Year of Impossible Goodbyes (15 page)

For three days Inchun and I searched for Mother near the marketplace, sleeping in the barn each night and surviving on the corn that we earned by babysitting. On the fourth day we went back to the train station hoping to tun into the old man with the broom. We sat on the bench nervously watching for the police, and suddenly heard the brushing of a broom. As he drew near, we looked at him. He did not look at us, but he said in a low voice as he continued to sweep, "You children are still here? Come back here late in the afternoon. We will figure out what to do. You can't stay here like this." Then he disappeared.

After we rested for a while, we looked at each other and were both sure we were ready to face the soldiers. We could never find Mother alone, so we decided to take the risk. We held hands and walked in the direction of the wooden guardhouse where they had pulled Mother aside. We could see it in the distance, and knew it would be a long walk through the rice paddies. Finally, we arrived. We peeked through a side door and saw two Russian soldiers. Two dogs were lazily sleeping next to them. No one was threatened by us; no one even knew we were there. Not even the dogs wanted to get up for us.

The soldiers were talking, humming, and munching on a long loaf of dark bread. Their mighty machine guns were resting against the wall within arms reach. Their red-brimmed hats lay on the table. These soldiers both had hair on their heads, and did not look as savage as the Kirimni soldiers with their shaven heads. I decided that they looked as if they might help me find Mother.

As a
nuna
I had to make the decisions and do all the talking. I looked at Inchun, who quietly stared down at his feet, waiting for his big sister to decide what to do next. I was ready to act, but I still did not know quite how to approach them. All of a sudden one of the soldiers poked his head out and said, "Kara!" meaning "Go away!" in Korean.

I blurted out, "We want to know what you did with out mother. We came to get her." I stared into his eyes and I didn't move. I was frightened. I could see out of the corner of my eye the guns and the dogs inside the guardhouse. Hearing my voice, the dogs lazily opened their eyes, only to close them again. Again I asked what they had done with Mother. By this time Inchun was squeezing my hand so tightly I thought he would break my fingers. But we stood with our chins held high trying to appear very brave.

The man looked at us standing hand in hand gripped with determination, and a faint smile crept across his face. He called out to the other soldier who was tearing off a bite of bread. The younger soldier's eyes were blue like the sky, a deep cobalt blue. He reminded me of Ivan Malenkiv, the first Russian soldier I had ever met. I thought maybe this soldier with the same clear blue eyes would like us and would help us.

After a few minutes, the older one made a face and turned away, looking bored. But the younger soldier invited us in. He spoke a bit of Korean, but said many words that I couldn't quite understand. Gesticulating, he pointed to us and then to himself, and I understood that he had a little sister and brother like us at home in his country. He gave us some of his dark bread. Though coarse, it was chewy and delicious to us after eating nothing but steamed corn for three days. We ate in silence, relieved that he was so friendly, but still afraid of what might happen to us. His large blue eyes gazed gently at us as we ate, and he began to seem like a friend.

I asked him once again, "Can you tell me where you are keeping my Mother? We want to find our mother. We lost her here almost four days ago. Can you find her for us?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted Inchun up on his lap, gave him more bread, and pointing to himself, said, "Dobraski, Dobraski." Inchun repeated "Dobraski," and the soldier laughed heartily.

The other soldier started shouting at Dobraski in Russian. He pointed to us and then to a big brick building far off in the distance. The dogs began to growl at us. Dobraski shouted at them and they quieted down at once. Dobraski shouted something to the older soldier, who gruffly shouted back at him. The older one picked up his gun, grabbed the dogs by their leashes, and walked off. Dobraski said nothing. He suddenly stood up, picked up his machine gun, swung it over his shoulder, and pointing to the jeep parked in the distance, motioned for us to follow. He was angry. I wondered what would happen now. Inchun and I followed him in silence.

I had seen hundreds and hundreds of these jeeps in Pyongyang but I had never ridden in one. I got in reluctantly, but Inchun was clearly excited to be sitting in the front. Dobraski hopped in and proceeded to drive down the muddy road. The cold air was refreshing and my dirty hair flew in the breeze.

