When My Name Was Keoko

  And my thoughts, too. I was Korean—my thoughts were Korean.

  I was so impressed by this idea that I went at once to the cupboard and fetched a tablet of paper and a pencil. From now on I would keep a diary. When Uncle came back, he'd want to know about things like the leaflets. And the bayonet practice. A diary would help me remember.

  My first entry: "Paper fell from the sky today."

  I looked at the line on the page and frowned. My handwriting was, as always, quite tidy. But it was in Japanese.

  I couldn't write in Korean; I'd never been taught how.

  Could Korean thoughts be written in Japanese?

  The next night after dinner, I spoke to Abuji. "I would like to learn Hangul," I said. "Would you teach me?"

  Abuji looked surprised for a brief moment. Then his eyelids dropped quickly and his expression grew blank. "The teaching of Hangul is illegal," he said quietly.

  "Yes, Abuji." I bowed my head respectfully. "Illegal in school, but I was wondering—" I chose my next words carefully. "Does that mean it is also illegal in someone's house, where nobody else could see or hear?"

  Again, there was a look of surprise on his face—one eyebrow raised. He was quiet for a long time, but I sat very still and waited.

  At last he looked up and spoke slowly. "Sun-hee, it is not the right time. There are too many eyes around us just now." Pause. "But I promise one day to teach you Hangul."

  I bowed and left the room, thinking about what Abuji had said.

  Too many eyes. I understood this. The Japanese were watching us because of Uncle's escape. Not as closely as during the first few weeks, but still more than usual. We might be studying Hangul and soldiers might burst in on us. It was too dangerous.

  I promise one day... One day? When? When would the Japanese let us have our own language back?

  Still, it was a promise. Abuji almost never said "promise." When he said it, he meant it. But for the time being I had to write in my diary in Japanese.

  I kept it faithfully, at least a line or two every day about the day's events. When nothing special happened, I wrote a little poem. Sometimes I tried to make these funny, as Uncle might like them that way:

  Splash!

  A moment of clumsiness:

  My soup travels from the bowl

  through the air to my skirt.

  And I travel with it—

  to the shores of Omoni's disapproval!

  But often I could not keep the melancholy out of my words:

  If I could choose to be anything,

  I would choose Wind.

  I would blow my way swiftly

  to wherever you are

  and hide myself

  among the leaves of the nearest tree.

  ***

  Omoni and Abuji never talked about Uncle. If Abuji knew anything about him, he never told us. It was almost worse than if he'd died. If he were dead, they'd have talked about him.

  At least Tae-yul still talked about Uncle. To be honest, we didn't mention him often; it made us both too sad. But sometimes when I was out on the street with Tae-yul, I'd see his eyes darting about, searching people's faces. I knew he was looking for Uncle, just as I was. At those times it made me feel stronger to have Tae-yul nearby—to know we were thinking the same thoughts.

  In early spring of 1944 our classes stopped entirely. We still reported to school every day, but all of our time was spent on preparations for an enemy invasion.

  There had been no battles in Korea, yet the war was so much a part of our lives. Thousands of people had been separated from their families, forced to move to Manchuria and Japan to work for war industries. College students had to join the Imperial Army. Soldiers took not only rice and metal but anything edible or useful that they could get their hands on. Omoni worked harder and harder to put skimpy meals on the table. We weren't starving, but we never had quite enough to eat either.

  And the mountains had changed color.

  Our town was surrounded by mountains. Before the war those mountains had been covered with forests. When the Japanese took all the coal and oil for the war effort, we had to use wood for fuel. One after another, trees were chopped down, until at last there was hardly a tree anywhere. We used to be able to see green and pleasant slopes. Now they were brown, gray, dead.

  We knew what had happened to the trees—they'd been burned. But we didn't know what had happened to many of the people in our town. One day they were there, and the next they were gone. Taken away by the Japanese—that much we knew. But to where?

