So Far from the Bamboo Grove (10 page)

He let the fire die. He would sleep until dawn. Going deeper into the forest, he spread his little sister's fur coat beneath him and curled up in his blanket. The ground was damp and the wind bit sharply through his summer clothes.

Suddenly he awoke. In complete darkness he sat up and listened. There were human voices mingling with the wind and coming toward him. Speaking Korean. Hideyo pushed his blanket and rucksack into the trees and covered his head with the fur coat, hoping he looked like an animal.

“The campfire was still warm,” a voice said. “The escapee cannot have gone too far in the dark.” The
footsteps came nearer and nearer, and a powerful flashlight blinded Hideyo. Korean Communist Army, he thought, patrolling the mountain. How many? Silently he pulled his jackknife from his pocket.

The searching footsteps went this way and that. Hideyo's heartbeats went faster and louder.

“Not much use looking in the dark,” said the same voice.

“Let's go back to the squadron and patrol early in the morning,” said another voice. “Anyhow, we've caught more than enough today.”

“How many?” a different voice asked.

“Sixteen. Seven Japs, the others Communist resisters.”

The flashlight was still circling and several times aimed at the tree where Hideyo was hiding. It came closer. Hideyo shrank behind the tree, still holding his jackknife in his right hand, prepared.

“I don't see anybody. Let's go.”

The voices and the flashlight were moving away, but the wind carried the voices clearly to where Hideyo hid. Finally they died away. Again he covered himself with his blanket. He was exhausted but he could not fall asleep right away for fear he would not wake early, before the patrol came back. If I had that flashlight, he thought, I'd cover the light and walk.

He did wake when the forest was dark but pale pink showed in the eastern sky. Quickly he rolled the little fur coat in the blanket, draped it over the
rucksack on his shoulders, and headed down to the tracks. That was the shortest way to Seoul.

The mountain became lighter and lighter as the sun rose. He had gone deep into the forest the night before and now he was not sure of his direction. Again he used the sun as his guide. He came to a clearing that dropped off in a sharp cliff, and, holding branches of trees, he went down the cliff. Lo, there were the shiny tracks stretching for miles toward Seoul. He stopped and took a deep breath of relief.

Then, on the tracks some distance ahead of him, he saw people walking.

Maybe they are all escapees, he thought, excited. He was very happy to see them after his great loneliness. He ran down the rest of the cliff and took fast steps to catch up.

Suddenly machine gun shots burst in the air beyond where the people were walking. Hideyo froze. Then he ran back up the cliff and headed in the direction of the shots. They trapped those people! Damn, damn, damn! He spoke to himself.

The clearing became woods. No path, but he pushed through.

There was commotion on the tracks below. He seemed to be above the spot where the people had been shot, but he did not dare go down the cliff to look.

“All dead.” The voice speaking Korean came up to him.

“Check their belongings. Take all valuables,” said another voice. “Strip the bodies. If they have gold fillings, pull out their teeth.”

Hideyo was shaking. He waited.

“All stripped,” a voice shouted.

The soldiers were climbing the cliff, and he looked frantically around for a hiding place. There was no thicket, and they would see him if he ran for shelter. Except for one tall pine, the trees were not large enough to hide him. Shall I play dead? he thought. Then they would strip him, pull out his gold-filled tooth, and take the savings book.

The men were much closer. Still carrying his rucksack, draping the blanket over his shoulders, Hideyo climbed the pine tree. As he climbed, the blanket slipped, the fur coat appeared, and his Korean pants caught on the sharp branch and tore. If I drop this coat it will be the end, he thought. Clutching the tree with his left arm, he yanked the fur coat from the blanket, gripped the sleeve in his teeth, and climbed until he reached a thick branch. Hugging coat and blanket, he sat.

Yes, they were Korean Communist soldiers, four of them, and they had climbed the cliff with bags full of plunder. They must hide here, watching for escapees on the tracks, Hideyo thought.

“Let's divide what we got.” Hideyo recognized a voice from the night before.

“Not now. Meet me at my house and we'll divide there.” A short soldier seemed to be head of the group.

