How was he to achieve such immense purpose? He pondered long on the question. He was too well known and he did not doubt that the vital men and women of the underground knew he was at home and were only waiting to reach him. There were many small but important signs of their knowing. Rude drawings of young bamboo appeared on the walls and gates. Certain products of daily use were named Bamboo. Poems about spring and growth were scattered in the streets, none mentioning his name but some using the words “living” and “reed.” He maintained a steady silence, nevertheless, knowing very well that the Japanese authorities understood such signs and knew where he was and were watching him.
He could only conclude as months passed that he must have help. It would be foolish to risk his life and lose hope for his purpose, and after further thought and with reluctance he decided that he would talk with Liang. He hesitated to do so, for he knew that he might involve and imperil his nephew who would some day be the head of the family, and perhaps soon, since his own life was always in peril. Yet so far as he knew, Liang had no interest in politics or government. He seemed absorbed in his hospital, in his patients, in his people. He came and went freely, greeting Japanese as easily as he did his own countrymen, and speaking Japanese without accent. He had many patients among the Japanese who did not trust Korean doctors but did trust Liang. He had graduated with high honors from a Japanese university in the capital yet he had never gone to Japan, saying when he was invited that he was too busy, and that some day he would go when his internship was ended. To the American doctor he behaved as a son, speaking English perfectly and working with warm affection.
Yul-chun observed this universality and hesitated for a matter of weeks before he approached Liang. Could it be possible that a man beloved by all was really to be trusted? Who knew where his secret heart was? In the night he was beset by doubts and questions, but in the morning again, he had only to see Liang’s open face and hear his voice, clear and confident, and especially hear his laughter, to trust him again. At last, compelled by his necessity for help, he decided that he would indeed speak. He waited for the opportune moment.
It came one day in winter, upon the second anniversary of the day when the Americans entered the war. It was evening. The old couple, his parents, had gone to bed early for they felt the cold, and Sasha had been in the city all day and had not returned, might not return, perhaps, for he was restless and often away. Liang was not on duty at the hospital that night and Yul-chun, putting all these signs together, made up his mind to speak after their evening meal.
“I need advice,” he told Liang when Ippun had taken away the dishes and had filled the teapot again.
Liang smiled. “You flatter me, Uncle!”
“No,” Yul-chun replied, “I have been too long away from home and I cannot remain idle.”
With this, he outlined for him his twofold purpose, and thus continued: “It is not difficult for me to communicate with our countrymen abroad. I know all the leaders. Of these the most important are in the United States, and the next in China. The first group must shape American opinion and persuade the American government to recognize our right to independence and to realize that we are able to govern ourselves. Our provisional government is still in existence, its officers now in the United States. Through them we must work, and it is our task from here to keep them informed in both countries of what is taking place. They must keep us informed in return so that proceeding together we shall be ready to take back our country at the moment the Americans arrive upon our shores in victory.”
To his surprise, Liang’s whole being changed. The moment returned, that moment when as an infant he had recognized the man. His face was illumined, his eyes shone, an electric force beamed from him. He put out his hands and grasped Yul-chun’s hands.
“I have been waiting ever since you came back,” he exclaimed. “I thought you would never speak, yet I knew you would, I knew you must.”
Yul-chun was amazed and overjoyed and yet half afraid. This was what he had hoped for, this was what he needed.
They talked long then, Liang assured yet modest, his mind quick and clear. He listened to the long story Yul-chun now told of his life in China, and how he had fought wholeheartedly side by side with the revolution there, and had learned the technique and the tactics, had maintained his work of writing and printing, and then had left, repelled by cruelties and driven by his fear of new tyrannies.
“There is no guarantee of freedom merely because a new power arises in a nation,” Yul-chun concluded. “We must be prepared against such power. We must still distrust those who have been our ancient enemies. It is true, I have trusted the Americans. Yet of all the nations, we must count them as our only possible friends. They have betrayed us — yes, but it was in ignorance, not greed. Perhaps they have learned now. If not, we must teach them. That is what our fellow countrymen must do — teach them, so that when victory comes, they will know what to do with it. Let us forget the past. Let us remember only that the Americans among all nations have not seized our land or tried to rule us. And I do not forget their Christian missionaries. I am not Christian and I doubt religion, but they have opened hospitals and schools and they have been friends to us, these missionaries, and they have spoken for us and it is not their fault that they have not been heard. Governments are deaf and blind. Therefore I accept the Americans! They are our only hope. I was bitter against my father once because he said these very words. I am not bitter now, I am in despair. I know that in the world we face after the war there will be the same enemies, and the same passion to rule. We must have friends — and our only hope is the Americans. Above all, we must find someone who will go to America, and soon.”
Liang listened to this speech with quiet attention and again Yul-chun felt the comfort of his total understanding, so complete that he had the illusion that he need not have used words. It was a strange feeling, one that he could not analyze or compare to any other, but it permeated him.
“I know one who can help us,” Liang said. “She is a woman.”
Here he stopped. He filled his uncle’s tea bowl and his own, then went on.
“A few months ago I would not have hesitated to bring her to you. Now — I hesitate!”
Yul-chun proceeded cautiously. “Is this woman young?”
“Very young.”
“And beautiful?”
“Very beautiful.”
“A friend? Or something more?”
“Let us not speak of what she is to me — only of what she is.”
“Then what is she?”
Yul-chun leaned against his back rest and fixed his gaze on Liang’s face. He imagined that he saw a cloud there.
“She is a famous dancer,” Liang said.
“A dancer!” Yul-chun exclaimed. His voice expressed what he thought. A dancer? How could she be trusted? Above all, could it be possible that Liang was like other men, his calm beautiful face merely a trick of birth?
Liang smiled. “I know what you are thinking and I agree with you except in this one person. She is not merely a dancer. She is — everything.”
“How is it you know her?” Yul-chun demanded.
“She came to our hospital two years ago, from Peking. Since she is partly Japanese the Chinese had arrested her as a spy and tortured her.”
“Partly Japanese!”
“And partly English. Her grandfather was an English diplomat in China and he fell in love with a beautiful Manchu girl, the daughter of a prince. They had to escape from China to save their lives. Nor were they accepted in England, and so they went to Paris, and there Mariko’s mother was born.”
“How is she Japanese?” Yul-chun inquired.