Echoes of the White Giraffe (4 page)

“I used to have a large family in Seoul, but not here. At least not for now.”

“What do you mean not for now? Are they coming later?”

“I don't know. I hope they will. During the bombing, we got separated. We weren't able to find my father and my three brothers. Maybe they've joined the army and are fighting for us at the front. I don't know.” My face flushed, and my head started to pound. “I might see them soon, or I might never see them,” I blurted out to stop the tremble in my voice. I didn't want to talk about myself or my family or the war. Afraid of crying in front of Haerin, I started walking even more quickly toward the mountain.

“You two are in such a hurry,” called a low, soothing voice from behind us. “Slow down, let me catch up.” I wondered if Junho had asked his sister to detain me.

Smiling, he walked toward us. I stood and watched him as he brushed his thick, dark hair away from his face. He was average height, but very well built, with fine square shoulders and a graceful stride. He had a broad forehead, a strong nose, round dark eyes, and a gentle smile. His ears were like those of the Buddha, with long, full earlobes. I knew Mother would take one look at his face and declare him a handsome young man with a kind heart. I clutched my shoebag even more tightly and twirled it nervously.

He stood between Haerin and me, and smiling, he said, “Now, we can walk together.”

We walked in silence. I couldn't think of a thing to say. All too soon, we stood in front of their brick wall. For no reason at all, my heart throbbed and my shoulders ached. I jiggled my shoulders and coughed, wishing to be free of this strange discomfort. Junho quietly watched me and smiled. Embarrassed, I wanted to run away, but I stood there, trying to pretend everything was perfectly normal.

He looked up at the mountain that rose before us, and asked, “Sookan, where is your house?”

“Well, you can't really see it from here, but it's way up at the very top,” I answered awkwardly.

With his head cocked back, he squinted inquisitively into the sunlight. As I watched his earnest expression, I suddenly wanted to tell him everything about my life up on the mountain. Before I could even think, I heard myself saying, “I can see the whole city of Pusan from my little front yard. Oh, look over there! Do you see the other mountain peak? That is where my shouting poet lives. Every morning he shouts good morning to all of us on the mountain. He is like our alarm clock. In the beginning, people yelled back at him to be quiet, but now everyone is used to it. No one seems to mind anymore, and I love it! What I like best is watching the moon from up there, especially the pale half moon that looks as if someone just sliced it perfectly into two. It's so beautiful, and up on top of the mountain I feel close to the moon, as if I could almost touch it.”

I rambled on so quickly that I barely gave myself time to breathe. All my senses were numbed, and I felt as if I had no control over my own tongue. Junho laughed heartily and stared up at the mountain. I flushed with embarrassment, and my face quickly turned the color of ripe raspberries.

When he saw me, he said soothingly, “Oh, please, I think it is wonderful that you're so enthralled with life on the mountain. It must be lovely there where the air is so fresh and clean.”

I looked up at the humble shacks cluttering the mountain and felt worse. Staring down at my feet, I twisted the string of my shoebag until it was so tight that my fingers turned blue.

Taking one step closer to me, Junho then said, “You know, Sookan, my sister and I have never been anywhere but Pusan. You have been through so much, and you now know so much more than we ever could. You must feel rich and knowledgeable.”

But I felt miserable and small, and wanted to run up the mountain and cry. "
Oppa,
she is not from Seoul,” interjected Haerin. “Father Lee told me Sookan originally came from Pyongyang; she was born and raised there. Can you imagine traveling from one end of the Korean peninsula to the other?!”

Poking Junho in the arm, she said, “Go ahead,
Oppa,
ask her about that and ask her about the war, too.” Haerin urged Junho on eagerly, as if his asking were the only way to ensure a detailed answer from me.

Haerin was rather pretty when she was being genuine. I suddenly felt a certain affection for her and forgave her ignorance. I untwisted the string of my shoebag and watched my blue fingers regain circulation. Feeling a little calmer, I told her that Pyongyang was not as far north as she thought and that there were many Korean cities farther north than that. Her eyes blinked with excitement and fascination, like a child's. As I talked about Pyongyang, I could feel Junho staring intently at me, and I grew more and more embarrassed.

