When My Name Was Keoko (7 page)

Abuji pursed his lips for a moment, then finally nodded at Tae-yul. "See that you work twice as hard on your studies tonight," he said.

Tae-yul bowed hastily. "Yes, Abuji. Thank you, Abuji." He jammed his cap back on and hurried out the door with Uncle.

A quick flame of anger flared in me. I'd have liked to have gone with Uncle as well. I could've helped stack the flyers and bind them with twine while Tae-yul delivered them. Why should he have all the fun?

I wandered out into the lane. My steps took me in the direction of Tomo's house. These days Tomo and I played together less often than we used to. We weren't angry with each other or anything like that; it was just that we'd outgrown our childhood games, and I was spending more
time with Jung-shin. But Tomo and I still sometimes thought of each other when we had time to play.

He was in the yard when I arrived, but so were three other boys I didn't know. When I saw them, I pretended I was only passing by, but Tomo caught sight of me and ran out to the lane.

"Keoko, look! See what my father brought me." He displayed his new toy, a beautiful model airplane made of wood and sturdy paper. "It's a Flying Dragon, exactly like the ones flown by the Imperial pilots."

He ran in a circle holding the plane over his head. "
Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!
" he shouted. "The Dragon swoops over Pearl Harbor—he finds a target—he fires! It's a direct hit! The enemy plane crashes—smoke and flames everywhere! The nimble Dragon escapes!"

I felt a little bashful with those other boys around, but I did want to look at the plane. "Can I see it again, Tomo?" I asked.

He came to a stop before me and held the plane out. "You can hold it," he said generously.

"Hey!" one of the boys protested. "You wouldn't let any of us even touch it."

Tomo looked at him with disdain. "You might be too rough with it. Keoko will be careful."

I was pleased that he trusted me, but his words also made me anxious. I held the plane for only a few moments, admiring the glossy paper of its wings and the propellers that really spun. Then I gave it back to him, thinking how much Tae-yul would like to have a plane like this one. He loved mechanical things.

"The Imperial forces have huge fleets of these planes,"
Tomo said excitedly. "The Americans don't stand a chance!
Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack
—" and he began running around again with his plane held high.

"Kill them! Kill the Americans!" another boy shouted.

"Kill the Americans!" The others took up the chant. "Kill the Americans, kill the Americans!"

"All of them!" shouted the first boy.

"Even the babies?" I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them. The boys stopped chanting and stared at me.

Tomo slowed down and zoomed his plane over to me. "Keoko, don't you remember the movie?" he said.

We'd been shown a short film in our classrooms a few weeks earlier. Onishi-san had gone from room to room with the movie projector until all the students had seen the film. None of us had ever seen a movie before.

The teacher helped Onishi-san hang a sheet on the wall, then instructed me, as Class Leader, to choose a few girls to help me cover the windows with heavy pieces of paper. The classroom looked different darkened like that, almost scary.

Then Onishi-san turned on the projector, and suddenly there was a picture on the sheet! A picture so bright it almost blinded me. When my eyes stopped hurting a few seconds later, I saw that the people in the picture were moving. You could even tell when they were talking, their lips moving quickly. They looked so real it was hard to believe that if I'd touched them I would only have been touching cloth.

Everyone gasped and murmured in surprise. Then Onishi-san started talking. The film, he said, was to teach us what Americans were like.

The pictures were of white people, usually riding horses and wearing big white hats, shooting and killing other people. Onishi-san told us that the Americans hated all people with black hair and killed even the women and babies of their enemies just to amuse themselves.

At the time I barely heard him. It hadn't mattered what the movie was about; the moving pictures themselves were what fascinated me. The rest of that day, and for days afterward, those flickering images kept returning to my mind, almost like a dream.

Now Onishi-san's words came back to me. It was true that all the people being shot at in the film had long black hair. But I'd heard Uncle and Abuji talk about America. I hadn't understood everything they said, but I knew that America was a very large country. There were things about it that they both admired. Education, I remembered Abuji saying, and Uncle talking about freedom.