Before I knew it, the jeep had stopped in front of the brick building with the big red Russian flag fluttering in the wind. Dobraski took us inside. It was clean and smelled like a paper factory. On every desk, there were huge stacks of papers, and we could hardly see the soldiers sitting behind these desks. One of the soldiers talked to Dobraski and then took us into a big, empty room.

While we sat waiting, I said quietly to Inchun, "If they take us in separately and ask lots of questions, just say that you don't know anything. Just say that all you know is that we were going to see our grandmother in Yohyun. Tell them I know everything."

Inchun stared wide-eyed at me, and nodded. He started to sob. He was exhausted and frightened. I felt like crying, too, but I told Inchun it would be all right. I didn't believe it myself, and I wondered if that was how Mother had felt all those times.

After a while, a Korean Communist soldier with ted epaulets and a red cap came in. He looked very stern and official. "You are the children who went to the guardhouse and asked for your mother?" We nodded. He was cold and mean-looking and I didn't like him. He stared closely at us, then pointed to Inchun and said, "You, follow me."

Inchun looked at me and I said, "I am his
Nuna
and we go everywhere together. Can I come, too?"

Glaring at me, he replied, "I will call you when I need you."

Inchun's face grew pale as he followed the soldier into the next room. I wondered what he was going to do to little Inchun. I sat in the empty room wondering whether someone was going to come and question me, too. Was someone watching me tight now? I had heard horrible stories about Communist interrogation techniques. People in our town said they were merciless with those who tried to escape to the South. My stomach ached and I held my tummy and rested my head on my knees.

After what seemed like days, Inchun came out and said, "They want you to go in right now. They told me not to talk to you. Are you sick,
Nuna?
" Inchun was still very pale, but he seemed to be all right otherwise.

I didn't answer. I just shook my head and went into the next room. As soon as I entered, the Korean Communist soldier shut the door and pointed to the hard wooden chair in front of a large desk piled high with official-looking documents. Behind the desk was a stout, bespectacled Russian officer. He asked my father's name and I told him. He asked me where my father was. I told him I had not seen him for many years as he had fled to Manchuria to avoid being imprisoned by the Japanese. He asked me if I had any big brothers and if I knew where they were. I told him I had three older brothers, but that I had not seen them for a long time either, as they were taken to labor camps by the Japanese soldiers and did not come home after the war. I was so frightened that it was not until then that I realized he was speaking to me in fluent Korean. Then he asked me why I was so far from my home in Pyongyang and what had happened to my passport. At this I started to say exactly what our guide had told us. I told him we were on our way to visit our sick grandmother. I was not in the habit of lying so I started to mumble. I hesitated when I tried to explain that my grandmother lived right near the border. All of a sudden, the Korean Communist officer shouted at me, "Tell the truth!" He struck the table with his fist. I was so startled that I started to cry.

The Russian officer looked disturbed and said something in Russian to the other officer, who then left the room. I was glad that he made that mean-looking Korean Communist leave. As the man left, he pushed my head with his large hand and said, "You'd better tell the truth to our Comrade Major." This young Communist reminded me of many eager young Korean men I had seen in Pyongyang who espoused Communism. They seemed more dedicated to Mother Russia than the Russians themselves. They were more anxious to kill traitors like and my family than the Russians were. They had no sympathy for us as their fellow countrymen. To them, the idea of becoming a dedicated Communist comrade was more important. It came as no surprise to me that the Comrade Major was less ominous.

He was a soft-spoken man. He also had red epaulets, but in addition had several red patches emblazoned on the front of his uniform. Looking at me, he said that he could not find my mother. It would be best for us to go back home to our relatives.

I mustered all my courage and said, "Please find my mother. She was taken by one of your soldiers at the checkpoint."

He told me he knew all about it and if he saw her he would tell her to go home just as he was now telling me. Then he let me sit there while he did his paperwork. He was looking through the many papers he had with photographs of Koreans pasted in the corner. I sat quietly, hoping he would say something about my mother. Maybe one of those papers was hers. After a long while, he called to a soldier who must have been standing outside the door. He said something to the soldier, who then led me and Inchun out the door and told us to go away.

