Year of Impossible Goodbyes (5 page)

Mother continued as if she were anxious to be done with it. The determination in her eyes discouraged me from asking any more questions. "It was a hard life in Manchuria," she said haltingly, "but we were happy working for the independence movement. But not for long. The Japanese soon found us, and once again, in the middle of the night, they set fire to our homes. The soldiers, ready with their guns and swords, waited outside people's homes and shot them as they came running out of their burning houses. There were massacres in all the small Korean settlements." I wasn't quite sure what the word
massacre
meant, hut I didn't interrupt Mother as her eyes were filling with tears.

Mother continued. "I escaped with your three brothers and sister from Manchuria to Pyongyang with the help of Ling's family. Father and Grandfather stayed in Manchuria and hid in the basement of Ling's home waiting to set up the newspaper once again. Grandfather, however, was soon captured by the Japanese soldiers and tortured. After several months, Father and his friends managed to rescue Grandfather from the soldiers, and they sent him to Pyongyang disguised as a peasant. Well," she said, "you know what it's like in Pyongyang."

There were still so many things I wanted to know, and I wished she would continue. But she gathered the pictures together, and put them back in the box. "This box was all that was saved from those two fires." Mother looked pale and weak. She closed her eyes and shook her head. We looked at her in bewilderment. We had learned so much about our family; there had been so much we hadn't known. Why hadn't Mother and Grandfather told us before? Mother quietly took the box and went to sit by Grandfather's side.

Inchun and I went to my room, and we thought about what Mother had told us. I was glad to finally know my family's history, but I started to grow angry that Mother had kept it from me and Inchun for so long. We waited to be called again to Grandfather's room, when we heard Aunt Tiger mumbling to herself. "Poor Kisa asked Captain Narita three times. I knew what Narita would say. 'No doctors for the old dying Korean man. Doctors are busy helping the Imperial soldiers.' I expected as much." Aunt then saw us listening and stopped short. Was Grandfather really dying? I looked at Inchun. His face was dark, and he looked sad and lost as he stared at Aunt. Aunt looked at us, then hurried away.

Finally, Mother called us in again. Remembering what Aunt had said, we tiptoed in and Inchun grabbed my hand. To my great surprise, Grandfather opened his eyes and smiled. He lifted his fingers slightly as if to wave at us. We sat down close to him and waited. He looked us over from head to toe as if he wanted to memorize every little detail. He stretched out his hands. He wanted to touch our faces. We leaned toward him, and he touched my cheek with one hand and Inchun's with the other. His skin was cool and dry. He gazed at us for a while and then took our hands.

As Grandfather enveloped our hands in his, I felt a strange sensation. I felt as though a quiet, but peaceful, little Buddha had slowly crept inside me. Grandfather smiled, and let go of out hands. He closed his eyes again. I looked at Inchun. His dark eyes that had smiled as Grandfather held us were now filled with tears. I hugged him. I wanted him to feel the peaceful little Buddha that I had felt inside me a minute ago.

The next day we did not see Grandfather. We were not called into his room. Nobody had time for us. Inchun and I spent most of the day in the yard. While I was brooding with fear and sadness, Inchun hunched over his little corner of the yard, working on a picture. He drew in the dirt with a stick Grandfather had whittled for him, and he erased by sweeping the dirt with the small brush Mother had given him. He was drawing a picture of a Buddhist temple tucked away in the mountains. There were lots of monks wandering about, and animals were hiding in the mountains. I joined him and drew flowers: wild lilies, azaleas, little violets, and roses.

As we sat playing in the yard, a Buddhist monk entered through the gate dressed like a peasant in rough gray cotton. I knew he was bringing special herbs for Grandfather. The hours passed slowly, and still we had no news about Grandfather. Mother and Aunt Tiger were too busy taking care of him, and so we just waited. Finally, Aunt Tiger came and said that Grandfather wanted to see us again. She gave me a special dish of lemon oil and a little bit of soft gauze with which to rub his hands and his parched lips. As usual, Inchun was right behind me like my shadow. Grandfather's room was very dark and the air was somehow different. Mother looked at us as we came in, but remained motionless by Grandfathers side Inchun and I went and sat near him, but Mother motioned for us to move even closer.