I couldn't believe that Abuji and Uncle would admire people who killed babies for fun.

The boys were still staring at me; I felt my face growing red. "The movie," I mumbled, just to say something, anything.

"Yes," one of the other boys said. "If the Americans have the chance, they'll kill all of us. Because we have black hair. We have to kill them first!"

Tomo glanced at me quickly, then at his friends. "Yes, but we won't need to kill any babies," he said. "We'll kill all their soldiers—bomb their cities—they'll surrender like dogs!" And he zoomed his plane over their heads. "
Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!
"

Tomo ran up the lane, with his friends following him. I waited for a moment, hoping he'd look back at me, but he
kept going. I turned the other way and walked home, feeling confused and a little sad.

I was glad that Tomo didn't want to kill babies. Still, he and his friends all seemed to think that playing at killing was fun. Was it because they were boys?

Even the talk about killing had made my stomach feel cold.

A few weeks after the news about Pearl Harbor, I'm riding my bike home from Uncle's shop.

I hear a humming noise—faint at first, but then stronger.

Like a car. But not a car. Some sort of engine.

I look up and down the street. Nothing. Just people walking.

The noise comes even closer, and it's not coming from the street.

It's coming from the sky.

I look up—and there it is. An airplane!

It flies straight over the town—right above me! I duck my head and immediately fall off my bike.

Afterward, I feel like a complete idiot—the plane wasn't anywhere close to my head. But everyone else on the street was looking up at the sky, too. So I don't think anyone saw me fall.

I watch the plane until it flies out of sight to the west, then pick up my bike. But I don't start riding again right away—I walk, pushing the bicycle beside me.

I've seen pictures of airplanes, and Uncle told me about seeing one a long time ago, when I was only a baby. But I never thought I'd see one myself.

I walk along, trying to remember every little thing about it. The noise—how it was so small at first, like a fly buzzing. Then louder, louder, so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. And then fading ... like the sound had a shape, almost. Small at the ends and huge in the middle.

The way the plane looked—like a cross when it was just overhead, but a tiny black dot in the distance.

And the speed! What would it feel like to travel so fast and so high?

I jump on my bike and start pedaling. Faster, faster, like if I get it going fast enough, it'll lift right off the ground. My ears are aching, my eyes tearing from the cold wind, but I hardly notice. I coast, take my hands off the handlebars, and hold them up over my head.

"AI-EEEEEEE!" I shout, not caring if anyone hears me.

Is this what it feels like to fly?

Radio Tokyo. It used to be always the same old stuff: the brave Japanese army in Manchuria, the great deeds and sayings of the Emperor.

But now things are different. Now the announcer is always excited. News of the war all day long: Hong Kong. Singapore. Burma. The Philippines. The Japanese are advancing so quickly. In just six months, south to New Guinea, near Australia, and east to Attu, near Alaska.

The names of these strange places become part of our lessons every day. Teacher sticks Japanese flag-pins on the conquered countries. Nothing can stop them—soon the whole world will be full of little Japanese flags....

So much good news—for the Japanese. Around town you can tell. Uncle's business is booming. I get to help print signs for the merchants to hang in their windows.
Victory! Strength
to the Japanese army!
Things like that. The signs make the streets look like a celebration, all the time. Everybody is more cheerful and even the guards aren't as cruel.

It's so odd. The war is going well for the Japanese—which makes life better for Koreans too. If the Japanese win the war, will things be better still?

Planes fly over town a lot now, on their way from Japan to Manchuria. Every week a plane or two or even a whole formation.

I hate it when they come while I'm in school. Then I hear them but can't see them. It nearly drives me crazy.

I think about planes all the time, trying to imagine what it would be like to fly in one. I can feel the hum of the plane beneath me as I start the engine. Like my bicycle, only much noisier, grander.

But I can't imagine actually taking off. It wouldn't be like jumping off the ground—you'd be sitting up in the cockpit.

