapter Nine
Our teachers scheduled many evening classes and often taught right through the weekend to help us make up for all the time we had lost because of the war. They were determined to bring their lesson plans in line with those of the Pusan schoolteachers. Delighted, I eagerly attended all the extra classes unless Mother complained that I would be home too late to climb the mountain. During the little free time I had, I helped Mother cultivate our little garden. She was an expert on plants and created a garden that was always in bloom. As the roses wilted, the lilies began to open.
Then, in July 1953, the armistice agreement was signed and everything seemed to revert to the way it had been before the war broke out. The area north of the 38th Parallel was to be again under Communist rule and the southern portion under democratic rule. Korea would remain divided, but at least there would be peace. As soon as the news was out, the tens of thousands of refugees frantically prepared to return to their homes, anxious to find their missing relatives and to rebuild their lives.
Everything was chaos once again. Everyone was in a frenzy to pack and leave. I wanted to see Bokhi and Teacher Yun, and perhaps arrange to take the same train back up to Seoul. But when I told Mother that I was going to look for them, she said, “Sookan, they’ve probably already left. The refugees by the seashore got news of the armistice first, and immediately packed and left. There are so many stories of orphans crying in the streets of Seoul with no one to take care of them, not to mention all the dead and wounded. I’m sure Teacher Yun is worried about her nieces and nephews, and went back as fast as she could. These are difficult times, and we don’t have the luxury of saying goodbye. We will find Teacher Yun and Bokhi back in Seoul.”
Would my life ever be orderly enough to afford me the chance for a simple goodbye? After listening to Mother, I felt silly for daring to dream of traveling on the same train with Bokhi and Teacher Yun.
The narrow mountain path was filled with refugees carrying their meager belongings. Many people were camped out at the station in order to assure themselves a place on the 4:00 a.m. train, the only train of the day. While witnessing the frenetic exodus, Mother, Inchun, and I began packing our few belongings. Inchun wrapped some of the special rocks he had collected on his science expeditions, and I carefully tucked away my book Half Moon, the photo, and some of the shells that Bokhi and I had managed to collect at the seashore. Mother took several little bags of seeds.
“I have been collecting these seeds ever since I arrived in Pusan. Some of these flowers are very different from what we have in Seoul. ” She even had a bag of sunflower seeds. She said the sunflowers in Pusan were yellower and larger.
Cloaked in darkness, our empty little hut looked sad and lonely. Mother closed the door carefully and gave it a gentle pat, whispering softly, “Well, goodbye. It’s time for us to go.” For the last time, the three of us stood there staring at the humble shack that safely housed us for two and a half years. I had grown attached to our little home, and I looked at it with deep affection. What would happen to all these empty huts? Would the Pusan residents tear them down to use for firewood? Or would the wind and snow and rain slowly eat away at them? Maybe the morning glories, sunflowers, and cosmos would grow wild, a lasting gift from the refugees to this once barren mountain. Yes, I decided, all these flowers would forever decorate the mountain, luring even the animals back.
I looked at the dark mountain across the way to the spot where the shouting poet used to stand. I said goodbye to him in my heart. It felt very strange leaving Pusan. Suddenly, everything that had happened in the last two and a half years here felt like a dream. We, along with all the other refugees, were now in a great hurry to go back to Seoul, where we would have to start all over again. I thought of Bokhi and her sand castles. She was right in a sense. We had built our school, our homes, and our lives here, and now we just had to leave them all behind, to be washed away by time. I wondered what would happen to the Ewha School we had built by the seashore. This life of constant change and uncertainty filled me with frustration. But then, I remembered the cheery, resounding voice of my shouting poet. He wouldn’t like me to leave the mountain with such sadness and bitterness. To please him, I quickly imagined a lush, green mountain resounding with the echoes of the White Giraffe.
“Come on, no time to linger about,” Mother said. “Let’s hurry and hope we can get on this train.”
In the dark, with only the light of the pale moon, we slipped and slid down the dirt path for the last time. I looked over at the well, which seemed bare without the long queue of women and children. When we arrived at the bottom of the hill, I glanced over to the far right where Junho’s brick house stood. It was dark and quiet, indifferent to my departure. I lingered for a second, wishing that Browny might start to bark and that Junho might peer out the window and see me leaving. Mother pulled my arm, and we rushed to the train station.
As we expected, the station was swarming with people, shouting and pushing. The long train had already arrived and was hissing loudly. The agitated conductor impatiently blew his shrill whistle, making me wince in pain. Luckily we were pushed along by the crowds toward a door of the train. We hurriedly jumped on, and even managed to get seats all together by a window.
It started to drizzle, casting a gray haze over Pusan. I stuck my head out the window to feel the gentle mist, and I looked out at the city of Pusan one last time. Would I ever see this place again? Woul
d I ever see Junho again? What would we find when we got back to Seoul? I wondered if Father and my brothers would be there waiting for us. I wondered if there would be anything left of our house. Once again, I was headed for the unknown.
My hair was getting wet, and I wondered why I kept hanging out the window. Did I expect Junho to appear? I hadn’t seen him for months, not even once since my mother’s visit with his parents. There was no way he would know that I was leaving today. So many refugees had already left in the past few days, and many more would be leaving- in the weeks to follow.
Mother tugged at my skirt. “Sookan, sit down and close the window. The rain is coming in, and besides, it’s not safe. ” I realized then that almost half my body was hanging out the window. But as I carefully pulled my shoulders back through the window, I saw in the distance, buried in the crowds, a young man in a tan raincoat, holding flowers over his head to keep them from being crushed. I leaned all the way out the window again. He was squinting in the rain, looking left and right in desperation. It was Junho!
“Junho, Junho, over here!” I shouted, waving my arms back and forth. “Here I am! Over here!”
He finally saw me and his face brightened. He pushed through the crowds and ran up to me. Holding the flowers up as high as he could, he said, “Here, take it, Sookan! It’s for you. I’ve been coming here for the last couple of days, hoping to find you. I’m sorry for everything. I still have the picture here.” He tapped his chest pocket and added, “Read the poem. It’s inside.”
The train whistled loudly, and a puff of thick white smoke rose into the air. The conductor shouted at Junho to stand clear of the platform. The train jerked forward, preparing to pull away. “I have our picture, too, here in my bag,” I yelled, and I lifted my bag to show him. He smiled, nodding his head.
Echoes of the White Giraffe Page 7
