When My Name Was Keoko (15 page)

Now it's Uncle they want. And they want me to stand there and do nothing again.

This time, I
have
to do something.

But what can I do? By myself, against an officer and his men—against a whole military police force. Against a whole government, really. They can make me do anything—take me from the airfield, from our home, even from my bed at night....

Unless—

Unless I'm not there.

What about that? What if they couldn't find me?

I can't just run away—where would I go? And besides, they'll probably catch me before I even leave town.

All those thoughts—in so little time. I'd bowed my head when the officer stopped speaking, like I was ashamed of Uncle. Just to buy a few more seconds before I have to say something. Head down, thinking, thinking...

Leaving town—how would I go? On a train—Sung-kwon's brother left on a train....

And in that instant the words come easily.

"Sir, I am honored that you should ask for my assistance. My uncle's absence has indeed caused my family much concern. However, I regret that I cannot be of help to you. I must tell you that I have volunteered to be part of His Majesty's Imperial forces. I leave tomorrow, to do my part in battle for his divine cause."

I don't know what I'm going to say before I say it. It's almost like someone else has spoken. It doesn't even feel like I'm lying. Before, whenever I lied I felt uncomfortable inside, knowing I wasn't telling the truth. But this time is different.

It's more like acting—becoming someone else, talking in a voice that isn't mine. I'm surprised at how easy it is. This is how Uncle did it, in his shop. Acted friendly toward the
Japanese, when all the while he was working against them.

The officer's face looks as surprised as I feel. Then upset, disappointed—that his plan isn't going to work. But only for an instant. He has to act pleased that I've volunteered for the army. He congratulates me on my excellent choice and blathers on about the army for a little while. Finally, he dismisses me.

I go straight to the army enlistment office. On the way I think it's almost funny Both of us acting. Him like he really wanted to help Uncle, me like I really wanted to help him.

I register my age as eighteen. It's not a complete lie, because of the way we count our age, which is different from the way the Japanese count. Koreans are one as soon as we're born. Korean-style, I really
am
eighteen.

I tell them I want to enlist immediately. No one asks any questions. The Japanese army needs men desperately. They're taking almost anyone who volunteers.

A physical exam, then instructions to report to the train station the next day. I walk away slowly. Each step brings me closer to home. To the moment when I'll have to tell my family.

Everything is so inside out. I believe in Uncle and in the things he believes in. I'd do anything not to betray him. Anything. Even join the army of his sworn enemy.

I think of all this again, there in the garden with Sun-hee. Then I take a deep breath and start to tell her about it.

Tae-yul and I talked in the garden for a long time. He told me everything that had happened in the police station. "Do
you know what this means about Uncle?" he asked. "They said it themselves—they said, 'Your uncle is a problem for us.' That means his work has been successful, Sun-hee—that he's still printing the newspaper. And it must be reaching hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. Even if—if something were to happen to me, it's of no importance compared to what the independence movement would suffer if Uncle is arrested."

He looked at me fiercely. "If they catch him, they'll kill him. The paper he prints—the truth in words—it must hurt the Japanese as much as a thousand guns."

In a single day, he seemed to have become so much older. "Oh, Opah," I whispered. "Isn't there any other way?" But I knew if there were, he'd have thought of it already.

He shook his head. "It's possible that their plan wouldn't work, that Uncle wouldn't let himself get trapped. But I can't take the risk."

He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry to burden you with this knowledge, Sun-hee," he said. "I don't want to tell Abuji. I'm his only son. I'm sure he feels that—that my life is worth more than Uncle's."

It was a staggering thought—to weigh the lives of two people I loved against each other, to decide which was worth more. For a moment I was glad it was not me having to make such an evil choice, and in the next moment, I was ashamed of my cowardice. I wiped away a few tears with the back of my hand and tried to compose myself.

"Opah, is there anything I can do?" It seemed so empty, my pitiful offer of help. What could a schoolgirl like me possibly do?

