Echoes of the White Giraffe (3 page)

Under the warm morning sun, we walked toward the church in silence. I swung my shoebag, and was happy as I rushed to keep up with my younger brother's long strides. When Inchun, Father Lee, and the other boys from Inchun's school were helping us to build Ewha, Inchun and I always walked home together. But now we did not get to be with each other often, since he went to the all-boys' school and I went to Ewha, the all-girls' school, and after classes, we were both busy with our school projects. Now Inchun spent most of his afternoons and even weekends with his favorite teacher, the one who taught science.

I often wished that he would join the choir, for that was the one thing that we might be able to do together. But I think Inchun was tone deaf. It was a strange phenomenon that I did not understand. He whistled beautifully; the melody and rhythm were perfect, and he whistled with such feeling, eliciting just the right emotion. But when he sang, he was somehow always miserably out of tune. I once laughed at him, thinking he did it on purpose. But after I laughed, I never heard him sing again.

I wondered if I should ask him to sing a song for me now, just to see if anything had changed. But I decided to keep him company in silence. I knew Inchun better: he probably tested himself often in private to see if he could sing. If there were any change, he would surprise me with a beautiful song in perfect tune, and would smile deeply as I looked at him with awe.

The choir members stood at attention in the back of our one-room church. When Haerin, the conductor, waved her baton, our choir practice began. As I followed the exaggerated movements of her baton, the words of the Shouting Poet kept ringing in my ears. “Good morning, refugees ... refugees ... refugees.” It resonated so sweetly through the mountains. The word “refugee” rang as melodiously as all the other words, not sounding as cold and ugly as it had the first time I heard it, the first time I met Haerin. My mind raced back to that unforgettable day, our first day in Pusan.

We had escaped the bombing in Seoul just three days before and had spent an entire day walking in the bitter cold all the way to Inchon harbor. From there, a small rowboat carried us out to a large ship. In the ship's bowels, we rode for hours until we reached Pusan. Famished, frostbitten, and dirty, we made our way to the base of the refugee mountain. In our tattered, filthy clothes, we stared up at the steep, jagged, red-brown mountain looming above us. Exhausted and overwhelmed, we did not know what to do.

I looked over at a brick house at the foot of the mountain. Shaded by leafy persimmon and apricot trees, and enclosed by a low brick wall covered with morning glories, it looked safe and comfortable. The shiny brass door knockers on the big wooden door shimmered in the sunlight, reminding me of our dark cherry-wood doors at home in Seoul with the two brass door knockers shaped like dragons. This house was not as big and grand as our house in Seoul had been, but it looked so inviting that I wished someone would ask us in to rest.

I could hear the clanking of dishes and the murmur of voices. How wonderfully peaceful life seemed here. Yet visions of bombs, burning trees, and smoldering buildings kept filling my head, and the horrible smell of smoke and death stayed with me. I shook my head from side to side, trying to rid myself of these horrible memories. Feeling miserable and helpless, I started to cry.

“Shhhhh, everything will be fine,” Mother said as she hugged me. “Don't think of the past. We have to move forward and figure out what to do. Now, let's just start climbing. We have a place to stay at the very top.” Placing me in front of her, she held me tight, and together, we gazed up at the ominous mountain.

A brown dog ran out into the yard of the house I had been gazing at so wistfully. Speeding toward us, it jumped up to rest its paws on the low wall and barked furiously. Its deep brown eyes and short brown coat reminded me of my boxer Luxy in Seoul. I went over and patted him and he immediately lowered his head, whimpered, and wagged his long thin tail. I thought of my boxer's stubby tail that wagged so busily, forming little pools of wrinkles on her back.

The door of the house opened, and a girl in a bright pink lace dress ran out. She grimaced when she saw us, and said, “Browny, come here! Stop barking at the refugees. They all have to come this way now. They can't find another path up the mountain. Come over here!” She shot a disdainful glance my way, and as the dog rushed in, she shut the door and quickly disappeared. But her shrill voice rang in my head. She had called me a “refugee.” That's what I am now, I thought to myself. How terrible the word
refugee
sounded! She said it as if it were the name of some horrible disease. A chill ran down my spine, and I shivered. Through tear-filled eyes, I stared down at my tom shoes and dirty clothes. I fingered my stiff, dusty hair, which had not been washed since we left Seoul. My body ached, and my head pounded as my new name echoed through my mind. “Refugee, refugee, refugee.”