Inchun and I felt completely lost and just stood outside that cold gray building. It had seemed a short distance from the guardhouse when we rode in the jeep, but now the checkpoint looked like a little pea in the distance. We walked in silence. I saw a large warehouse and I thought I heard noises coming from inside. Two armed soldiers were marching back and forth in front of the building with their dogs. I wondered if Mother was being held there. Was there something we had said that might make them hurt Mother? I felt miserable and I was glad Inchun didn't ask me any questions. We continued on toward the guardhouse. We could try asking Dobraski one last time.

After a long, tiresome walk, we reached the little guardhouse, where we found Dobraski humming a familiar Russian tune. Before I even had the chance to say anything, he pointed in the direction of the train station and then at the setting sun. We understood that he wanted us to go before dark. He went back inside. He didn't want us around anymore.

Lost and alone, Inchun and I reached for each other's hands and walked slowly toward the station. It was getting dark and chilly. We saw Dobraski peek out from the guardhouse to watch us as we passed the other soldier walking up and down the path with the two dogs. The dogs seemed to know us and didn't hark at us. I dropped a lump of the dark bread Dobraski had given me in front of the dogs. I wanted them to know that I liked them.

I thought of Dobraski in his khaki uniform with the red patches signifying his rank, his black boots that came all the way up to his knees, and the familiar gun he had slung about him. He resembled other Russian soldiers I had seen, but somehow he seemed different. I wished we could have stayed with him until we found Mother. I felt certain that she was being held somewhere around there. Maybe Dobraski knew something about her whereabouts, but was powerless to do anything. I looked back many times to see if he would ask us to return, hut he didn't.

We continued walking toward the station along the narrow path between the rice paddies. I thought of Mother. If Mother were still in the hands of the Russians, maybe she would be lucky enough to meet someone as nice as Dobraski and the major. But maybe Mother was already in the South, having assumed that the guide had taken care of us as she had asked. We had never expected to be lost like this, and so we had never discussed what to do. I knew we could never go home to Kirimni. Traitors like us would be shot to death. Aunt and Kisa would be shot, too, for taking us in.

I looked at Inchun. I didn't feel like talking, but I hoped he might prattle on about something as my head was aching from trying to think about what we should do next. I was tired and hungry and wanted to eat the rest of the dark bread that Dobraski had given us. But I had hidden it under my skirt, knowing we had a long way ahead of us and had to conserve our supply to survive.

Inchun started to cry and ask for the food. He tugged at my skirt, and kept crying, "
Nuna,
I'm hungry. Let me have some bread now." I told him he had to wait. Inchun asked again for the bread and I told him to wait until we were really hungry. "Now,
Nuna,
I am really hungry now!" Inchun cried, tugging at my skirt. He was like any other tired, cranky, hungry little boy. I felt sad and completely alone. But at the same time I was annoyed at myself for expecting so much from him. I gave him the rest of the bread. "Chew it for a long time and eat slowly so you won't get a stomachache," I warned. He ate in silence, holding my hand and lagging as far behind me as his little arm could stretch.

When we arrived at the small country train station, it was much too late to expect to find the old man who said he would help us. Since it was almost dark, we walked around the station to see if it would he safe for us to spend the night. A few people passed by without even looking at us. Everyone was afraid of being spotted by the police. We saw some soldiers walking by, talking and laughing loudly. We sat down on the wooden floor facing the little ticket booth that was closed. Inchun complained about a stomachache just as I had feared, and cried himself to sleep on my lap. I didn't know if we would even see the man with the broom, and he was our only hope.

My bones ached, and I suddenly realized how exhausted I was. For the past three days I had dragged my tired feet up and down so many long country roads. I was covered with mud from going through the rice paddies at all hours. I had often given Inchun piggyback rides and my feet had sunk deep into the wet earth. As a result, my ankles and legs were caked with many different shades of mud. It was hard to he a nunu. I wished someone older than I were around. I didn't like being the older one, though I loved Inchun and I wanted to take care of him. I was tired and I cried as I caressed his dirty hair, stiff from the mud and rain. We had not been able to wash or bathe since we left Pyongyang, and we were both dirty and smelly and covered with bruises and scabs from the mosquito bites.