Our Happy Time (22 page)

I couldn’t open my mouth. My lips trembled. I wanted to turn around and go home.

“I didn’t know what else to do. So I came here… to tell you… I forgive you.”

My heart felt like it was being sliced into a million pieces. Tears sprang from my eyes, as if the blood that had congealed in a corner of my parched, cracked heart had started moving again. My eyes ached.

“I couldn’t forgive you before. And even right now, at this very moment, I don’t want to! What you did was even more unforgiveable than what he did. But I’m here today to try to forgive you.”

My mother still had no idea what I was talking about, but she snorted like it was nothing.

“You sure find all sorts of ways to worry me. Your mother is dying and you don’t even visit once. But now you show up—and for what? Who should be forgiving whom?”

“I should forgive you!”

My mother pushed her blanket away and sat up straight.

“Are you crazy? Do we need to call your uncle? What’s wrong with you?”

I wept loudly like a child. The crying I could not do at
fifteen, and the crying I did not do even once after that day, was forcing its way up my throat. I felt I would suffocate to death if I did not let it out.

I tugged at the blue crucifix necklace Yunsu had given me. Even that seemed to be choking me. Is this what it would feel like to hang from the gallows? The face is covered in a white cloth hood, and the rope is looped around the neck. The order is given, and five bailiffs pull five levers. I read that only one of the five actually works, but the purpose is to lessen the sense of guilt for the bailiffs. When the real lever is pulled, the floor opens up beneath the kneeling prisoner, and he is hanged. Often, his feet are still shaking, even after he has been hanging for fifteen to twenty minutes. After the doctor presses a stethoscope to the prisoner’s chest to verify that the heart has stopped, he is left hanging for another twenty minutes. Some people are still not dead even after all of that, and sometimes the rope breaks or is too long. Others just fall and wind up bruised and bloodied. If that happens, they start over from the beginning. Such is the ceremony they call an execution.

My tears would not stop. My throat ached from crying for the first time in fifteen years. It ached as if I were being throttled.

My mother tried to sneak around me toward the door. Though my mouth had spat out the word
forgive
, my eyes were probably brimming with murder, just as Yunsu’s once did, and just as mine had for a long time. But I thought maybe it would be better if my uncle were there, as she had suggested. Then maybe he would say,
That’s right, Yujeong, go ahead and cry. You should cry.
Then I would probably tell him,
I’m sorry, Uncle.
He would ask me what I was sorry about. And I would say,
I don’t know, I don’t know why I am sorry.

“I don’t want to forgive you,” I said to my mother. “But I think I’m supposed to. I think maybe I’m supposed to make a sacrifice of my own. And it should be the hardest thing there is for me to do, the thing I’d rather die than do. That means forgiving you!”

My brother Yusik opened the door and came in. He must have been stopping by on his way home. My mother ran over to him.

“Yusik! Something’s wrong with Yujeong. How am I supposed to die peacefully when she keeps acting like this? That poor thing. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

She started crying, too. Was she afraid? I had no idea. Was she hurt because of me? I thought maybe so. She was probably thinking the same thing I was:
Why the hell does the world keep angering me and refusing me even the tiniest sliver of peace and happiness?
It was just a guess, but I figured she was crying out of anger.

Yusik sat her down in a chair and tried to calm her down. Then he came over to me. He grabbed my arm hard, and I staggered. “I need to forgive her,” I muttered. He dragged a chair over and sat me down in it. “I came here to forgive her,” I said stubbornly.

“The execution is tomorrow,” I told him. “They’re going to kill him! I thought if I did something I don’t normally do… I know it’s stupid, but there was nothing, not a single thing, that I could do. I thought that if there really is a God, then he would know how hard this is for me, he would know that this is something worse than death, and he would look kindly on me and maybe, just maybe, a miracle would happen. Can you understand?”

He let out a long sigh.

“Everyone expected Father Kim to die, but he got better. So I thought this was what I was supposed to do. We need to open our eyes… Yusik, what am I supposed to do? It’s
not fair. I tried to kill myself more than once, so God should take me instead. I’m just as much a sinner.”

He grasped my shoulders, his face filled with patience.

“I… I was going to love him. Since I can never be with any man anyway, I thought it would be okay if Yunsu were alive, even if he had to stay in prison forever. I just want him to live.”

My brother seemed to understand everything at once. He shouldn’t have understood it, or accepted it, but he at least knew what I was trying to say. Yunsu wasn’t gone yet, but since there was nothing I could do to stop the
execution
from happening, my brother probably felt reassured that there wasn’t any real danger.

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” he asked gently.

