When My Name Was Keoko (8 page)

As Omoni knelt in the street, the soldier turned toward us. "You there! What are you doing?"

Omoni bowed her head and spoke in a meek voice. "I am sure the honorable sir is a man who respects his elders. Mrs. Ahn is senior to me, and it is my duty to assist her."

I was paralyzed with fear. Omoni's voice seemed timid, but her words were like iron. I'd never heard her speak like that to a man before. How could she speak to a soldier in this way? Would he beat her, too?

The soldier's mouth and eyes narrowed as he looked at her for a moment. Then he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Get her out of the way," he snarled.

Omoni and I took Mrs. Ahn to her home. I made tea while Omoni took care of her wounds. My hands shook so much that I spilled tea all over the table. But when Omoni saw the mess I'd made, she didn't scold me. She put her hand on my shoulder and pressed down gently, as if she were trying to stop my trembling. It worked. I reached up and touched her hand and felt a little better.

After a few days, when Mrs. Ahn was fully recovered, Omoni sent me to her house to teach her to count in Japanese. I went without complaining because I felt guilty that I hadn't helped her in the line. If I'd been braver—if I'd said "
roku
" loud enough for her to hear—maybe she wouldn't have been beaten.

When I arrived, she invited me in. I sat on the floor and she served tea. I sipped at mine silently. After a few minutes she put down her cup and looked at me. "You will teach me to count," she said.

"Yes, Ajima."

"Good. Let us begin."

I said the words as I held up the correct number of fingers; this was how the teacher had taught the class when I first started school. I'd already been able to count in Japanese because of my friendship with Tomo. "
Ichi-ni-san-shi-go
" I said. I paused there, and Mrs. Ahn echoed the words slowly.

Then I went on: "
Roku-shichi—
"

She shook her head and stopped me. "No," she said. "To five, again."

It seemed she'd rather learn the first five very well before going on. Maybe that was a good idea. "
Ichi-ni-san-shi-go?
I said again.

We did this a few more times, then Mrs. Ahn said the
numbers by herself. After she'd done it three times in a row without a mistake, she sat back.

"That will do," she said, and smiled. "You are a good teacher. Tell your mother I said that you needn't come back anymore."

I bowed my head, puzzled. I didn't want to contradict her, yet I felt I had to say something. "But, Ajima, you have only learned to count to five. Surely we should continue, to ten—" There were ten households in our association; she would need to be able to count at least that high.

"No." Mrs. Ahn's voice rang out strongly. I looked at her, surprised. "No," she said again. She lowered her voice a little. "I will tell you why. I have nothing in this world—you know that. Everyone knows that. No children, no family. Alone here all day with nothing but my thoughts."

Her voice was still fierce as she continued, "They cannot have my thoughts. I will not allow it."

She held up her hand. "
Ichi-ni-san-shi-go,
" she said, finger by finger. "One hand. Five fingers of thought—that is all I will give them. Not one finger more."

I rose to leave. At the door I turned and bowed deeply to Mrs. Ahn. She seemed surprised and pleased by this and nodded at me kindly.

At home I told Omoni what had happened at Mrs. Ahn's house. She said nothing for a few moments. Then she looked at me steadily and put her hands on my shoulders. "Sun-hee, it will be our job, yours and mine, to fetch Mrs. Ahn quickly whenever there is a neighborhood accounting," she said. "As soon as you hear the megaphone, one of us must be out the door, quick as a cat. If I am delayed, you must go yourself. Is this clear?"

I frowned. Mrs. Ahn was elderly, but she could still get around quite well by herself....

"Sun-hee, do you understand? One of us must go quickly—every time—"

And suddenly I did understand. I looked at Omoni and nodded. She gripped my shoulders firmly, then gave me a hug.

Yes, we'd have to be quick—to make sure that Mrs. Ahn would always be one of the first five households in line.

The neighborhood accountings are such a nuisance. We have to stop whatever we're doing, go out, and stand around on the street. It's always at least half an hour before we're dismissed.

