When My Name Was Keoko (12 page)

The Americans knew! They knew that Koreans weren't the same as Japanese!

Uncle's words to Tae-yul came back to me in a great rush—about how we Koreans weren't allowed to be Korean. What did it mean to be Korean, when for all my life Korea had been part of Japan?

It took the words of a man I'd never heard of—a faraway American—to make me realize something that had been inside me all along. Korean was the jokes and stories Uncle told us. It was the flag he'd drawn. It was the rose of Sharon tree Omoni had saved, and the little circle Tae-yul had carved on the bottom of the gourd bowls. Korean was the
thoughts of Mrs. Ahn, in her own language, not someone else's.

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 else.

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?

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....