“The pins,” said Mr. Lee brusquely.
“I almost forgot,” said Mr. Choy. “Ladies, please hand over your Kim Il-sung pins. As if you don’t already look obviously Northern, the pins just scream out, ‘Look at me, I’m from North Korea!’ Besides, I can fetch a little profit by selling them to collectors. Whatever I make from them will help to pay off your debt.” Mr. Choy held out his hand.
Cho unfastened the pin on her lapel without a second thought and handed it to Mr. Lee. Gyong-ho and Il-sun, however, looked down at their own pins thoughtfully. The Kim Il-sung pin was to be worn by everybody, without exception. Gi suspected that even the Dear Leader himself, Kim Jong-il, wore one. It was a small red pin that had the smiling face of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, printed on it. It was unheard of to be asked to remove it. To be caught out-of-doors without wearing one was potentially punishable by imprisonment—it was that important. The pin had magical ideological properties and could defend its wearer against the scourge of imperialist doctrine. It was a form of protection, even if only from the consequence of not wearing one. She was afraid that if she took it off, she would be at risk of catching some grave, and possibly terminal, mental infection. Or at the very least, she would be sent back to the gulag.
“It’s just a pin,” Cho said. “It won’t be of any use over here.”
As much as that made sense, Gyong-ho could not make her hands move to take it off. What if Mr. Lee told Gianni, who then told the orphanage mistress, who would have to report it to the head of the Party Youth? If she took it off, everyone would know. Wouldn’t they? Finally, her hand moved as if struggling against some great force, shaking as she fumbled with the clasp. Here was another barrier, another DMZ, where the mental hurdle was so much greater than the physical one. Even as the pin slid out of her blouse, she was already thinking of how she would explain this at the next self-criticism meeting.
36
T
HE
WOMEN
WERE
MADE
to lie down in the back of the van, covered by a blanket. The ride was hot and bumpy, though no more uncomfortable than being in the bed of the truck the night before. After a time they came to an asphalt road and the ride smoothed out. The van had made several turns over the course of a half hour, and unable to see out the windows, Gi was beginning to feel nauseous.
Finally, Mr. Lee shouted to them that they could come out. They threw off the blanket and came timidly forward to a bench seat directly behind the two men. Mr. Choy was driving. Mr. Lee offered them water from a plastic bottle.
“It is thanks to our Dear Leader that we have enough clean water to drink,” Gyong-ho said as she received the bottle.
The two men broke into uproarious laughter.
“I love you Northerners,” said Mr. Choy, his face red from laughing. “You say such funny things.”
The women shifted uncomfortably. The men’s laughter was shockingly irreverent. Just hearing such insolence was practically a crime, and the only way to assuage their sense of guilt would be to report it; but to whom? They were in
Hanguk
now. There was no one to report it to.
Gyong-ho was in an alien world. The van was moving with great speed down a wide paved road, and there were lines of cars stretching in both directions for as far as her eyes could see. Thousands of cars and trucks were hurtling past one another at extreme speeds. It was terrifying. The
Chosun
roads, by contrast, were practically devoid of traffic; one vehicle coming along every few minutes, at most. In the North, most of the vehicles were old military trucks, all painted the same green color. In the city, an occasional luxury car was seen, but that was uncommon. On this
Hanguk
road there was an endless variety of cars and trucks of various sizes, shapes, and colors. She never knew that there could be so many different types of vehicles. She wondered how the people of the South, as impoverished as they were, could afford them all.
Mr. Lee turned in his seat to face the women.
“Are you ladies hungry?” he asked.
The women looked at each other in shock. No one had ever asked them that before. It seemed like a rude question, too obvious and personal, like talking about intimate bodily functions. In
Chosun
nobody ever asked, “Are you hungry?” Hunger was a given. It was a question a person asked only if there was an option to eat and one might actually opt not to. What kind of barbarians were these people in the South, to ask such indelicate questions?