Once I stayed in the house when I heard the megaphone. It should've been all right—Omoni and Sun-hee were there. But when Sun-hee came back, she told me Omoni had been very nervous, looking over her shoulder and wondering if I was going to show up. If the Japanese found out I hadn't come to the accounting, Omoni might get in trouble. Maybe Abuji, too. So now I always go.

One morning Teacher is excited. "Class!" he says. "The Emperor has sent a gift to every student in the land. In honor of the victories of His Imperial forces in the rubber-producing countries of the Tropics, you are each to receive a rubber ball!" And he pulls a big crate of balls from behind his desk.

The balls are the size of an apple. They're a dirty yellow color, and stamped with the words "May the Emperor Reign for Ten Thousand Years in Malaya, Burma, Singapore!"

Every student gets one. Then Teacher announces that there won't be any classes that day. Instead, we're to bow at the shrine to thank the Emperor. After that we're free to play with our new balls.

We run around the schoolyard, yelling our heads off. The balls are perfect for a game of catch. Or for bouncing—they soar right over your head if you throw them down hard enough. But they're no good for soccer—too small, and they skip over your foot if you try to make a pass.

The military attache raises the megaphone and shouts into it. We all freeze where we are. I've just thrown my ball against the wall. I stand still and listen, but watch my ball to make sure I can find it after the announcement.

"We are glad to see the students enjoying their gifts!" the military attache says. "The Emperor's generosity knows no bounds. We expect all of you to express your gratitude by working ever harder at your studies, to become good citizens of the Empire. Long live His Divine Majesty!"

"Long live His Divine Majesty!" we echo. Like we always do. A short silence, then everyone goes back to playing.

Except me. I walk over to where my ball has rolled into a corner, pick it up, and put it into my backpack.

"Hey, Nobuo!" my friend Sung-kwon shouts. Sung-kwon is his real name; in school he's Osamu. "Aren't you going to play some more?"

"Nah, I'm going home now. See you tomorrow." I walk toward the gate, to my bicycle.

Maybe I should stay. Especially to play with Sung-kwon. He's feeling low these days. His older brother, Sung-ho, a college student, was forced to enlist in the Japanese army. I went with Sung-kwon to the train station to see him off. Sung-kwon has been in a bad mood ever since.

But I don't feel like playing anymore—all because of that stupid announcement. "Express your gratitude," they'd said.

What they take: our rice, our language, our names. What they give: little rubber balls.

I can't feel grateful about such a bad deal.

There are more and more neighborhood accountings. They're always the same. First, praise for the Imperial Army's victories. Everyone has to clap and cheer. And then we're asked to help in the war effort.

Asked to help—another lie. What it means is, the army takes away our things.

First our radios. That makes Uncle really mad. Not that it matters as far as getting the news, he says—we have only Radio Tokyo anyway. But it's the principle of it, them taking whatever they want.

Abuji says it's no use getting angry.

But how can he not get angry?

The weather gets colder. They take our blankets and warm clothing. The wind cuts through my jacket as I ride down the street. The jacket's too small—the sleeves barely reach my wrists. And it hikes up my back when I lean over the handlebars. Omoni and Sun-hee are taking apart old clothes, remaking them. But so far no luck with a new jacket for me.

Being cold is sometimes all right. It makes me pedal even faster. I swoop around the corner of our street,
whoosh,
so smooth.... I always get the timing right. Turning the handlebars at the exact moment, just enough so I don't lose speed.

A shout. "You there! On the bicycle! Halt, in the name of His Imperial Majesty!"

I skid to a stop and turn the bike partway around. Two
soldiers are standing near the gate to our house. I get off, walk the bike toward them.

One soldier throws his cigarette down, jerks his chin at my bicycle. "What's that you're riding?" he asks. "You call that a bicycle?"

He walks around it, pokes at it. "Look at those handlebars. Does water run through them? And what kind of seat is that? Man, you must have one sore butt."

It makes me so mad, him insulting my bike like that. But there's nothing I can do about it, of course. I just stand there with my head down, hoping he'll get tired of teasing me and let me go home.

His friend shoves him a little. "Get out of the way and let me look at this thing," he says. "You know, it's really not so bad—you saw him come around the corner. It has pretty good speed."

His voice is a lot friendlier than the first soldier's. But his words scare me. If he likes my bicycle...