“Would you have tried to save him if I did?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Yusik, I haven’t told anyone else.”

I lowered my head. I had failed again. I had done a foolish thing.

It was a long, long night. I still remember that night. Everything was so vivid and yet so numb at the same time. I kept flipping back and forth between both extremes. And then dawn came. I had fallen asleep. When I woke up and looked out, the sky was hazy. The air was cold. I felt ashamed for having fallen asleep at a time like that. I couldn’t shake the thought that I was alive while he was about to die. I ran out and got into my car. When I look back on it now, I was like a shaman dancing on knives. I was neither tired nor hungry. Everything felt unreal, like the time I smoked hashish in France and time and space
seemed to drift around. The only difference between now and then is that back then I was powered by drugs, whereas now I was powered by suffering. When people reach an extreme, they all feel the same thing: numbness.

Aunt Monica was already waiting outside the execution room. She looked like she had shrunk into a black ball. The execution was scheduled for 10:00 am. I checked my watch: 9:50 am. She held a cloth bundle in her hands. He was not dead yet, but we were already holding his mementos. Aunt Monica closed her eyes, her hands clasped around her rosary. I took the bundle from her hands. The simple bundle held everything he had owned in his twenty-seven years. I looked through it. A Bible, underwear, socks, a blanket, and some books. And a blue spiral notebook. I pulled it out. Written on the cover in black marker were the words:
Jeong Yunsu’s Diary.
I clutched it to my heart as if it were Yunsu himself.

A Buddhist monk, a pastor, and a priest filed into the execution room, while the family members and volunteers stayed outside. One person had already fainted and had to be carried out. A woman dressed in the gray robes of a Buddhist hermitage approached Aunt Monica and took her hand.

“Sister, be strong.”

Aunt Monica nodded weakly.

“Those boys are barely even human when they come in here,” the woman said as she cried, “but they are angels when they leave. We kill them after they become angels. Sister, let’s stop this. I can’t take it anymore.”

Aunt Monica patted her on the back.

The Buddhist woman hugged Aunt Monica and cried. I moved to a corner. A woman I had seen several times in the detention center came over to me and asked, “Are you okay? Your lips are white.” I told her I was fine, and
she said, “Don’t be sad. They’re going to heaven today.” I wanted to snap, “I bet you wish you could send them there yourself,” but I didn’t have the energy. I walked away from her. She pressed her hands together, raised them up in the air, and mumbled something. Then she came over to me again with a bright look on her face. I would’ve preferred it if she weren’t there.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “They’re going to heaven today. Their suffering is over. You’re the inmate’s older sister, right? I think I’ve seen you here a few times.”

“No, I am not his sister!”

I shouted at her and walked away. As I did so, I spotted someone in a uniform hovering on the other side of the room. It was Officer Yi, looking like he could not bring himself to come over and join me but could not quite leave either. The moment my eyes met his, he dropped his head and avoided my gaze. His eyes were very
bloodshot
. Suddenly, I thought about how I had said I was not Yunsu’s sister. I stood next to the wall and wept. I wept like Peter when he denied knowing Jesus three times. It was 10 o’clock.

Before I started writing these notes, I wrote a letter to my accomplice at his prison in Wonju. I told him I forgave him. I forgave him for switching our stories and hiring a lawyer and making me the main culprit. And I forgave the police for not investigating the case properly and wrongfully accusing me of rape and murder, the public defender who only came to see me twice in eight months while my three trials were taking place, the prosecutor who treated me like an insect rather than a human being, and the judge who pretended to be cool, as objective as a god, even while enraged at me for committing murder. I wrote that I forgave them all. I forgave my father who ended his life like a helpless animal. And, before the merciful Lord, I forgave myself. I told Him I forgave myself for beating up my little brother Eunsu, for not singing the national anthem for him even though it was his final wish, and for cursing in his face and running out on him when he was sick. And, for participating in the murder of three innocent people. Only then was I finally able to get
down on my knees and beg for forgiveness from the two women and the helpless girl who died because of me. I was able to kiss the earth and exclaim: I am not a human being. I am a murderer.

The reason I was able to do this is that, after coming to the detention center, I have been treated as a human being for the first time in my life. I understand for the first time what it means to be human and what it means to love. I know finally how people can speak to and treat each other with respect, and love each other with trembling hearts. Had I never murdered anyone and wound up here, I might have been able to extend my physical life, but my soul would have wandered forever through maggot-infested sewers. I would not have even known that they were maggots and that I was in the sewer. After coming here, I have
experienced
happiness for the first time. Waiting, getting excited about meeting someone, sharing a real conversation with another human being, praying for someone, meeting without pretense—I understand now what that all means.

