I spent the rest of the day in the quiet, cold library, my mind grappling with the dust marks on the bookcases. I was getting tired of chasing secrets. My legs gave way, and I slid down to the floor, leaning against a bookcase. I picked out a book at random. It was about the war; it argued that we would soon be victorious, and it was filled with incitement and the promotion of national sacrifice. I shook my head. Who was victory for, anyway? Countless children were orphans, thousands of women were widows and many more had been imprisoned or lost their lives. The old spine broke in half, revealing long, narrow furrows created by book-worms.
My heart leaped with joy. I wanted to be even more like the book-worms — to be born in books, live among them and die in a library.
‘Oecophora pseudospretella,’ I murmured, looking around.
Then I spotted white powder in the cracks on the shelves and in the corners. I nodded. Sugiyama wouldn’t have let book-worms proliferate. But where were they coming from? There must be a safe haven for them nearby. I stared at the walls, and something wriggling caught my eye; a bug’s glistening back and two long feelers seeking the smell of paper and ink. It crawled up the bookcase. Another crawled up from behind, and another. A mature bug must have laid eggs inside the wall. They kept crawling out of the faded grey wall. I walked up to it and heard my footsteps ringing hollow, as though I were walking over empty space below the floorboards. My heart began to pound. I pushed the desk aside and noticed a dislocated square wooden tile. The insects were crawling out of there. I levered up the board and damp, mouldy air washed over me. An old wooden staircase revealed itself, leading underground. I forced my trembling legs into the darkness and descended one step at a time. At the bottom, I took out my lighter. Its tiny flame illuminated the small space. Books. At least fifty volumes were stacked on a makeshift shelf, fashioned from a piece of wood placed on top of two bricks. I ignored my pounding heart and caressed the books’ fat spines. Bricks, pieces of wood and planks were piled all around. This narrow, dark and lonely underground space made for a marvellous library, suffused with the smoky scent of dust. I recognized the books with a start. They were the very publications that I’d noticed had disappeared upstairs, but the titles were crossed out and in their place someone had written new ones, both in Korean and in Japanese: Don Quixote, Les Misérables, Robinson Crusoe, Greek mythologies, Romeo and Juliet, André Gide, Stendhal, Baudelaire, Rilke and Jammes. I pulled one out, its cover worn and shiny: German Love: From the Papers of an Alien. I remembered how the book began: Childhood has its mysteries and its wonders; but who can describe them? who can interpret them? But when I opened the book eagerly, I couldn’t read it; the pages inside had been blacked out, and new writing was done by hand, in white — in Korean. I closed the volume and returned it to its place. Some books were in Japanese, mostly difficult ones, like Kierkegaard, written in a clumsy but powerful hand — Sugiyama’s. Those in Korean were entertaining novels, like Dumas or Stendhal. They were obviously in a different hand. I recognized it. Why would Sugiyama share this clandestine library with him?
I knew I had to report my discovery. Otherwise, I would be a traitor. But this was a perfect little library, with an excellent selection of titles that would satisfy beginners as well as the erudite. The architect of this hidden library knew well how intellectual adventures were shaped, leading uneducated travellers down the path of knowledge, starting with Dickens and Hugo, then to young Werther, and beyond to an even greater city of literature. Adventures, the romances and mythologies, romantic poetry and biographies, arriving finally at the humanities — indeed, this was the very same intellectual path I’d taken.
Should I act? Or should I not? I needed to know more. And there was only one person who could tell me the truth.
THE SONGS OF VANISHED BOOKS
Dong-ju stepped into the interrogation room, looking spent. His sallow face was tense with nervousness. I untied the ropes binding his wrists. Dozens of questions floated in my head. I didn’t know where to begin.
He rubbed his wrists. ‘Is this about Sugiyama again? I thought it was all over.’ He looked exhausted.
‘It might be all over for Sugiyama. But not the books in the underground library.’
‘Books? Underground library? Whatever do you mean?’
‘Don’t bother denying it. I saw it with my own eyes!’
His lips tightened.
I pressed harder. ‘You joined Choi’s escape plot. But he didn’t mention you, even when he got caught. Why is he protecting you?’
Dong-ju’s eyes flickered slightly.
‘At first I thought he was shielding you from punishment. But that’s not it, is it? There’s a bigger, more important reason. That secret in the tunnel.’
He looked wary. He finally opened his dry lips. ‘What did you find out about Sugiyama?’
‘The dirt on his trousers isn’t the same dirt found in Choi’s tunnel. So that means there was another tunnel. Then I found that there were books in the censor’s library that had just vanished. Old government publications and publicity about the Empire.’
He didn’t refute my point; his eyes blazed.
‘What I want to know is the truth,’ I pressed.
‘There’s no such thing. Even if there is, you won’t get it.’
‘Well, then I have no choice but to report the missing books to the warden. He’ll rip this place apart. It’s only a matter of time before they find the hidden library.’
He looked down in resignation.
‘Who stole the books?’ My voice trembled.
‘What’s the point of talking about that? Nothing’s going to change.’
‘Choi’s life is on the line.’
He hesitated, then met my gaze reluctantly. ‘It was Sugiyama’s job to burn books. But — well, he was a craftsman. He actually made them.’
Sugiyama’s hatred for books bloomed into a burning admiration; eventually he was moved to steal them. When Sugiyama discovered Choi’s escape plan, he marched him and his gang into the interrogation room; they left with swollen eyes and broken wrists. Sugiyama’s club had extinguished their hope. They were forced to confront reality — their clumsy escape attempt was doomed, Choi couldn’t be trusted and they would never leave this prison. Now they would have to destroy the tunnel they’d dug.
Dong-ju was the last person to be called into the interrogation room. Sugiyama was seething with rage. His facial muscles were contorted, as though each and every one was rebelling against him. But his voice was calm when he began to speak. ‘You used to go around reciting poetry and literature. Now you’re putting your life on the line for a stupid plot.’
‘I might be an idiot, but I’ve never joined their plot,’ Dong-ju protested. ‘I knew what Choi’s plan was, but I didn’t believe it would ever succeed. Even if it did, that’s not how I want to leave.’
Sugiyama glared at Dong-ju suspiciously. ‘So why did you keep getting yourself sent to solitary?’
‘To dig my own tunnel.’
‘There’s another tunnel?’
‘It branches off Choi’s tunnel in the middle and comes towards the censor’s office.’