I silently vowed to replace the cross and wondered why my mother hadn't provided for the dental work. It seemed things were worse than I'd suspected. "I learned a lot doing midwifery, and have many new remedies to add," I told Cook, who had a memorized catalog of several hundred recipes to create a healthy, balanced diet according to the old way.
"Anything for peptic ulcer?" said Mother, as Cook shot me a pointed look.
So, Father had lost his gastric battle. "There're quite a few things. We can visit the pharmacist tomorrow."
"You should hear that man complain about business," said Mother.
"Isn't he still the best in town?" I wandered through the kitchen handling familiar pots, utensils, bowls and cups, noting empty pegs where sacks of meal and grain should've hung. True, it had been a long winter and our pantry would likely be replenished soon, but I could feel my ribs protruding. Children had come to class with nothing to eat since the day before when I'd fed them. We bartered books, pencils and paper for noodles and barley.
"He says his access to suppliers is limited ever since Manchuria," said Mother about the herbalist. Her pursed lips signaled me to wait for further discussion. Brightly, she complimented the earthy pepper blends in the gimchi.
"Kira's first crop of cabbage, not my handiwork," said Cook.
"True, she and Byungjo perform miracles in the garden," said Mother, "but it's you who mixes everything perfectly."
"Your recipe!" said Cook, blushing.
"Your touch!" We all laughed.
"Let's eat. I was waiting for you, Daughter." She arranged two sets of bowls on trays, and when Cook went outside to retrieve spiced anchovies from a cold-storage urn, Mother laid out another set. "Now she'll have to eat something tonight." She lowered her voice. "You see how she's shrunken. She pretends to have no appetite, thinking to save food."
My expression was so full of questions that Mother whispered, "It's not as bad as that. She just thinks so. Later-"
Cook returned, her fingers red with spice and fish oil, and placed the anchovies on young lettuce leaves. She sprinkled steamed bean sprouts with vinegar and soy sauce. Mother portioned the food into threes as Cook quickly chopped scallions and sprinkled sesame and pepper on the noodles, ignoring the third setting. With the trays apportioned, she cracked raw eggs into our noodle bowls. "I saved these for you from this morning," she said, beaming.
"Lovely!"
Mother said to Cook, "Pour the tea, won't you?" Using her body as a shield, Mother quickly switched her bowl with Cook's, while the old woman poured roasted barley tea.
In her sitting room, Mother and I settled in behind our table trays. She chuckled. "See how I have to trick her? She'll be mad when she sees the egg, but she can't let it go to waste now."
I gave Mother half the vegetables and egg in my bowl, and we ate, the thick noodles rolling deliciously on my tongue, fiery with gimchi and smoky with anchovies. She said things really weren't that bad. They'd met Dongsaeng's tuition for high school with cocoon income, my contributions and the amount received from Oriental Land for the forestlands. She told me that shortly after Japan annexed Manchuria, jewelry and silverware were given to Father, as well as the best of the jade, and were buried. "That was foresight on your father's part, because a few days later a Japanese tax official visited us." She frowned. "Well, visit visit isn't exactly the correct word. He demanded entry to inventory the household." isn't exactly the correct word. He demanded entry to inventory the household."
"He was here? Counting things? How dare they!"
"Anger is pointless, Najin-ah. Laws are made to match their desires, it seems. They've even started 'clean house' inspections, so they can come in at will." She blew into the barley tea, showing calmness, but I heard the tremor in her voice. She continued, "This man expressed interest in purchasing some paintings, but your father wouldn't hear of it." Father would remain firm in the Confucian sentiment that to sell a scroll would taint it with mercenary concerns, reducing its true artistry. "The worst of it was he threatened Dongsaeng's student status. 'A stroke of the pen one way or the other' were his words. It seemed for a moment that our intention to bring Dongsaeng home from Seoul specifically to protect him from conscription was in vain."
Tiny anchovy bones scratched deep in my throat. "But students are supposed to be exempt from labor conscription!"
