The Calligrapher's Daughter Part 20

Her words were abrupt, but her manner was pleasing enough. She had been teaching middle school for a year or more, and since he knew little about what she actually did every day, he wondered why she sought his advice. Yah, too bad about her husband Yah, too bad about her husband, Han thought. Neither Najin nor the Cho family had heard from Calvin for years, and she was virtually a widow. To be sure, everyone was praying, but there was no way to know if Calvin was dead or alive, or even if he was still in America. Undoubtedly, with j.a.pan at war, it was impossible for him to return. It wouldn't surprise Han if after all this time the man had married again. The possibility of Calvin returning to Korea had further diminished with tensions growing between j.a.pan, America and England following another diplomatic request for information about j.a.pan's naval capacity, which the j.a.panese still refused to supply. A derisive cartoon in the newspaper had appeared that very week, portraying the two Western nations as salivating dogs trying to tear off a j.a.panese naval officer's trousers.

He plucked a dry rag from a nearby shelf and cleaned his hands. "Have you talked to your dongsaeng? And what does he say?"

"That we need the money."

Han soaped and rinsed his hands in the basin Najin held for him, then settled onto his cus.h.i.+on. At these kinds of moments he wished tobacco were affordable and readily available. "And so?"

He could tell she had much to say by the way she waited a moment before speaking. "Abbuh-nim, after last fall's semester break, the students were required to come back early for ten days of Labor Service. It wasn't difficult; they swept the yards of government buildings and it was pleasant enough to be outside. But this winter we've been required to sew straps onto canvas squares for half the school day. My students don't complain even though their fingers bleed from punching needles through the rough cloth, and if the school inspectors aren't around, I use the time to teach Korean grammar. It worries me how little of their own language the girls know. Then yesterday I learned we're making military kit bags. We're contributing to their war!" She stopped until her breath quieted. "But that isn't the main reason I wish to give up teaching. They've changed the curriculum again. Korean is forbidden altogether and the Bible is disallowed; we are required to teach that the emperor is G.o.d."

He thought that they chipped away at his country, like he chiseled shaves from blocks of maple-and suddenly he felt his heart fill with hope-from which one day, one optimistic day in the future, might emerge a small work, like a lovingly carved maple panel, of plain beauty. His next thought was to pray that it might happen in his lifetime. He stroked his thinning gray beard. But perhaps not.

Najin continued, "We've been swearing the Imperial Oath every morning for some months, but that isn't the problem. Now they're saying we have to partic.i.p.ate in all-day parades and ceremonies to show our patriotism. Not only that, but for composition the girls will be required to write comforting letters to j.a.panese soldiers! Two of the ten teachers were forced to quit because they say we need more j.a.panese instructors. Chang Hansu's wife wishes to quit her teaching post, but only if I also choose to leave. Abbuh-nim, as much as I advocate education, I cannot be the head teacher in a school that teaches lies."

He appreciated her calm voice and was amazed to learn that she was the head teacher. "No, I suppose not." He countered her surprise at his quick response with a prolonged silence. "Get a different job, if the money is truly needed." How easy it was to speak to her! Then he wondered why it had always been hard. What had changed?

She bowed and left, but not before he caught the gist of her smile. Well, it was good to have a political activist in the house! He sat awhile, thinking of the many years gone by, of old age, of youth, his youth when he was a young father, and the astonis.h.i.+ng innocent trust of his infant daughter's newly opened eyes, which seemed as deep and dark blue as a winter's twilit sky. Yes, considering her activist att.i.tudes now, and the practical, resourceful woman she'd become, perhaps he had done right after all by not naming her.

ANOTHER HARVEST SEASON came and still his daughter-in-law, Min Unsook, now two years married, did not conceive. Han only scanned the headlines of newspapers filled with reports of imperial victories and anti-Chinese propaganda. Within a few months, everyone's identification was recertified and ration cards were issued. Neighborhood compet.i.tions were held to see who could contribute the most rubber, wood or metal. If one's household offered nothing, soldiers were authorized to storm through the house, vandalizing as they wished. Unreported beatings, thefts and rapes were rampant. The government imposed price controls, further inflating the cost of rice. Then in October 1938, when Han read that Canton had fallen, he told Joong to stop bringing the newspapers.

