The Calligrapher's Daughter (44 page)

He heard the strain in Hansu’s voice. Han sympathetically dropped his eyes. Earlier that month, Ilsun had mentioned rumors about an extensive labor conscription and local draft officials who roamed the streets with quotas to fill. Ilsun said he’d heard about truckloads of unmarried men and women scooped from rural villages, but so far the cities had seen little of this. If Hansu, who had long been married, had been drafted for labor, what would become of Ilsun? He felt guilty relief for his former ability to pay the bribes that had erased Ilsun’s name from official rosters, and guilt again for his narrow and selfish concern. He looked at Hansu, his eyes full of solicitude.

Hansu, his brow deeply lined, sighed. “My parents have decided to join me. We are all promised housing and employment at the Mitsubishi truck factory there. The wages are fair, more than anything I can earn here with my red line.” Following his trial and sentencing after March First, Hansu’s identification papers were stamped with a red linear seal, marking him a criminal against the empire and severely limiting his ability to work. He’d been fortunate to have teaching positions with the missionaries, but since the onset of the China War, the missionaries were disfavored, and old regulations and dozens of new ones were stringently enforced. Hearing about Hansu’s circumstances, Han expected that the missionaries would likely be expelled altogether.

Shoulders sloped, head bent, Hansu paused to hear his elder’s response.
Witnessing the young man’s unusual passivity stirred Han to anger. “You must go underground then. Your family can move in with us. We have many empty rooms here. You can arrange everything with my son.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve already taken too much advantage of Ilsun’s connections. It was he who found the man who guaranteed a desk job for my wife and me, since we’re both educated and fluent.”

Han’s face must have shown something of his surprise at Ilsun’s involvement, for Hansu said bleakly, “I didn’t expect you’d approve, but my wife is with child. My family will be persecuted if we were to run. Because my parents are following us voluntarily, they won’t be required to work in the factory. It’s likely some clerical work can be found for my father since he has a long record with the government.”

“No, son. On the contrary, I understand completely.” He quoted the second part of the primary Confucian adage, “Administer thy family well.” He wanted to urge Hansu to continue on the path of resistance, but Canton had fallen and Chiang Kai-Shek had lost Hanbon. The Japanese seemed invincible. The two men sat awhile, then Han said, “Times are precarious.”

Hansu stood and bowed, and the scholar also rose, saying, “Blessings for your child and family. May God be with you.” The men bowed again and Hansu left to say goodbye to the women.

The brazier sputtered. Han looked to see if the moon still held its benign smile, but it had risen beyond his view. He sat feeling very worn, his old companion the stomach cramp flaring, and wondered if his countrymen would ever again have what he now saw was the luxury of being free to pursue the first Confucian directive: to cultivate the mind and body. He heard his wife and daughters giving the Changs packages of food with teary goodbyes and many promises for staying in touch, but he doubted his family would ever see them again.

Within a week after the Changs had left, a young Japanese couple moved in next door, and Han had Byungjo mortar over the gate between the properties.

THE STRAIGHTFORWARD BIRTH OF A THIRD SON ON THE OTHER SIDE OF Gaeseong kept me busy through half the night. I slept there until curfew lifted at sunrise on Monday and came home in time to help my sister-in-law with breakfast. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Unsook handed me a steaming bowl of soybean soup. “How perfect!” I said. The days were increasingly cold, and the hot bowl in my hands felt very welcome. We fixed the men’s meals, adding strips of dried fish I’d bought at the market that morning on my way home. Unsook delivered the men’s breakfasts, then joined me at the table portioning our food.

Unsook had been married and living with us for two years, consistently showing selflessness in the work and service she gave to the family.
She often woke with dark circles under her eyes but never complained about Dongsaeng’s demands of her night hours. Afterward, she slipped quietly into her bed in the tiny room next door to me, and even with my sensitive ears, I rarely heard her. Unsook’s behavior embodied my mother’s guideline for civility: think of others first. Typically she was one step ahead of anything that needed doing or might make life a tiny bit richer, such as having hot soup ready on a cold morning. Slim and delicate as a fawn lily, sometimes when her profile caught the evening light, she reminded me of Yee Sunsaeng-nim. Mother and I agreed, as did Cook and Kira, that we were especially blessed to have such an elegant and accomplished young woman in our household. With her frail beauty and gentle manner, I felt like a sticky lump of clay beside her, but we had grown sisterly and close. Mostly I felt protective toward her, motherly in a way that sometimes made me yearn for Calvin and the chance to have a child.

