Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story (26 page)

F
ORTY-SIX

I
t’s thursday
—pot roast day—and I go home from class in a freezing December wind. It hasn’t snowed yet this season, but the ground is frozen and the wind is blowing from the north. The low clouds threaten our first big snow of the season. Weeks earlier, I dug out my winter coat from our basement storage room, and now I wrap it tight around me. I put my shoulder in the wind for the three-block walk to the parking lot.

It’s a week before fall finals and it’s been the most amazing college semester I’ve had. I decided to take a class on world history and two on political science. I’m getting all ‘A’s and I’ll graduate near the top of my class. I’m also taking Korean. I’m learning it so fast that my instructor is encouraging me to take two accelerated courses next semester.

I took the law school entrance exam last month. I was nervous about it. I mean, some of these people have been studying for the LSAT for years. So I was shocked when I scored in the upper five percent. I’ve always been a good test-taker. But seriously, the upper five percent? I’m already getting letters from top schools across the country inviting me to apply. Naturally, I’m making a ‘pros and cons’ list. But I’m also trying to listen to my heart.

Before I reach my car, my phone rings. It’s Mr. Han from the Korean consulate. He says he has news and wants to meet with me. Over the past several months, I called Mr. Han every month to check in. He always gave the same answer. “We don’t know anything yet,” he says. “Please be patient. These things take time.”

This is the first time he’s called me, so I tell him I’ll meet with him right away. I jump in my car and go to the mansion on Park Avenue. When I get inside, Ja-sook shows me into Mr. Han’s office. After a short wait, he comes in carrying a folder. He apologizes that it’s taken so long for him to get back to me. He tells me that over the past several months, it was impossible to reach their contacts in the North because Pyongyang was testing nuclear weapons and the two countries had cut off all contact. Now, however, relations have improved and they’ve learned that Hong Soo-hee is alive and living in Pyongyang. “I must admit,” he says, shaking his head, “when you told me your grandmother’s story, I was skeptical. I thought you might be involved in a scam. So, I inquired about your grandmother. I am pleased to tell you, everything she told you is true.”

I look out the window. So that’s it. My birth-grandmother’s story is true. I guess in my heart I knew that it was. “Well, if that’s the case,” I say, “I want to set up the meeting between Mrs. Hong and her sister as soon as possible.”

“Of course. It could still take months. And, there is the issue of the money.”

“I think I can get it.”

Mr. Han frowns. “I am sorry to tell you there is a change with respect to the cost. You see, it has become more expensive.”

“Oh?” I say, sagging into my chair. “How much more?”

“Well, there is a large backlog. Years worth, I’m afraid. And that has caused the cost to double.”

“Are you serious?” I reply with a gasp. I do some quick math in my head. “I can’t afford that.”

“Well, you could wait until there isn’t a backlog. But there is no saying how long this window will stay open.

“There is one more thing,” Mr. Han says. “You will have to go to Korea personally to sponsor your grandmother. It is all very complicated and it would be difficult for an elderly woman like her to do this on her own.”

“Yeah, I understand. That’s another expense I suppose. I’ll have to let you know.”

He smiles politely and extends a hand. I respectfully take his hand with both of mine and bow my head, like I’ve learned proper Koreans are supposed to do.

On the drive home, I think about Mrs. Hong and her sister and how they haven’t seen each other for over sixty years and I’m torn. I think about law school and the cost of tuition, books, and room and board. The only way I can pay Mr. Han’s steep fee is to get a job and forgo law school for a couple of years. By then, who knows? Law school might have passed me by.

*

When I walk inside our house, I expect to smell pot roast cooking in the oven and see the table set. But I don’t smell anything and there aren’t any plates on the table.

I call out to tell Dad I’m home and he shouts a hello from his bedroom. I drop my backpack on the kitchen table and find him in his room. He’s facing the mirror, putting on a clean shirt.

“It’s pot roast night,” I say. “It’s not in the oven. What gives?”

“I was thinking, maybe we could go out,” he says, tucking his shirt in.