He found his hands seeking chisels and rasps rather than brush or book, and prayed to both G.o.d and his ancestors for a grandson. He would rest if he had a grandson. He carved nature's forms on shutters, doors, cabinet fronts and furniture, and the house became strikingly adorned with his handiwork, the storerooms cluttered with bas-relief panels. Every now and then a shutter would be missing from a window, or he'd see Ilsun carrying a newly sculpted stool out the gate, and rice would take the place of millet, or an egg or a whole fish would accompany the garden vegetables at his meals. He said nothing and continued to carve and stack finished pieces in the storeroom.

One evening toward that winter's end, he glimpsed a stunning moonrise from his window. So broad and brilliantly pearled was the orb that he left the warmth of his sitting room to regard it from the porch. Its brilliance drew him out to the courtyard in his stocking feet, the iciness of the clear night cutting sharply through his clothes. The moon cleared the treetops and seemed to fill half the sky, and he wondered that in all its enormous beauty it gave no warmth. He tried to capture its portent and breathed in deeply. Tiny icicles of frost broke in his nostrils as he gazed at the enigmatic features of the luminous sphere, seeking to comprehend its message.

"Yuhbo!" called his wife.

He came in sheepishly. She stirred his brazier, and he was grateful that she didn't comment on his crazy behavior. Her preoccupied manner hinted at bad news. "Chang Hansu is here. His wife is with us in our rooms. He wants to speak to you." He rubbed his hands over the coals and sat.

Alarmed by how aged and gaunt his neighbor looked, he called for his daughter-in-law to bring something hot to eat. Unsook a.s.sured him that soup and millet were coming for both Hansu and his wife. After eating and extending the usual courtesies, Hansu ran his hand through his unruly hair, suffused with gray, and said, "Uncle, I've had to sell the house. Neither my wife nor I have been working for nearly a year now. Sir, I've been drafted for labor in Nagasaki."

He heard the strain in Hansu's voice. Han sympathetically dropped his eyes. Earlier that month, Ilsun had mentioned rumors about an extensive labor conscription and local draft officials who roamed the streets with quotas to fill. Ilsun said he'd heard about truckloads of unmarried men and women scooped from rural villages, but so far the cities had seen little of this. If Hansu, who had long been married, had been drafted for labor, what would become of Ilsun? He felt guilty relief for his former ability to pay the bribes that had erased Ilsun's name from official rosters, and guilt again for his narrow and selfish concern. He looked at Hansu, his eyes full of solicitude.

Hansu, his brow deeply lined, sighed. "My parents have decided to join me. We are all promised housing and employment at the Mitsubis.h.i.+ truck factory there. The wages are fair, more than anything I can earn here with my red line." Following his trial and sentencing after March First, Hansu's identification papers were stamped with a red linear seal, marking him a criminal against the empire and severely limiting his ability to work. He'd been fortunate to have teaching positions with the missionaries, but since the onset of the China War, the missionaries were disfavored, and old regulations and dozens of new ones were stringently enforced. Hearing about Hansu's circ.u.mstances, Han expected that the missionaries would likely be expelled altogether.

Shoulders sloped, head bent, Hansu paused to hear his elder's response. Witnessing the young man's unusual pa.s.sivity stirred Han to anger. "You must go underground then. Your family can move in with us. We have many empty rooms here. You can arrange everything with my son."

"Thank you, but no. I've already taken too much advantage of Ilsun's connections. It was he who found the man who guaranteed a desk job for my wife and me, since we're both educated and fluent."

Han's face must have shown something of his surprise at Ilsun's involvement, for Hansu said bleakly, "I didn't expect you'd approve, but my wife is with child. My family will be persecuted if we were to run. Because my parents are following us voluntarily, they won't be required to work in the factory. It's likely some clerical work can be found for my father since he has a long record with the government."

"No, son. On the contrary, I understand completely." He quoted the second part of the primary Confucian adage, "Administer thy family well." He wanted to urge Hansu to continue on the path of resistance, but Canton had fallen and Chiang Kai-Shek had lost Hanbon. The j.a.panese seemed invincible. The two men sat awhile, then Han said, "Times are precarious."

Hansu stood and bowed, and the scholar also rose, saying, "Blessings for your child and family. May G.o.d be with you." The men bowed again and Hansu left to say goodbye to the women.

The brazier sputtered. Han looked to see if the moon still held its benign smile, but it had risen beyond his view. He sat feeling very worn, his old companion the stomach cramp flaring, and wondered if his countrymen would ever again have what he now saw was the luxury of being free to pursue the first Confucian directive: to cultivate the mind and body. He heard his wife and daughters giving the Changs packages of food with teary goodbyes and many promises for staying in touch, but he doubted his family would ever see them again.

