Under the Same Sky (21 page)

The others were watching me and shook their heads. They must have wondered whether I had what it took to be a member of the Association.

Was it nerves? I suppose so. I had never been inside someone’s house before as a robber. It seemed so intimate to steal the rice still warm from their pot.

We returned to our base and turned everything over to Yoon Chul.

I was doubtful at first about his role in the Association. Here he was, sitting in his apartment while we were out stealing things and risking getting caught by the authorities. What risks did he take? But slowly I learned to respect him. His wife had left him when the famine struck, unable to deal with caring for their two children, a three-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl. This wasn’t shocking. It was actually more shocking that Yoon Chul had kept his kids rather than run away himself. So many
Kkotjebi
had living parents who had dumped them at the market one day, unable to feed them and unwilling to watch them starve. Yoon Chul’s attitude was different: “My children are going to make it, whatever I have to do.” I admired him for that.

Yoon Chul never told me what he did before becoming a manager of thieves. But he was very good at his new position. The four of us decided what to steal, because so much depended on opportunity on the particular night we were out working—who had left his bike with only a skimpy lock on it, whose field was coming ripe. But Yoon Chul was a wizard at getting a good price for our stolen goods. His connections were unbeatable.

We told ourselves we were the men who balanced out the world. If you had too much, we would come to your house and relieve you of the surplus. It might seem cynical, but we really believed this. If you had called us criminals, we would have fought you. But the reality of our work never matched our illusions, because the rich had taller fences and stronger locks to keep us out. We ended up stealing from ordinary people.

Once, when we stole a bicycle, I went to see my father’s friend who’d lent us money when my dad was dying. This man’s job was repairing bicycles, a very lucrative trade because transportation was so important and the roads were so bad. I found him in his shop, which smelled pleasantly of rubber and oil. “Some of my friends stole a bike,” I said, “and I’m getting a commission to sell it. Can you help me?” I didn’t want to admit I’d become a thief myself.

My father’s friend looked at me and saw the shame in my eyes. He shook his head. “Kwang Jin, in these times you may die of starvation, or a beating, or freezing. Death is everywhere, so you must be ready to do
anything
to survive. Why do you go out and steal too?”

I nodded. But deep down, I still didn’t feel right about what I was doing. It was hard to get rid of that emotion, planted in me by my father so many years ago.

My father’s friend didn’t end up buying the bike. Despite his concern for me, he offered me only half what it was really worth.

Chapter

I
N MY FIRST
few weeks as a member of the Association, Moon Ho and I became close. We were always talking, telling stories about how we survived in Hoeryong. And soon I realized that the Association wasn’t as tight as I thought. Moon Ho was scheming.

“Why should we give Yoon Chul a hundred percent of everything we get?” he said to Hyo Sung and me one day as we walked home from another night of thieving. “Shouldn’t we be able to keep ten percent for ourselves? Is that so wrong? I’d like to buy some snacks, maybe save up for a new pair of shoes. But Yoon Chul takes everything! Why should it be that way?”

The Association was divided. Moon Ho wanted a bigger cut. Hyo Sung wanted to be loyal; his mother, after all, was a manager. “We gave our word,” he said. “Yoon Chul takes care of us. We can’t go behind his back.”

I thought it best to stay neutral. I was new to the Association, and I valued Moon Ho’s friendship. I couldn’t afford to make enemies. The deciding vote fell to Dae Ho, and dreaming of those snacks he remembered from childhood—chips and homemade sour candy—he voted with Moon Ho.

Soon we were going to the street vendors once or twice a week, spending our ten percent on schoolboy things. Even as he stuffed his mouth, Hyo Sung would mutter, “This isn’t right.” We ignored him. I decided one day to plunk everything down for a piece of chocolate. I had never tasted chocolate in my life. It was a small piece, the size of my thumb, wrapped in an old piece of waxy paper. I paid the woman twenty
won
and popped the chocolate into my mouth.

“Oh, boy,” I mumbled as I chewed the delicious stuff. The chocolate seemed to pour through my veins, coating them in that sugary warmth. I wanted more.