I almost fall down. “Seriously? On a Thursday night?”

He turns from the mirror. “I feel guilty saying this about your mother’s pot roast, but I get tired of it every week. I was thinking we could go to Ho Ban instead. We haven’t been there in a long time. What do you say?”

After I pick up my jaw from the floor, I agree that Korean food would be a nice change of pace. I tell him I need a few minutes and run off to my room. As I change my clothes and brush my hair, I wonder what’s gotten into my father. He hasn’t been sitting in the living room in the dark as much. Twice in the past month, he came home late from work and I had to make dinner. And just last week I was shocked to see he stopped wearing his wedding ring.

We drive to the restaurant in a strip mall in Eagan. The restaurant is the only decent business in the tacky suburban mall. It’s nearly full of customers, most of them Korean. They give us a table near the kitchen. I notice they’ve tried to fix up the place since I was there last. There’s a new greeting station at the front door and they’ve painted a Korean landscape on one wall. It doesn’t help. The lighting is bad and the tables and chairs are cheap and too close together. It’s no big deal, though. People come here for the food—real Korean food, just like we had in Korea. Hot pots, rice bowls, Korean noodles,
katsu
,
bebimbop
,
bulgogi
, Korean monkfish. A dozen plates of
banchan
appetizers fill each table. And, of course, there’s
kimchi
. The smells are amazing, just like I remembered them from Korea. I wonder why it’s been so long since I’ve been here.

We decide what we’ll order and when the waiter comes, Dad orders extra saying we can have the leftovers tomorrow instead of our usual Friday night spaghetti. The banchan arrives and we dive in. The
kimchi
is spicy and wonderful.

“This reminds me of our trip,” Dad says, fumbling with his chopsticks.

“Yeah it does,” I say, picking up more
kimchi
.

We make small talk and when our entrees arrive, we attack them. Dad eats like he hasn’t eaten for a week. He finishes his dish and then sneaks a few bites off my plate. I notice that he’s filled out a bit over the past few months. His cheekbones don’t stick out and his color is better. And it makes me happy to see him smile more.

I tell Dad that I met with Mr. Han from the consulate after school. He asks me why. “They discovered that Mrs. Hong’s sister is alive and living in Pyongyang,” I say. “Apparently tensions between the North and South have let up and they can arrange a meeting now.”

“Hmm, I see,” Dad says. “And you made that promise.”

“I’m not sure I can keep it. The cost has gone way up. It’s ridiculous. I’d have to put off law school and get a job.”

“No,” Dad says shaking his head. “You shouldn’t put off school.”

“I don’t know how I’ll do it any other way,” I say.

Dad turns quiet as we finish our meal. When we can’t eat another bite, the waiter puts all the leftovers into boxes and we head home. Snow is falling as we drive north over the Minnesota River. There’s not much traffic and Dad drives slowly. The meal has subdued us.

Halfway home Dad says, “Anna, I want to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” I say. “What about?”

“Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s take a drive around the lakes. Your Mother and I always went out driving in the first snow. It scares people off the roads, but I think it’s beautiful.”

We turn off the freeway and go to the parkway that connects the Minneapolis lakes. The snow is making everything clean and quiet. I ask Dad what he wants to talk about. He tells me that he’s looked into my comb and the two-headed dragon.

“I thought I should,” he says, apologetically.

“What did you find out?” I ask.

“A two-headed dragon with five toes,” he says. “I found out what it means. The dragon protects Korea and those who possess it so they can serve Korea.” And then he says, “Five toes on a dragon. It means...”

“Yeah, I know what it means,” I say. “It means it belonged to Empress Myeongseong. It means I’m a direct descendent.”

“Only if Mrs. Hong’s story is true,” he says.

“It’s true, Dad,” I say. “The consulate looked into it. Her story checks out.”