“You'll take all you want and give us junk again,” the deep voice said.

“Yeah!” another agreed.

“Shut up and do as I say.”

“No. Divide the treasures now or I will report you!”

Suddenly the short soldier's machine gun went off, the loud burst echoing on the mountain. Smoke rose to where Hideyo was sitting.

“Now, you want to be dead or do as I say?” said the head of the group, and he looked down coolly at the man he had just killed, and walked off.

The others stood there. They looked at each other. The wind blew, the pine tree swayed, and Hideyo prayed the branch where he sat would not break. He held tightly to the blanket and the coat and tried not to put too much weight on the branch.

The killer was stalking toward the east, his gun on his shoulders. The other two, still staring at the dead man, finally picked up the leader's large bag and ran to catch up.

Hideyo stayed on the branch until everything was quiet. He dropped the blanket and coat, then slid down carefully. He checked the dead soldier's gun, but the bullets were gone so there was no use taking it. Also, it would be heavy to carry. Quickly he headed southwest.

But he stopped and went back. Carefully he removed the uniform from the still-warm body. The clothes would be useful, as the Korean outfit he was wearing was badly torn. The jacket was soaked with
blood but Hideyo crammed it into his rucksack. He untied the dead man's shoes and tried one on. Too small.

He walked all day, keeping to the woods even though there was no path. Below, a glimpse of the tracks now and then was his guide. The moon came up and he dragged on. Now it was getting cold, and he pulled all his underwear, socks, and his student's uniform from the rucksack and put them on. On top of those he wore the thin, badly worn Korean clothes borrowed from the Lees. Somehow he could not throw away these garments, perhaps because he had loved the Lees.

He began to lose track of dates and months. All he knew was that fall was there because the trees turned to bright colors and some already stood naked and shivering when the wind blew. He had found no water since he had strayed to the mountain. On top of that, a diet of mushrooms had caused severe diarrhea and his stomach ached.

Finally he had to rest. As soon as he found a suitable place, maybe a small burrow, he would sleep. He was terribly cold. The moon shone over the entire earth to give light, but why did it not give heat to warm him? He thought the beautiful moon was most unsympathetic. He found a spot and went to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning heavy frost surrounded him. He took deep breaths and saw them in the air as steam. His feet were numb. Hunger pains struck him and he sensed that he would soon starve.

He'd freeze to death if he did not keep on walking.

He covered his head with the tiny fur coat, got the rucksack on his back, and caped himself with the blanket. He started to walk but he was so weary he could not walk fast.

Between the trees he saw a vegetable field. Food! He dragged himself down to the field but nothing was left there but frozen clods of earth. He pushed himself back to the mountain thicket, and went on.

There were times when he wanted to give up walking and fall asleep on the frosty ground, but something told him that if he did he would never wake up in this world.

It began to snow. In Nanam he had been delighted to see snow come, but now he hated it. He looked up at the sky and opened his mouth wide, trying to catch some flakes, but the snow did not fill his hungry stomach.

I must live through this, he thought. I want to see Mother and my sisters. They must be having a bad time too. I've got to make it to Seoul! He talked to himself. The thought of Father, so lost and far away, came too.

The snow turned into a blizzard. His shoes, rubber-soled tabi, were torn to shreds, his Korean clothes were frozen, and he was totally exhausted. He could not see an inch ahead. He sat down by the roots of a large tree and rested. So drowsy. He shook his head to wake himself. I cannot die here, he thought. But how long can I walk without food?

The tears streamed and stung his chapped face.
His hands, cracked open, bled. His eyelashes were freezing and he blinked many times.

He decided that he would try to walk once more. Using all his energy, he stood up. He took one step, slipped, and fell. He had no strength to brace himself against the blizzard. Again he got up, took a step. Whenever he fell he had a hard time getting up, and the rucksack felt like tons of stone on his back.

