Year of Impossible Goodbyes (17 page)

It wasn't worth trying to hide anymore. It was now or never. We could see the fence right in front of us. We locked our hands together and ran as fast as we could. We just ran and ran, and finally reached the barbed-wire fence. Using all my remaining strength, I pulled at the bottom of the wire. It would not budge. There was no time to think. We fell to our knees and started to dig. We only made a tiny little space. Then I tried to lift the fence as much as I could. "Go, Inchun!" I urged. "Flatten yourself out like a snake and slide through, then keep running. I'll be right behind you."

Little Inchun slipped under the wire and then, instead of running as I had told him, he tried to lift the wire with his little hands. I heard the dogs drawing closer and I thrust my body under the wire. The barbs dug into me. My hair was caught, my clothes ripped, and I could feel the blood pooling in the cuts on my back. I kept going, and finally, I made it through. I grabbed Inchun's hand. We cried and kept running.

I did not look back to see how close the soldiers and the dogs were. I was too afraid. I could only look forward.

Inchun said, panting, "Are we in the South now?"

"Yes," I said, clutching his hand tighter.

"But I still hear the dogs and the soldiers," Inchun said.

"Don't worry, just run!" I squeezed his hand and pulled him forward. I had heard that once you were in the South, the Russians and the North Koreans could not shoot you, even if you were an escapee. But still we ran. They sounded as though they were right behind us. We kept running toward the lit tents. Then I saw four people rushing out of the tents and running to us. I saw the Red Cross sign on their white hats. They were carrying stretchers and medical bags, and I finally felt that we didn't have to run anymore.

1 stopped and grabbed Inchun. "We can stop now," I told him. "We're safe, we're safe." My trembling legs collapsed under me and I fell to the ground. Inchun tumbled down on top of me. Exhaustion and relief overwhelmed us. I looked at him, and his eyes were closed. I felt dizzy and looked up at the sky, which was spinning above me. As I was lifted onto a stretcher, my eyes filled with tears. I heard the soothing voice of an older woman saying, "These poor children ... all alone ... Look at their feet. Hurry, let's get them inside. Hurry."

Inchun and I must have slept for days at the Red Cross center at the 38th Parallel. By the time we awoke, the information center had located our father's address in Seoul. The nurse fed us and bandaged our feet, and said she would put us on the bus to Seoul when we were ready. Anxious to see whether Mother was already at home waiting for us, we decided to leave on the very next bus. Clutching the little piece of paper with our new address, we rode down the dusty, bumpy country roads.

We made our way through the noisy, bustling streets of Seoul, and asked with nervous excitement for directions to our house at 23 Ulgiro 4-ka. We finally found the house and stepped through the open front door. Father and our three older brothers, sitting at the dinner table, were shocked to see us and immediately asked where Mother was.

She was not there waiting for us as we had hoped, and Father had received no news of her. Sad, exhausted, and still suffering from fever and infected cuts, Inchun and I remained in bed for several weeks recuperating.

When we recovered, Father enrolled us at the Younghi School near our house. It was strangely comforting to meet many other girls like me who had come from the North and were still waiting for members of their families. A group of us started a poetry club, and befriended and comforted each other as we waited day after day.

Meanwhile, Father started a soy sauce factory in the city of Inchon. He offered shelter and employment to many refugees from the North, and the factory became an information center and meeting place of sorts for refugees. Father tried to get every bit of news he could that might help us find out about Mother.

Our oldest brother, Hanchun, was attending the veterinary school at Seoul University and would bring sick dogs, birds, and even monkeys home on weekends to nurse back to health. Jaechun was still recovering from tuberculosis, which he had contracted in the Japanese labor camps; he only went to the university in the mornings, and in the afternoons, he stayed home, listening to classical music and reading. Hyunchun had decided he wanted to be a diplomat and was studying at the Foreign Language University.

Inchun and I liked our new school, and liked being home with all our brothers. But each day, we prayed that Mother would join us. After six long months, Mother suddenly appeared at the house. She was supposed to have been shipped to a labor camp in Siberia with the others who had been caught trying to escape. But one of the Russian colonels who lived near the border town needed someone to cook and clean for his young wife, who was expecting their first child. Mother became their housekeeper and governess. They forbade her to speak to anyone or to go beyond the front gate of the house, and soldiers often patrolled the area. But one foggy, drizzly afternoon, she decided to walk out and try to make it to the border. She had no specific plan, and she didn't know where she would be able to get across. She couldn't stand it there another minute without us, she said, and decided to risk everything. It was a miracle, she told us. No one saw her in the dense monsoon fog, and she walked and walked. She stumbled in a pile of branches and leaves, and fell deep into a small tunnel. She saw a glimmer of light at the other end and crawled toward it, without knowing where it was leading. When she reached the end, she found she had tunneled under the barbed-wire fence and was on the southern side of the 38th Parallel We later found out it was one of many secret tunnels the Communists were constructing to invade the South.

With Mother safe and at home in Seoul, life in the South was almost everything I had ever hoped for. But each day we still longed to hear some word of Kisa, Aunt Tiger, my sister, Theresa, and the sock girls.

Our freedom and happiness did not last long. In June 1950, war broke out. North Korean and Communist soldiers filled the streets of Seoul, and were soon joined by Chinese Communist troops. Russian tanks came barreling through. In the chaos, many more North Korean refugees made their way to Seoul. Theresa and the other nuns finally escaped, and made their way to our house. They told us that the Russians and Town Reds had found out about Kisa's and Aunt Tiger's other activities. They died as all "traitors" did. They were shot with machine guns, and then hanged in the town square to serve as a lesson to others. We never heard any further news about the sock girls, or about my friend Unhi. I still wonder if they are alive in the North.

Born in Pyongyang, North Korea, Sook Nyul Choi immigrated to the United States to pursue her college education. After graduating from Manhattanville College, she taught in New York City schools for almost twenty years while raising her two daughters. She now resides in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she devotes most of her time to her writing.