Dad doesn’t respond to this bit of information. He keeps his eyes on the road as we turn onto the boulevard that circles Lake Harriet. The mansions surrounding the lake have their holiday lights on which sparkle off the new snow. The pointed roofs of the Lake Harriet band shell make it look like it’s straight out of a winter fairytale. It feels like Christmas Day and I understand why Mom and Dad liked driving in the snow.

“Sweetheart,” Dad says finally, “This whole thing makes me nervous. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I’ve been thinking about your mother and how she died. It was horrible how that damn cancer killed her. But she didn’t let cancer or even death define her. She simply made them a part of her life. And it made me realize that you can die when you’re still alive, holed up in your house, in your living room with the lights off.” He shoots me a guilty look.

“And I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he continues. “Your mother and I sensed there was something special about you when you were just a kid. You were smart, of course, but there was something in the way you carried yourself. I never figured out what it was, exactly. But now you have that comb with the two-headed dragon. I don’t know how you’re meant to serve Korea, but I think you need to find out. And I can help. Let me pay Mr. Han’s fee.”

I start to protest, but Dad cuts me off.

“I’m not just doing it for you,” he says. “It won’t be easy. But it might keep me out of the dark living room.”

“Thank you,” I say and Dad smiles.

“There’s one condition,” he says. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” I assure him that I will.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he says.

“I love you too, Dad,” I reply.

I’m finally at peace as we come full circle around the lake and Dad turns off the boulevard to go home. I can feel the two parts of me—Korean and American—coming together. Like Dad, I don’t know how I'm supposed to serve Korea, but I’m not afraid anymore. As Mrs. Hong said, the courageous little seed has broken through and someday, a flower will bloom.

F
ORTY-SEVEN

A
fter dad closes
on a second mortgage on our house, I call Mr. Han and tell him I have the money for his fee. He calls me back two months later and tells me that they can arrange a meeting between the sisters any time. All I need to do is tell him when I can go.

I make the travel arrangements for July, after finals and graduation. I tell Dad he should go with me, but he says no. He tells me he’d love to meet my birth-grandmother, “but this is your thing,” he says. “You should go alone.” So I buy my plane ticket and, as I always do, I make out a detailed itinerary for while I’m in Korea. On the list is an entire day at Gyeongbok Palace.

Two months before I start my first year at Columbia Law School, I send a letter to Mrs. Hong telling her I’ll be in Seoul and that I want to meet her. I don’t tell her why. A week later, I get on an airplane for Seoul to fulfill my promise to Mrs. Hong.

After we land at Inchon Airport, I clear customs and catch a cab outside baggage claim. I give the driver the address where I’ll meet the contact who has the details of the meeting. As we drive through Seoul, I look for what I remember about the city. In a strange way, it feels like a second home now. The soaring Seoul Tower on top of Mount Namsan still dominates the city. And all around, apartment buildings still stand like so many soldiers at attention. The city hums with excitement.

I’m thrilled to be back here. I want to see this country again, now that I know more about its history, culture, and people. I won’t be a tourist this time, but someone who shares the sorrow of this country’s history and its hopes for its future.

Of course, I’ve thought a lot about the comb and its responsibility. I’ve decided that my responsibility to Korea is both as a descendant of Empress Myeongseong and as an American. America has helped this country, for sure. But we’ve been selfish, too. I mean, we’re still stuck in this 1950’s Cold War mentality. I’m angry that we call North Korea ‘evil’ as if we have the right to force our values on them. How arrogant. Yet I don’t want them to develop nuclear bombs and they need to be good world citizens. Yeah, okay, I get it—it’s complicated. Still, I think America can do a lot more to promote peace. And unification, too.

As a Korean, I’m willing to do what I can for the country where I was born. As an American, naturally I want to help keep my country great. I guess what I’m saying is that I want to make both of my countries proud—the one that gave me life and the one that gave me a family—because I’m proud to be a child of both.

As the cab drives through Itaewon, I reach inside my backpack and feel the envelopes that I’ve been carrying since I left home. Inside one is twenty thousand dollars cash. Inside the other, is ten thousand.

