All Woman and Springtime (16 page)

The soldier shined a flashlight into the cab. He was very young, maybe twenty years old, with lopsided ears; and his easy-going nature ran contrary to the nosy job of vehicular searches. He scanned the surfaces of the cab very quickly, then turned his attention to the bed. Again, his search was quick and perfunctory. The commanding officer, a man in his mid-thirties, was standing in the doorway of the building with his arms folded.

“The truck is clean, sir,” the young soldier declared.

“No, no! You aren’t doing it right!” shouted the officer. “You need to look under and inside things. Feel the cushions for any suspicious lumps, things like that. If you are at all suspicious, then take your knife and open the upholstery.” Then he added quickly, “But you better be certain before you do that to any official vehicles.” This was clearly more of an educational exercise than a serious search, and for the moment anyway, his attention was on correcting the young soldier rather than on inspecting the ragtag group standing at attention.

“Yes, sir.” The young soldier started over, looking again in the cab.

“We don’t get many vehicles this way,” said the officer to the young man, sounding apologetic. “I have to keep my men trained.”

“Of course, sir,” said the young man. “Are you new to this post? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Just transferred. I must have pissed somebody off.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks, sir.”

“Worse.”

The young soldier pressed on the seats, opened the glove box and ran his hand along all the surfaces inside the truck. He peeked under the seat, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. “I found something, sir,” he said with a tone of pride.

“Very good. What is it?”

“A carton of foreign cigarettes, half empty.”

“Bring them to me. And their travel papers.”

“Yes, sir.” The young soldier glanced for a moment at the young man, looking guilty, then handed the articles to his superior.

The officer first looked at the papers, sifting through them casually, then looked toward the group, counting heads to be sure he had the same number of papers as there were travelers. He was not bothering to read the documents, only concerning himself with having the correct number. He still had not observed the travelers very closely. He walked toward the group and addressed the young man.

“Did you know about these?” he asked, indicating the cigarettes.

“Yes, sir!” The young man put emphasis on the word
sir.

“Are they your cigarettes?”

“Yes, sir!”

“At ease. You don’t need to shout. I can hear you just fine. How did you manage to get a hold of a carton of fancy cigarettes?” His query sounded more friendly than threatening.

“They were a gift, sir. For driving a dignitary, sir.” The young man did not waver in his act. Il-sun was impressed.

“I was just curious. I’ve never had a fancy foreign cigarette before. Do you mind if I try one?”

“Help yourself, sir,” the young man said, nodding toward the carton.

“Do you have an open pack? I only want one.” The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a pack. He knocked the butt of the pack to extract a cigarette, and handed it to the officer. The officer sniffed at it, inspecting the paper, the clean, square ends, and the filter. “Do you have a match?” The young man withdrew a box of matches, and struck one for the officer. The officer took three thoughtful drags, looking vacantly toward the streetlight, consumed by the smoking experience. He then ripped the filter off and tried a drag without it. The subordinate soldier looked on, as if waiting for a trial verdict. Finally, the officer handed the partially smoked cigarette back to the young man, the vacant look on his face replaced by a look of certainty. “It’s a bit like smoking air, isn’t it?”

“Sir?” asked the young man, unable to hide his confusion.

“I mean, they’re a bit weak, aren’t they? People talk these up like they’re so special, but to me it’s a little too much like breathing. I prefer
real
Chosun
cigarettes, even rolled in newspaper, to that crap. I want to feel ’em burn.” He wasn’t being condescending, just honest. His informal tone relaxed the young man.

“I guess everyone has different tastes,” offered the young man.

“What a boring world this would be if everyone were just the same, eh?” The officer smiled and chucked the young man on the shoulder.

“I agree with you, there,” said the young man, slipping seamlessly from subordinate to charming.

“Right,” said the officer, coming out of his reverie and back to business. “How is that search coming, soldier?” Il-sun tensed again. She had thought that maybe that business had passed. “Anything unpatriotic or otherwise antirevolutionary back there?” He was bored and his tone was facetious. The search, for him, was over.

The soldier, missing the officer’s nuanced dismissal, snapped to attention and went back to the truck.

“Not the sharpest kid, but at least he’s enthusiastic,” the officer said under his breath to the young man, rolling his eyes. He shrugged at the young man and then looked on in an avuncular way. The soldier flashed his light into the bed of the truck, lifting the blankets that were haphazardly strewn about. He was being thorough, wanting to impress his superior. Il-sun held her breath. The soldier poked at the shapeless bundle that was Gyong-ho. She did not make a sound, but the soldier recognized the density as being distinctly corporeal. He pulled at the blanket and uncovered the shivering Gyong-ho.

The officer perked up, his casual air gone. “What’s this?” He looked at the paperwork that was still in his hand, and then counted heads once again. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of the young man. The young man swallowed hard, but kept his wits.

“Just a little recreation, sir.” He was again the professional soldier.

“What do you mean, ‘just a little recreation’?”

“A flower-selling girl we picked up in the city. We couldn’t exactly get paperwork for her through official channels, if you know what I mean. The boys at the factory site need a little companionship.” Then he added another hasty “sir.”

The officer looked thoughtful, the corners of his mouth tight and downturned. “This is out of the ordinary,” he said after a moment. The young man cursed to himself for finding the one man in all of North Korea who could not be bribed with foreign cigarettes. He had no choice but to try another tactic.

“She’s not exclusively for them, you know, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we could let you give her a try, right here and now, if you like. You would be doing us a favor, really. Let us know how she is?”

The officer rubbed his chin with his fingers thoughtfully. It was a lonely outpost. “Bring her over here,” he said finally. “I want to have a look at her.” The soldier got into the bed of the truck and forced Gyong-ho to get up and step onto the pavement. He led her over to the officer. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have a talk with her in private. You can wait in your truck.”