Only someone who has been loved can love. Only someone who has been forgiven can forgive. I understand that.

Probably no one will find this notebook until after I am dead. If the president who used to be on death row puts a stay on further executions as he promised, then I will have to say all of this myself, even though the words have so far refused to come out of my mouth. Nevertheless, if I do die, then please, whoever is reading this, please pass it along to Sister Monica’s niece, Mun Yujeong. I wanted to tell her everything and have more real conversations with her, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I was afraid she would be disappointed in me. I was afraid she would be disappointed and leave, like everyone else in my life. If she refuses to take this notebook, then please tell her one thing
for me: The times we spent together, the instant coffee we drank, the little pastries we shared—those few hours each week enabled me to bear any insult, withstand any pain, forgive any grudge, and truly repent for my sins. Tell her that, because of her, I have had so many warm and precious and happy times. And tell her that, if she were to allow me, I would do whatever it takes to comfort her wounded soul. Finally, if God permits me to before I die, I want to tell her the words that I have never once said to anyone else in my life: I love you.

T
he Gwangtan-ri cemetery was cold. During the funeral Mass, I stood at the back and did not participate. I had prayed earnestly twice in my life. Both times were to ask for someone’s life to be saved. God should have listened to at least one of those prayers. But he didn’t. The woman who died at Yunsu’s hands had probably prayed as well. What was the point of holding Mass after someone is hurt and killed? Wasn’t it just so the living could comfort
themselves
? Yunsu had told me to trust him and to try to believe in Christ. Did I have to believe in a god who had probably never once listened to Yunsu’s prayers? I stared at the spot where Yunsu was going to be buried.

Gwangtan-ri Catholic Cemetery Park. A liberal priest had donated a little bit of land that became a burial place for executed criminals. It was not a warm and sunny spot but the dark northern slope of the hill that even the sunlight skipped over. Yunsu had spent his life in the cold, and now that he was dead, he would be buried in the cold as well. Statues of the Virgin Mary and an angel stood close to where Yunsu would be buried. I asked Aunt Monica, “Why are the Mary and angel statues always so dirty where poor people are buried? Someone should clean them. Those
statues are filthy. That makes me so angry.” But all Aunt Monica did was cry.

Father Kim, who was present during Yunsu’s final moments, had come to see us right after the execution was over. His hair had fallen out from the chemotherapy, and he was wearing a black cap to cover up his baldness. He looked like he had not yet fully processed the fear and awe that come over someone who has witnessed a death. Aunt Monica went up to him and said, “Father.” He lifted his head, but I couldn’t exactly say that he was looking at her. Never before in my life have I seen such a troubled
expression
on a man's face.

“He died peacefully.” Father Kim had struggled to get the words out for those of us who had been waiting. “When I went in, I was shaking. Yunsu said to me, ‘If you shake like that, Sister Monica will get mad at you.’ He told me to be a man.”

Aunt Monica reeled backwards. I caught her.

“I prayed, gave him communion, and asked if he had any last words, and he said he first wanted to offer one final sincere apology to those who had lost their lives because of him. He apologized to their families, too. Then he
apologized
to the mother of the cleaning lady. He said he was thankful to her, and that her courage enabled him to be reborn. Then he said that he forgave his mother. But he changed his mind and asked me to tell her instead how much he missed her, how much he had always missed her, and that he only wanted to see her one last time before he died. He asked me to pass that message along.”

The women who had been volunteering at the detention center for a long time began to cry even louder.

“Then Yunsu mumbled, ‘Father, it was so simple, all I had to do was love.’ He said he figured it out too late. I asked him if he felt like singing, as the prisoners
from other denominations are allowed to do, and I asked if he knew any hymns. He said that since he was baptized recently, he did not yet know any. Then he said he would sing the national anthem instead.”

I couldn’t listen to any more of it. Aunt Monica squeezed my hand.

“So he sang it. The national anthem.”

Father Kim paused, teary-eyed, as if it were difficult to keep going.

“When the bailiffs made him kneel, he…”

We were all staring at Father Kim.

“He started to struggle. The last look in his eyes was of fear. The bailiffs rushed to cover his face with the hood, and Yunsu screamed, ‘Father, save me, I’m frightened. I’m still scared even though I sang the anthem.’ I couldn’t look at him anymore…”

Father Kim was as pale as if he had been the one hanging from the noose.