I started to rub a bit of cool lemon oil on his forehead. His breathing was very heavy and low, and he did not open his eyes. His face had taken on a bluish quality. But then a faint smile allayed my fears. He said with his eyes closed, "Will you rub some of that oil on my feet?" So relieved to hear his voice, I said, "Yes, Grandfather," as I picked up the bowl of lemon oil.

But Mother shot up like an arrow, lunged at the bowl of lemon oil and snatched it from me. "You and Inchun go outside," she said. "I will do that."

Grandfathers voice was weak, but he whispered with determination, "My daughter, did you not heat me ask my grandchildren, not you, to do it this time ... It won't hurt them."

I had never seen Mother behave like that. She frightened me. Mother was quiet for a long time. I didn't understand. Inchun and I stared at the floor. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Mother gently handed me back the bowl and the white gauze. Mother did not always obey Grandfather, but I was glad she listened now.

She lifted the soft, white cotton blanket that covered Grandfather's feet. She took off his white socks as if she were unwrapping a precious object. After folding the blanket around his ankles to protect him from the draft, she stepped away. It was my turn to take over. I put the cloth into the bowl and squeezed it gently. I felt so privileged to be allowed to take care of Grandfather. I had never seen his bare feet before. They were always covered with white socks.

His feet were long and bony. They felt cool to the touch. I could see the veins, which seemed to form a road map down to his toes. But his toes were very strange. The tips of his toes were all wrinkled and looked like some little girl had practiced her sewing on them. He had no toenails. I knew he had no fingernails on his right hand, and I always thought he had hurt himself whittling. But no toenails! At first, I thought it strange, but then it occurred to me.

Sadness washed over me like a big ocean tide. My fingers trembled as I went over each toe with lemon oil. My head started to throb as all the horrible stories I had heard of Japanese cruelty went rushing through my mind. I held his toes in my hands. My eyes filled with tears. I wished that I could comfort these poor toes. I looked at Mother, who stood behind me clutching his socks, with tears in her eyes. I wanted her to send me outside. I couldn't look at his toes anymore. She saw my fumbling fingers and took the gauze from me. She dried his feet and covered them with the blanket. Grandfather lay motionless, his eyes closed. But I knew he was not asleep because I heard him swallow his sorrow. Inchun sobbed, "Grandfather, do they hurt?" "No, not anymore," Grandfather replied. "I am well now." Mother drew close to me and whispered, "Grandfather must rest now." Inchun sobbed as he followed me out.

Grandfather died soon after we left him. He died three days after Haiwon's birthday; three days after his beloved pine tree was chopped down.

I felt like a different person. I felt so many conflicting emotions struggling within me. The world seemed empty. The air was so dark and heavy, I could hardly breathe. I wanted to be peaceful like Grandfather. Mother, who had always told me that all would be well, that God would make sure of it, was not there. She sat in the corner of her dark room holding her Bible.

Aunt Tiger was busy taking care of little Inchun, who cried inconsolably. Whatever calmness he had shown had abandoned him now that Grandfather was dead. He developed a fever and would not eat anything. There was no way to distract him; he did not want to draw, spin his top, or follow me around the yard. He stayed in bed, hot and weak.

I went to Grandfather's room, sat in front of his scholar's desk and opened its many drawers. Everything looked empty and meaningless. The oxtail brushes didn't seem so special anymore. I didn't want to look at any of these things. They made me miss him too much. I was miserable and angry. If it were not for Captain Narita and his men, my Grandfather would be alive and would be with me now.

1 went back to my room. I cried because I missed Grandfather. I cried because I felt so alone and scared and full of hatted tot Captain Narita and those Japanese soldiers. Feeling weak, I went out to the yard and sat on the stump of the pine tree. I tried to remember all that Grandfather had taught me. I thought of his whittling, his brush writing, his meditating, and then I thought of his last peaceful smile. Hadn't I felt that special little Buddha when he held my hand in his? As soon as I thought of his peaceful face and the cool touch of his hand and that little chuckling Buddha, my anger, frustration, fear, and utter loneliness began to subside.

The stump of the pine tree felt cool against me. I rubbed my leg against the stump and felt the roughness of the bark. Then, I centered myself on the stump and crossed my legs. I wanted to meditate like Grandfather. I closed my eyes tight. I just had to see that little chuckling Buddha again, and I began to rub my eyes. I started to see stars bursting beneath my eyelids, but no little Buddha. Instead, warm tears welled up.