Suddenly in the distance, between the trees, in the blizzard, he saw a faint red light. He stopped and looked. Now nothing. Then the light again. Was it his imagination playing a trick on him? Or could it be a farmhouse? He focused his eyes on the light; then it disappeared. He took off his glasses, trying to wipe them, but his clothes were frozen. Whatever it is, I must walk there. I must! This time he saw the light clearly. He took one step, another, and another. He got caught by branches, stumbled over the tree roots, and fell. He lay there, no energy left.

Then he lifted his head and began to crawl toward the light. It looked warm. He found that he was crawling down a mountain slope. Twigs slapped his face, his entire body felt numb. Now he was lying on the ground. I've got to get there! Again he focused on the light. It was still there, as if to tell Hideyo to hurry and come.

He got to his feet. He felt terribly dizzy and staggered, but he dragged on. To the light, to the light. At last he reached a small farmhouse, lost all control, and collapsed.

“T
HAT IS OUR HOMELAND, LITTLE ONE
.” Mother pointed from the ship to where the island floated in the deep morning fog. Miles of soft hills linked together.

We had been three days crossing the rough Korean Strait, and at last we were entering the Japanese zone of Tsushima Strait. In spite of seasickness I was excited. We would be landing in our own country, welcomed and safe. Our grandparents would feed us and give us fine beds. I leaned on the guardrail and watched the island come closer and closer. I was already carrying my rucksack and wearing my blanket.

When the ship docked at Fukuoka, a Japanese man wearing a white arm band that said “Committee” stood at the foot of the gangplank. Using a megaphone, he was saying something over and over, but I could not understand his southern accent. Mother said he was telling the refugees to find their places. We looked for a large “K,” and soon forty of us stood beneath the sign. A man at a desk, his face blank, took our names and a young committee member told the “K” group to follow him to the refugee camp.

All these years I had dreamed of my beautiful homeland and its cheerful people, and now I was completely taken aback by demolished Fukuoka. Burned fields, wrecked houses and buildings. What trees there were stood painfully without branches and with deep scars of fire. The sky was clear and crisp but I saw not a bird. Isn't there one bird to sing and welcome us? I thought, searching the sky. Besides, the attitude of the men we had seen seemed to say, “Why did you come? We could do without you.”

“Watch out!” Ko told me. I tripped on the cracked asphalt road and fell.

I got up, and I saw that my left shoe had split open at the toe and had separated from the sole. I had to lift that leg much higher, the sole flapping. The fall wind began to bite me and my shaven head.

We walked for two hours. The refugee camp was the auditorium of a girls' school, and the hundred
who got off the ship were to stay there until we found someplace to go. It was small, and again we were squashed against each other. Mother, Ko, and I found a corner, dropped our burdens on the floor, and rested.

I was hungry, but the committee man who had led us here said we must find our own food. We could cook outdoors and use the school toilets.

There were half-rotten apples and orange peels in my rucksack.

“Wait,” Ko said, “don't eat them.” She took me outside. “Find some rocks.” In a small circle of rocks she built a fire, cut the good part of the apples in small pieces, added water, and cooked them in the two mess kits. She put the fire out carefully when the apples were cooked.

“Our first meal in the homeland,” she said, acting cheerful, as she took the food inside. She poured a large portion into Mother's wooden rice bowl. “And the first hot meal since we had that roasted corn.” She divided the remainder.

Mother held the bowl and gazed at it for a long time. The apple water steamed. She shook her head gently and shock was in her voice. “These bowls and the few belongings we have here are the only mementos from our beloved home.” Slowly she brought the bowl to her lips.

For the first night in my homeland we spread two blankets beneath us, snuggled together, and covered ourselves with Mother's large blanket. My blanket,
once fleecy white, was gray, dusty, and stained with blood. I knew I could sleep in peace, without the sound of airplanes or the danger of being bombed, attacked, or raped, but often during the night I jerked awake and sat up in fear that someone might attack me or steal our belongings. When I had to go to the toilet I woke Ko, frightened that men were hiding there.

Mother went alone to the post office next day to wire my grandparents in Aomori that we had arrived. Two days later the message was returned, care of the refugee camp. Unable to deliver.