Within a week after the Changs had left, a young j.a.panese couple moved in next door, and Han had Byungjo mortar over the gate between the properties.

Box of Light

WINTER 19381939

THE STRAIGHTFORWARD BIRTH OF A THIRD SON ON THE OTHER SIDE OF Gaeseong kept me busy through half the night. I slept there until curfew lifted at sunrise on Monday and came home in time to help my sister-in-law with breakfast. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Unsook handed me a steaming bowl of soybean soup. "How perfect!" I said. The days were increasingly cold, and the hot bowl in my hands felt very welcome. We fixed the men's meals, adding strips of dried fish I'd bought at the market that morning on my way home. Unsook delivered the men's breakfasts, then joined me at the table portioning our food.

Unsook had been married and living with us for two years, consistently showing selflessness in the work and service she gave to the family. She often woke with dark circles under her eyes but never complained about Dongsaeng's demands of her night hours. Afterward, she slipped quietly into her bed in the tiny room next door to me, and even with my sensitive ears, I rarely heard her. Unsook's behavior embodied my mother's guideline for civility: think of others first. Typically she was one step ahead of anything that needed doing or might make life a tiny bit richer, such as having hot soup ready on a cold morning. Slim and delicate as a fawn lily, sometimes when her profile caught the evening light, she reminded me of Yee Sunsaeng-nim. Mother and I agreed, as did Cook and Kira, that we were especially blessed to have such an elegant and accomplished young woman in our household. With her frail beauty and gentle manner, I felt like a sticky lump of clay beside her, but we had grown sisterly and close. Mostly I felt protective toward her, motherly in a way that sometimes made me yearn for Calvin and the chance to have a child.

We brought our breakfast to the women's sitting room, and Mother gave prayer, including as always, thanks for two daughters at home taking such fine care of the house. Unsook had recently started volunteering at the local orphanage once a week. I was sure her joy at being with children was mixed with pain at not having a baby of her own. Since today was an orphanage day, Unsook described what she'd set aside for the midday meal, and that she'd dusted and cleaned the floors. "I'm sending a note to Imo-nim, and I'll stop at the post office if you have any letters to mail."

Mother nodded and reached toward her worktable. I shook my head.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" said Unsook, apparently thinking that with my missing husband, mentioning the mail would be hurtful. "How inconsiderate of me. I shouldn't have- I didn't mean-"

"Please don't worry. It's been a long time."

Unsook bowed her head. Mother and I began eating, and Unsook slowly picked up her chopsticks. Because so many emotional matters are not voiced in a Confucian household, our empathy was well developed. Unsook seemed unreasonably uncomfortable about mentioning the mail, and it made me realize that while she knew my husband was in America, we had never once talked about it. In fact, my husband had been rarely mentioned since my arrival home from Pyeongyang, except in the very beginning when I received Calvin's last letter, now two years ago. Since then, I'd written to his parents to be courteous and dutiful, and also to check if they'd heard from him. I received one short note from his mother, transcribed by that witch Yonghee, saying there was no news from America. I wrote without reply for more than a year, but their uncommunicativeness allowed me to eventually stop writing to them without feeling too guilty. I rationalized that paper was expensive, the mail too erratic and my mother-in-law's illiteracy too much an obstacle for staying in touch. And I still fumed over Reverend Cho's accusations that I had anything less than proper relations with Yonghee's husband and the choral director.

The years in their hovel left only loathing, bitterness and shame, and it made my feelings for my absent husband all the more complex. Having lived with his family far longer than the total time I'd spent with Calvin, I wondered how well I knew my husband. And now with wartime and half a world between us, I couldn't even guess how America might have changed him, or how I might appear changed in his eyes. I could barely remember his presence at all, except on rare occasions before I fell asleep, when a glimpse from memory-the moment of recognition we shared that day by the pond, his look when my wedding veil was lifted, or his light touch on my hand unlatching his suitcase-would surprise me with the pa.s.sion it roused. It was easier to put it all aside and ignore the label of abandoned wife. Obviously something was wrong with international mail delivery. Despite the brevity of our union, I firmly believed I would know somehow if Calvin were dead.

To ease Unsook's discomfort over the idea that she had caused me pain by mentioning the mail, I said, "I suppose he's forgotten me and married one of the three hundred paris.h.i.+oners at his brother's church."

Pause. "You're joking."