We brought our breakfast to the women’s sitting room, and Mother gave prayer, including as always, thanks for two daughters at home taking such fine care of the house. Unsook had recently started volunteering at the local orphanage once a week. I was sure her joy at being with children was mixed with pain at not having a baby of her own. Since today was an orphanage day, Unsook described what she’d set aside for the midday meal, and that she’d dusted and cleaned the floors. “I’m sending a note to Imo-nim, and I’ll stop at the post office if you have any letters to mail.”

Mother nodded and reached toward her worktable. I shook my head.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” said Unsook, apparently thinking that with my missing husband, mentioning the mail would be hurtful. “How inconsiderate of me. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean—”

“Please don’t worry. It’s been a long time.”

Unsook bowed her head. Mother and I began eating, and Unsook slowly picked up her chopsticks. Because so many emotional matters are not voiced in a Confucian household, our empathy was well developed. Unsook seemed unreasonably uncomfortable about mentioning the mail, and it made me realize that while she knew my husband was in America, we had never once talked about it. In fact, my husband had been rarely mentioned since my arrival home from Pyeongyang, except in the very beginning when I received Calvin’s last letter, now two years ago.
Since then, I’d written to his parents to be courteous and dutiful, and also to check if they’d heard from him. I received one short note from his mother, transcribed by that witch Yonghee, saying there was no news from America. I wrote without reply for more than a year, but their uncommunicativeness allowed me to eventually stop writing to them without feeling too guilty. I rationalized that paper was expensive, the mail too erratic and my mother-in-law’s illiteracy too much an obstacle for staying in touch. And I still fumed over Reverend Cho’s accusations that I had anything less than proper relations with Yonghee’s husband and the choral director.

The years in their hovel left only loathing, bitterness and shame, and it made my feelings for my absent husband all the more complex. Having lived with his family far longer than the total time I’d spent with Calvin, I wondered how well I knew my husband. And now with wartime and half a world between us, I couldn’t even guess how America might have changed him, or how I might appear changed in his eyes. I could barely remember his presence at all, except on rare occasions before I fell asleep, when a glimpse from memory—the moment of recognition we shared that day by the pond, his look when my wedding veil was lifted, or his light touch on my hand unlatching his suitcase—would surprise me with the passion it roused. It was easier to put it all aside and ignore the label of abandoned wife. Obviously something was wrong with international mail delivery. Despite the brevity of our union, I firmly believed I would know somehow if Calvin were dead.

To ease Unsook’s discomfort over the idea that she had caused me pain by mentioning the mail, I said, “I suppose he’s forgotten me and married one of the three hundred parishioners at his brother’s church.”

Pause. “You’re joking.”

“Yes.” Her face showed such relief that I felt bad for teasing her. “I’m sorry. It’s been four years since he went to America and we’ve completely lost touch. I haven’t even heard from his family. I try not to think about it. I wait, that’s all. And pray. What else can I do?” Not writing to Calvin or thinking about him also allowed me to avoid dealing with unrequited love and romance and other such foolishness. Additionally, it allowed me to assume that time would prove my Christian faith. In the meantime, it seemed simpler to remain where I was, not asking, not being asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Unsook.

“No,
I’m
sorry.”

“I— I wish— Excuse me, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be, really. I’m happy to be home, especially now. You’re the sister I’ve always prayed for.” Surprised by the surge of feeling over this little truth, I clasped her offered hand.

“Amen,” said Mother.

Later that day, after cleaning out the silkworm shed and readying it for another cycle before winter, I helped Cook fix lunch, wondering how Unsook fared at the orphanage. She would probably be more tired than if she’d spent all day at home doing chores. I gave the trays to Cook to deliver to Father and Dongsaeng, and turned to portion everyone else’s.