Yoon Chul soon figured out something was wrong. I’m not sure if Hyo Sung had said something to his mother, but a few days later Yoon Chul tapped me on the shoulder.

“I have to go see a friend in Manyang. You know that area, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Come with me, then. It’ll be good to have someone to walk with.”

Manyang was about a forty-minute walk from the city center, but we weren’t on the road for more than five minutes before Yoon Chul asked me something odd.

“What do you think of Moon Ho?”

My chemical sensor buzzed a warning. This was not a normal question. Yoon Chul was the boss. Why should he care what two of his workers thought about each other? I was immediately on guard.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been watching him,” Yoon Chul said. “He’s very smart, you know? But also very sly. I think he wants to do things for himself.”

My nerves began to jangle. If I sided with Yoon Chul, the other boys would consider me a snitch. If I sided with Moon Ho, Yoon Chul might consider it a betrayal and throw me out of the Association. Or worse.

I didn’t want to sell out my friend, so I simply said, “I’m a new member, and I want us all to do well. Whatever he’s thinking, Moon Ho is still our friend. If we kick him out, who’s going to take his place? If he’s doing jobs behind your back, that can be fixed.”

This was what Yoon Chul had taught me. Be optimistic. Look for the positive way forward. I was admitting that, OK, we’ve been a little bad. All of us are taking a bit for ourselves. But it’s not the end of the world. We can work it out.

Yoon Chul said nothing more, and we walked to his friend’s house in Manyang in silence. But I could see he was thinking about what I’d said. I believe he respected the fact that I hadn’t snitched on Moon Ho. I hadn’t told him what he wanted to hear.

He never brought up Moon Ho again. That was a lesson I learned that day. Even if life has made you a criminal, you can be true to yourself. In fact, you
have
to be true to yourself.

Joining the Association was the luckiest day of my life up until then. It gave me shelter and taught me many things. My one source of sorrow was the memories of my family. When we came back to the apartment after a long night of stealing, Hyo Sung’s mother would fuss over her son and they would talk and laugh. I saw the affection between them and missed my mother even more. Before bedtime, I would daydream of becoming a millionaire and buying my uncle’s house—the fanciest one I’d ever seen. I would send agents to find my mother and my sister and reunite my family in the grand house. We would eat whatever we wanted and watch movies from China all day long. Or my mother and Bong Sook would return to me and I would go to school, dressed in new clothes and carrying a fresh black book bag.

Every night, I fell asleep thinking of Bong Sook.
We’ll all be together again,
I told myself.
Kwang Jin, you must find her.

Chapter

T
HERE WERE GOOD
and bad days with the Association. Sometimes we came home with nothing to eat or sell and so went hungry until the next night. But still, I was eating more than I had in months. I put on a little weight, rising from ninety pounds to close to one hundred. My clothes fit snugly instead of hanging loosely off my bony shoulders. My face filled out and my ribs retreated back underneath my skin.

I felt stronger. My mind was streamlined: food, sleep, and work were all I allowed myself to think about, besides the memory of Bong Sook.

My mother returned to Hoeryong without my knowing it and began looking for me. She’d been in Sambong, trying to find a broker to take her to China, but no one had agreed to arrange her escape. Finally, one day in the Hoeryong market, she ran into Hyo Sung’s mother and returned with her to our apartment. She decided to stay with us, which made me happy. At last I could support her and repay her for the many years of struggling to feed me. Hyo Sung’s mother welcomed my mother and the two became fast friends again. My life was almost complete. Only my sister was missing.

One afternoon, I went to the market to get some snacks before our work began. When I returned to the apartment, I found my mother standing at the door, her eyes were wide and frightened.

“They came for the boys,” she told me.

I looked past her into the apartment. It was empty. “Who came?”

“The police!” Her voice was frantic. “Kwang Jin, we have to leave now or they will return for you.”

I couldn’t believe it. The Association had been arrested, each for his own crimes. I found out later that someone had turned us in, probably one of our neighbors. Having so many
Kkotjebi
teenagers living next to them had caused them to fear for their own property.