I’m anxious to get to my meeting. In spite of the fourteen-hour flight, I’m not tired. I’m excited to see Mrs. Hong and tell her that I’m there to keep my promise to her. But I have to admit that all the secrecy about this meeting has me more than a little nervous.

*

The cab pulls up to a glass building. I see the open space for the Han River a few blocks away. I pay the cab driver and roll my suitcase into the lobby. I give the receptionist the name of the man I’m supposed to meet. She tells me to wait. I take a seat in one of the lobby’s Le Corbusier chairs. Ten minutes later, a short man in a dark suit with eyes to match, greets me. “I am Mr. Choi,” he says with a slight bow. He doesn’t extend his hand.

I bow respectfully and in Korean, I introduce myself.

In Korean Mr. Choi says, “Shall we go for a walk?”

I assumed we’d meet in Mr. Choi’s office. Then I remember Mr. Han saying that meetings between people from the North and South are done off the record. So I give my suitcase to the receptionist and follow Mr. Choi out to the street. He walks with his hands behind his back as if he’s out for a midday stroll. I start to talk, but he quickly cuts me off with a wave.

“Let us walk a little before we talk,” he says.

We walk toward the Han River. White clouds roll across the sky. The humidity is low and the temperature is comfortably warm. We reach a small park and sit on a bench facing the river. Mr. Choi folds his hands in front of him and lifts an eyebrow. “This is a generous thing you are doing for Mrs. Hong,” he says.

“She’s my grandmother. I made a promise to her.”

“Yes, we know about Mrs. Hong. She was an
ianfu
for the Japanese, and she was sympathetic to the communists. She even worked for them. She also worked in a
kijichon
after the Korean War. She has a thick file. She has had—how should I say?—a questionable past.”

Excuse me? Questionable past? I turn toward Mr. Choi, ready to tell him what my Korean grandmother did for her country. I catch myself before I do. Perhaps he knows. But, like a typical Korean, he’s more concerned about his country’s honor than the rights of an individual.

I look at the river and nod. “Yes, Mr. Choi, I know all that about Mrs. Hong. She’s had a tough life.”

“Why, Ms. Carlson? Why would you spend so much of your money to do this thing?”

I meet his eyes. “Because she’s my grandmother,” I say speaking Korean. “I have a duty to her.”

Mr. Choi half smiles. “You speak Korean well. Korean-American adoptees rarely learn our language. So, do you have the money?”

I reach in my pocket and give him the envelope with twenty thousand dollars in it. He thumbs through the bills and is satisfied that it’s all there.

“It is arranged for tomorrow,” he says, tucking the envelope inside his suit coat. “You will need another ten thousand dollars for the North Koreans.”

“I have it,” I say. “So what’s next?”

He gives me a slip of paper with the address of a bus station in the Shinchon area of Seoul. He tells me I should take Mrs. Hong there tomorrow morning before 8:30AM. He says we have to find the bus to Munsan. It’s not an official bus, he says, so I won’t need a ticket. There, we’ll meet a man named Mr. Ryu who’ll collect the fee for the North Koreans. The bus will take us to the American military base outside the Demilitarized Zone. The Americans will do an inspection. Then, they’ll take us to Panmunjom where our meeting will take place.

Mr. Choi puts on a serious look. “Ms. Carlson, do exactly as you are told. Panmunjom is not a place to be taken lightly.”

“I understand,” I say.

Mr. Choi pushes himself off the bench and heads back to the government building as if I’m not there. I walk behind him in silence. When we get there, he goes to his office without saying goodbye. I grab my suitcase, go outside and hail a cab. I give the driver the address for Mrs. Hong’s apartment.

*

It’s late afternoon when we pull up to the eight-story apartment building. I take my backpack and suitcase and climb out of the cab. As I walk up to Mrs. Hong’s building, I’m surprised at how nervous I am.

I press the number 627 on the intercom and wait. There’s no answer. I press it again. Finally, a voice comes over the intercom and says something in Korean. I can’t tell if it’s Mrs. Hong.

