When My Name Was Keoko (16 page)

We
still
attend classes every morning for an hour and a half. We have to study the Emperor's military code of honor, "The Imperial Rescript to Soldiers and Sailors," memorize it, and recite it back to the sergeants. There are other lessons, too. How to take apart a gun, clean it, put it back together. It's easy enough in the big room where we have our lessons, but then we have to do it outside. In the rain. In a muddy ditch. At night.

Lunch. The food isn't very good, but at least there's more than at home. Usually barley, a little dried fish, vegetables or pickles.

In the afternoon, we have physical training. Endless calisthenics. Running for hours with rocks in our kit bags. Uphill, always uphill. How can there be so much uphill with no downhill? Obstacle courses without our kit bags. Then the same again
with
the bags, and you have to try to beat your first time. If you don't, you have to run it again.

Back to the barracks. Clean up, put our stuff away, get ready for dinner. Run back to the mess hall. After dinner, sometimes more training. Or a lecture from the officers about military history and strategy. Trying hard to stay awake.

Back to the barracks for the last time. Laundry, the last duty of the day. Washing out that day's uniform, hanging it up to dry. Taking the other uniform, hung up the day before, brushing it, sewing loose buttons, darning any holes. Everything ready for the next morning.

And, finally, collapsing into bed. But not falling asleep—because most nights the sergeants roust us all out of bed again. To stand outside in nothing but our underwear and recite the Imperial Rescript—pages and pages long.

No use trying to fake it. The sergeants walk up and down our ranks, listening to each one of us: "The soldier and sailor should consider loyalty their paramount duty.... Remember always that duty is heavier than a mountain, while death is lighter than a feather...." The whole thing takes about twenty minutes to recite.

For the first time in my life, I'm glad Abuji is a scholar—that I had his reputation to live up to. I never did, of course, but if I hadn't had to try, even a little, I wouldn't have been able to memorize this stuff.

If you mumble or try to skip over the parts you don't know, you're in trouble. One of the sergeants always carries a whip with him. The other keeps a club handy. One crack of the whip and your back is bleeding. One whack with the club and your buttocks turn to nothing but pain. Cry out or fall down and you get hit some more.

The first time this happens, it's a recruit behind me. He says the wrong words, or maybe he doesn't say the right ones loud enough. The whip cracks, we all stop reciting. The guy has fallen to his knees and the sergeant is coiling the whip for another lash. He sees us watching and his face goes purple.

"What are you doing?" he screams at us. "You want some of this, too?"

Immediately we face front and continue with the recitation. Behind me, I hear the whip crack again, and a cry like a dog's yelp. Another crack—another cry.
Shut up,
I'm begging the guy in my head.
Shut up. If you cry, he'll whip you again....

One more crack—and then silence. We're dismissed, and warned not to touch the guy. So we leave him as he is, curled up on the ground, a dark stain spreading on the back of his shirt.

We're punished for everything. The smallest things. We clean up the barracks, an ashtray isn't right in the middle of the table—somebody gets hit. We do calisthenics, and don't finish exactly together—somebody gets hit. Guys walk around with black eyes, gaps in their mouths from lost teeth, scars on their backs, bruises on their legs.

The Whipper tells us that the cruelty is necessary. That if we can put up with it, the ones who get through the training will be tough enough for anything the enemy does.

Not everybody makes it through. In the first month, four get sent home in disgrace. Their lives worthless now—back home the Japanese will treat them like garbage. A shame to themselves and worse, to their families.

Not me. I'm not going home that way. Uncle would have made it through this and I will too. I think about the two soldiers who took my bicycle. The officer who had Sun-hee's diary burned. The one who wanted my help to trap Uncle, the faceless ones who beat him up, the others who might be hunting him down even now.

I'll never let them win.

A few days after Tae-yul's departure a Japanese soldier came to the house and delivered small sacks of rice and dried fish.