"Yes, and thankfully, Dongsaeng is still underage. Your father took additional steps to prevent him from being drafted. He remembered meeting this man years ago when he had to register your school enrollment, and knows how to satisfy him with occasional gifts-a jade pin or a vase particularly admired during inventory." Mother looked rueful. "I'm sorry to tell you about this. I didn't want you to worry. You should know that your dowry will be simple. Cook traded some raw silk for a bolt of cotton for you. Use it for your dowry, which I'm sorry to say will only be what you can sew for your future children and husband in the time that you're home."
The words spoken, I could do nothing but hold myself very still. I wanted to insist that marriage would be a waste of my education, that I could be more helpful to the family by working. The light wobbled and the dark blush under Mother's eyes deepened. I noticed her lax cheeks and faint worry lines crossing her forehead. Outlined in moonlight, the room's spare furnishings and clean simplicity reflected the rare sense of peace and wholeness I felt in her presence. At that moment, I wanted only to please her. I hid a sigh. "So then, Chang Hansu's friend ..."
Mother's worry lines disappeared. "A son of Minister Cho from Pyeongyang. Even your father is impressed with Reverend Cho's involvement on March First, at least enough to ignore his woeful bloodline." She added quietly, "Perhaps your father finally realizes the old ways are ending." This gave me pause, and I noted it to ponder later.
Mother said that the eldest Cho son was already an ordained minister, an encouraging sign that the second son-the one in question-would follow those footsteps. My stomach knotted, and not from a plentiful supper in a shrunken belly.
"And he's pursuing advanced theological education in America. Who knows?" she said, her eyes curved with warmth. "Isn't it natural if two people dream the same dream, their paths will flow together?"
Hearing two people two people and and together together made me speechless with dread. made me speechless with dread.
"We'll learn more tomorrow from Hansu. Your future lies ahead of you in ways only God can say," she said, looking at me closely. "I fear you haven't been talking enough to God. You must trust in his plan. And get a good night's sleep."
"Yes, Umma-nim." We said goodnight and I returned the trays to the kitchen. Cook was gone, the stoves banked and tidied for the night. I washed the dishes with a crock of water thoughtfully left by Cook, still warm. Heaviness tugged at my thoughts as I dried and put the bowls away. On the shelf I found my childhood brass rice bowl, kept polished and shiny. I laid its coolness against my cheek, and as tears wet the brass surface, I rolled the cold metal on my skin, trying to replace the tightness in my chest at my impending loss of freedom with the joy of being home.
Sleepless in bed, I recalled what Mother said: that perhaps Father finally realized the days of bloodlines and class distinctions had ended. Had he really given up fighting? I realized how important it was that he be as much of a stickler for the old ways as he used to be. I'd previously regarded his stubborn adherence to tradition as a limitation, but the thought that he might have given up made me see otherwise-it wasn't stubbornness but strength of conviction. When I read in Mother's letter that he'd stopped painting because he believed a proper audience for his art no longer existed, it seemed a prideful conceit. I now began to see the magnitude of what he had lost as he put aside each part of all he had known. Whether by force of law or by social pressure, all the insidious change maneuvered by the occupation in each passing day was irrevocable. Could this laxity in my father's defense of tradition be indicative of the state of our country? I hoped not. With these thoughts, and because it was right to obey my father, I would acquiesce with all the grace I could muster to his choice of a husband for me, though this decision made me cry.
I searched the beams for words that might inspire a peaceful resolution to my warring sense of duty and hard-earned freedoms. Where once the simple memory of a pattern of stars would trace words for me, now nothing came. I thought I should pray, but when I tried, I remembered instead the vision shared with my mother after Dongsaeng's birth. Like water, flowing around, beneath and through rooted trees, we would always flow. I said a small prayer then, with thanks for my mother, for Dongsaeng's safety, for my father's continued stubbornness, for a husband with kindness.
BY MIDMORNING THE clouds had dropped and a wet fog hid treetops and gardens. I ran fingertips fondly over the hammered hinges of the folding screen outside Father's sitting room, where he and I would wait for Hansu. Straightening, I went in. My father sat at his desk, his hands idly turning pages of a well-worn book. "Thank you for asking me to join you, Father. I'm relieved to see you're looking well." He looked drawn and hollow, his skin chalky.
