“Please, Mother, please. Yo-chan has one. Shouldn’t we have at least one for our family?”
Her excitement disturbed me. First, of course my daughter would know Yo-chan and his mother, but that didn’t mean I liked it. Second, we were only here because I’d wanted to give Joon-lee an opportunity, but now it seemed she’d completely forgotten about the study in favor of the bike’s shiny metal.
Up on the seawall, Mi-ja abruptly turned and limped away, but the boy remained where he was, staring in our direction. I realized he wasn’t looking at me but at Min-lee and Wan-soon. The three of them attended the same school and had many of the same classes together. All three were sixteen, old enough to get married, old enough to get in trouble. I nudged the girls’ shoulders to make them move along.
Yo-chan was gone by the time we exited the tent in our diving costumes. The water was just as freezing as it had been all week. Once again, the dry-land women lasted only a few minutes, while the rest of us stayed in the water until we were shivering badly. When I came out, Joon-lee was there with my towel.
“Mother,” she said, “can I have a bicycle? Please?”
My youngest daughter could be fickle, but she could also be determined.
“Do you want to be a scientist or a bicycle rider?” I asked.
“I want to do both. I want—”
I cut her off. “You want? We all want. You complain when I put a sweet potato in your lunch for school, but I had years when my only meal of the day was a single sweet potato.”
Unfortunately, this pointed Joon-lee in another—but sadly familiar—direction. “Other kids get white rice, but the food you give us makes it look like we’re living a subsistence life.”
“I buy white rice for the New Year’s Festival,” I said, stung. Then, defensively, “I often put barley in your lunch—”
“Which is even more embarrassing, because that means we’re really poor.”
“What a lucky child you are to say that. You don’t know what poor means—”
“If we aren’t poor, then why can’t I have a bicycle?”
I wanted to tug her hair and remind her that the money I saved was for her and her siblings’ educations.
That night, after dinner, Wan-soon came over, as she usually did, and the three girls went out for a walk. I made citrus tea and took two cups across the courtyard to Do-saeng’s house. She was already on her sleeping mat, but the oil lamp still burned.
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “You seemed upset all day. Did one of those men do something to you?”
I shook my head, sat on the floor next to her, and handed her the cup of tea.
“You were a good mother to Jun-bu,” I said. “You sent him to school when many haenyeo didn’t.”
“Or couldn’t. Your mother had many children,” she said wistfully. “But look what you’re doing now. Three children in school. That’s more than any other family in the village.”
“I couldn’t do that without your help.”
She tipped her head in acknowledgment. Then, after a long pause, she said, “So tell me. What’s wrong?”
“I saw Mi-ja and her son today.”
“Don’t think about her—”
“How can I not? She lives a ten-minute walk from here. We do our best to avoid each other, but Hado is small.”
“So? In every village, victims live next door to traitors, police, soldiers, or collaborators. Now killers and the children of killers run the island. Is this so different from when you were a girl?”
“No, but she knows everything about me—”
“Who doesn’t know everything about you? As you said, Hado is small. Tell me your real concern.”
I hesitated, then asked, “What future can I give my children when we have the guilt-by-association system?”
“Those we lost were not guilty of anything.”
“That’s not how the government sees it. Anyone who died is considered guilty.”
“You could do what others have done and claim your husband died before April Three,” Do-saeng suggested.
“But Jun-bu was a teacher! He was known to everyone in Bukchon—”
“He was a teacher, true, but he was not an instigator, rebel, insurgent, or communist.”
“You say that as his mother.” Then I allowed myself to voice my deepest fear. “Could he have had secrets we didn’t know about?”
“No.”
It was a simple answer, but I wasn’t so sure. “He read the posters. He listened to the radio.”
“You told me he read the posters from both sides, so he could tell people what was happening,” Do-saeng said. “He listened to the radio for the same reason. The authorities probably think he was just a typical Jeju husband—”
“Who taught?”
“I was always proud of him for becoming a teacher. I thought you were too.”
“I was. I am.” Tears welled in my eyes. “But I can’t stop being afraid for my children.”
“Whatever my son did or didn’t do, you know that Yu-ri and Sung-soo did nothing wrong. They were victims. Those of us who are left are victims. But unlike many others, I don’t feel like we’ve been targeted.” She held my gaze. “We haven’t been forced to report to the police every month as some families have.”
“That’s true.”
“And have you ever had the sense we’re being watched?”
I shook my head.
“All right then,” she said decisively. “Just keep your focus on the good in our lives. Your son performs the rites for the ancestors, and he’s learning family duties like cooking. Min-lee is turning out to be a good diver, while Joon-lee…”
As she went on talking about the virtues of each of my children, I felt myself becoming calmer. My mother-in-law could be right. That we hadn’t been called to the police station or followed had to mean something. That didn’t mean we weren’t on a list somewhere, though.
By day six, the nondiving women had become more accustomed to being in their water clothes in front of the men. The scientists had gotten bolder too. At first, they’d taken care not to stare at us as we filed down to the shore, but now they gazed at us in the manner men do. I was particularly concerned about the way they gaped at Min-lee and Wan-soon. They were beautiful girls, slim, with happy faces and pretty skin. Looking at them together, I couldn’t help but think of Mi-ja and myself when we were that age. Or when we were older in Vladivostok. We hadn’t always realized the impression we were making, although we tried to be careful when we were on the docks. Our fears were concentrated more on what Japanese soldiers might do to us than on the looks we received from the men of Jeju or elsewhere. But Min-lee and Wan-soon weren’t old enough to remember the Japanese, and Wan-soon had seen nothing like what happened in Bukchon here in Hado. A saying my mother and father often recited came to my mind: For a tree that has many branches, even a small breeze will shake some loose. The meaning had always been clear to me. With children, there will be many conflicts, griefs, and problems. It was my job as Min-lee’s mother to prevent any of those things from happening.
Two days later, Dr. Park and his team left Hado. They promised to return in three months. Two days after that, on the fourteenth day of the second lunar month, exactly two weeks after we’d welcomed the goddess of the wind to Jeju, it was time to send her away. Once again, haenyeo and fishermen cautiously gathered at the shore. Kang Gu-ja took a prominent seat as chief of our collective. On this occasion, however, her sister and niece did not sit with her. Although the Kang sisters had bickered since childhood, the fact that Gu-sun and Wan-soon had gotten to participate in the study irritated Gu-ja in a way that none of us could have predicted, as if our swimming in frigid water for no money had somehow threatened her position and power. It could be an hour, a day, or a week before Gu-sun and Gu-ja warmed again to each other.