On the following morning when I went out to work, the supervisor came looking for me. He was visibly angry as he demanded that I follow him into his office. Brusquely, he ordered me to sit down in front of his desk. He took out the roll book.
Comrade An Sŏngman, I see that you’re from Sinch’ŏn. Your father is a minister, an independent farmer. You did vote during the last election. Comrade, do you understand why the institution of compulsory labor exists?
Yes. Its purpose is to expedite production because the factories that were running during the Japanese occupation, as well as all the factories that have been constructed since liberation, are currently not producing at full capacity.
Exactly. So you understand well enough. The fact remains, however, that any attempts to sabotage our efforts in the name of religion, as you did, will leave us with no alternative but to take the proper measures and report your actions to the authorities.
There’s no need for that, sir. I am more than willing to work three extra days to complete my share of the compulsory labor and make up for the Sundays I spend at church.
No. No one gets special treatment here. Especially not for church. Many people are criticizing you for being a reactionary.
On the following Sunday, I again crept out of my quarters and spent the whole day at church, returning only after nightfall. Just as he had the week before, the supervisor summoned me to his office. Striking the desk with his fist, he bellowed, I’ve tried being patient with you, but I see you are completely unshakable. Have you no fear? You, comrade, are an example of the kind of garbage that is being produced in this new age. You are addicted to this so-called religion of yours, like an opium freak is to opium! Don’t come to me crying tears of regret when your idiocy finally catches up to you!
It did occur to me that someone might pop up and drag me away on one of the last weekdays, but I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong enough to put the entire nation in jeopardy, so I simply went on working as hard as I could. Nothing happened until the third and last Saturday, when the supervisor called for me again. He took me to a corner of the dining hall, ordered me some noodles, and, with the same gentle face he’d worn on the first day, spoke to me.
Comrade An, Sunday is coming up once again. Are you planning to break the rules a third time and leave without permission?
That’s the thing. couldn’t you just give me permission?
The man looked absolutely thunderstruck for a moment, but then he guffawed and slapped me across the shoulder.
Very well. You can set your heart at ease. You may go to church tomorrow.
Do you mean it?
I think a comrade like you must be a man of real faith. We’ve been keeping an eye on your attitude at work, and your behavior back in the barracks with your other comrades. We have reached the conclusion that you really are a man of integrity. Not only do you do all of your own work, you help others to finish their share. I also hear that back in your quarters you actually washed clothes for some of the men when they fell ill. Is that true?
It was nothing. Tomorrow is the last day of my official term, but I will have missed three days by then. I’ll stay on and make up the work I missed on those days and go home after that.
So, on the last day, I was able to go to church openly, humming a hymn. When everyone else piled onto a truck to go home, I was the only one left behind, waiting for some new work to do. When they were all gone, the supervisor called me over.
You know, if you’d just give up that religion of yours you would be a model comrade, working for the good of the People. Don’t bother staying the three extra days — just go home. I’ll put in a good word for you with the County Authority.
Before the war broke out, as conflicts along the thirty-eighth parallel became more and more frequent, you could have cut the tension throughout Hwanghae Province with a knife. People couldn’t even visit neighboring villages after dark unless they had an official permit. I think it was around then that young men started joining the Democratic Youth League — they started soliciting volunteers. It was also around then that I saved the life of Yohan’s friend, Sangho.
I took the cow and went to Pujŏngnae. There was always plenty of good grass there, all along the hillside by the stream. It was around the time Big Brother Yohan first went into hiding — he could no longer show his face freely.
After the Unification Corps incident, a sizeable number of the Christian Youth fled to the Kuwŏl mountains. At first Yohan did the same, hiding in a dugout covered over with branches and leaves in a ravine of the neighboring mountain. Every other day I would take him cooked rice or some rice cakes in a wicker basket. Then the war started. There was a rally in town — they said that the valiant People’s Army had reclaimed Seoul and taken full control all the way down to Taejŏn, all in one breath. By then the general mobilization had begun, so each town had its share of draft-dodging youngsters and thirty-somethings who could only drop in to visit their homes in secret after dark.
I tied the cow up at the bank of the stream and sat down a short distance away from it to study the Bible. I was attending a middle school in town back then, but I’d already promised Father that I would enter the Pyongyang Seminary someday.
Hey, Yosŏp, I’ve been looking for you. I went all the way to your house. Crossing the footpath between the rice paddies, Sunho was making his way up the stream bank. Although he didn’t go to school, we still ran into each other quite regularly. The young men in town were pretty much gone, and with nothing but women and children making up the households that were left, Sunho and I had to go out and help with the field work. The only young, able-bodied people still in the village, both male and female, were those who’d joined the Democratic Youth League or become Party members. Despite the general mobilization order, farmers who were over thirty-five and had a lot of mouths to feed had also been allowed to remain Your brother — is he still in the mountains? he asked.
There was no one around besides us and the cow, preoccupied with grazing.
Why?
I have a letter to deliver. From my brother.
I tensed. Sunho’s brother Sangho had fled to the Kuwŏl mountains with the young men who’d joined the Unification Corps. The worst thing that could happen to Yohan if he got caught would be getting packed off to the army, but Sangho’s was a different case altogether. His father had been jailed for a week at the police station, where they interrogated him on the whereabouts of his son.
What kind of a letter is it?
Don’t know. He just said I had to get it to your brother, without fail.
Give it to me. I’ll deliver it.
I decided to just ask him point-blank.
Wait a minute. your brother’s come home, hasn’t he?
What are you talking about? How could he come home?
Oh yeah? Then where’d you get this letter?
Okay, well, this is just between you and me. Your brother and mine, they’re both on the same side, right? Big Brother Sangho came down from the mountain last night. but it was just for a visit.
Without another word, I held out my hand. Sunho reached into the inner pocket of his chŏgori and pulled out a yellowish paper ribbon. It was the letter, folded into a thin strip and tied in the middle.