His eyes caught mine, and I was surprised and touched to feel their warmth. He quoted slowly in Chinese, "The way home is a thousand li ..."
My mind was far from classic poetry. I looked at him blankly, trying to remember the stanza and discern his meaning.
He frowned, a teacher prompting a young student, and continued, "... an autumn night is even longer."
I remembered the poem, and my eyes flooded with love and gratitude for his paternalistic formal welcome and his scholar's insight, as I finished it, "Ten times already I have been home, but the cock has not yet crowed."
He looked pleased, turned his eyes aside and mentioned the nineteenth-century poet Yi Yangyeon, in a tone that said well done well done.
Overcome by the intimacy of the moment, I sat quietly, feeling pride and a different kind of closeness than I had ever felt before with my father. He had never instructed me on classic poetry, yet rightly assumed that with the training from my mother and from Imo, I would know this poem. It was the closest he had ever come to acknowledging me as an intelligent and educated person, separate from our bond as father and daughter. Perhaps it was his way of recognizing my academic achievements, even if I'd ended my career selling pencils for millet. I thought about the poem itself, and my heart swelled again. His selection demonstrated that he had spent some time thinking of the world through my eyes, and what better way could love be expressed? The last line was perfectly appropriate to the hour of learning about one's prospective husband. It could also be inferred that it comprised a gentle apology, but the idea that a father would offer an apology to his daughter was too disrespectful, and the thought disappeared from my consciousness as quickly as it had surfaced.
We sat together in comfortable silence, and the cloudy light filtered through the shuttered window in muted hues. After a while I asked if I could open his shutters to freshen the room, and he nodded. Soon, we heard the side gate creak open and shut and Hansu being met by my mother at the front door. I stood aside as he greeted my father with bows and a proper exchange of conversation about the weather and everyone's health. Then Hansu and I bowed and he vigorously shook my hand. "It's wonderful to see you, Dongsaeng! I've counted thirteen years since we last met."
Although my eyes stayed low, they shone with pleasure. "It's also good to see you again, Oppapps."
"I've been hearing about your wonderful accomplishments in Seoul and Yoju."
I reddened with his enthusiastic praise and glanced at Father, who fondled his pipe, long empty of tobacco. "Someone's been making up stories," I said lightly.
"I heard that your school post ended for the same reasons mine did. May I ask what happened?" Hansu sat near Father, who indicated that I should sit and answer.
"Since it was a small private school and far from the city, it didn't seem to matter how many Korean teachers we had." The year I'd graduated from Ewha, a new ordinance decreed that all teaching be done in Japanese language, and required that Japanese nationals comprise half the staff in any school, private or public. "At least girls were learning to read and write, but by the end of the term, with scarce supplies and food even scarcer, everyone was fired, myself included. They closed many rural schools, and I heard that in the city all the teachers are Japanese now, and the principals too."
"It was the same in Pyeongyang, sir." Hansu correctly addressed Father. "The Depression must have hit Japan as hard as here. Hundreds are looking for jobs. My replacement used to work in a dry goods store in Kyoto-a sales clerk turned mathematics professor! At least he can add and subtract."
I hid my smile at his familiar teasing humor. I was curious to know what work he'd seek in Gaeseong, but conscious of Father's presence, I asked a question more appropriate for a woman. "How is your wife?"
"Very well. She looks forward to meeting you. Perhaps you'll join her singing in the church choir?"
"Not likely," said Father. "No offense to your wife, you understand, but it's time to think about a husband." It was just like Father to get to the point.
Mother entered with drinking water and dried plums. "Perhaps Hansu-oppa will say something about his friend," she said. I dutifully served the men and sat beside Mother, who handed me a laundered shirt to reconstruct.
"Before I tell you about my visit to Reverend Cho and his second son," began Hansu, "may I tell you what I know of him?"