I hoped that I would never lay eyes on the girl again, and I vowed to stay clear of her house every time I climbed the mountain. But it wasn't meant to be. A month later, Father Lee asked me to join a choir he was forming with members from Pusan High School for Boys, Pusan Girls' School, and students from Seoul. He thought it would be a good idea for us to get to know each other better; we might be in Pusan for longer than we had hoped. There was someone special he wanted me to meet, he said; someone with whom he thought I would have a great deal in common. We were about the same age, he noted. Haerin was sixteen, only one year my senior. We were both fond of music and loved to sing. So, at the refugee information center, Father Lee introduced me to a tall girl with long silky hair and unusually long bangs that gave some balance to her thin face and framed her protruding eyes. She stood proudly in her Pusan Girls' School uniform, with hymnals under one arm and a thin black leather case under the other. I immediately recognized her as Browny's owner.

I lowered my eyes and fumbled for something in my pocket. I didn't know what to do or say. My face burned, and I knew that even my neck had turned an embarrassing pink.

“Sookan,” Father Lee said, “I've been wanting you to meet Haerin. She will be the conductor of our choir. You two will have a lot to talk about. You can teach each other about your homes. Haerin knows all about Pusan. She has lived here her whole life.”

When I mustered enough courage to look her in the eyes, I realized that she had no recollection of having ever met me. She stared at me with blank disinterest.

From then on, I had seen Haerin several hours every Saturday for choir practice, and four hours every Sunday, when we sang at four Masses. There were twenty-five choir members, seventeen boys and only eight girls. I knew a few of the girls by sight, but I didn't know any of the boys. It wasn't proper for girls and boys to talk, unless, of course, there was a legitimate reason to do so. All the boys stood to the left of the organ, and all the girls stood to the right, just as all the men sat on the left side of the church at Mass and all the women sat on the right. Most of the boys in the choir were from Pusan and I had never seen them before.

However, I had noticed one handsome boy who had a beautiful tenor voice. I found out that his name was Junho, and that he was Haerin's
oppa
(meaning “older brother”). He was seventeen, a senior at Pusan High School for Boys. I heard Haerin speak proudly of her
oppa
to several church ladies, boasting about his good looks and singing talent.

I heard Haerin tapping her hymn book, demanding my full attention. Standing on her podium, a small step stool that she carefully stored with the hymnals in the closet, she bent forward so that she hung over us, and with her long fingers, she wielded her baton with exaggerated precision. Her blue lace dress with the billowy sleeves made every wave of her arm seem that much more commanding and majestic. Her hair was pulled back, held by a large blue velvet bow perched on her head like a bluebird ready to take flight. I watched her eyes, which at times closed dreamily, and at other times rolled wildly with emotion as she conducted.

When we sang, I often forgot my dislike for her. The songs seemed to transport me to another world. The songs in Latin were my favorites. It was strangely enchanting to be singing in an ancient foreign language, and I felt as if I could suddenly understand those people who had lived so long ago. I attentively followed Haerin's directions and listened carefully to the intermingling of our voices.

Haerin suddenly cocked her head, listened, and brought us to an abrupt stop. “Sookan, you move over here to the center, in front of the organ.” Then she looked at her brother Junho and said, “
Oppa,
you move to the center too. Your two voices harmonize well. I think we'll have you do a duet.”

Junho, the handsome, quiet tenor smiled at his younger sister's bossy manner, but quickly obliged her and moved next to me. I stood quietly and looked away, as I had nothing official to discuss with Junho. I had never stood so close to a boy other than one of my brothers before, and I tried to contain the smile that kept surfacing to my lips. I could feel myself blushing, and I stared down at my feet, pretending to concentrate on lining them up properly.