"Yes, Sun-hee, there is one thing. I'll be allowed to write letters, but I'm sure they'll be censored. I won't be able to put
down the truth as I see it. I'm counting on you to read between my words and uncover their true meaning. It would mean a lot to me to know that you'll try to understand what I really want to say."

Such a small thing. I felt ashamed again and, worse than that, helpless. Here was Tae-yul, risking his life to save Uncle ... and I could do nothing for either of them.

Maybe, at least, I could make Tae-yul smile, take that awful heavy look out of his eyes. Like Uncle would have. "Yes, all right," I said. "But please try to write legibly—your handwriting is terrible at times."

He looked surprised for the briefest instant, then burst out laughing when he realized I was joking. "I beg your pardon, O Queen of Kanji," he replied. "I cannot promise that my handwriting will meet your absurdly high standards, but I'll do my best."

"The queen has spoken," I said loftily. "Do not risk incurring my wrath." But I found that I couldn't stay very queenlike; I broke into giggles.

Now Tae-yul and I were both laughing. We laughed until we had to stop for lack of breath. Then Tae-yul looked at me and mimed a groveling bow, as if he were a lowly servant, and we were off once again. Soon we were both lying on the ground, weak from laughter.

Finally, Tae-yul stood and helped me to my feet. We walked back slowly toward the house.

At the back door we faced each other and bowed. A formal bow—a bow of farewell.

"Help our parents, Sun-hee," Tae-yul whispered. "And when you think of Uncle and me, don't be sad. Be proud."

The next morning he was gone.

***

I went to school and did the task we had been assigned for the day—filling sandbags? piling stones? Whatever it was, I did it automatically. At the end of the day I found myself in our courtyard with no memory of having walked home.

First Uncle, and now Tae-yul. I simply couldn't think about it—couldn't imagine what life would be like with both of them gone.

My feet took me the few steps to the room that had been theirs. I stood at the doorway and looked inside. Omoni had already tidied up. Everything was in its place: the sleeping mats out of sight in the low cupboard, books and a few old toys on the shelf.

I walked over to the shelf. There was Tae-yul's old top, worn down at the nib from all the spinning. He hadn't thrown it away. His books were there, too, including the primer with the Japanese alphabet—the one we'd used to choose our new names.

Suddenly, I longed to hold a book again. It had been weeks since we'd had regular classes at school. Abuji had offered to continue my kanji lessons at night, but after the hours of defense-preparation work, I was usually exhausted and went to bed early. Standing there in Tae-yul's lonely room, I realized how much I missed my studies—reading and writing most of all.

My diary—of course. I usually wrote in it just before bed. But there was no reason I couldn't write in it now.

I fetched it from the cupboard in the other bedroom and wandered out into the backyard. I ended up at Tae-yul's work area. Like his room, it looked a little forlorn—nearly all the tools were gone. Omoni hadn't cleaned it up yet, so it had more of the feeling that he'd just been there.

I sat on an old mat beside the little tree. The tree wasn't doing very well. We'd kept it covered up for days at a time, while the soldiers were searching for Uncle. It had lost a lot of leaves back then and hadn't grown them all back. But it was still alive.

My diary had a lot of entries about Uncle now. No one reading them would know they were about him, but I'd been thinking of him when I wrote them. I turned the pages and found my poem about the dragon pin:

The dragon is alone with his pretty ball.
There is no one to play catch with.
Hidden away in his cave,
he waits for the light.

And another, about the tree:

Do not mourn, little tree.
Your brothers and sisters have been struck down—
but you live still.
Be strong!
For you alone are the beginning
of a whole new forest.

I always looked forward to writing in my diary. It had become a great comfort to me—almost like a nightly meeting with a good friend.

Perhaps it could comfort me now. I could try to write about Tae-yul.

I held the pencil above a blank page.

***

Half an hour later I threw down the pencil in disgust. How many words had I written and crossed out?