"Yes." Her face showed such relief that I felt bad for teasing her. "I'm sorry. It's been four years since he went to America and we've completely lost touch. I haven't even heard from his family. I try not to think about it. I wait, that's all. And pray. What else can I do?" Not writing to Calvin or thinking about him also allowed me to avoid dealing with unrequited love and romance and other such foolishness. Additionally, it allowed me to a.s.sume that time would prove my Christian faith. In the meantime, it seemed simpler to remain where I was, not asking, not being asked.

"I'm sorry," said Unsook.

"No, I'm I'm sorry." sorry."

"I- I wish- Excuse me, I'm sorry."

"No, don't be, really. I'm happy to be home, especially now. You're the sister I've always prayed for." Surprised by the surge of feeling over this little truth, I clasped her offered hand.

"Amen," said Mother.

Later that day, after cleaning out the silkworm shed and readying it for another cycle before winter, I helped Cook fix lunch, wondering how Unsook fared at the orphanage. She would probably be more tired than if she'd spent all day at home doing ch.o.r.es. I gave the trays to Cook to deliver to Father and Dongsaeng, and turned to portion everyone else's.

Someone banged loudly on the gate and a man shouted in j.a.panese. Startled, I thought, Not again! Not again! then, angry, then, angry, Father's done nothing! Father's done nothing! and I turned quickly, upsetting the kitchen table. Chopsticks and bowls clattered to the floor, spilling hot liquid. The knocks grew louder until Byungjo lifted the latch. I ran down the hall to Mother's sitting room. Heavy measured footsteps crossed the yard, then came crisp commands: "Out! Come out! Everybody out of the house-now!" and I turned quickly, upsetting the kitchen table. Chopsticks and bowls clattered to the floor, spilling hot liquid. The knocks grew louder until Byungjo lifted the latch. I ran down the hall to Mother's sitting room. Heavy measured footsteps crossed the yard, then came crisp commands: "Out! Come out! Everybody out of the house-now!"

My mother stood and her hands fluttered to her pale lips. An old fear surfaced, but with it a righteous defiance. People were always being arrested, but neither my father nor brother had been involved in politics lately.

Dongsaeng appeared in the hall. "What is it?"

Soldiers stormed through the vestibule. "Outside! Now! Now!" A thunder of boots and shouts, and Mother and I hurried to the front door. Two soldiers charged into the men's sitting room and grasped Father beneath his arms. "Everyone out!" They dragged him and pushed us through the house to the courtyard. The servants were driven outside. Mother faltered and I slipped my arm around her waist.

From an open military vehicle visible on the road, a soldier and an officer came through the gate, the officer's starched uniform the same hue as the dust that swirled in our yard. We were lined up and commanded to bow to the major. The soldiers a.s.sembled in a row behind us. The major said, "Which one of you is the spy Han Najin?"

I stood tall. "I am Han Najin," I said, my breath blasts of steam. I was afraid, but also relieved that it was obviously a mistake, and they hadn't come for Father or Dongsaeng. "But I am not a spy, my lord."

"No?" He removed something from his a.s.sistant's satchel. He was clean-shaven with deep eyes, p.r.o.nounced cheekbones and fair, almost delicate skin. His boots creaked as he neared. "Then what is the meaning of this?" He threw the object and it struck my cheek, then fell at my feet: a thick bundle of letters, colorful American stamps, a New York return address and Calvin's handwriting, the familiarity of which struck me deeply, far more powerfully than the blow to my face. I held my breath so as not to gasp.

"My lord, if you please," said Mother, bowing low. "They were married only one day before he went to America. That is all. We have not heard from him, nor has she written to him for several years."

Father said, "We are loyal taxpayers, my lord." The major smiled and the soldiers laughed, and my cheek burned anew at this disgraceful treatment of my father.

"I know that you are," the major said mildly. He turned to me. "You are under arrest."

I heard the words and knew what they meant, but also couldn't understand them. I looked quickly to Mother and saw the same disbelief. And pain. How easily my actions, my sorry existence, could hurt her.

"You will come with us."

If I'm going out, I thought simply, I'll need shoes I'll need shoes. "My lord, my shoes-"

He indicated yes.

I ran to the entryway and grabbed my coat. My vision telescoped as I slipped on my shoes, each foot increasingly far away.

"My lord, where will you take her?" Mother fell to her knees and cried out in Korean, "Father in Heaven, dear Jesus, keep her safe!"

The major looked at her with curiosity. "She will be questioned at the prison."

Mother pleaded to heaven. "My daughter! Son of G.o.d, have mercy!" A soldier guided me to the back seat of the vehicle.