Slowly, a feeling of calmness came over me. I dried my tears and looked up at the evening sky. A small, faint star was shining in the distance. I felt as though I had been immersed in a cool sea, and the red flames of pain and bitterness had been extinguished. I thought the Buddha's spirit was inside of me. Suddenly, I understood what Grandfather meant when he said, "One's life is short, but the life of the spirit is long." The Buddha brought me a little bit of Grandfather's spirit and Grandfather's peace. I thought of his lessons on Urn and Yang—darkness and light, pain and joy, evil and good. Grandfather told me that all these tensions and conflicts were necessary in the struggle for perfect harmony.

Harmony. That was the word he used. "Harmony will prevail," he used to say. "After darkness, there will be light. The light cannot come without the darkness. Better days are bound to come now." I got up and went to Mother's room. She sat there rigidly like a statue. Were it not for her tears, I would have been afraid that she too had died. I wanted to tell her that all would be well. But I did not know how. I just stood next to her and leaned against her shivering body as hot, silent tears streamed down my cheeks.

It had been several days since Mother had even spoken. Her pale lips were tightly pursed and her eyes avoided ours as if she were trying to contain a sorrow that would otherwise come gushing forth. She worked frantically on what Aunt brought her. Could such activity make the pain disappear?

"Mother, why don't you come out and show me how to sew socks fast, as you do?" I asked. But she would not answer or even look up from her work. When Inchun went over to her and whined playfully, "Mother, look at the strange way
Nuna
combed my hair," she didn't even crack a smile. She simply ordered me to fix his hair properly. All day long, she sat there in her dimly lit room, her eyes glued to her needlework. When the sock girls came in the morning, she didn't come to greet them. And when they left, looking exhausted, she had no kind words to offer. She did not seem to notice what went on around her. She seemed like a lost ghost. She did not mention Grandfather I felt that she too was lost to me. I was afraid her spirit had gone away with Grandfather's. I longed to see her smile and to hear her tell us that everything would be all right.

Aunt Tiger was busy trying to cover for Mother at the sock factory, and Inchun and I did what we could. Sitting on the ground by the tree stump, we sorted, folded, and then packed into bundles of twelve, or "
tah
," the pile of ugly green socks that Aunt Tiger put out for us in the morning. There was no time to be lost. The sock girls rushed in, anxious to meet their daily quota. Haiwon came extra early as always and whispered to us, "Do you think she will come out and talk to us today?" I lowered my head in silence. I didn't know the answer. Then, Okja came running in and, to cheer us up, poked us in the sides. "Did you sleep well, little ones?" she asked. "My, how quiet we all are!" Then she gently nudged us and tried to topple us over. With her long bony fingers, she tapped on our heads and said, "What deep thoughts are traveling through these two clever heads? No talking today either, huh? Not even a small smile, eh? Haven't seen your dimples for days. Come on, smile and show me your dimples. Your mother walks around like a ghost and you little ones have lost your tongues. What a dreadfully quiet house. Where is your Aunt Tiger, the talking machine?" Okja then rushed off with the others into the factory shaking her head. I couldn't say anything to Okja or Haiwon. But I was glad that they stopped and talked to us, even if it was only for a minute.

As we kept folding the socks and bundling them into
tah
, I kept thinking about Mother. The Buddha probably knew how much Grandfather loved Mother. Maybe the Buddha had taken Mother's soul to keep Grandfather company. But what about Inchun and me? Why were we left behind? I couldn't help thinking that the Buddha or Mother's God was punishing me for the hatred I felt for Captain Narita. I felt guilty and afraid.

As I sat thinking, Inchun glared at me and said, "
Nuna,
how many pairs are there in one
tah?
"

Startled and annoyed, I retorted, "Twelve, of course."

"Well then, why does this bundle have eleven pairs, and this one fifteen pairs?" he asked. It was a good thing he was paying attention. We all would have been in trouble with the Japanese police and the merchants when they came to collect the finished goods. Mother was no longer around to check everything, and without her, we were more nervous than ever that the Japanese would not be happy with our work.