“You heard the man, everyone back in the truck!” the young man commanded.

“But—” Il-sun tried to protest.

“Get in the truck! Now!” The look on his face was truly frightening. Il-sun felt powerless to help her friend, but she wanted to do something. The men got immediately back in the truck, but Il-sun and Cho lingered.

Cho rolled her eyes and said, “I can’t believe you men!” She turned in the other direction and walked toward the concrete building. The officer and the soldier were just stepping Gyong-ho inside and were about to close the door.

Il-sun could not hear what Cho was saying to them, but her hands were quite animated. Fortunately they were distracted enough by what she was saying not to notice her long, red fingernails—a sure giveaway that she was not truly a soldier. The men looked from Cho to Gyong-ho and then back again. Listening to what she was saying, their faces went from incredulous to concerned. Finally they released Gi, and Cho walked her back to the truck untouched.

“How did you manage that?” asked Il-sun.

“It was easy, teacup. I told them she has a social disease.”

“A social disease?”

“Yeah. I told them that if they screw her, their peckers will turn black and fall off. They didn’t believe me at first, but then, who would want to take that chance?”

Il-sun looked at Cho through new eyes. The women got in the truck, the young soldier lifted the barricade, and they drove off into the night.

32

M
OTHER WAS THE NEXT
to die. She had succumbed to some combination of sickness and starvation. By that time, Gyong-ho was numb and calloused by the hardships of the gulag, and her mother was a stranger to her. She had no tears to shed. If she felt anything at all about her mother’s passing, it was relief; but even that was barely a sensation at all.

Days, weeks, months, and years passed meaninglessly. As she grew, her body twisted from lack of nourishment and overwork. She retreated into the abstract world of numbers, leaving little more than the shell of her body to cope with the rigors of prison life.

Gyong-ho did not have any feelings about God, but she did believe in angels. She believed in them because she had met one, no matter that she was flesh and bone. This angel appeared in the gulag, young and clean and beautiful, sometime after Gi’s mother died. She smelled fresh, like sunrise. She was a new prison guard, unsullied by the filth of mind that infected everyone else. She did not yell, she did not beat, she did not threaten. She just was.

The angel was the new guard in charge of reeducation, and she was impressed by the quick and seamless way in which Gi could answer questions about even the most minute of details regarding the life and history of the great
Chosun
nation and its rulers. She began to reward Gi for her exceptional memory with little bits of extra food and lighter daily work. Gi learned to play into the angel’s favor by being ever sharper and quicker. This naturally caused many of the other children to be jealous, but it did not matter—any extra calorie or comfort could be the difference between living and dying.

Gi became the angel’s “special helper,” which entailed little more than sweeping the classroom floor and tidying odds and ends. Most days this kept her out of the fields and factories. From time to time the angel would sneak food to her from her own home, which often included small portions of rice. Though by most standards it was a meager amount of food, in the gulag it was a feast that helped her maintain her strength. The angel could have been punished for this, Gi knew.

“I always wished I could have a daughter,” the angel would sometimes say.

One day, as Gi was walking to the morning education class, the angel met her halfway there. This was highly unusual, though nobody questioned it. Nobody much cared what happened to the prisoners, including the prisoners themselves. The angel instructed Gi to follow her. She took her into the building where the dark man used his electric prod on her—Gi became short of breath. She assumed that finally the infection of cruelty must have spread to the angel too, and now she was going to be tortured by the most beautiful person she had ever known. The angel took her into a small room and told her to keep quiet, even though nobody else was around. Then she commanded her to strip down, and Gi obeyed.
Now the pain will start,
Gyong-ho thought, dispassionately. It was as if it were happening to someone else. But instead of pain, the angel handed her new clothes to wear. They were too big, but they were clean.

“If anyone asks, tell them you are my niece, okay?” said the angel. Gyong-ho nodded. “Listen to me, Gyong-ho,” she continued. “I am getting you away from here, to a much better place. We will probably never see each other again.”

“No!” shouted Gyong-ho. She could not imagine life without the angel.

“Shhh!” The angel put her finger on Gyong-ho’s lips. “Listen. My sister runs an orphanage, and she has agreed to take you. It will be much better for you. Trust me. My boyfriend has agreed to help. His father is an important man, and he has a car and can arrange all the appropriate paperwork. My boyfriend will drive you to my sister, and she will take care of you.”

“I don’t want to leave you!” Gi watched herself say it, and saw wetness in her eyes from tears, but was unaware of feeling anything. The outburst had come from some distant part of her biology, where feeling must still be happening without her.

“You must. You will die if you stay here. I will miss you, Song Gyong-ho.”

Gi nodded.

The angel led her outside the compound, where a shiny black automobile was parked. She opened the back door and helped Gyong-ho inside. She then walked to the driver’s window and said a few brief words. Gyong-ho watched her recede as the car drove away.

33

I
T WAS A LITTLE
past dawn when the truck came to a wrinkle in the landscape. The high fence and razor wire that marked the demilitarized zone, or DMZ, came into view. The DMZ was an ideological cleave splitting the Korean peninsula in half: communists in Pyongyang to the north, and capitalists in Seoul to the south. Flanked on either side by opposing and powerful militaries, the DMZ was a pair of parallel fences, approximately four kilometers apart, running along the thirty-eighth parallel from coast to coast. Between the electric fences was a terrifying gauntlet of land mines that made the prospect of crossing it in one piece a near impossibility, not to mention the guard towers with machine gun nests on both sides. The irony of this inflammable and politically charged barrier was that the complete lack of human activity between the fences created an amazing nature preserve where plants and birds thrived. The two Koreas had been facing off at the DMZ for roughly a half century: technically in a cease-fire with no peace agreement ever signed. The Korean war was still smoldering.