Someone banged loudly on the gate and a man shouted in Japanese. Startled, I thought,
Not again!
then, angry,
Father’s done nothing!
and I turned quickly, upsetting the kitchen table. Chopsticks and bowls clattered to the floor, spilling hot liquid. The knocks grew louder until Byungjo lifted the latch. I ran down the hall to Mother’s sitting room. Heavy measured footsteps crossed the yard, then came crisp commands: “Out! Come out! Everybody out of the house—now!”

My mother stood and her hands fluttered to her pale lips. An old fear surfaced, but with it a righteous defiance. People were always being arrested, but neither my father nor brother had been involved in politics lately.

Dongsaeng appeared in the hall. “What is it?”

Soldiers stormed through the vestibule. “Outside! Now! Now!” A thunder of boots and shouts, and Mother and I hurried to the front door. Two soldiers charged into the men’s sitting room and grasped Father beneath his arms. “Everyone out!” They dragged him and pushed us through the house to the courtyard. The servants were driven outside. Mother faltered and I slipped my arm around her waist.

From an open military vehicle visible on the road, a soldier and an officer came through the gate, the officer’s starched uniform the same hue as the dust that swirled in our yard. We were lined up and commanded to bow to the major. The soldiers assembled in a row behind us. The major said, “Which one of you is the spy Han Najin?”

I stood tall. “I am Han Najin,” I said, my breath blasts of steam. I was
afraid, but also relieved that it was obviously a mistake, and they hadn’t come for Father or Dongsaeng. “But I am not a spy, my lord.”

“No?” He removed something from his assistant’s satchel. He was clean-shaven with deep eyes, pronounced cheekbones and fair, almost delicate skin. His boots creaked as he neared. “Then what is the meaning of this?” He threw the object and it struck my cheek, then fell at my feet: a thick bundle of letters, colorful American stamps, a New York return address and Calvin’s handwriting, the familiarity of which struck me deeply, far more powerfully than the blow to my face. I held my breath so as not to gasp.

“My lord, if you please,” said Mother, bowing low. “They were married only one day before he went to America. That is all. We have not heard from him, nor has she written to him for several years.”

Father said, “We are loyal taxpayers, my lord.” The major smiled and the soldiers laughed, and my cheek burned anew at this disgraceful treatment of my father.

“I know that you are,” the major said mildly. He turned to me. “You are under arrest.”

I heard the words and knew what they meant, but also couldn’t understand them. I looked quickly to Mother and saw the same disbelief. And pain. How easily my actions, my sorry existence, could hurt her.

“You will come with us.”

If I’m going out
, I thought simply,
I’ll need shoes
. “My lord, my shoes—”

He indicated yes.

I ran to the entryway and grabbed my coat. My vision telescoped as I slipped on my shoes, each foot increasingly far away.

“My lord, where will you take her?” Mother fell to her knees and cried out in Korean, “Father in Heaven, dear Jesus, keep her safe!”

The major looked at her with curiosity. “She will be questioned at the prison.”

Mother pleaded to heaven. “My daughter! Son of God, have mercy!” A soldier guided me to the back seat of the vehicle.

“My lord!” Dongsaeng stepped forward, his teeth chattering with cold, “We can pay—” The major made a quick movement to a soldier who spun my brother and butted a rifle into his gut. Dongsaeng clutched his
stomach and slumped to the ground. Father reached for him and the soldier clubbed Father’s shoulder. He fell to his knees.

“Abbuh-nim!” I cried. “Dongsaeng!” I heard Ilsun retching. The major’s assistant started the engine and turned the car around, and the soldiers let the gate slam and marched down the hill. We drove, every turn of the wheel taking me farther from my wounded family, the trampled earth of our estate, the cold silence of its ancestors.

On the long jarring drive, the engine exhaust making me nauseous, I clung to the railing in the back of the car, and to the memory of Mother’s cries for mercy. Fearful of what lay ahead, I shut my eyes to repeat my mother’s prayer. Instead, I heard in my mind the childhood litany,
Like liquid, like water
.

The military prison block, massive slabs of gray concrete, seemed iced in barbed wire everywhere I looked. The old police jailhouse where my father had twice been imprisoned, was considered too small for military and Thought enforcement, and was now used for thieves, murderers and drunken conduct. Governor-General Minami had erected this prison compound two years ago, at the onset of squabbles with China.