We went down to the basement to view the body. Yunsu’s eye sockets were empty—an ambulance had been waiting to take his eyes immediately after the execution. In death, Yunsu had turned as blind as his younger brother. But we comforted each other by saying that his corneas would enable another blind child like Eunsu to see. Aunt Monica rushed over to Yunsu’s body, which had not yet turned stiff, and embraced him. She stroked his neck. There was a black mark, like a skid mark on asphalt, around his throat. Aunt Monica patted his neck as if he were still alive, rubbed his cheek, and prayed quietly.

I stood beside her and held Yunsu’s hand—a hand that was uncuffed only after he was dead. His skin was as cold as a candle. I remembered how his hand had hovered over mine, though only for a moment, when he gave me the cross necklace he had made. His skin was so warm then.
Why didn’t I smile and take his hand? Why didn’t I tell him I loved him? As Yunsu said, it was so simple. All we had to do was love each other. And now that warmth was gone. If the fading of warmth signifies death, then the moment we lose the warmth in our hearts—that must be another kind of death. There was a time when he and I were oblivious to that knowledge and just wanted to die. Maybe that, too, was already a type of death.

After Mass, Aunt Monica and I rushed to leave for Gangneung. She slept while I drove. Though I had neither eaten nor slept in two days, I was not tired. A strange feeling came over me while I was driving. My back grew warm, so I turned to look. The back seat was empty. But something definitely felt different. Yunsu had never been in my car or even seen it. Yunsu? I said his name quietly. There was no answer.

We reached the ocean. Since it was the end of the year, the hotel was crowded. The principal of the branch school in Taebaek had arrived with eight students. The children chattered and ran around excitedly when they saw the beach for the first time. I realized that I had forgotten to bring the camera my sister-in-law lent me. Then I realized that I no longer needed it. Yunsu had said that he wanted to see the beach; maybe he was seeing it now. That’s what I wanted to believe. The sky was overcast. The ocean looked gloomy. But there was no telling how the weather would be tomorrow. Nobody knew that.

A small, thin man headed over to where Aunt Monica and I were standing and introduced himself as the principal of Taebaek Branch School. He thanked us
for arranging the trip and then scratched his head in bewilderment.

“I got a phone call from the Seoul Detention Center today,” he said. “They said Jeong Yunsu was sending me money. I told them I heard he was executed yesterday, and they said he had asked the prison guard in advance to send any money left in his account to us if he was suddenly executed. I don’t want to use this precious money unwisely, so I wanted to ask for your advice.”

The principal took a bankbook out of the breast pocket of his coat and showed it to us. It was a very small amount.

“We’re currently installing a permanent awning next to the schoolyard. If it’s all right with you, we were thinking of putting the money toward that. The classrooms are spacious enough for us, but when the children are playing in the schoolyard, they have nowhere to go to get out of the rain, and in the summer, there’s no shade where they can just read a book or relax. It has been difficult for them. So we wanted to ask what you thought of putting the money toward the awning.”

Aunt Monica whispered, “Oh Lord.” She and I were thinking of Yunsu’s journal, which we had read together the night before when we couldn’t sleep. We were both picturing little Eunsu crying in the rain like a motherless sparrow, waiting for his brother who was at school. Aunt Monica made the sign of the cross.

“I’m so sorry,” the principal said. “If that’s not a good idea, we could put the money to some other use.”

He seemed confused by the looks on our faces. We were crying as if in shock, so he probably thought it meant we disagreed with him.

“Oh no, you have to use the money for that,” said Aunt Monica. “Don’t use it on anything else but that. Please put that awning up so they can keep dry when it’s raining and
stay out of the sun when it’s hot. That way, if there’s ever a young child waiting there for his big brother, he won’t get wet in the rain, and his big brother won’t feel sad to see—” Aunt Monica couldn’t continue. She started crying again.

I walked Aunt Monica, who was weak from not eating or sleeping for several days, back to the hotel. The day was growing dark. Aunt Monica suggested we turn in early so we could get up at dawn with the children. I asked her, “Will the sun rise tomorrow?”

“It will rise,” she said. I pointed out that the kids were having a good time, and she said that they certainly were. On the way into the building, I suddenly stopped and looked back. The first line of the song that Yunsu and Eunsu liked so much, the national anthem, started with that ocean.
Until the East Sea runs dry and Mt. Baekdu wears away, God save us and keep our nation…
I knew it was just the sound of the waves, but from somewhere out there, way out past the water, I thought I could hear, very faintly, two young brothers singing beside a garbage can in an alleyway.
It’s a great country, isn’t it? Whenever I sing this song, I feel like we’re good people.
Blind Eunsu’s whispered voice seemed to follow the waves in, just barely reaching my ears. Out past the scampering children, the gray sea shimmered over the earth like brimming tears.