Dong-ju pressed his lips together. ‘So you’ve read The Titans of Classical Music.’
I nodded.
He nodded, too. ‘The Hebrew slaves who were taken captive sang their old songs by the rivers of Babylon and wept, longing for Zion. The Babylonian keeper taunted them and demanded that they sing a Hebrew song. The Hebrews were in a trap. If they disobeyed, they would be killed; but if they obeyed, they would be dishonouring their homeland. This was what inspired Verdi in composing “Va, pensiero”. With this song, he was giving hope to the Hebrews that they would return to Zion with golden wings.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Midori isn’t the one who chose “Va, pensiero”, is she?’
‘Who, if not her?’
I stared at him steadily.
‘It doesn’t matter who chose which song. The sincerity of the song — now, that’s important.’
‘It looks like everything will unfold as you planned it. The singers will sing of returning and retaking their homeland. But the audience will be filled with high-level government officials and military leaders. What do you expect will happen, if Korean prisoners start singing about longing for their country?’
Dong-ju shook his head. ‘My only concern is for the best possible performance.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘How naive you are! Or are you clever? You know they’ll figure out what this song means! “Va, pensiero” is a resistance song! You’re giving voice to the Korean independence movement!’
‘Whether you’re Korean or Japanese or Italian, the listener will feel the same sentiment.’
‘Using music and art to push for the independence of Korea is an overt rebellion!’ I cried. ‘In front of all those people! If they find out what you’re up to, everyone is going to be in serious trouble. What about the singers? What about everyone else involved in the concert? Are you trying to fuck with the warden and Maeda? Are you trying to get me and Midori into trouble?’
‘This song won’t harm anyone. I just want to hear a truly sincere song. Especially now.’ He looked at me listlessly, spent.
‘This is a mistake.’
‘Why would you say that?’
With a heavy heart I remembered the job the Empire had entrusted me with: censorship. ‘This seditious song will not be performed in front of distinguished guests.’
‘Will you cancel the concert?’ Dong-ju asked.
I couldn’t breathe, it was as though a cobweb were covering my face. I knew I had to stop this concert. But I couldn’t answer him. I dropped my head in despair. The choristers had put everything they had into their singing. They hadn’t realized they could produce such beautiful sounds; now music was their religion. Midori was practising late into the night. Everyone was content and carefree during rehearsals, even the other prisoners, who craned to listen to the singing that drifted faintly through the infirmary corridor, the work areas, the cells and the yard.
Dong-ju looked at me knowingly. I hated him for putting me in this position.
He smiled. ‘The old man in Cell 38 said to me, “If you have to bet on something, bet on hope.” He says you always reap more profits if you throw yourself behind a business that’s going well.’
I wanted to punish him for his brashness. If I allowed the concert to go ahead, everyone involved in it might face serious trouble. But maybe, just maybe, the audience would be moved and would applaud. Maybe the concert would be a success. I wanted to see for myself whether the Koreans’ singing could move a Japanese audience. Could I pin my hopes on something that foolish? I was a soldier; I didn’t want to go along with this precarious plan, putting Dong-ju and Midori in danger. I suddenly grew frightened. I realized I’d done everything Sugiyama had done until he died: I was now the censor, I escorted the chorus, I kept the underground library hidden; I was accomplishing everything he’d secretly wanted to. Would I get killed for my efforts, just like him?
ENDLESSLY SINKING PROMETHEUS
Dong-ju’s eyes appeared sunken in the dim light of the interrogation room. His face was dirty; he had been pulling a cart since dawn.
‘You look tired,’ I offered.
‘I’m no old man,’ he said, giving me a wide smile. ‘I’m only twenty-six and I’m still all right. I’m due at the infirmary tomorrow. I’ll feel better after an infusion.’ His eyes twinkled expectantly.
He was completely different with me than when he’d pulled the cart, covered in grime; when he’d stood blankly on the poplar hill; and when he’d crouched under the wall basking in the sun. Speaking of poetry reanimated him, like Lazarus from the grave; his voice was vibrant and his eyes emitted light.
He launched into a poem. ‘“Liver.” On a sunny rock on the shore / I will lay my damp liver flat to dry, / Like a rabbit fleeing the Caucasus mountains / I will circle around and guard my liver. / My pet eagle! / Come peck at it, without a single worry. / You will fatten / And I will lose weight, but, / Turtle! / I will never again fall for the sea god’s seduction. / Prometheus, poor Prometheus / A stone around his neck for the crime of stealing fire / Endlessly sinking Prometheus.’
This poem was shockingly different from his others. Violent emotion and condensed rage sprang from every line, taking the place of mild contemplation and private musing. Fire leaped in Dong-ju’s eyes, but when he addressed me his voice was calm. ‘I tried to publish a book of poetry just before graduating from Yonhi College in 1940. I collected nineteen poems, but as the poems were written in Korean, they wouldn’t have passed the Japanese government’s censorship. My mentor persuaded me not to publish the volume, for fear of my life. The Sky, the Stars, the Wind and Poetry’, he continued, sighing. ‘That’s what it was supposed to be titled.’
I sat up straight. ‘Did you say The Sky, the Stars, the Wind and Poetry?’
He nodded.
‘Not The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry? And didn’t you graduate from Yonhi College in 1941, not 1940?’
‘What does that matter?’ He gave me a puzzled look.
None of it would matter if he were anyone else. But this was Dong-ju. And these were seminal moments in his life that he couldn’t possibly forget.
‘You can’t really trust your memory anyway,’ he remarked, flashing me an easy smile.
I was troubled. Was it lack of nutrition? Was it the hard labour? Or had he been beaten too much? I could only hope that his confusion was temporary. Something was definitely wrong. Something was gnawing away at him. His face was thinner and his physique even gaunter. Even the smallest wounds didn’t heal quickly and he spent more time staring blankly up at the sky. Once he confused Caesar and Augustus, and on another occasion he mixed up Stendhal with Hugo.
He coughed into his uniform sleeve: it was wet with blood. I pushed his sleeve up and saw a long cut that was mottled with blood.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Near the end of the day my cart tipped and I got scratched by an ammunition case. It won’t stop bleeding. Maybe because I’m not eating well?’
‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ I shouted. ‘It’s been over two hours!’ I undid my gaiters and used them to bind his forearm.
Dong-ju gazed at me with murky eyes. ‘It’s because of the weather. I’ll get better when spring comes. At least I’m getting medical treatment.’
‘I can’t wait for this awful winter to end.’
His eyes regained their focus. ‘Spring comes only after brutal cold and fierce snowstorms. Just as a rainbow appears only after a shower, beauty comes after hardship. Beauty without suffering is meaningless.’
‘When you go to the infirmary, tell them exactly what your symptoms are,’ I ordered. ‘Hopefully they’ll be able to prescribe proper medication or give you a shot.’