  One afternoon as we were building rock piles in the schoolyard, Buntaro-san took up the megaphone. "All girls sixteen years and older, report to the northeast corner. All girls sixteen and older. The rest of you, continue your work."

  I was working with Jung-shin; she brought the rocks to me and I arranged them in neat piles. We were in the southeast corner of the yard and could hear everything.

  When the older girls had lined up, the principal began speaking to them. "His Divine Majesty the Emperor is giving you girls a wonderful opportunity. There is great need for workers in Japan, in the textile factories making uniforms for the honorable members of the Imperial forces. You will be given a place to stay and ample food to eat. And a salary will be paid to your families here in Korea. It is a chance to help both the Empire and your own family! Who among you would like to volunteer for this noble cause?"

  The job sounded too good to be true. We were all accustomed to figuring out the real meaning behind what the Japanese said or wrote. But I couldn't begin to guess what this announcement was truly about. Teenage girls could hardly be recruited as soldiers. Perhaps it was as the principal said; surely, it was true that Japan needed more factory workers.

  I watched as a few of the older girls raised their hands. The principal actually bowed to those who stepped forward. "Look at these patriotic girls!" he said. "The Emperor and their families will be so proud of them! Come, aren't there more of you who would like to join them in this endeavor?"

  A few more girls came forward, but the principal wasn't satisfied. He gestured to Buntaro-san, who stepped up and shouted, "Twenty girls! The Emperor requests twenty loyal girls from our school. You must do your part!"

  No one else volunteered beyond that first half dozen girls. Buntaro-san was getting angry. "If there are no more volunteers, I will choose them myself," he announced. He marched down the line and began pulling girls out one by one. "You and you—and you—"

  One of those girls began to cry. Buntaro-san whirled around and hit her with his stick. "Shut up, you stupid girl! What do you have to cry about? Any sensible girl would be honored to serve the Emperor!"

  There was silence throughout the schoolyard now. We'd all stopped our work and were watching. Buntaro-san dragged girl after girl out of line and shoved them toward the front.

  Suddenly, Jung-shin gasped. Her older sister, Hee-won, had just been pulled from the line.

  Hee-won immediately dropped to a bow before Buntaro-san. She started to say something, but he was already shouting at her. "Get up! Go join the others!"

  Hee-won rose with a whimper and stumbled toward the front. But when she got there, the principal looked at her and frowned. He shook his head and sent her back to her place in line. "Not that one," he said to Buntaro-san. "Choose another."

  Just then Buntaro-san seemed to realize that the rest of us were watching. "Back to work, all of you!" he yelled in a fury.

  As we returned to our work, Jung-shin caught my eye, her face stunned and bewildered. Her hands trembled as she handed me the rocks. She seemed nearly faint with relief that her sister wouldn't have to leave home and go to Japan.

  But why was that? No other girl had been sent back to the line. I could tell Jung-shin didn't know either; she looked as confused as I felt.

  A terrible thought came to me. I tried to push it away, but that only seemed to make it hiss louder in my mind, like a snake coiling and baring its fangs until I could think of nothing el
se.

  Hee-won had been spared as soon as the principal had seen who she was. Why would a girl be given such consideration?

  It could mean only one thing.

  Their father was chin-il-pa. A friend of the Japanese.

  Jung-shin and her sister hurried away as soon as school was dismissed, and I went home on my own. I trudged heavily, as if my steps were weighed down by my thoughts.

  There were things that made sense now. Why Jung-shin had been able to give me a rice cake when no one else had any rice at all; at the time, I'd been so excited to have duk again that I hadn't even wondered how she'd gotten it. Why she still had nice clothes, sometimes even new things, when everything I wore had been mended a dozen times. Maybe even why we always played at my house, not hers ... perhaps her family worried that their association with the Japanese might somehow be discovered.

