"Rumors?"
The bookseller leaned forward, his eyes on the front door. "They say Admiral Makoto is a moderate. They say that his replacement of Governor-General Hasegawa signals a new era-one that is culturally directed. It's their reaction to international pressure about March First. There's even talk of a women's journal, but I'll believe that when I see it!" He cackled, making a crude gesture about women.
Han reached inside his pouch, but Pahk waggled his ears and waved him away. "First issue, free to you!"
Someone entered the store. "Yes," said Han loudly, switching to Japanese. "Fine, then. I'll check back next week to see if you've got those translations." He pivoted away from the arriving customer and exited, taking note of the man's black cuffed trousers and shined leather shoes. He avoided his urge to examine the man further. There was little he could do at the moment if the bookseller was in trouble.
He walked slowly through the busy market street, arms clasped behind his back, the journal tucked comfortably beneath his vest, the sun warm on his shoulders. In the afternoon, he read the new journal in his study. His restful reading was disrupted by an impolite call, "Abbuhnim!" and his daughter entered abruptly. Always this child managed to find ways to irritate him!
"I hope your message is lighter than your footsteps. Heavy as iron!"
Najin bowed and said, chastened, "Excuse me, Abbuh-nim." She sat to his nod and waited to be acknowledged.
He tried to ignore her rustles and breathiness, and attempted to finish reading his paragraph, an impossibility. "What is it?"
"Yee Sunsaeng-nim said they have new Japanese maps and teaching guides, and I must return all of my books, even the old ones from first term."
Though the news interested him, he wondered why she bothered him with it. "Show me the new lessons." What further lies would they teach now? Those heathens with their mere hundreds of years of existence knew nothing of history and culture.
"There aren't any books yet. We copy from the blackboard."
He frowned impatiently.
"Abbuh-nim, it's the books they want us to return. Must I?"
"Bring them."
She dipped and rushed to her room.
"Yeh-yah!"
Her footsteps slowed to a more ladylike pace. She returned and presented three booklets: a Korean children's primer, an annotated chart of world history and a pocket volume titled in Chinese, A Complete Guide to English Conversation with Tone Symbols. A Complete Guide to English Conversation with Tone Symbols.
"Who gave this to you?" He thumbed through the phrase guide for tourists.
"Sunsaeng-nim. One day after school." Her voice lowered. "She said I needn't sign for that one."
"They account for all your books?"
She nodded, her eyes down, her kneecaps bobbing.
"Sit." He examined the mass-produced phrasebook, its brittle pages already yellowed, the blue rubbery cover cracked and curled. "A gift?"
"Yes, I believe so. May I please keep it?"
"Do others have the same?"
"No, Abbuh-nim."
Her tone made him glance at her. It was good she was afraid of him, he thought. He'd talk to her mother about those unsightly scratches on her ankles. She was more rambunctious than Chungduk! He examined the other books. The historical timeline, printed in Japanese and wretchedly falsified, elicited a childhood memory: the exact timbre of his recitation of the ancient periods at age three before his surprised father, his proud tutor crouched outside the doorway. He asked Najin, "Have you memorized this?"
She recited the true dynastic chronology rather than the one printed in the book: "Gojoseon, Gija Joseon, Wiman-"
His chest knocked with sudden patriotism and a sliver of pleasure at her education, but he said, "Quiet! Do you want to get us all arrested?"
She crossed her hands and folded into herself.
"How is it you refuse to control your tongue! Best to be at school all day or your brother would learn your habits." There, at last she was still!
He considered the Chinese-English phrasebook. One day, they'd be a free nation again. The Shanghai provisional government worked to gain international support, particularly from America, but what did other countries care about Korea? He put the books before her. "Well then. You must return the two you've signed for and ask Yee Sunsaeng if she requires the third. In the meantime, keep it out of sight, as if it never existed. Should anyone come close to finding that book, it must first find the fire in the stove. Understand?"
Keeping his face stern as their eyes met, he was surprised by the pleasure he felt at her obvious gratitude. Her high regard of books satisfied him. Times were changing him despite himself! He dismissed her and fingered through his library, selecting anything that might be considered nationalistic or subversive. Mindful of Pahk's misfortune, he dusted his collection of sijo sijo and other poetry, classical essays and history books. He wrapped them in expensive writing paper, thinking it a shame since it was precisely such days as these that demanded a basic Confucian convention: religious study of the mores of the past for insight into matters of the present. and other poetry, classical essays and history books. He wrapped them in expensive writing paper, thinking it a shame since it was precisely such days as these that demanded a basic Confucian convention: religious study of the mores of the past for insight into matters of the present.