"My lord!" Dongsaeng stepped forward, his teeth chattering with cold, "We can pay-" The major made a quick movement to a soldier who spun my brother and b.u.t.ted a rifle into his gut. Dongsaeng clutched his stomach and slumped to the ground. Father reached for him and the soldier clubbed Father's shoulder. He fell to his knees.

"Abbuh-nim!" I cried. "Dongsaeng!" I heard Ilsun retching. The major's a.s.sistant started the engine and turned the car around, and the soldiers let the gate slam and marched down the hill. We drove, every turn of the wheel taking me farther from my wounded family, the trampled earth of our estate, the cold silence of its ancestors.

On the long jarring drive, the engine exhaust making me nauseous, I clung to the railing in the back of the car, and to the memory of Mother's cries for mercy. Fearful of what lay ahead, I shut my eyes to repeat my mother's prayer. Instead, I heard in my mind the childhood litany, Like liquid, like water Like liquid, like water.

The military prison block, ma.s.sive slabs of gray concrete, seemed iced in barbed wire everywhere I looked. The old police jailhouse where my father had twice been imprisoned, was considered too small for military and Thought enforcement, and was now used for thieves, murderers and drunken conduct. Governor-General Minami had erected this prison compound two years ago, at the onset of squabbles with China.

The major said, "You will be separated from the men." He gave instructions to a guard who led me to the far side of the prison yard toward a row of vacant cells.

I was locked behind a wood and iron door in a narrow, dank cell with a high, barred window. When my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I saw a stained pallet on the rough plank floor and a beaten metal bucket. I clasped my hands, trying to pray, but all that came was Like liquid, like water Like liquid, like water. I leaned my back against the door, afraid to go farther into the cell, and watched a striped rectangle of light, cast through the window, travel infinitely slowly from the base of the wall, across the dirty floor to the edge of the bucket, catching a surprising gleam. Footsteps approached. The same impa.s.sive guard, who looked like he might be Korean, rattled keys in the lock. He handed me a small milking stool, a blanket and a tin of water, saying, "Major Yos.h.i.+da's orders."

I sat on the stool in the far corner of the cell, wrapped in the blanket, though it gave no warmth. I watched the rectangle of light crawl along the wall. Sometimes dust visibly wafted through the light, once a pale green moth, and slowly I began to remember the Psalms. But Thou, O Lord, art a s.h.i.+eld about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head. I cry aloud to the Lord, and He answers me from His holy hill ... But Thou, O Lord, art a s.h.i.+eld about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head. I cry aloud to the Lord, and He answers me from His holy hill ..." The words gave me the vision of flowing green hills, the huge burial mounds of ancient kings and warlords, around which flowed streams of pure and silvery water that soaked into the earth, encouraging the gra.s.ses to root farther, deeper, forever, until the gold-crowned skulls, bound in twisting roots, collapsed in rot. My body began to s.h.i.+ver and I made it stop. I closed my eyes, closed my mind to the fear that waited beside me.

Long after the box of light had swept the cell, the sky far above the window grayed with night. The crack of a hundred naked electric bulbs turning on shook me to awareness. Gla.s.sy light cast new patterns in my cell. A howl rose from the shadows. At first I thought a cat had entered the prison yard and was yowling in heat. Then I thought it was a wild predator and felt almost relieved, for I knew then what to be afraid of. I heard guttural voices and realized in horror that a man was screaming. I stood. I sat. The sounds blurred. Absurdly, I thought someone was doing laundry, beating a was.h.i.+ng stick on wet clothes against a stone. Sharp brief buzzes. Animal screams. A snap like a branch breaking.

The sounds of torture beat about me like bats and I tried to stuff my fingers into my ears. I buried my head in the rank mattress, pleading to the dread night spirits who had whisked away the sanity from men's minds and made them servants of terror.

At last, the darkness stilled, and I prayed on my knees for strength, courage and dignity to face what might befall me at dawn. Slowly, painfully, the morning rose and the weak early sun leaked into the cell. I found that my body called, and I drank the water and urinated in the bucket. Repelled by my human stink, I vomited. I looked up to a rattling of keys. A different guard handed me a wet towel and stood outside while I wiped the rough cloth over my face, neck, wrists and hands. He opened the cell and took me to the latrine to empty the bucket, then led me to a large building on the other side of the prison yard. I was shown into a small clean room with two chairs and a table with a small brown teapot and cups. The guard stood by the door and I stood by the table, breathing the delicate, glorious scent of green tea. The guard left as Major Yos.h.i.+da entered. He smelled of anise and rubbing alcohol.