I finished my sentence and quickly said goodbye, then ran toward the mountain without waiting to hear their responses. I made a point of not changing my shoes until I was halfway up the mountain and was sure that their house was well out of sight.

At the front of each classroom was a large blackboard supported by the long pieces of wood that Bokhi and I had found by the seashore and had dragged up to the lot one hot muggy day. When we struggled to carry these long poles through the streets, we had no idea they would be used to hold up the shiny blackboards. Eight long benches were neatly arranged in rows, and each bench seated about ten girls. As word spread of the new Ewha School in Pusan, many more former Ewha students who were now refugees came from faraway villages surrounding Pusan. Teacher Yun was sure even more Ewha students were in the area, and she placed a large notice at the refugee center where Mother worked: “Ewha students, all grades, welcome at the new Ewha school.”

I was delighted to sit in the first row of the classroom I had helped build. As I listened to Teacher Yun speak of faraway lands, my heart leaped with joy. Those sweltering, hot days of labor seemed a million miles away. Using my lap as my desk, I furiously wrote down everything she said. There was so much to learn and not a minute to lose. The teachers had a few books they had borrowed from the Pusan School teachers, but we students had none, so we had to write everything down.

There were seven teachers in all at our little school. Teacher Yun who taught literature and world history had always been my favorite. Bokhi's favorite, however, was Teacher Lee, our French teacher. Long ago, Bokhi had decided that she wanted to enter the Sorbonne in Paris where Teacher Lee had studied.

We were all most eager to learn. Some of us arrived at dawn, but our teachers were always there even earlier, writing the day's lessons on the blackboard. We studied eagerly, engrossed in our lessons and anxious to catch up with all that we missed over the past several months. Overjoyed to be learning again, I memorized and recited and wrote until my head and hands ached.

During our lunch breaks, Bokhi and I planted some seeds and bulbs in the little yard outside the classroom buildings. Each day we weeded and watered our little garden, waiting for the flowers. Marigolds, wild lilies, daisies, and cosmos soon grew abundantly. Tall sunflower stalks grew from the seeds Teacher Yun had planted, and their sun-baked yellow faces greeted us cheerfully in the morning.

While we were gardening one day, Bokhi told me she was worried about her aunt, who had begun to stare at the front door day and night and mumble, “I can just feel it in my bones. Your uncle is near me. Go get him. Get him over here.”

“I don't know if she's going crazy or if she can sense something. What do you think?” Bokhi asked.

When I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what to say, Bokhi spoke again. “I put many notes up on the bulletin board about my uncle and my parents, but no one has heard anything about them. During the bombing, we all went running out of the house. My parents and my uncle were right behind my aunt and me, but by the time we reached the main road, we had gotten separated. When I find my uncle, I know I will also find my parents. I'm sure of it,” she said, her face flushed with hope.

“I know! I'll tell my mother and she can ask everyone about your uncle and your parents. Maybe someone will come up with good news.”

Bokhi suddenly looked pensive, and shook her head sadly. “It's been almost two years since the war began. If they were alive, we probably would have heard something by now. Maybe I'm fooling myself.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Many people fled Seoul, and they're scattered all over the southern part of the country. Pusan is not the only southern city where refugees came. There are lots of smaller cities and towns. That's what makes it so hard to locate people. Everything is so crazy now, but somehow we'll all get back together, if we wait and trust. ” My mother had said the same thing to me when I was afraid that I might never see my brothers and my father again.

“Since your aunt feels your uncle might be near, why don't we concentrate on finding
him
for now. Maybe he's here. Old ladies sometimes feel things, you know. So, what is his name? He is your father's older brother, right?”

“Yes, yes, his name is Changil,” said Bokhi, looking less solemn.

“Lee Changil. I'll write a big note tonight for Mother. She will remember and she will keep asking about him whenever she sees a new face in town. She hasn't stopped looking for information about the rest of my family. She says that if we last saw them alive, they must be alive. That's how we should think about it.” Bokhi looked a little more cheerful, and I knew she was thinking of the day she would see her parents again.

