Dong-ju was selected to receive treatment at the beginning of winter. I discovered this one Monday morning when I didn’t see him in his work area. I felt a sense of foreboding. It began to snow as I ran across the yard. I didn’t believe in God, but I prayed that nothing had happened to him. As I ran into the main corridor of the central facilities I heard a guard shout authoritatively, ‘Step to it!’
The solemn guard was leading thirty-odd prisoners. Dong-ju stood out among the grey faces. He smiled as always; his smile was luminous against the other pale faces, lustreless skin and muddy eyes.
The guard spotted me. ‘I’m escorting prisoners to their medical treatment. What is it?’ He was a seventeen-year-old boy, but as he’d been conscripted even younger than I, he was at a higher rank. He should have been eating his lunch in a classroom or trying to stay awake while reading a grammar book or learning trigonometry or calculating the distance to the moon. But war made him a soldier. The youth became taciturn, learning how to destroy a man’s dignity before he could realize what dignity was.
I approached Dong-ju. The escort guard cocked his head disapprovingly. While he paused, wondering if he should stop me or not, I grabbed Dong-ju’s elbow and tugged, forcing him to stumble out of line. He smiled faintly and shrugged as though to ease my worries, moving his parched lips. ‘I’m fine. I have a cold, but it’s nothing serious. It would be a cause for worry if you don’t get a cold or two in this kind of weather.’
I looked him over, but he did seem fine.
‘I don’t know why I was chosen, but it’s a good thing,’ he said. ‘If I get treatment I’ll feel lighter and it’ll be easier to get through winter.’
The escort guard shot Dong-ju a tense look. He limped back into line. The escort guard reported to another guard manning the gates the reason for the transport and the number of prisoners, and the line slowly passed by.
The red prisoner’s garb looked like a baggy coat on Dong-ju because of his emaciated physique; he soon became invisible among all the other pale faces.
I recalled a poem he’d sung out last night in the dark interrogation room, now cradled in my breast pocket like a ticking time bomb:
CROSS
The sunlight that used to chase me
Is hanging on the cross
On top of the church right now.
The steeple is so tall
How did it climb up there?
The bells aren’t ringing.
I pace, whistling,
If a cross were allowed to me
Like it was to
Jesus Christ,
A happy, suffering man,
The poem still gave off warmth, as though Dong-ju’s breath was lingering over the words. I quietly recited the last stanza to myself. He wasn’t yet twenty-five when he wrote it, but he was already grappling with his death:
I would bow my head
And quietly let
Blood blooming like flowers
Trickle under the darkening skies.
The previous night I’d ripped the poem out of the file. ‘There’s one stanza that doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘Which one?’
‘“Jesus Christ, a happy, suffering man.” It is surely contradictory.’
Dong-ju gave me a faint smile. ‘Life isn’t always logical. Everything is contradictory.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Life is like that. It’s filled with falsehoods and filth and evil. But life is made up of these contradictions. Contradictions aren’t falsehoods. They’re a way to strengthen the truth. Jesus Christ’s suffering absolved mankind of its sins. That’s why he could be happy at the same time.’
It did make sense. With shame I remembered the way I thoughtlessly treated the people closest to me. Perhaps a brutal era like this forced you to grow. Reality might appear gloomy, but life was even more valuable because of it. Still, I was troubled. ‘You’re not Jesus Christ!’ I shouted at him. ‘You’re going to die like a dog!’
He just looked at me sadly.
The next day I stood waiting in front of the auditorium. A line of prisoners shuffled over from the other side of the corridor. Their pallid faces were cast with powerlessness and dejection. One man had ringworm from the top of his head down to his temples, another had red, chapped skin and blistered lips, and yet another had pale, cracked cheeks. They limped along, their shackles rubbing against their ankles. The sour smell of unwashed bodies wafted over. I stepped up to the guard, the same one who had escorted these prisoners to the infirmary the day before. The chains stopped clacking.
He looked uncertainly at me. ‘What is it?’ he barked.
‘I am requesting your cooperation, sir.’
He tensed at my use of formality. I assumed a gentle expression, but continued stiffly. ‘The chorus is nearing the end of rehearsals. They are improving, but they have stage fright. If they are thrown onstage like this they’ll be nervous. It’ll ruin their singing.’
‘And what does that have to do with me?’
‘If the chorus could practise singing to an audience before getting onstage, it would help ease their fear.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘These prisoners walk through this corridor every day for medical treatment. If they could stop and listen to the chorus practising even for five minutes, they’ll be able to perform better.’
His eyes sparked with curiosity, but soon dulled again. ‘I have to bring these men to the infirmary on time.’
‘You know how important this concert is,’ I pressed. ‘Everyone will be in attendance, from the Interior Minister and the heads of police, to foreign ambassadors and consuls and their families. If something were to go wrong. ’
He shook his head, fear crossing his features.
‘After the successful conclusion of the concert, those who helped will be recognized for allowing the chorus to have a real practice run.’
He relaxed a little. ‘Fine. Only for five minutes, though!’
I looked through the window into the auditorium, where sunlight streamed in like a white curtain. Midori was sitting at the piano and the singers were lined up according to voice part. She caught my eye and nodded. A growing vibration cut through the heavy silence: the beginnings of ‘Va, pensiero’. Like the way a stream coursed towards the sea, the men dragged their shackles to the window, one by one. Heavy, sad, but powerful singing reached us. The music coasted towards us like a golden carpet, glowing and smooth. Five minutes flew by, at once over in an instant and an eternity.
The escort guard lobbed a command. ‘Turn right! Proceed!’
The men shuffled along, looking softer, as though they’d just been awakened from a sweet dream. I sneaked a glance at Dong-ju. In the silence we exchanged joyful looks, then the men went on their way.
I crossed the auditorium to Midori. ‘It was marvellous. Even the escort guard was fully immersed in the music.’