"A close friend of Hahm Taeyong, isn't he?" said Father. "Whatever happened to Mr. Hahm?"
"Yes, sir. He's exiled in Shanghai." The men exchanged looks, and Father nodded for Hansu to continue. The moment revealed to me how much things had changed at home. Not only did Father treat a younger man as an equal in his sitting room, he directly sought information from him as well.
"Reverend Cho is the minister of West Gate Presbyterian Church and an influential community leader," said Hansu. He met my eyes to acknowledge the coincidence of the church's name to West Gate Prison in Seoul, where Hansu had met this man who became his mentor. "When I was at Soongsil Academy, he was my instructor in Chinese for two years. But before I studied with him, I had already heard about this second son." Hansu looked around at us. Father sucked on his dry pipe and sipped water, and Mother and I pretended to be absorbed by our sewing. Outside, a gentle rain trickled down the tile roof. His storytelling voice matched the soft rhythm of the rain.
"In prison, I learned it was Reverend Cho who led the movement in Pyeongyang. It was he who read the Declaration of Independence to a packed crowd at his church. That morning, he had sent this second son- who was ten at the time-on a special mission. The boy's mother sewed a secret pocket in the lining of his coat to hide several mimeographed copies of news about the two o'clock reading, as well as parts of the Declaration. They wouldn't suspect conspiracy from a boy running in the streets! This is how most of Pyeongyang learned where and when to gather that day. Even at such a young age, this boy showed his patriotism!"
Father grunted his approval and Mother smiled outright. My sewing grew increasingly crooked.
"While I was at the academy," Hansu continued, "I didn't meet Reverend Cho's family. He was far too busy for a nominal student such as myself." I frowned at his self-criticism, but his grin showed he'd been baiting me.
"Last year during the term break in Gangdong, I had an opportunity to visit Pyeongyang and called on Reverend Cho. That's when I finally met his son, who was by then a man. He's twenty-four now, a year older than my honorary sister, am I correct?" Mother nodded while I bent my head further into my sewing, wanting to be the needle sliding deep into the fabric. Hansu smiled broadly. "Their house was enormous! Two stories of brick-" That Father gave no reaction to this information was another indication of how much things had changed at home. In his day, no structure could be taller than the king's palace, something he frequently mentioned when he passed tall buildings. "But I think the family now lives in a smaller house," said Hansu. "This brick building was part of the church and had many rooms filled with boarders-refugees and other souls the minister had met in prison, or who'd come because of his reputation. I've never seen a church as large as his. It's the biggest American-built church in all of Korea, they say."
"It's known as Jerusalem of the East!" said Mother in a surprising outburst. It confirmed that she and Hansu had previously talked in detail about the Cho family, and that she was quite excited for my father and me to learn about the gentleman.
"His sermons are full of wisdom. Somehow he manages to infuse all who listen to him with pure patriotism and love of God. I always feel on fire for my country and full of hope for our future when I hear him preach." His earnestness made me smile-same old Hansu! I hardly knew what to do with the shirt placket I held, being unaccustomed to fine handiwork after years of grading papers, writing reports, chopping kindling and-now and then at odd hours in poor huts-helping a woman give birth.
"I knew many of those men from Seoul," Hansu continued. "It was wonderful to see them again."
Mother murmured "Amen," to acknowledge the reunion of former prisoners.
"But what an industrious place it was! Reverend Cho had purchased stitching machines from a nearby factory that had been taken over to make bombs or guns for those bastards' usual usurp- Uh, pardon me." He bowed his head apologetically toward Mother. "Anyway, his entire household was making socks."
My eyebrows rose.
"I know, strange work for a minister." Hansu lowered his voice. "But the income is used to pay ransom for political prisoners and to support Kim Il-sung's guerrillas, who I hear are growing hundreds of thousands strong in the far north."
"I see," said Father.
"But pardon me, what I wanted to tell you about is this: the minister took me on a tour of the house. A very noisy house!-sewing machines, people talking in the hallways at all hours, discussing books and arguing philosophy-like a schoolhouse for grown men." Hansu's thick hair shook and his cheeks dimpled. I smiled back, remembering his infectious animation all those times when we walked together to and from school.
