“Where’s Insŏn living now?”
Reverend Ryu Yosŏp was smiling at the aged Pak Myŏngsŏn as if they were children once more, but in lieu of an answer she took out a pack of Lucky Strikes from a cabinet drawer. She pulled one out — it had no filter. Lucky Strikes had been an established favorite among soldiers during the Korean War, and even though Yosŏp’s chair was on the other side of the room, he recognized the red circle logo at once. Myŏngsŏn lit the cigarette and exhaled a couple of times.
“My oldest lives in Philly, and the younger one is here in L.A.”
His question forgotten, Yosŏp merely listened to the sound of her voice. It was, in fact, Myŏngsŏn who continued, asking him, “You say that Yohan died?”
“Yes. The day before yesterday, in the evening. It was peaceful, as if in his sleep. I saw your name in his planner, so. I called you. You said he arranged a visit?”
The old lady was still puffing away — a long, deep exhalation.
“Well, all things come to an end when you die, don’t they,” said the old lady, as if to herself. She turned to Yosŏp.
“How old were you during the war?”
“Thirteen or fourteen, I think”
“Insŏn died awhile ago. Chinsŏn, Yŏngsŏn. and the youngest, Tŏksŏn, too. They all died.”
For a fleeting moment Yosŏp’s dream came back to him, and the countless deaths from the winter of that year whizzed by in front of him like a slide show.
“So it happened during the war. But. didn’t your family attend church?”
“Just mother and me,” Pak Myŏngsŏn murmured. “I wonder how it ever occurred to Ryu Yohan to come and see me.”
“You never had any contact with him before then?”
“He might have kept in touch with the father of my children.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Seoul. You’d probably recognize him if you saw him.”
Nothing surprised Yosŏp any more. Sangho had been best friends with Yohan, and he had a younger brother named Sunho who was around the same age as Yosŏp: two families, two sets of brothers. Back then, Sunho’s family had owned an orchard.
“Didn’t Sangho come to the States with you?”
“He didn’t want to. He’s still living in Seoul.”
For quite a long while the two sat apart from each other, neither one saying a word. Pak Myŏngsŏn glanced at the digital clock that hung on the wall opposite the dinner table. Yosŏp got to his feet.
“You see, the thing is, I’m actually going home, to visit.”
“Where. to North Korea?”
“Yes. If you have anyone you’d like to send word to. ”
The old lady shook her head faintly. Yosŏp turned to leave, but stopped short at the door. Myŏngsŏn didn’t follow him out; she simply got to her feet and stood in front of the table.
“Do you not go to church anymore?”
In answer to Yosŏp’s question, she shook her head. It was the most definitive motion she had made throughout the course of their half-hour meeting.
“No. Never again.”
Icy mist slides slowly down the black hillside, twirling around the naked branches, and settles down on the ground. I shoulder a knapsack pieced together from an old army uniform and follow him. The first group, the ones lucky enough to make it onto a truck, have already left earlier in the evening. Those who lagged behind have been told to get to the ocean to hitch a ride on a boat. My man is wearing a winter cap and, like me, he’s got a knapsack on his back. My Sangho is carrying his carbine upside down — he’s still in his field jacket with the Youth Corps armband. With two mal15 of rice on my back, it’s tough for me to keep up with him. Every now and then he turns around and hurries me along with an irritated grunt. Our village finally comes into view. We enter a narrow alley and find the whole place blanketed in silence. Taking his carbine off his shoulder and holding it at the ready, Sangho slows his steps. This time, I lead the way — I know the shortcut to my house better. We turn at the stone fence and as I open the bush-clover gate my foot catches on something. My breath catches in my throat and I just stand there nailed to the ground, unable to stop trembling — it’s Sangho who kneels down to try shaking her awake. Even in the dark Mother’s white chŏgori is clearly visible. As if nothing is out of the ordinary, he calmly turns the flashlight towards our little two-room house, sweeping the beam of light into every nook and cranny. I look, too. My younger sisters lie side by side, all dead. The room reeks of blood. Hastily, he turns off the flashlight and the figures vanish, buried in the darkness. Over the years, only the image of Tŏksŏn will stay with me. Her thin wrist rests on the doorsill. Motionless, she is looking in my direction with her mouth slightly open. I try to stifle my cries, to keep from screaming out loud, and Sangho drags me back out into the front yard. Mother, lying prone on the ground, stirs ever so faintly. Mother! Wake up! She motions for me to leave, to run away. Who, who’s done this to you?
It was around ten o’clock when Yosŏp returned to his lodgings. From the nursing home he had gone to Koreatown for dinner. There, for the first time in a long while, he drank some soju16 all by himself. The younger minister had been waiting for him. Opening the door to let Yosŏp in, the man seemed somewhat bewildered at the smell of alcohol that accompanied his arrival.
“Did something happen?”
Yosŏp answered with a smile, saying nothing. To the “Good night” that floated up from the bottom of the stairs, Yosŏp simply raised one hand and graced his host with a grand little wave.
Collapsing into bed, Yosŏp was overcome by a rather pleasant, hazy sinking sensation — a feeling that was soon interrupted by the realization that something was prodding him in the behind. He rolled over on his side and reached back. The instant he took it out of his back pocket he realized what it was — the leather pouch. His heart pounding violently, he untied the string wound tightly around its mouth and removed the sliver of bone. It was about as big as the joint of a finger and shaped like an ivory tojang, though only half the normal size. Yosŏp held the thing between his thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that, examining it from every angle. It looked like a compass you might read about, the kind one could use on a journey in some fairy tale. He put it back in the pouch, refastened the string, and tossed it on the nightstand.
Yosŏp got out of his clothes and slid underneath the sheet. He was right on the verge of falling asleep when something inside his throat suddenly rose up and passed through his neck to his skull, and suddenly Yohan’s soft voice was with him again.
You knew, you knew all along, and you just kept quiet about it, didn’t you?
What do you mean I knew? Knew what?
The things we did during those forty-five days.
I only know what I saw.
You’ve been to see Myŏngsŏn, haven’t you? Her family, every last one of them — I did them in. What do you have to say to that?
What could possibly make you do something that hideous?
Just. well, you’ll understand it all later.
Sangho, wasn’t he your close friend?