"For the family of the brave young man who volunteered his services to His Divine Majesty!" he announced as he presented the sacks to Abuji. Abuji bent his head down in a partial bow. The soldier saluted and left.

Abuji took the sacks to the kitchen and handed them to Omoni. I went to help her put them away.

I found a wooden box to store them in. When I turned toward her, I saw Omoni holding the sacks away from her, as if they contained something nasty. The expression on her face was like a bitter wind.

I could guess what she was thinking. Ten thousand bags of rice and fish wouldn't have made up for Tae-yul's absence. "Omoni," I said gently, "Tae-yul is proud of what he's doing for us. We must prepare and eat this food with gladness in our hearts."

Omoni looked at me for a moment, then back at the bags in her hands. Her face softened; she put the bags down hastily and wiped away a tear. "You are right, Sun-hee. Here is what we will do—we will prepare a little celebration meal with this food. I think that would please Tae-yul."

She smiled at me. But only her lips smiled, not her eyes.

Four weeks after Tae-yul left, Abuji walked into the courtyard. He seemed to be standing a little straighter, and looked as cheerful as I'd ever seen him. I knew the reason right away. Only one thing could make us feel all at once as if it were a holiday: a letter from Tae-yul.

Abuji read it aloud to us.

Dear family,

I wish I could have written sooner, hut you would hardly believe how busy our days are. We rise very early and straighten the barracks for inspection. Then we have breakfast, followed
by several hours of study. And I thought that being out of school would mean no more books for me! On the contrary, we have many things to learn. There are procedures and operations, of course, for our mission. In addition, we spend a lot of time reading the Emperor's words for inspiration and guidance. We memorize his speeches and recite them to our commanding officers.

In the afternoon we have physical training. It is very challenging at times, and of course the sergeant demands our every effort. On many occasions we train without the necessary equipment, to simulate a crisis that might actually happen in battle.

We are fortunate that we continue to receive the supplies necessary for our training sessions. Food is plentiful, if somewhat limited in variety. They have given us two uniforms each. Omoni, you would be surprised to hear that our duties include keeping our uniforms in top condition. Our uniforms are inspected often, so I am an expert at laundry now. We do our laundry every evening. Then we study some more and sleep very gratefully!

I hope this letter finds you all in good health. Please do not worry about me, for I am doing fine. I think of you all often, always with love and respect.

With deepest affection,
Your son and brother

Letter writing required a very formal style, quite different from the way Tae-yul spoke. The letter didn't really sound like him, but it was enough to know he'd written those very words.

Abuji read it to us again. When he finished the second time, Omoni clasped her hands and spoke, her eyes shining.
"He sounds very well! My, they train them a long time, don't they?"

I knew why she sounded so happy. If Tae-yul was still training, then he hadn't yet been sent to the battlefront. He was safe.

I couldn't wait to read the letter for myself—to see if there was anything in it for me to figure out. "Abuji, may I have the letter for now? To read again?"

He nodded, folded the letter carefully back into its envelope, and handed it to me. I took it and went out into the garden.

I read through the letter quickly first, then went back to the beginning. "
In addition, we spend a lot of time reading the Emperors words for inspiration and guidance. We memorize his speeches and recite them to our commanding officers.
" I almost laughed out loud. Here indeed was a place where Tae-yul had left invisible traces of his true feelings on the page. As a student, he'd always hated learning the Emperor's words! I could almost hear him now: "
Isn't that one of the silliest things you have ever heard? Imagine making soldiers spend time memorizing speeches instead of preparing for battle!
"

There were several more lines in which Tae-yul seemed to be saying more than his actual words.

"
The sergeant demands our every effort.
" I could well imagine that. A Japanese sergeant, yelling at the recruits every minute. I hoped he wasn't too hard on Tae-yul.