He called his manservant and devised a plan to create a deeper hiding place for his books. He'd have Joong dig a pit below the wooden floor of the secret pantry, line it with camphor wood, then bury a chest of books. Joong was to do this work without speaking of it and without the aid of the gardener. Han considered the importance of Joong's silence in this task and counted five won won into Joong's hand, the first time he'd ever given him money. Joong bowed deeply as the money disappeared, then he helped pack books. into Joong's hand, the first time he'd ever given him money. Joong bowed deeply as the money disappeared, then he helped pack books.
HAN RARELY TOOK his meals outside the house unless an occasion required a supper, such as a visiting dignitary, a marriage or death. News about the independence movement's clandestine activities passed quietly from lip to ear when men greeted each other at church. As autumn advanced and the sun set long before the hour of curfew, it became obvious that such casual conveyance was too risky for anything other than a few words. The rash of new parishioners were clearly police spies and collaborators. Among the church elders, a chain of information passage evolved as the men began inviting each other to suppers.
One such evening, Han visited Deacon Hwang. The two men had finished eating and pushed aside their tables, Han silently regretting that Hwang's lay position prevented the serving of wine or tobacco. A portly graying man who wore Western clothes, Hwang, a yangban of lower status, had gained notoriety as a result of an education from the missionaries in Pyeongyang. Unfortunately, a terrible stammer undermined his desire to become a minister. He liked to say that his affliction was his calling to be a more humble man.
"Yuhbo!" called Hwang, adjusting his knees. Mrs. Hwang entered with a skittish young woman who presented yellow melon slices and sweet rice tea. Under Mrs. Hwang's critical eye and unceasing instructions, the young woman bowed nervously, served the fruit, cleared the dishes and slid the door closed.
The melon's ripe scent reached Han, giving him a sense of contentment that almost made up for the lack of wine. He nodded toward the door. "How's the daughter-in-law coming along?"
Hwang shrugged. "F-f-fine! Fine. Very shy. My eldest is probably more pleased than his mother, ha!"
Han grimaced at this remark, thinking that Hwang's efforts to overcome his verbal weakness left little opportunity to edit the appropriateness of what he said.
"At first," said Hwang, "she scorched my shirt trying to d-d-dry it by the fire, but now she's doing better. A mediocre cook, sadly. My wife will improve her soon enough. I'm told she's not crying herself to sleep anymore. Rises early and doesn't talk much."
"A blessing."
"Yes." The deacon cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Reverend Ahn told me something he heard from the mission director. Overseas, it seems they're finally getting reports about the March First bloodbaths. There's political outcry, especially from the Russians and Americans."
"Ya-ah." Han put his cup back on the table; overly sweet and burnt-tasting.
"As a result, Admiral Makoto's every move is bound to be monitored. It's said the Japanese relied too heavily on the outdated B-B-British model of military colonization. They now think it more politically apt to focus on education and social reforms." Hwang bit into a melon slice and juice dripped down his chin. He wiped it with his fingers and flicked it aside, sprinkling the mat. He slurped another bite and smacked his lips. "What do you think of this, Brother Han?"
Han turned his head to hide his annoyance at Hwang's use of familiar address. He attacked the messy melon with his handkerchief ready. "I can easily imagine the title of this reform proposal, 'Educate the Natives.' Education? It's brainwashing!"
"An important distinction, to be sure. Time will reveal their intent."
Although this platitude was what Han expected from Hwang, its passivity aggravated him. He shifted to accommodate a growing stitch in his side. Mrs. Hwang's kitchen had yielded greasy dishes, heavily overspiced. The food had compacted to a clod in his gut, which he felt starting to rebel. "I've heard about new cultural reforms like these."
"You have? F-f-from whom?"
Han ignored the question and chose not to mention the new journal. Hwang would see a copy soon enough. "What can we expect? More schools so they can lie to our sons?"
"As a matter of fact, they're planning new universities, and reform for that women's college in Seoul, Ewha, to-"
"So they mean to further undermine our core principles!"
"Brother Han, women are b-b-bound to be given more latitude regardless. You know how many mothers were slaughtered and jailed in the name of their country. That c-c-country girl, Yu Gwansun, look at how her martyrdom is inflaming the people!" The story of the young Ewha student's recent death, after more than a year of torture in Seoul's prison, had reached the streets, spurred by Ewha president Lulu Frey's demand for the girl's body. Despite the atrocities she suffered, Yu Gwansun reportedly cried out for freedom and independence each day she was dragged from her cell to the torture chamber.
