“It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s also… I’m not sure I want to have a baby.” This from the girl who’d saved worn-out persimmon cloth to make into baby clothes and blankets long before I’d thought about becoming a mother myself? My surprise must have shown on my face, because she said, “Things are not good with my husband.” She hesitated, chewing tentatively on the side of her forefinger. Finally, she admitted, “He’s rough when we’re on our sleeping mat.”
“But you’re a haenyeo! You’re strong!”
“Look at him the next time you see him. He’s stronger than I am. He’s spoiled. And he likes to be in control. We don’t share love. He takes it.”
“But you’re a haenyeo,” I repeated. Then, “You have every right to leave him. You’re barely married. Get a divorce.”
“I’m a city wife now. I can’t.”
“But, Mi-ja—”
“Never mind,” she said in frustration. “You don’t understand. Forget what I said. Let’s just do this. Maybe if I have a baby planted in me, things will change.”
This was the moment I might have said something that could have made a difference, but I was young, and I still didn’t understand very much. Oh, I understood life and death, but I didn’t yet have a true comprehension of all that could happen between your first and last breaths. This was a mistake I would live with for the rest of my life.
We made our offerings and prayed that we’d get pregnant quickly.
“Not just pregnant,” I begged, “but pregnant with sons.”
When Mi-ja added, “Who will be born healthy and have loving mothers to nurse them,” I convinced myself she’d turned a corner in her mind.
Over the following week, Mi-ja and I visited the goddess every other day. She always arrived in her city clothes, changed into a persimmon-dyed outfit, and then back into her city clothes to return to Jeju City. As soon as she was gone, my mother-in-law would push Jun-bu and me out of the big house “to be alone.” Whether during the day or at night, we found plenty of ways to sleep together without ever closing our eyes on our sleeping mats.
In the middle of the second week, I asked Mi-ja to invite her husband to pick her up so we might have dinner together. She agreed, and the next time she came, we quickly made our offerings and hurried home to prepare the meal. The kitchens to the big and small houses opened to the courtyard, so we kept our voices low, aware that my mother-in-law—even with ears damaged from years under the sea—would try to listen to all we said.
Mi-ja had seemed happier since that first visit, and I asked her if she enjoyed being back in Jeju City. Her response told me that I’d read her wrong.
“When you’re a child,” she said, “everything looks big and impressive. Coming to Hado as a little girl was like stepping back in time, making life with my father seem even grander than perhaps it was. But you and I have seen so much more than this island. I love the beauty of Grandmother Seolmundae and that the sea stretches forever, but Jeju City seems small and ugly to me now. I miss Hado. I miss diving. I miss visiting other countries. Most of all I miss you.”
“I miss you too, but maybe this is what it means to be married.”
Air hissed through Mi-ja’s clenched teeth. “I’m a haenyeo, not some Confucian wife. My husband and his parents are unfamiliar with our ways. They believe, When a daughter, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son.”
I tried to laugh away the idea. “What haenyeo would ever do that? Besides, I always thought following Confucius meant that men needed to think big thoughts all day under the village tree.”
Mi-ja didn’t giggle or even smile at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Rather, a troubled expression passed over her features. Before I could say anything, my husband entered the courtyard. Mi-ja put a pretty smile on her face and whispered, once again between clenched teeth, “We must remember that our marriages are steps up for both of us. Each of us has a husband who can read and do sums.”
While Jun-bu washed up, Mi-ja and I walked to the road to wait for her husband to arrive. Finally, a pair of headlights appeared, coming through the darkness. Once they reached us, Sang-mun parked and exited his father’s car. He was dressed in the same casual style as the day we first met. Mi-ja and I bowed to show our respect.
“Where are your clothes?” he asked gruffly.
“I didn’t want them to get dirty,” Mi-ja answered, her voice a bare whisper.
I could have taken this as an insult, but I was more concerned with the humbling change in Mi-ja.
I stepped forward and bowed again. “My husband is looking forward to meeting you.”
Sang-mun regarded Mi-ja out of the corner of his eye. She was frozen in place. She was, I realized, afraid of him.
“I’m looking forward to this too,” he said at last. “Shall we go then?”
When we got to the house and Sang-mun slipped off his shoes and entered, he seemed to relax. Dinner was another matter. Men! What is it about their natures that they feel compelled to gain ground and debate points over which they have no power or control?
“The Japanese will always be in power,” Sang-mun maintained. “What need do we have to resist them?”
“The Korean people, especially here on Jeju, have fought against every invader,” Jun-bu reasoned. “Eventually we’ll rise up and expel the Japanese.”
“When? How? They’re too powerful.”
“Maybe. But maybe they’re fighting too many battles in too many places,” Jun-bu countered. “Now that the Americans are in the war, the Japanese are sure to lose territory. When they begin to retreat, we’ll be ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?” Sang-mun shot back “They’ll conscript any and every man, no matter his age, education, marital status, or loyalty!”
This wasn’t an idle threat. My own brothers had been taken. We still didn’t know where they were or if we’d ever see them again.
“And consider this, my friend,” Sang-mun went on. “What will happen to people like you when the Japanese triumph, as they surely will?”
“Like me? What does that mean?”
“You’re studying abroad. You’ve picked up foreign ideas. It sounds like you’re an instigator, but are you a communist too?”
My husband laughed long and hard.
“You laugh now,” Sang-mun said, “but when the Japanese win—”
“If they win—”
“They’ll kill traitors and people who speak traitorous words. You need to be careful, brother,” Sang-mun warned. “You never know who might be listening.”
Mi-ja squeezed my hand to reassure me, but her husband had sown seeds of uncertainty in me.
September 14 arrived, and it was time for my husband to return to Japan for his final year of study. Our last night together was filled with kisses and words of love. The next morning, when he boarded a small motorboat to take him to the main port, I surprised myself by weeping. This girl, who’d been so disappointed in her match, had grown to love her husband after barely four weeks of marriage. In this I was lucky—as Grandmother and Mi-ja had pointed out even before the wedding—for not all brides had amicable feelings toward the men with whom they shared their sleeping mats. I would miss Jun-bu, and already I worried about him being far from me when war raged all around us.
The next day, still following our routine, Mi-ja arrived. I took her to visit the goddess, but what good would it do me when my husband was away? We made our offerings and then on the way home sat together on a hill overlooking the sea.
“This will be my last visit for a while,” she confided. “My husband leaves in two days. He will travel the length of Korea to make sure the Japanese military convoys get where they need to go. Supervising loading and unloading, as you’ve heard. The Japanese trust him, and he says this is a big promotion. My mother-in-law has decided I don’t need to visit the goddess if he isn’t here to plant a baby.”