  I hadn't thought about any of this very much before. There had been no reason for me to be jealous of Jung-shin. If anything it had been the other way around—she respected me because my father was a scholar and hers only a banker, and because I was Class Leader every year. Now I saw things in a glaring new light that seemed to hurt my eyes.

  With a start, I found myself thinking of Uncle. That day we'd visited him at his shop, when I thought he was acting oddly—it hadn't been just my imagination. Uncle must have known about Jung-shin's father, but he'd never told me. He must have been afraid I might say something to Jung-shin that would somehow give away his secret activities.

  Could I be friends with someone whose family was chin-il-pa?

  18. Tae-yul

  Sun-hee meets me at the gate when I come home. She tells me what happened in the schoolyard. As usual I'm tired from the work at the airstrip. I only half-listen—until she mentions Hee-won's name.

  Hee-won. Sometimes she comes to fetch Jung-shin at our house. She's my age, and really pretty. I feel my face growing a little warm.

  Sun-hee doesn't seem to notice. Good. She whispers, "The principal took one look at her and sent her back to her place in line." No one is around to hear us, but I can tell she's afraid even so. "He told Buntaro-san to pick someone else."

  I think for a moment. Then I say, "They have no brother."

  "No brother—" She stops. Thinking instead of asking.

  I choose my next words carefully. "Their father must feel that there's no one but himself to watch out for his family."

  "But does that mean—do you think he could be—" She swallows. Like me, she can't say it. Can't say the words chin-il-pa.

  Suddenly, I pound the gate, cursing under my breath. "Damn! Damn the Japanese and this stinking war!"

  Her mouth opens, then closes again. But there's still shock in her eyes.

  It's wrong to scare her even more. I try to speak calmly. "It won't be easy for Jung-shin, wondering if people might guess the truth," I say. "You should be kind to her. Just be careful of—of what you say when you're with her."

  She nods but still looks scared. I don't know what else to say.

  Later I hear that those girls weren't even allowed to go home and say goodbye to their families. They were taken by truck straight to the train station. After that probably a train to the coast, and a boat to Japan.

  And then what? A factory somewhere, sewing uniforms?

  Maybe.

  It's a warm spring night, the house dark and quiet. Everyone's in bed. Suddenly, there are loud voices at the gate. Before we can even get up off our mats, half a dozen soldiers burst into the courtyard. They turn on the electric light and shove open all the doors. I blink and squint—I can hardly see.

  "Up, all of you," their leader orders. "Stand there, together, against the wall."

  Shivering in our nightclothes, even though it's not cold. We gather around Abuji. Omoni's arms are crossed in front of her body. She's in her nightgown. Why won't they at least let her cover herself?

  The leader stays with us while his men search every room in the house. They open cupboards, throw things around, overturn furniture, lift the straw floor mats.

  After a few minutes Abuji clears his throat. "If the honorable officer would be so good as to tell me what he is seeking, perhaps I could be of assistance in locating it."

  "Treasonous writings," the officer answers curtly. "Writings that express lies and slander against His Divine Majesty's benevolent presence in this country. And we need no assistance. If such writings are here, we will find them—you can be sure of that."

  Beside me Sun-hee stiffens suddenly. I move my hand to take hold of her arm. She's trembling. I squeeze her arm a little, trying to calm her.

  Treasonous writings? Are they looking for copies of Uncle's newspapers? There aren't any here, I know that for sure. Right after he left I looked all over the house a dozen times. I never even found a scrap of one. Besides, they'd searched the house themselves back then. Do they think he still contacts us? For the first time I'm glad he hasn't kept in touch with us—if he had, they might find him somehow....

  One by one, the soldiers come back into the courtyard. They're all holding papers. They put them down on the table before the leader. I glance down quickly. Mostly Abuji's work, but also Sun-hee's diary. Is that why she's worried? Surely nothing she's written can get us in trouble—she's only a girl....

  The officer picks up the papers and looks over them quickly. Documents and lesson plans for Abuji's school. But the officer doesn't care about these—he looks at them, then crumples them and tosses them on the floor.