Receiving no clear reply to his question, Mr. Lee continued, “Well, I’m starving.”
Gi could not hide her horror. His statement was beyond rude, beyond scandalous. Mr. Lee, the only truly overfed person she had ever seen, saying out loud that he was starving. She was not sure if she should be angry or ashamed or sad, so she felt all three at once.
“Shall we give the bumpkins a treat?” asked Mr. Choy.
Mr. Lee nodded.
They were just entering the outskirts of a large city. Mr. Choy turned off the road and pulled up to a small, square building with a huge red-and-yellow sign in front. Most of the writing on and around the building was in strange foreign script. Mr. Choy commanded the women to remain silent, then pulled the van up to a rectangular board. There was writing all over it, though little of it made sense to the women. Mr. Choy rolled down his window, and a heavy smell wafted in. It was an awful, meaty, sickly sweet smell, but it reminded Gi of her hunger all the same. Her stomach gurgled. A voice emanated from a speaker in the rectangular board. Mr. Choy spoke back using so many foreign words that Gi could not understand him. The van then pulled forward to a window where a woman in a strange paper hat was visible behind the glass. She opened the window and handed Mr. Choy three white paper bags, which he in turn handed to Mr. Lee. After giving the woman a small handful of currency, Mr. Choy engaged the van, and, within only minutes of leaving it, they were back on the road with the bags of warm food. It seemed a small miracle.
Could food be so easy?
Mr. Lee opened the bags and passed Gyong-ho a warm bundle wrapped in paper, which she unfolded carefully. Inside was a soggy bun surrounding a slab of grayish meat. There were odd sauces mixing inside the bun, white and pink. A single green leaf and a slice of tomato were also tucked inside. She felt conflicting waves of hunger and revulsion. She had not had meat in months. She had not eaten anything for over a day, but there was something decidedly weird about this food that gave her pause. She raised her eyes toward the men in the front of the van, not trusting them. Mr. Choy was watching her in the rearview mirror, as if he were enjoying her discomfort. It was a look of amused fascination mixed with condescension, and Gi quickly lowered her gaze. Finally hunger overpowered her uncertainty and she devoured the sandwich feverishly. Cho, with similar hesitation and suspicion, inspected the food. She sampled a long, fried, starchy string, holding it between her fingernails, being careful not to touch it with the pads of her fingers. Deciding that it was edible, she ate her whole portion in a matter of seconds. Il-sun looked despondently at hers without taking a bite. The shock was too much.
Gyong-ho gawked as the van came into the heart of the throbbing city. Traffic weaved dangerously around them; the air was thick with exhaust and exotic smells; tall buildings scratched the turning sky. The cacophony was unlike anything she had ever heard before: engines revving, tires rolling on asphalt, the muffled bass lines of music emanating from countless vehicles. Sidewalks thronged with a disordered tangle of well-dressed people—not the stained, ragged, and groveling masses she had been led to imagine populating
Hanguk
. It was an unintelligible soup of activity. Where, in
Chosun,
there would have been gigantic signs proclaiming the superiority of the workers’ paradise and the magnificence of the Great Leader, there were billboards paying tribute to soap and perfume and cars. All in all, it was a dizzying swirl of information too vast and complex to understand, even for the unusually gifted Gyong-ho. Where were the long, grim faces and pleading, desperate eyes?
Mr. Choy navigated the van to a less frenetic part of town, seemingly on the outskirts. Here the buildings were less well maintained, and rubbish collected in untended piles along the street, as if placed there by the eddying force of the wind. Here and there small groups of rough-looking young men stood surveying the street, their watchful eyes attuned to some shifting urban tide. In contrast to the heart of the city, this street had a dense quiet about it that felt more like the sound inside the barrel of a loaded gun waiting to go off.
