Gun was at a loss, and the others seemed unconvinced.
“You’ll be special agents, assigned to catch national traitors in China. From now on, you will be heroes for North Korea—not traitors anymore, but heroes—for your country and your families.”
With a satisfied smile, he slowly looked from one man’s face to the next.
PART 3
False Identity
The winter of 1997 was unusually long, and Pyongyang met the New Year without celebration. It seemed no one was interested in welcoming 1998.
Even the Magnolia kobus blossoms on Okryu street seemed reluctant to show their faces. On a clear January morning, Seunggyu and I were walking north from the Taedong Bridge and ended up at the Taedong Resort, where we stopped to look at the biggest bridge in Pyongyang, Okryu Bridge. From there I could clearly see the Great Leader’s calligraphy, “Ok-Ryu-Gyo,” on the bridge’s parapet.
Every morning, Okryu Bridge filled with people rushing from their houses to downtown Pyongyang. The bridge was the gift of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, to the people in 1960, to ease their commute. Before that time, they had to use the crowded Taedong Bridge or take a boat. Thanks to the Great Leader, the largest bridge in the city was built.
Strangely, from our vantage point, I couldn’t see anyone on the bridge.
I kept looking, though, as I was trying to avoid Seunggyu’s eyes. I didn’t want him to see my swollen eyelids; Aunt Ann had left the hotel the previous day, and I had spent the night crying.
Several of the cooks and I had thrown a small farewell party for her, and Cook Kim had even sneaked two plates of rice cakes. I brought a pack of the Korean traditional snack that I had stashed in my room, and Cook Kim set out too many cups of water, so the table wouldn’t feel so empty.
“That’s the best way to taste the real taste of rice cakeswith a draft of water in your mouth,” he said, convincing no one. “First, drink some water: it moistens the inside of your mouth. Then chew one bite of the rice cake, then, drink more water. You can feel the cake melting in your mouth.”
Each of us took one cup with a smile, but there were still at least five cups left.
“You had better take two cups; today’s rice cakes are pretty sticky,” he said, laughing, handing out another cup to each of us. On any other day, Aunt Ann would have teased Cook Kim, but she was in no mood that day. The hotel managers had recommended that Aunt Ann stop working because of her age.
“You know I don’t have any problems using my body. I always have worked harder than those useless guards, and I don’t get tired. I have never slacked off,” Aunt Ann said, with a sulky face. She was still in her uniform.
She was always brisk, and I never heard her complain about being overworked. Of all the workers, she should have left the hotel last, not first.
“Have you decided where to go?” I asked her.
Aunt Ann turned to me. “The hotel manager said I can have my old house back in my hometown, Wonsan. He already contacted the town governor so I wouldn’t have a problem, but I can’t live there again.” She fidgeted with the cup, setting it on the table in front of her. It was cruel for Aunt Ann to live by herself in the old house where she had lived with her family.
We were silent. Cook Kim handed her a soft, round cake smothered in black sesame seeds. “Take the house back anyway,” he said. “Take everything the superiors promised you”
Aunt Ann was chewing her rice cake slowly; sesame seeds lined her upper lip. “I’m thinking about living with my second sister. She has just one son, and her house isn’t so far from mine. I’ll take the house, but I won’t sleep there. I’ll stay with my sister.”
“What if the local officials discover you are staying somewhere else?” I asked, frowning at her with worry. “Moving around without permission of the government could cause trouble.”
“Who cares?” Aunt Ann erupted. “There are empty houses everywhere, and it’s impossible to check on the whereabouts of every person. Anyway, they’re not going to care about an old woman like me.”
I sang a song for her; she loved Arirang the best. Every night, when I stayed with her, I studied the Arirang songs of each province.
I stayed with Aunt Ann for one last night. Ever since Gun’s abrupt appearance and disappearance, I went home every night—I was afraid of missing Gun and Sun should they return and need my help.
I looked around the room at the hotel where Aunt Ann and I had lived as roommates for four years. It was too small for two people, but Aunt Ann was never angry with me and my messes. Even after twelve years, all of Aunt Ann’s belongings fit in two small bags.
On that night, as with so many before it, we lay down and chatted until we fell asleep.
“I always wanted to have a daughter, so when I saw you for the first time, you don’t know how happy it made me that we would live together,” she said. “I felt, in place of my husband and son whom heaven took from me, I had been sent such a pretty daughter.” Aunt Ann passed her hand over my hair. She sometimes cried while she slept, and I would pat her chest as though I was soothing a baby back to sleep. I wondered if she would do the same for me.
Thinking of her impending absence, my heart ached. I asked myself whether I had more luck in my life than other people. I had always been surrounded by good people, but sometimes I felt it wasn’t luck, but rather a curse that I had to suffer. Whenever I made a friend, I had to prepare for the day when we would separate. I would never get used to it.
I wanted to be alone, but Seunggyu had insisted on dragging me down to Okryu Bridge. He couldn’t understand why a janitor leaving was such a big deal to me. I had decided not to tell him about Sun and Gun; I didn’t want to hear him curse my friends. Being outdoors didn’t improve my mood, either. I didn’t want to see the gaunt trees and the sleeping streets.
“So many people are leaving or disappearing,” I said with a sigh, feeling empty—even of sadness.
“Don’t talk like that, Jia,” Seunggyu erupted. “Only losers run away; national traitors don’t belong here anyway.”
He took a round metal box out of the pocket of his gray pants. It was covered with yellow flowers and curved letters, and filled with fragrant sour and sweet candies.
“They’re lemon flavored,” Seunggyu said mildly, as though speaking to a child.
I didn’t lift my eyes. “But Seunggyu, have you ever thought about why they are leaving, knowing that if they’re caught, they’ll be brutally punished?”