Han's ears burned, thinking of her ordeal and her remarkable bravery, and what he he had withstood, and how easily they had broken him. "They shouldn't have marched-" had withstood, and how easily they had broken him. "They shouldn't have marched-"
"Did they not shout as loudly as we did? Did they not die as tragically as men? Do they not desire independence as passionately as we do? Isn't your own daughter pursuing an education?"
"That's not your concern. Did your wife and your daughter-in-law appear on the streets that day?"
"Forgive me, B-B-Brother Han. This isn't the discussion we should be having."
Han settled onto his cushion and surreptitiously slipped a hand beneath his vest to press on the growing pain in his belly. He wished he had his pipe.
Deacon Hwang took the last melon slice. "There's news that bodes well. It actually might be advantageous for our sons."
"What could they possibly offer that would benefit us?"
"Advanced study abroad."
"They've already coerced thousands of our youth to attend university in Tokyo. Our sons are forgetting what it means to be Korean! Now they'll take the women too?"
"Not just Tokyo. Any worthy student, man or woman, can study in America, Germany, or France, perhaps. They also plan to expand Soongsil Academy and Union Seminary in Pyeongyang."
"Bribes. Means to control us!"
"Brother Han, I sympathize completely. I'm not arguing, just conveying what I hear."
Han quelled a rising desire that Ilsun might study in America. But what was he thinking? What of classical education? Would he even be able to find a tutor when Ilsun was ready? He changed the subject. "What news from Shanghai? Will a response be organized?"
"T-t-too many were arrested and shot." Hwang drank his tea and gazed steadily at Han, who kept his face impassive.
Han wondered, not for the first time, how the deacon had escaped beatings or arrest, and if others wondered the same thing about his relatively short prison term. However, he had scars to prove his loyalty. Indeed, spies were everywhere-but again, what was he thinking? Hwang was an old friend, a familiar face long before the annexation, and a trustee of the church! This was yet another evil of the occupation: that a man would suspect treason in his own circle.
"I'm weary and impatient," he said as an apology.
Hwang demurred, "On a long journey, even one's eyelids grow heavy."
"Thank you for dinner." Han clapped his thighs and stood slowly, feeling a recurring stab in his lower back and knees. He cursed those bastard guards who were to blame for his stiffness.
"There's one other thing, Brother Han." Hwang examined the melon platter as if more fruit would appear. "They say the expenses in Shanghai are exorbitant."
"I'll send Joong by tomorrow." He had already donated thousands to Syngman Rhee's provisional government and wondered now if he was merely throwing money into the sea. Another independence movement faction and a provisional government in Hawaii were also calling for his support.
"You've always been very generous," said Hwang, ushering him to the door.
Han grunted to pass off the perfunctory remark. He bowed goodbye and walked into the setting sunlight, an hour well before curfew, yet his eyes stayed keen on the darkening profiles of passersby, watchful for policemen.
The Curious Power of Words
AUTUMN 1920.
THE MORNING AFTER I TALKED TO FATHER ABOUT THE BOOKS, I RAN to school, hoping to catch Teacher Yee before the other students arrived. In the field by the checkpoint, patches of fog faded in sunlight streaming like bright fans from high clouds. From the humidity coating my cheeks, I could sense the coming heat. I rejoiced just to be running before the temperature rose. The woman who owned the bakery stood outside of her shop beside a tray of small cakes. "Hello, Auntie!" I flew by, breathing deeply to fill my lungs with the warm sugary smell of freshly baked goods.
"Aigu! You won't catch a husband running like that! That's not a girl. That's a wild animal, no doubt about it." Her words were lost in my footfalls. She wouldn't yell to a boy She wouldn't yell to a boy, I thought. She'd say something about such sturdy legs, what a perfect day for running, how clever to be in such a hurry! She'd say something about such sturdy legs, what a perfect day for running, how clever to be in such a hurry! Up the hill, I reached the turn just in time to see my teacher's skirt slip behind the school's front door. I walked the remainder of the way, so I wouldn't be out of breath when I arrived. Up the hill, I reached the turn just in time to see my teacher's skirt slip behind the school's front door. I walked the remainder of the way, so I wouldn't be out of breath when I arrived.
I'd decided that, not counting my mother, Yee Sunsaeng-nim was the most beautiful and smartest woman in the entire world. She became my hero on my very first day of school, when my name was called and all the girls tittered and whispered over its oddness. She rapped on the desk and made it clear that such meanness would not be tolerated, and that my name had a lovely and pure sound. Now in my second year with Yee Sunsaeng-nim, I still looked forward to the special smile like the one she'd given me that day, with which she continued to recognize me as I did well with my lessons. When she paced sedately between the students' desks, nodding rhythmically to arithmetic recitations, I admired her graceful long torso, the way her slim hips made her skirt swish like a muffled bell about her ankles. When she passed my desk, she left a sweetness of spring air in the stuffy classroom.
