Yul-chun, rejoicing, was careful to seem cool. “When this present world war is over,” he replied, “the Japanese will be vanquished, at least for a generation. We must seize the moment. The instant they surrender, we must step forward and take back the throne and claim our country. The western world is fighting for us now except Americans, who still hold themselves aloof, and though we cannot take our share in the war, yet our enemy is the common enemy and we have a right to our share of the victory. We ask no spoils, no land belonging to others. We ask only for our own country back, which is our independence.”
He was watching Sasha’s face as he spoke, and for the first time he saw something of what he wanted to see and heard what he longed to hear. His son’s face lighted, his son’s hand was outstretched and his son’s voice spoke with unusual ardor.
“I will be there, at that moment — with you—” He paused and then spoke the one word which Yul-chun had waited so long to hear.
“Father—” Sasha muttered, his voice low and still reluctant.
Yul-chun could not reply. His heart swelled into his throat and he put out his right hand and clasped his son’s hand. For the moment the two were in communion.
… Three days later the news flashed over all Korea and crept into every village and byway: Japan had attacked the United States. Yul-chun and Sasha were a dozen miles from the capital. Arriving in a small town in the twelfth month of that year toward the end of the seventh day, Yul-chun had decided to stop there for the night, for he had not wanted to go immediately to his father’s house. He and Sasha were travel worn, their garments soiled. Moreover, he had put aside some money to buy Sasha other garments than the Russian ones he wore. Thus they could appear with dignity as members of the Kim clan. And no sooner had they entered the inn of this town than they heard that on that very day in the morning while Christians were meeting in the churches, Japanese airplanes had swarmed over Honolulu and dropped bombs on the American warships in the harbor. The innkeeper told them, his voice a whisper, his eyes exultant as he put his hand before his mouth.
“Have you heard—”
“I cannot believe it,” Yul-chun exclaimed to Sasha. “Even the most arrogant Japanese officer could not dream of victory over the United States.”
Sasha was stuffing his mouth with good Korean bread. They sat at a table in a small room.
“Believe because you must,” Sasha said. “It has happened.”
Yul-chun did not hear. His mind ran ahead in hope renewed. Now the Americans would enter the war in all their power. Now the mighty industries of the United States would be put to work against Japan, and what was against Japan was for Korea. For the first time in how many years he dared to hope again. When the war was won, when the Japanese were vanquished, his country would be free. Victory — victory!
He leaped up as though he were a young man again. “Come, my son!” he cried. “Not a moment’s delay now! We must go instantly to my father’s house. We must prepare for independence!”
Sasha stared at him, his mouth full. “But — but you said I must have new clothes tomorrow!”
Yul-chun was suddenly impatient. “Your cousin will lend you something. Come — come!” And with this urging, sooner than words could tell he had paid the innkeeper, who in consternation asked why they left so soon and what was it they did not like in his inn and only tell him and he would make it right. Yul-chun assured him his inn was good, the food good, but the news hastened him, and in less than an hour he and Sasha were on their way again.
… It was after midnight when at last he stood before the well-remembered gate, Sasha at his side. There was no moon and in the darkness he felt the path under his feet for a rock and with it he pounded the barred gate. After a long few minutes he heard the gatesman’s cracked and drowsy voice.
“Who is here at this hour?”
“It is I, your master’s son,” Yul-chun replied.
The gateman would not open at such easy answer. He mumbled while he lit a lantern and then he opened the wicket and peered through. Yul-chun put his face close to the opening and smiled. “It is I,” he said, “older by many years, but your master’s elder son, nevertheless.”
The gateman gave a shout then and opened the gate, the same gateman, young when Yul-chun was a child, and now old.
“Come in, young master,” he cried. “Welcome home, young master! But I must wake your father slowly, or he will die of joy.”
“Do not wake him,” Yul-chun said, stepping into the courtyard. “Let him sleep until morning. Are my parents well?”
“Well except for the ills of old age, which we all have,” the gateman replied, “but who is with you, young master?”
“My son,” Yul-chun said proudly.
“Your son,” the old man echoed and lifting his lantern he let the light fall on Sasha’s dark and handsome face.
The old man gazed at him for a lingering moment. Then he let the light fall. “Now there are two of them in the house,” he muttered.
“How two?” Yul-chun demanded.
Before the gateman could answer, the lattice of the house slid back and a young man stood there, slim and tall and naked except for a towel about his middle and in spite of the winter night, in which a few snowflakes were already falling.
“Who is there?” he called.
“In the name of the gods,” the gateman cried, “do you come straight from your bath into the snowy night?”
“A minute,” the young man cried, and in an instant was back again, wrapped in a quilted robe.
The gateman beckoned with his left hand, the lantern held high in his right. In the path of light the young man came toward them and the gateman turned his head to Yul-chun.
“Behold your brother’s son,” he said to Yul-chun. And to the young man he said, “Behold your uncle who we thought was lost. He has come home. And here is his son. Now there are two of you.”
Yul-chun could not take his eyes from the young man. Yes, this was Liang. Yul-chun knew him. The glorious child had grown into this young man. Glorious? Yes, the eyes were the same, larger, luminous, benign, the mouth smiling, the head nobly shaped and held high.
“Do you recognize me as once you did?” Yul-chun asked.
He felt his heart beat, inexplicably quickened as Liang gazed at him intently.
“I do recognize you,” Liang said and his voice was deep and kind.
“Is it possible that you remember? You were very young,” Yul-chun said.
“I cannot remember, but I recognize you,” Liang said.
He spoke with calm confidence in the largeness of his soul, understanding and expecting understanding, and Yul-chun felt the same reverence now that he had felt when he held the remarkable child in his arms. There were indeed two of them, as the gateman had said, two of this new generation, two young men to take the place of the dead and the old, two for the struggle ahead, two for the victory that must be won.
He reached for his son’s right hand and for his nephew’s right hand and he bound them together in his own hands.
“You two,” he said, “you must be more than cousins. You must be brothers.”
He left them then and went into the house alone, the gateman leading the way with the lantern. At the inner door an old servingwoman stood and the gateman told her who Yul-chun was. She knelt then and took off Yul-chun’s worn leather shoes and put slippers on his feet.
“Sir, I am Ippun,” she said when this was done. “I have served your honored brother and his lady.” She hesitated and then she said proudly, “It is I who have cared for their son.”