And then, in the air, looking down on everything. I've gone mountain climbing a few times. Hard work, but fun to reach the top. The whole world spread out below you, everything so small. That must be what things look like from a plane.

But on the mountain you're standing still. In a plane you'd be moving. Sitting, but moving. Flying! It has to be the most amazing feeling in the world.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, things seemed to change very quickly. More Japanese soldiers appeared in the streets, and the government immediately made dozens of new laws.
One of them was the law about neighborhood associations.

The Japanese wanted us to gather quickly in case there was ever a war emergency. They organized the associations to teach us how to do this. In each neighborhood one person was named the block leader. The Japanese officials would give information to the block leader, who used a megaphone to call everyone from their homes. We had to drop whatever we were doing and hurry out into the street.

Everyone stood in line. The block leader pointed to the first family, and the head of the household—usually the father—called out, "One!" at the top of his lungs. Then, "Two!" from the next family, and so on down the line until the leader had heard the number "Ten." There were ten households in every association. Then the leader would make whatever announcements the Japanese wanted him to make over the megaphone.

One of our neighbors was an old woman named Mrs. Ahn. She had had a very unfortunate life. Her husband had divorced her, and she'd returned home to live with her parents. They had died within a few years of each other. Now she was all alone in the world.

She was the only divorced person I'd ever met. People in the neighborhood avoided her; they said she was bad luck. I didn't think that was true—she seemed pretty much like everybody else. All the same, I didn't like visiting her house; it always seemed empty and forlorn, as if the air inside were never warmed by laughter.

Omoni felt sorry for Mrs. Ahn, and we usually stopped by her house on our way to the market to ask if she needed anything. And whenever there was a call over the megaphone for a neighborhood association meeting, Omoni rushed out the door to help her.

At the very first accounting, we didn't know what to do. The leader had to shout over and over to get us to form a line by household. It was only Omoni and me at home that day; the men were all somewhere else.

Soldiers walked up and down the street pounding on doors and making sure that everyone was out of their houses. Then they watched sternly as we tried to obey the leader's instructions. Sometimes they shouted orders or prodded people with their sticks to make them stand in a straighter line.

The leader told us to count off by household. The count began and progressed quickly down the line.

"Ichi!"

"Ni!"

"San!"

"Shi!"

"Go!"

It was Mrs. Ann's turn; she was sixth in line, and as the only member of her household, she had to shout the number herself. We were standing right next to her, and she looked at us in a terrible panic.

All at once I realized what was wrong.

Mrs. Attn couldn't speak Japanese. She didn't know how to say "six" in Japanese.

The rhythm of the count was broken. The silence seemed to last forever. I tried to help her. "
Roku,
" I whispered. But I didn't raise my voice—I was afraid of the soldiers. And she didn't hear me.

Finally, she yelled, "
Yo-sut!
" I gasped in horror; beside me I felt Omoni stiffen. The whole line of people seemed to ripple in surprise.

Yo-sut
was the word for six—
in Korean.

At once a soldier strode forward and pulled her out of the line. "What did you say, old woman?"

Mrs. Ahn fell to her knees. I knew she couldn't understand the soldier's words, but the anger in his voice was unmistakable. "I am sorry, honorable sir—I did not know—"

Her speaking Korean made the soldier even angrier. "Stupid cow!" he yelled. "What kind of dung is your brain made of? Japanese has been the official language of this country for thirty years now! How could you not know?"

And then he hit her with his stick on her head and shoulders. I was standing so close I could hear the
thunk
of the wood as it met her flesh, and the sharper crack against her skull. She fell over and lay senseless.

"
Roku,
you stupid cow!
Roku
" he taunted her limp body. Then he looked at Omoni. "Continue!"

Omoni drew a quick breath and shouted, "
Shichi!
" Then she stepped out of line to help Mrs. Ahn, who was already regaining her senses. It seemed that the blows hadn't actually knocked her out; she'd simply fainted from fear and pain. But she was bruised and dazed and needed help.