“This is Anna Carlson. I’m looking for Mrs. Hong.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Ja-young. How nice of you to pay a visit. You may come in.” The security door buzzes and I walk through. I take the elevator to the sixth floor and go to Mrs. Hong’s apartment. I knock and the door opens.

It’s only been a year since I saw her last, but she looks several years older. Her hair is grayer and the wrinkles on her face are deeper than they were before. Her head shakes slightly with what looks like the early onset of Parkinson’s disease. She doesn’t stand as straight as she did, but her eyes are still bright.

“
Anyahaseyo
,” I say with a proper bow.

“
Anyahaseyo
, Ja-young,” she replies.

“It’s very good to see you,” I say in Korean.

“Your Korean is very good,” she says, keeping the conversation in Korean. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

“I’ve been told I have a good ear for languages,” I say.

My Korean grandmother smiles and tells me to come in. I take off my shoes and follow her to the low table in front of the window. A fresh
mugunghwa
blossom floats in a bowl on the sill. The frame that holds the photographs of Mrs. Hong’s family and my birthmother still sits on the table. And of course, the room smells of
kimchi
. I can’t believe I’m back here in Mrs. Hong’s apartment. It’s surreal.

I take a seat at the table and put my backpack on the floor. Mrs. Hong leans in to the table. “Ja-young, do you have the comb?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “It’s safe at home.”

“And how do you feel about having it?”

I sigh. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”

Mrs. Hong sits up straight. “Yes,” she says, “I know.”

After a moment, I say, “I brought you something.” I reach inside my backpack and pull out the photo album that I made a year earlier. “I thought you’d like to have this. I made it for my birthmother. I’ve added pictures from my senior year in college. I didn’t have a chance to tell you much about myself last year.”

Mrs. Hong bites her lower lip. “I am honored,” she says, taking the album as if it were a treasure. “I want you to tell me everything about each photograph.”

Since Mother died and I had to move back home, I haven’t had anyone to share my life with. Dad has his own issues and anyway he’s my Dad if you know what I mean. All my girlfriends want to talk about is men and sex. And even my adopted friends don’t understand how I feel about being Korean. But now I have Mrs. Hong, my Korean grandmother who’s been through so much. I know I can talk to her about anything.

So I pull my chair next to her and open the photo album. We go through it together, page by page, like best friends catching up after a long time apart. We talk in both English and Korean. She listens carefully as I tell the story behind each photo. She asks questions and nods thoughtfully at my answers. We laugh a lot.

Two hours later, we close the photo album and I pick up Mrs. Hong’s photos from the table and study them. “I’d like a copy of these, if it isn’t too much to ask. I want to know more about them. And your grandparents and aunts and uncles, too.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hong answers. “They are your family, too. It is important that you know.”

“But not tonight,” I say, setting the photos down. “I’ll be in Seoul for five days. We’ll have plenty of time to talk. I need to go to my hotel and rest. You should rest, too. We’ll have to get going early tomorrow.”

Mrs. Hong raises an eyebrow. “Tomorrow?”

I pick up the bowl with the
mugunghwa
and stare at the purple blossom with the yellow pistil in the center. I say, “Last year, I promised I’d help you meet your sister. I’m here to keep that promise.”

Her eyes soften and her mouth opens a bit. “Soo-hee? Do you know something about my
onni
?”

“Yes. She’s living in Pyongyang. She never married or had any children. After the Korean War, she became a nurse.”

“That sounds like her,” Mrs. Hong says. “What else can you tell me?”

I set the
mugunghwa
blossom on the table. “Well ma’am, you can find out for yourself. You and I are going to Panmunjom tomorrow, where you’ll meet her. It won’t be a long meeting—less than an hour.”

She stays silent for a long time and her head shakes a little. I can almost see the images of her sister in her mind as she takes in what I just said. Her eyes turn watery. She gazes at the photographs and says, “Since I discovered that Soo-hee was alive, I have dreamed of this. But I never let myself believe it would happen.”

She looks from the photos and smiles at me. “Tonight will be a very long night.”