Just then Abuji comes out of the house and walks down the path toward us. He nods at the soldiers. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there a problem?"

The soldiers straighten up quickly and stand side by side. The second soldier glances briefly at his friend. "No problem, Sensei."

He calls Abuji "Sensei"—teacher. I let out my breath silently, relieved.

"No problem," the soldier repeats. "We are commandeering this bicycle in the name of His Imperial Majesty. I am sure Sensei appreciates that with the war on, the Imperial forces require every available mode of transportation to further the Emperor's glorious cause. The Emperor is most
grateful to the citizens of his realm for their willingness to make sacrifices on behalf of the military."

My hands freeze. I grip the bike, one hand on the seat, the other on the frame. The soldier steps forward and tries to take the bike from me. But I don't let go. We tug it back and forth between us.

Finally, I shout, "No! It's mine! You can't take it away!"

Abuji is so quick. He pries my hands open and pulls me back toward him. "I apologize for my son's disrespectful behavior," he says, bowing his head.

I can't move or speak. I can only watch as they walk a little way up the street, the bicycle between them. Then one of them—the second soldier—jumps on and begins pedaling. He laughs at his friend over his shoulder. His friend makes some sort of joke back.

They've already forgotten me. Treated me like I'm some sort of dog, with a bone they can take away anytime they feel like it.

I wrench myself away from Abuji and whirl around to face him. For a second I feel like shouting. I swallow once, hard. Then I say, low, "You just let them take it. You didn't even try to stop them. Couldn't you have thought of something—anything—"

Abuji's face goes pale but he doesn't say anything. I know what he's thinking. Even though I'm not shouting, I'm questioning his decision. It's the rudest thing a son can do. I'm almost scared myself—I've never spoken to him that way before, I can hardly believe those words came out of my mouth.

But then I think of my bike again. Of all the work Uncle and I did. And Abuji's silence makes me crazy. "He called you
'Sensei'! He knew you're the vice-principal—he might've listened to you. At least you could have tried!"

Abuji only shakes his head. Then, "I am sorry about your bicycle, Tae-yul." He turns and goes into the house.

I stand there, staring at his back. I'm so mad my stomach feels sick.

Sorry? He isn't sorry. He doesn't care at all.

I knew something was wrong. All evening Tae-yul's face was like a rock, cold and hard and gray. Later I saw him and Uncle talking in the garden; I watched as Uncle shook his head and put his arm around Tae-yul's shoulder. I could tell that Uncle was trying to comfort him. But, of course, nobody told me anything.

In the morning I left the house and walked along, waiting for the moment when Tae-yul would zoom by me on his bicycle, as he always did. I was nearly halfway to school when I finally turned around, wondering where he was—he usually passed me long before this point. And I saw him a few blocks behind me, walking.

The bicycle could have been broken, but I knew at once this wasn't what had happened. I remembered his face from the night before. His bike had broken lots of times. He'd never looked as sad as he did now.

And he went on looking like that for days afterward. No, not sad—that isn't quite right. Sad and angry, mixed up together. Angry at Abuji, for some reason. Tae-yul seemed to stiffen whenever Abuji came into the room. If Abuji spoke to him, he answered with a grunt or mumbled something. I
could hardly believe Tae-yul was being so disrespectful. Whenever they were in a room together, things were really uncomfortable—like a blanket of bad feeling over us all.

As if this weren't enough, life at home seemed even grayer and sadder because Uncle wasn't around as much. He was working longer and longer hours at his shop. There were nights when he didn't come home at all. Omoni worried about his health; she feared he wasn't eating or sleeping enough.

Sometimes she sent me or Tae-yul with some supper for Uncle. More and more often when I reached the shop, I'd find the door closed. I'd call out as I pushed open the door, and Uncle would come hurrying out of the back room. He always greeted me cheerfully and made a joke about how I'd saved his life by bringing food. And then he would walk me out and look up and down the street before he closed the door behind me.

I was curious about the way he scanned the street; he'd done the same when I came by with Jung-shin. Time after time I almost said something to Tae-yul. But he had to have seen it, too, and he hadn't said anything.