It was afternoon when the minivan parked alongside a four-story building that was a cake of cracked concrete and dirty glass. Some of the windows were cracked or covered with cardboard. Cigarette butts and bottle caps littered the sidewalk in front. The building loomed, seeming too heavy for the plot of ground on which it stood. Gyong-ho half expected to see it sink. The women were ordered to get out of the van, and Mr. Lee led them to a dark entranceway. There was an electronic keypad affixed to the wall next to an iron gate and he pressed a series of buttons. There was a buzzing sound and Mr. Lee pushed the gate open. Gyong-ho had never seen such a device, one that could unlock a door just by entering a code. Part of her mind held a detached fascination in spite of her fear. They followed Mr. Lee into a dark corridor, with Mr. Choy bringing up the rear. The corridor was heavy with stillness, and their shoes echoed off the concrete floor. There were unmarked doors on both sides that looked to Gi like shady sentinels with their backs turned, looking over their shoulders, hiding something.
They were led to a set of stairs at the end of the corridor and climbed to the fourth floor, Mr. Lee red-faced and out of breath. There was another metal gate at the top of the stairs, this time secured with a chain and padlock. A young man, who looked to be no older than twenty, with spiky black hair and thick silver and gold chains around his neck, was sitting on a stool behind the gate. He acknowledged Mr. Lee with a nod.
“We own the whole building,” said Mr. Lee to no one in particular. It was an odd comment that seemed almost housewifely coming from such a brusque man. “This is Razor,” he said, indicating the young man. “He’s here for your . . .
protection
. If you need anything ask him.” The young man with spiky hair nodded apathetically and withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocked the gate, and ushered the party inside. They were in a long corridor, similar to the one on the first floor, with doors on both sides. The doors scowled at Gyong-ho as she crossed the threshold of the gate—she counted six on each side. They were led to the third door on the left. Mr. Choy shepherded the women inside.
37
G
YONG
-
HO
FOUND
HERSELF
IN
the entranceway of a small apartment. Just inside the door was a short hallway, opening into a large room in which beige paint was peeling in the corners. The place was lit by a solitary window on the far wall, under which there was a small, round table with two chairs. To the right was a kitchenette, not really separate from the room, outfitted with a two-burner electric stove, a heavy, cast iron cooking pan, a stainless steel sink, and, to Gi’s astonishment, a refrigerator. To the right of the kitchen was another, smaller room furnished with a European-style double bed, two pillows, and a couple of blankets. The apartment was a bit musty, but it was clean.
“We were only expecting two of you, so you will just have to make do with three of you in here,” said Mr. Choy. “Toilets and showers are down the hall, but the door only opens from the outside. If you need to go, knock and Razor will let you out, one at a time. I’ll bring some supplies when I return.” With that, Mr. Choy turned on his heel, walked out of the apartment, and closed the door with a loud
bang.
Beyond the terror of finding herself a prisoner in a foreign land and facing an uncertain future, there was an even deeper discomfort brewing inside Gyong-ho. She felt exposed and anxious in a way that she had never felt before. It was a heavy sense of guilt at being complicit in a terrible crime, and her conscience was pressing her to confess it. She cast a penitent look at the blank wall where the portraits of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader were supposed to be; neither had there been portraits at the entrance of the building as they came in. She had never been anywhere that did not have the venerable leaders watching over her. Not to have the portraits was one of the greatest felonies possible, the punishment of which she knew only too well. The apartment felt vast and empty without them, and she was afraid that the local
inminbanjang
might come with the secret police and take her away in the night. Without the portraits to look over her, and stripped of her Kim Il-sung pin, she felt vulnerable to the evils that raged in the world outside the Dear Leader’s protection.
“These guys must be important,” said Cho, seemingly unaware of the danger. “Look at this refrigerator!” The refrigerator was a small white cube. She bent over and opened it, and a light blinked on inside. Owning a refrigerator, or a television or electric fan, was one of the ultimate status symbols in
Chosun.
Only the very wealthy could afford them. The refrigerator was empty, but Cho put her hand inside it anyway to feel the wonder of the chilled air.