"
...fortunate that we continue to receive supplies
..." I was surprised that this line had escaped the censors' attention. It implied strongly that supplies were low—so low that Tae-yul was grateful for them, when really they should be something he took for granted. The food, too—"
limited in variety
"
Surely, the army ought to be receiving the best of food. At least that's what the Japanese had been telling us for years—that our rice was needed by the army. And what about training "
without the necessary equipment?
" Was this really to make them practice for a battle crisis? Or because the equipment wasn't available?

"... laundry ... study some more ... sleep very gratefully!
" That had to be another way of saying that he was thoroughly exhausted. Tae-yul had never done laundry in his life before this. How tedious it must be at the end of a long day to have to worry about preparing his uniform for the next day's inspection.

And I was sure that the last paragraph contained his thoughts clear and undisguised. Including the way he'd signed it, without using his name. For he'd have had to use his Japanese name—Kaneyama Nobuo, instead of Kim Tae-yul.

All in all, the letter seemed quite critical of the military. Most of the supplies and equipment must be going to the war itself, so there was little to spare for training new recruits. I thought about it for a while and finally decided that Tae-yul was trying to say that the war was still going badly for the Japanese.

Even beyond the pleasure of getting the letter, there was double joy in it for me: the satisfaction of figuring out Tae-yul's real message and the good news it carried.

We prepared a box to send to Tae-yul. Omoni put in a little pot of bean paste and a paper packet of
go-kam,
his favorite sweet of dried persimmons.

Mrs. Ahn had a persimmon tree in her garden. In the fall it was truly magnificent: The leaves fell and left the branches
bare except for the brilliant orange fruits. The soldiers came every year and took most of the persimmons away, but she always managed to hide some. She dried them until they were the size of little plums and stored them all through the winter. Sometimes when we did errands for her she would give me one. I always sucked it instead of chewing, to keep its sweet golden taste in my mouth as long as I could.

I had never known Omoni to ask Mrs. Ahn for anything before, but she did now. She asked for two persimmons to send to Tae-yul. Mrs. Ahn didn't even nod; she went right into her house and came back with a handful—at least a dozen of them, probably all she had left. It made my mouth water just to look at them.

I could have asked Omoni for one. She'd have given it to me; she knew I loved
go-kam
as much as Tae-yul did. But it didn't seem right to want a piece when he was in the army so far from home.

And as I wrapped the dried fruit carefully, I wished we were making another box as well—for Uncle.

We all wrote letters to send with the box. Abuji and I wrote our own, then I wrote one for Omoni—she told me what to say. She put in a scarf she'd made, too. She'd started it right after Tae-yul left, unraveling two old pairs of mittens to get the yarn. Blue and black, knitted together. It wasn't very pretty, but it would be warm. The spring nights were still chilly, but I thought Omoni would have sent the scarf no matter what the weather—just to have something to send.

When everything was in the box, Abuji sealed it and took it to the post office. The mail wasn't very reliable these days, but surely they'd be more careful with something sent to a
soldier. At least we hoped so. I felt pleased when I went to bed that night, imagining Tae-yul opening the box and finding all those nice things.

At the end of the third week we're allowed to write letters home. We have to put them into the envelopes unsealed—the censors will read them first. I try to make mine cheerful, because I don't want anyone at home to worry about me. Especially Omoni. Besides, I'm doing fine.

I'm in better shape than most of the others. All that work building the airstrip—I've gotten pretty strong. The physical training is always tough, but I get through it. Some of the guys puke or collapse and can't finish. And then they get beaten by the sergeant and have to do the worst jobs around camp.

I keep my mouth shut except for yes, sir—no, sir—right away, sir. I get things done when they need to be done. The sergeant and the other officers leave me alone. It's sort of like acting again—acting like a good soldier.

But sometimes at night I have trouble falling asleep, even though I'm exhausted. Because I'm not sure if I can keep the act going once I'm in combat. In combat a good soldier doesn't just get up the hill first. Or load his gun fastest.

In combat a good soldier kills people. Americans—the ones who are trying to free Korea.

I know it will come sooner or later—the time when I won't be able to act anymore. But I don't know when. Or what I'll do.