As I stood next to him, I could hear how sweetly his mellow voice accompanied mine. Haerin was right; it was better to put us nearer each other. Suddenly, I could hear only our two voices. I had to look around to assure myself that the rest of the choir members were still there. Proud of her arrangement, Haerin signaled for Junho and me to continue singing while the others hummed. Haerin beamed triumphantly as if she had invented something brand new.

Father Lee came over after Mass the following Sunday and complimented her. “Beautifully done! Getting better and better, ” he said. Then he smiled broadly at Junho and me. My heart pounded, my chest felt tight, my throat burned, and my whole body tingled with a strange blend of exhilaration and embarrassment.

Haerin arranged several duets for Junho and me and we sang many extra verses during Sunday Mass, especially during communion. Although Junho and I didn't know each other and never talked, our singing made us feel close. When we sang alone, I dared to glance at him, and I was glad when he looked back at me and smiled. People moving back to their seats after communion quickly lifted their heads and watched us with admiration. Junho always smiled and nodded to me as if congratulating me on a job well done.

One Sunday, after the last Mass, I was hurrying home as usual, relieved to rest my voice and finally to be away from Haerin. “Sookan, Sookan,” a loud, shrill voice called from behind. It was Haerin. “Wait for me. Why do you always dash out? You never talk to me. Let's walk together. We go the same way.”

It was true. I always rushed to leave, and I knew I walked right in front of her house. I didn't want to spend any extra time with her, though. Every time I walked by her house, I stayed as far away from it as I could. I kept wishing I could find an alternate road. Browny no longer barked at me; he lazily watched me from his comfortable wooden house shaded by a leafy apricot tree.

Grimacing painfully, I turned and waited for Haerin and tried to think of ways to hide my displeasure. Unlike her soft-spoken brother Junho, she was boisterous, pushy, and arrogant. Why did she want to talk to me today? Did I forget to do something at church? As I waited for her to catch up, I tried to hide my shoebag discreetly at my side. With Haerin, I felt embarrassed that I lived on the refugee mountain and that I had to change shoes for the long climb.

She was breathing heavily when she caught up to me, and I just stared at her in silence, wondering what she wanted. She paused to catch her breath, smoothing her shiny black hair and neatly arranging her lace ribbons. As she shook her wide lace sleeves to make them fall evenly, she filled the air with her lavender perfume. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she said in her piercing voice, “You know, I find you girls from the north intriguing. You've seen so much—the war and all, I mean. Yet all of you are so quiet. None of you talk much about anything, especially you. You always disappear before I'm even ready to leave. Why don't you wait for me? What do you do up there on the mountain?”

When I just stared at her in amazement, she continued. “Sookan, tell me. What was it like to live through a war and escape here to Pusan?”

I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know what to say. How can you explain what war is like to someone who has always lived in a peaceful, beautiful neighborhood, and wears a different fancy lace dress every Sunday? And why her sudden interest in us refugees?

I walked along in silence, hoping we would quickly arrive at Haerin's house. I would hurriedly say goodbye and head for the mountain. I wouldn't change my shoes until she was well out of sight.

But she persisted. “I see your mother working at the information center, and I've seen the notices she posts about refugee families. I like her handwriting; she makes fine strokes. I wish I could write like that. Father Lee told me she used to do some brush painting in Seoul. Was she an artist?”

“I guess so. She used to sketch and paint onto silk screens, ” I said, trying to keep my answer short without being rude.

“Can I see one of them?” Haerin asked eagerly.

“No. She doesn't have anything with her,” I said, exasperated at her innocent curiosity.

“You mean she didn't bring any of her artwork?” she said, raising her eyebrows and wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

I just shook my head in silence. She wouldn't understand that bombs were exploding all around us and enemy tanks were rolling into the city, shooting at anyone and anything. We had to run for our lives. How could she understand that packing valuables and sentimental items never even entered our minds?

After staring at me in silence, she said, “I saw your little brother Inchun the other day. My
oppa
pointed him out to me. I think he's a handsome boy. How big is your family? Mine is very small, just my
oppa
and me and my parents.”