My brother—older than me but still so young
You wear the wrong uniform—of a soldier, not a schoolboy
A short train ride over the mountain, but worlds away

It wasn't that the words were bad—they just weren't right. I couldn't understand it. I knew Tae-yul so well; why couldn't I write about him? And why was it different from writing about Uncle?

Maybe it was still too soon. I hadn't started writing about Uncle until weeks after he'd left. Tae-yul had been gone only a few hours. Perhaps when enough time had passed ... Maybe this was the reason nothing I wrote satisfied me.

But I knew it wasn't the only reason.

I'd often been angry at Tae-yul, especially when he treated me like a baby. But just as often I'd looked at him and, without either of us saying a word, I'd known we were thinking the same thing. At those moments, his thoughts were my thoughts, my thoughts were his.

When he left, he took too many of my thoughts with him.

About a dozen others are waiting at the station: young men like me, traveling to Seoul.

We all board the train. Most of the others put their bags on the floor. Not me—I hold mine on my lap. I want it close to me—my things from home.

Not much, really. A change of clothes. A lunch box. Somehow Omoni got some rice, just a handful, and all of it for me. Plus kimchee and beans. I can hardly believe I'll be eating rice again.

Sun-hee gave me a little envelope when I left the house. I open it on the train. Inside there's a piece of paper folded around a pressed flower. A rose of Sharon blossom. It's dried, so she must have had it for a while.

It was nice of her, but it worries me. Our bags will be inspected, for sure, either on the trip or once we arrive. Maybe the inspectors won't know what it is. But I can't risk that—can't risk anything that might make them send me home.

I could keep it in my pocket. But they'll probably take our clothes, too, when they give us uniforms.

I crumble the flower in my fist. Then I open my hand and blow the little pink pieces away.

It's OK, Sun-hee,
I say to myself.
I don't need the flower. I'll remember without it.

The training camp is outside Seoul. There are barracks, some other buildings, huge fields. We line up to register. We have to sign both our names—Japanese and Korean: Japanese because we're citizens of the Empire, Korean so they can keep track of us, of the ones who aren't really Japanese.

Haircut. Uniform. A kit bag for each of us with a second uniform inside. Everything gets done military style—no fussing, quick, efficient.

But there's still time to think. Like during the haircut. The Japanese had cut Grandfather's hair. Now they're cutting mine. The same thing so many years apart—but different. He was forced to have his hair cut. I've volunteered.

The kit bag is patched, like Sun-hee's clothes. My clothes
were patched, too, but it only bothered me to see hers, maybe because she's a girl. Girls care more about things like that.

The patches mean the bag was used before by another soldier.

For the first time I think about what it really means to be in the army. Whoever owned the bag before me might have been wounded and sent home. Or discharged for some other reason.

Or killed in the war. His kit bag reissued—to me.

A lucky kit bag? Or an unlucky one?

No use thinking of it as unlucky. I decide to think of it as my lucky kit bag.

We line up again outside the main building to listen to the camp's commanding officer. It's the usual speech about the divinity of the Emperor and the glory of his Empire. And a lot of stuff about discipline, hard work, the need for soldiers to be worthy of the Imperial uniform.

Finally, the commanding officer steps aside. One of the sergeants responsible for new recruits takes his place. "Your barracks is two kilometers away!" he barks. "You will go there now, running in lockstep! You will put away your gear in perfect order and report for dinner at exactly 1800 hours, back here at the mess hall! Dismissed!"

We all salute. The fellow next to me has a watch. "Eighteen hundred hours?" he mutters. "That's less than thirty minutes. We'd better get moving."

On our way we pass a lot of barracks. Soldiers are lined up outside, or else coming and going. Our barracks is the farthest away from the mess hall, the very last building. For the newest recruits.

***

The next few weeks are a blur. I'm always tired, so tired I can hardly think. Reveille at 0430 hours. Dress and straighten the barracks. Line up outside for roll call. Run to the mess hall. Breakfast, then our orders for the day.