Father put away his empty pipe and stroked his beard. The sky thickened and rain pelted the porch. Mother gestured to light a lamp, which I set between the men. Knowing Hansu would soon describe the eligible bachelor, I squeezed my knees together, clamped my teeth and forced my features to relax in order to hide any reaction my body might betray me with.
"We passed through the family's quarters, and in one tiny room I noticed a young man deeply absorbed in his studies, concentrating as if he were alone praying in the middle of an empty church. Even when his father coughed outside the open doorway, this young man didn't look up. This was the reverend's second son."
"Excuse me," I said. "May I ask what he was reading?"
"Curious you should ask, because I clearly remember it as being quite odd. He had in one hand the Bible and in the other a Chinese translation of Karl Marx."
I couldn't avoid showing Hansu the interest this statement had ignited in me. He smiled broadly. "Of course, when Reverend Cho finally got his son's attention, he was quite gracious. A very serious-minded fellow, I should think."
My parents remained expressionless. I remembered that Mother's letter had touted the Cho family's Christian and political worthiness, and guessed that most of Hansu's storytelling was for my benefit. My legs twitched as if they'd forgotten how to sit quietly and graciously receive a guest, as if they wanted to run outside and splash through puddles.
"Cho Jeongsu is his given name," said Hansu. "But he's taken an English name, Calvin, since he attended both the academy and Union Seminary. His name is said to have some Christian meaning, but there's no Calvin in the Bible that I can think of." Hansu produced an envelope from his vest with a flourish. "Anyhow, with your parents' permission, Dongsaeng, I wrote to his family a few weeks ago. Reverend Cho was open to any suggestion from such an esteemed family as yours. And so, here is a photograph and a formal letter of introduction."
Father opened the envelope and withdrew a small photograph, barely glancing at it before passing it to Mother. He snapped the letter open with a crisp pop.
"He's short in stature and trim," said Hansu, watching the photograph change hands. "I'm told the eldest is a head taller than he. They were quite poor when he was young, and it's said he's short because of childhood malnutrition. There were two younger brothers as well, but tragically, both died of tuberculosis several years ago."
"How pitiable, how terribly sad!" Mother and I said. I automatically thought of medicines to relieve the symptoms of tuberculosis-ginseng tea and goldthread root powder if you could find it-but there was no cure.
Hansu talked on. "The eldest is already a minister in America, so the second son is lucky to have a brother established there. I'm told Calvin will be going to Princeton and several other seminaries. I'm not sure how he managed that."
I looked around, but it seemed I was the only one piqued by this information. His study in America was the second thing I found interesting about him.
Mother examined the photo. "Reverend Ahn said that all the American missionaries know of his father's sermons. How pleasing to think he'll follow his father's profession."
I realized that Mother had evidently queried our minister about the Cho family, and I felt further trapped. She showed me the photo. Calvin Cho had a high forehead-a sign of exceptional intelligence-and strong angles to his clean-shaven jaw. This feature of determination seemed to be softened by an almost-smile. The silvery sheen of the photograph glowed in his eyes, and I was relieved that at least he was pleasant enough in appearance. As the letter passed from Father to Mother, I noted that Calvin Cho's handwriting was firm and meticulous. I closed my eyes and heard loud drips. The rainstorm had ended. How I wanted to slide the doors wide and run across the rain-soaked slate, let the rainwater stream between my fingers as it sluiced down gutters into cisterns. I laid my hands calmly in my lap and waited.
Mother raised her eyes to Father. "Studious writing," he said.
"A proper letter," said Mother, reading quickly. "You say he'll be coming to visit you soon?"
Hansu said yes, grinning as my alarmed eyes rounded. Mother folded the letter and nudged Father's hand when she returned it to him. A look passed between them. She resumed her sewing and Father reset his pipe on its stand. Everyone waited. I slanted my eyes at Hansu as if we were still kids, daring and double-daring each other. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, as innocent as a fox.