A few days later, Mother did find someone who had met a man named Lee Changil in a nearby town. Mother sent someone there and confirmed that he was indeed Bokhi's uncle. As her uncle was in poor health, Bokhi and her aunt went to fetch him. The joy of seeing her uncle, however, was eclipsed by his confirmation that Bokhi's parents had died in the bombing. Their house had collapsed and they were trapped. Unable to save them, he had watched them die.

Bokhi did not come to school for several days. Finally, Mother received a note from Bokhi's aunt asking if I could stay with Bokhi for a while at their shack by the seashore. Mother agreed that I should go and try to comfort Bokhi, and get her to go back to school.

For two days and nights, I sat with Bokhi in utter silence. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her lips were sealed tight. She didn't talk to anyone, not even me. Her aunt and uncle's wrinkled faces wore a look of helplessness, and their eyes seemed to plead with me to bring their sweet niece back to the world of the living.

Bokhi sat in the corner of the room, flipping mindlessly through her French dictionary. She was in her own dark world and seemed not to see anything around her. It scared me to look into her sunken eyes, partly concealed by wisps of tangled hair. Bokhi was always the sensible, orderly, practical one. She didn't believe in wasting time or energy and was always eager to learn and live life to the fullest. I had often thought it strange that she wanted to be a poet. Although she loved poetry, she seldom dawdled, distracted by silly thoughts, as I did. But now, time did not exist for her.

Hoping to bring her back to the world, I asked, “Bokhi, what page are you on now? How many new words have you learned from your dictionary? Here, let's open our French dictionaries to ‘M.' You can test me on the meanings and spellings, then I'll test you, just as we always do.

“Come on, Bokhi,” I pleaded. “We haven't done this for five days now. Bokhi, talk to me.” I felt powerless and silly. I didn't know what I could do to make her feel better.

Bokhi didn't respond. Instead, she got up with her dictionary in her hand and went outside to walk along the seashore. I followed her and, walking beside her, I bravely looped my arm through hers with a smile. She didn't pull away, but she also didn't give my arm her usual squeeze. She didn't seem to care one way or the other. She was somber and aloof, and we just kept walking, passing the rows and rows of gloomy refugee huts. We walked all the way to the jagged black rocks that jutted into the sea. In gloomy silence, we watched the waves crash violently onto the rocks, filling the air with cold, gray mist.

My teeth chattered from the damp cold. Then Bokhi finally spoke. “Now, I am an orphan. I have no parents. Ever since I got separated from my parents, I dreamed of the happy day when I would be reunited with them. That dream kept me going. But now there is nothing for me to dream of. There's nothing to keep me going.”

My eyes filled with tears as she spoke. I pulled my arm from hers and hugged myself. I was chilly and tired, and I didn't know what to say. Then, remembering the desperate, pleading faces of her guardians, I said, “Bokhi, don't you see how sad and worried your aunt and uncle are? They are so afraid they have lost you, too.”

“Yes, I know I've worried them a great deal. I'll try not to cry and make them sad anymore,” she said with determination.

“Bokhi, you're wrong to think you have nothing to dream about and nothing to live for. Your parents now live in your dreams. Now they can dream with you about your future. They would want you to go on studying French and fulfill your dream of going to the Sorbonne.
They will travel with you to France and work with you to become a great poet.”

I wasn't sure whether she heard me, but she pulled out her small French dictionary and flipped through the pages intently.

“What word are you looking for?” I asked, relieved to see her lifeless eyes search for something.

“The word for ‘sand,' ” she said dryly.

“Sable.
Why? Are you going to write a poem in French about the seashore?”

“No, I wanted to know the word for ‘sand castle' in French,” she said expressionlessly.

“Château de sable
?” I said, trying to get a smile out of her.

She didn't even crack a smile but stared down at the black rocks below. Bending suddenly, she fiercely dug her fingers into the wet sand lodged in the crevices of the rock and grabbed a fistful of sand and pebbles. She hurled it angrily into the water. The small pebbles fell loudly into the dark, turgid water.