  Finally, he reaches for Sun-hee's diary. He flicks through the pages. Sun-hee clutches at her nightshirt, just like Omoni.

  The officer looks up. "Whose stupid scribblings are these?" he asks abruptly.

  Sun-hee answers at once. "Mine," she says. I'm surprised by her voice—it's strong, not shaky. And she's stopped trembling.

  He sneers. "Idiotic thoughts written in a beautiful hand," he says. "Do not waste the glory of fine kanji on such nonsense—it is a crime against our Divine Emperor. You are fortunate that I will grant leniency this one time. Any more of this and I will not be so merciful."

  He hands the diary to another soldier and makes a brusque gesture. The soldier takes the diary to the kitchen and throws it into the stove.

  Sun-hee takes one step forward. I pull her back.

  The officer finishes his inspection of the papers. He tears the last few into shreds. "We know that this town breeds a worm of treason!" he shouts. "We will hunt it down and grind it under our heel! All of you have been warned—if we find later that you knew anything of this treason, you will suffer the same fate as the traitor himself!"

  Then he stomps out in fury, his men behind him.

  The gate clangs shut. Sun-hee breaks free of my grasp and runs to the stove to try to save her diary. She reaches right into the fire.

  Too late. There are only a few burned scraps of paper left. She kneels on the floor, holding them, Omoni next to her with a wet rag, wiping away the soot and ashes. Sun-hee's fingertips are turning red, starting to swell. It must hurt, but she doesn't cry. I pace and clench my fists, wishing there were something I could do.

  Abuji comes over, his face worried. He watches Omoni tend to Sun-hee but doesn't say anything. He just stands there.

  Seeing him like that makes me remember one of Uncle's stories from years ago, when he'd been hurt, after the Olympics. He couldn't work for a few weeks, so he stayed home. Sun-hee and I loved that—he was always around to tell us stories.

  "My father—your grandfather—was a great scholar," Uncle had said. He was resting on his mat. Sun-hee and I were sitting on the floor to one side. "He devoted his entire life to studying. It took him many years and many attempts, but late in life he finally passed the difficult examinations and was appointed a scholar in the royal court.

  "I was only a small boy, but I remember well how proud he was the day he put the jade button in his topknot. The button meant that he had passed the examinations. He let me touch it just once—to feel how sm
ooth and round it was." Uncle smiled, a sad smile, then shook his head.

  "Only a few weeks later the Japanese ordered all men to cut off their topknots and to wear their hair short, in the Japanese style. They said topknots were too Korean. Your grandfather would not do it. He had worked too hard for the jade button."

  He looked away from us. At nothing. Like he was seeing something inside his head, a place or a time far away. His voice seemed to come from far away, too.

  "One day three soldiers came to the house. They burst in without being invited and found my father in his room. Two of them held him down while the third one cut off his topknot. And one of them stole the jade button.

  "I was young, only four or five years old. I hid behind my mother's skirts—so frightened! I wanted to help somehow, but what could I do?" He shook his head again.

  "But it wasn't enough, just to cut off his beautiful topknot. One of them took a big handful of hair and threw it into the kimchee pot. He stirred it for a while, and all the time he and his friends were laughing..." Uncle's voice was so angry that he had to stop speaking for a few moments.

  The kimchee pot. Every Korean home has one. A big ceramic pot sunk into the floor of the courtyard, so deep a man can almost stand inside. The pot keeps the spicy pickled cabbage from freezing during the winter. The kimchee is scooped out with a huge wooden ladle. The pot is always carefully covered because anything that falls in is hard to get out. Strands of hair—it would have been impossible to get them all out.

  "But where was Abuji?" I asked. "He was a lot older than you—maybe he could have helped." Abuji is ten years older than Uncle.

  Uncle frowned. "I think he was there too, but maybe not. Maybe he was at school—I don't remember.