However, after the summer monsoon break, two frown lines had made permanent inroads in her silken forehead. Teacher Yee's perfect features usually exuded warmth and serenity, even when girls hadn't finished their homework. My neighbor Hansu used to tell me how his teacher yelled and regularly beat their shins and forearms with a stick. Until this term, Yee Sunsaeng-nim had been a model of studied calm, but yesterday she'd snapped at one of the brighter students for a simple pronunciation error. All the girls whispered during lunch break about her strange irritability and wondered what hidden malady she suffered. "She's not coughing up blood!" one girl said. I told them they were acting as stupid as headless chickens with their pointless gossip, and it was no wonder that Yee Sunsaeng-nim looked exhausted. Everyone snubbed me for the rest of the day, even my best friend, Jaeyun.
Below the sign CHUNGHEE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, I composed myself, straightening into the posture of an intelligent young lady. I listened for my teacher's daily classroom preparations-maps snapping on rollers, papers riffling, chalk tapping and squeaking-but not a sound came from the classroom. I cracked the door, peeked in, then quickly shut it. Yee Sunsaeng-nim was sitting stiffly at her desk, her shoulders rigid, her face covered by both hands. The morning shadows made her appear as translucent and still as a block of salt.
I tiptoed outside and thought a moment. Then I banged against the two front doors, ran down the hall slapping my feet, dropped my book bundle and kicked the classroom door open. "Good morning, Sunsaengnim!"
She now stood at the blackboard, as if posting the day's schedule, and said, "A sloth of bears! A gaggle of geese! Not one young girl." She smiled, saying, "Have you come early to clap erasers?" and I was relieved to see her returned to normal.
Cleaning blackboard erasers was still my favorite classroom chore, although at my heady age of ten, I'd outgrown it. I'd knock them against the brick building, banging out new Chinese characters we'd learned. By the time the erasers were clean of chalk dust, my favorite words were also clapped away. Imagination Imagination. Teacher Teacher. Independence Independence. Goddess Goddess. The wind ciphered my dust words and scattered them above the heads of the townspeople, through the tops of tallest pines, along craggy mountain ridges, high into rain clouds to drizzle on the vast waters of the Yellow Sea. I imagined the dark-tanned faces of fishermen turned up to greet the rain, unaware of my special baptism by words. Yesterday I'd tried to feminize the word scholar. scholar.
"Sunsaeng-nim, I'm returning the books I've had at home." I unwrapped my bundle and removed the books.
"Yes, and now the principal says that all the books, no matter what kind, must be reviewed. I'm afraid they'll be destroyed." She turned her head, but I saw tears.
"Please don't worry. I've promised to hide it well."
"What?"
"The Chinese-English phrasebook you gave me."
"Yes, perhaps that's right. Everything else is ruined." Her shoulders slumped and she hid her face in her hands.
Something was terribly wrong. Fear and concern made me bold, and I touched her wrist. "Are you ill, Sunsaeng-nim?"
She grasped my hand, her face contorted in a way that reminded me of my mother giving birth. "Illness! If only it were that simple!" She twisted my fingers painfully.
"Excuse me, Sunsaeng-nim. Should I get help? Do you want the principal?"
"No! No-oh, I'm sorry, Najin." She touched my shoulder. "Come sit for a moment before the others arrive."
My fingertips thrummed with released blood, and I thought to offer her a hand massage, anything to help relieve her of her demons. "My mother taught me how to relax the hands. May I show you?" We sat on the front students' bench and I opened my palms.
"No, thank you." She held my hands gently in her lap. "Such a thoughtful young woman you are. Yes, you should hide the phrasebook. And should the Japanese ever come to your door, you should hide yourself as well as you can." Her skin turned waxen and her eyes seemed to tunnel inward. "Even if it's the police. Especially if it's the police. Monsters! You must hide, do you hear me?" Her voice sounded trapped in her throat; her breath smelled of ash. She twisted our hands together. I was surprised at my own feelings of being more worried about her than afraid of her strangeness. My mother's lessons had finally sunk in, I thought, but it was easy to think first of my beautiful teacher, whom I deeply loved. I examined her fingers as if they were wounded birds, and massaged the thickest part of her palms as my mother had taught me.