I turned and walked quickly down the hallway, my mother hurrying along beside me. We clattered down the stairs, my heart fluttering. How did the police know? Did we make some mistake? Were more police waiting for me on the street? But most of all I wondered if the others had told the police that there was a fourth member of the Association—me.

When we walked out the door into the mild sunlight, everything looked normal. Peddlers, pedestrians, a few
Kkotjebi
on their way to the market. I saw no policemen lurking nearby. My heartbeat decelerated slightly. It turned out that Moon Ho and the others never spoke my name to the police, something I’ve been grateful for ever since.

We turned right and made our way to the main road.

“Where will we go?” I asked my mother.

She looked at me, then away.

“To a place near the train station. I know a man there who will take us in.”

I could barely process the words. She “knew” a man? What did that mean?

When, an hour or so later, we reached the streets bordering the train station—a nice neighborhood whose apartment buildings were covered with yellow or blue tiles—my mother finally admitted that she had met a man. And they had an understanding: if one of them was ever in trouble, the other would help.

It was what we called “convenience love.” There was no love in it, but this man was effectively my mom’s new husband.

I felt a wave of heat across my face. I was suddenly furious with my mother. How could she find a man so soon after my father’s death? Did he mean that little to her? I knew that during the famine people got together for many reasons: food, shelter, protection. I don’t believe romantic love really existed in North Korea during this time. But why did my mother have to pair off with someone new?

I felt bitter and cynical.
I hope she’s found a rich man,
I thought as we walked down the well-kept streets.
He can buy me new clothes and support me like a true stepfather.
I marched along, rage simmering in me. But after a few minutes, my anger gave way to faint hope. Even if he wasn’t rich, maybe Mother had found a good person to be with and we could all live together in the same house. Bong Sook was still missing, but I had to begin somewhere in reuniting my family.

When we arrived at the apartment, my new stepfather opened the door; he was very tall and broad-shouldered and his face looked stern. I nodded and entered, and my mother told me to sit down. I couldn’t bear to look at her.

Haven’t you learned your lesson from your father, Kwang Jin?
I told myself.
It’s not her, it’s the famine, it’s everything. You mustn’t judge your mother.
But I couldn’t look at her next to her new husband and not taste bitterness in my mouth.

I saw immediately that my mother’s was truly a famine marriage. They had no official certificate; there had been no ceremony, let alone a celebration. There were no signs of affection between them, no touches, no smiling looks. Still, I felt angry. Was this the best my mother could do? The tall man—I wouldn’t even use his name—wasn’t a very good prospect. He had no job, and he had a crippled, dark-haired daughter who lay on her sleeping mat the whole day. She was about my age, but small and fragile and unable to walk. Her hair hung low on her face, pasted sweatily to her forehead. I stared at her in pity and frustration.

My new stepfather was saying something to me.

“What?” I said irritably.

“What are you going to do?” he said in a commanding voice. “You have to go out and find us some food.”

I met my mother’s eyes, which were filled with pleading. I could see that she had the same hope I did—that someone was going to take care of all her needs. Namely, me. She expected me to provide for her, the tall man, and the crippled girl as well.

I felt so hopeless I wanted to cry. But what could I do? The Association was finished. That night, I went out stealing on my own.

Chapter

I
WAS ALONE NOW
, without lookouts or partners. I was more and more afraid of getting caught. Everything was still scarce: soap, clothes, shoes. Some
Kkotjebi
would sleep with their sneakers in their arms, tucked under their chins, to prevent their competitors from snatching them. But I saw fewer and fewer homeless kids doing this; their shoes were so torn and dirty no one wanted them. That was true of all of North Korea. People took fewer precautions against thieves, because what was there left to steal?

That first night at my stepfather’s place, I was walking a few blocks from the train station, looking for something to steal, when I saw an apartment building behind an eight-foot cinderblock wall. It was shortly after midnight. I had been out for several hours, searching without success. My veins seemed to burn with the need for food. My mother and her new husband were waiting for me, famished. The crippled girl was hungry too, and for her—maybe only for her—I felt real sympathy.