At last Father said, "It would please me if the young man came to visit." And it seemed that Hansu and Mother released an enormous joint sigh. For me, the walls of the sitting room shrank, the bindings of my skirt tightened and seized my breath. I caught a scent of the outside and inhaled deeply. Be like the rain, like water Be like the rain, like water, I thought, exhaling quietly.
A FEW WEEKS later, the three of us waited in Father's sitting room for the arrival of Hansu and Mr. Calvin Cho. I hadn't yet seen Dongsaeng, who was still at school, and since it had been some years since I last saw him, I wondered how he would react to this activity at home. Based on what I'd gleaned from Mother's letters, I doubted he'd be very interested.
My father read, my mother sewed, and I sat quietly pretending I wasn't anxious. A windy day, the sound of each leaf skipping on the courtyard's slate made me quake. I thought, I'm too old for this. I'm too old for this.
We heard the outer gate rattle open and shut. "Don't embarrass me," said Father in a low voice. "Speak only when proper."
"Of course, Father. I'm not a child."
"See how you talk back! Will you never learn?" His tone jarred me to realize that I had unknowingly spoken, and with terrible impudence. How had that slipped from my lips? It was disturbing childhood reversion at work. "This is a pointless visit," he said. "You will grow old and alone, and forever be a burden to your dongsaeng."
I bent my neck, chagrined and obedient.
Mother whispered, "He's here." In the vestibule, the men could be heard shuffling off their shoes, then Joong led them to the sitting room.
Hansu made introductions. Being presented with my head bowed made it only possible to see Mr. Cho from the knees down. I glimpsed a pair of dark green silk socks with brilliant orange and yellow stripes on the sides. Father asked Hansu about the health of his aging parents, then directed questions to Mr. Cho about his education and family. During these structured politenesses, I surreptitiously examined Calvin Cho. He properly kept his eyes only on my parents and spoke in a soft northern accent. His voice was full, deep and round, his diction commanding, and I could easily tell that my parents were impressed. With lowered lashes, I struggled to balance my desire to be fiercely critical of him with some of my mother's equanimity. I could tell that Hansu was studying my face, and I pointedly kept it bland. I thought that Mr. Cho's features were clear and open, but yes, he was small, and noting his shiny socks and wide tie patterned with blood-red curlicues shot with yellow, he seemed quite taken with Western fashion. How silly in a man! He does speak well He does speak well, I thought, but his nose is too big and I am not interested! but his nose is too big and I am not interested!
"This person," said Calvin with correct formality, "is fortunate to have Reverend Robert Sherwood as a sponsor for this person's further learning in America. This person will study the origins and methods of Protestant branches in America, and how they translate to the Christian practices of Korea."
"Ah, Reverend Sherwood!" said Mother. "He speaks Korean beautifully. He gave a sermon once at our church. How inspiring it was in these difficult times."
Father clasped both hands to his knees. "I understand you know something about these difficult times through the work of your father."
"We are simply patriots, sir. Who among us does not desire freedom?"
"True, true!" said Hansu.
"But what is your opinion of the Communist movement in the north?"
Remembering the Karl Marx book, I listened with interest.
Mr. Cho took time to think, then answered as carefully and formally as before. "In that its development was a reaction to the failures of an agrarian society such as ours, with its ancient and paternalistic divisions of class, it seems there could be wisdom in attempting to establish equality through an evenhanded distribution of community property."
Father's fingers twitched, and he, too, let time pass before speaking. "But what if those properties belonged to you? Suppose you were the landowner with hundreds of li of the best rice fields. And they were summarily taken from you after generations of your family members, every peasant in your home village, every brother and servant who had worked the land had benefited from it. Suppose these fields were portioned to each man in even parcels, everyone working in community as you say. Each man is also apportioned his share of human nature, wouldn't you agree? Envy. Greed. Industriousness. Foolishness. Drunkenness. Laziness. Ambition. To whom would these men turn for leadership, to arbitrate disputes? How can a legacy of thousands of years be demolished without resulting in chaos? What of ordered living? What of the lessons of our ancestors?"