"Sit." He pointed to a chair and leaned against the other. He gestured that I should pour tea and drink. Nervous, but no longer afraid, I sipped, set my cup down and cast my eyes to my lap.

"Tell me about this man, Calvin Cho."

I gave his full Korean name, the location of his family home, and described how I came to know him. I hid nothing, because having seen his handwriting and the many envelopes, I was absolutely sure of him. He was studying to be a minister-perhaps he was already ordained-and he couldn't possibly be a spy. This, too, I told the major.

"Did you know that he is in regular contact with the American government?"

"I haven't heard from him in more than two years, my lord." But he had written! What was in those letters?

Major Yos.h.i.+da sat across from me and nodded to the tea. I sipped, thanking the particles of tea leaves for absorbing the sun's heat on dewy terraced mountains, growing fat and l.u.s.trous, then drying in the same heat, preserving G.o.d's grace in a fragile, fragrant medium for me to drink at this table.

"Tell me about your Jesus Christ," he said. So unexpected was this turn in the interrogation that I looked directly into his eyes. I saw nothing to guide me or fool me, and so I began to recount Bible lessons. Many words, like parable parable, I knew no j.a.panese for, and he allowed me to use Korean as needed.

After three hours, I'd drunk all the tea. I recited the beat.i.tudes from Jesus's Sermon on the Mount, my voice echoing in the bare room like a lingering note in the chamber of a closed piano. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth ..." I paused, thinking this might have offended the major, but he remained expressionless.

When I finished, certain my chronology was wrong, I worried that I probably shouldn't have mentioned "if someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other cheek also," and fretted over what I had missed and what to say next. Why was my head so empty of the Bible? The major stood abruptly and left the room.

I felt an urgent need to urinate and was almost happy to see the guard. He led me to the latrine, then to my cell. The tin of water had been refilled and the bucket removed. I was instructed to call the guard when I needed to use the latrine. Cold, I wrapped myself in the blanket, and in the daylight saw its filth. I tried to pray, but my thoughts were filled with the strange interrogation of the morning. I remembered the smell of anise and the expensive tea, and tried to reconstruct those scents in my nose. Sometimes I stood and paced to warm my limbs and distract myself from growing hunger. I felt my mind closing in a peculiar way, as if it were preparing for siege, then I remembered the sounds of night.

When the square of light had almost traveled beyond my cell, the guard came and wordlessly unlocked the gate to deliver a bundle that had obviously been searched. Inside the loose wrapping was a lidded bowl from home, a woolen shawl and a pair of thick socks. My heart cried out, Mother! Mother! and I pressed the socks to my face, trying to breathe the smell of home, the smell of the beloved hands that had held those socks. My mother was not one to say to her children, "I love you." It was an a.s.sumed truth, given freely at the gate of the womb. and I pressed the socks to my face, trying to breathe the smell of home, the smell of the beloved hands that had held those socks. My mother was not one to say to her children, "I love you." It was an a.s.sumed truth, given freely at the gate of the womb.

I put on the socks and uncovered the bowl to find a mix of rice and millet with cabbage leaves on top and a shank of the salted fish I'd bought yesterday-forever ago. I ate with my fingers, keeping the bowl in the last square of light from the window. On the bottom of the bowl was a piece of folded rice paper, written finely with ink that bled slightly into the moist grains sticking to its surface. My fingers shaking, I kept my back to the cell door and unfolded the tiny paper.

Wake up!Stand in your faithwith the strength of a soldier.There you'll find love.Cor. 13 With tears for my mother's wisdom, steadfastness and love, I crumpled the scripture in my mouth and chewed thoroughly. I repacked the empty bowl in the cloth, knotting it just the way I knew my mother had knotted it. I felt our fingers had touched, and I was full.

MY MOTHER CAME every day for the next eighty-nine days, although I never saw her. I couldn't think how she suffered the hours walking in sleet and snow, for to do so would cause me unbearable pain. Every part of my mind and body waited for the guard to bring the bundle from home. My mother delivered food, a message and the strength of her unseen presence, a silent but desperately vital link to outside. After several days when little changed in the routine of cold, solitary days and freezing, fearsome nights, I thought less and less of life beyond the walls. I clocked the light in my cell and waited for the singular benediction of my mother's daily delivery. When I learned through the rice paper messages that bribes to Watanabe had proved fruitless and other official pleas had gone unheard, my focus narrowed even more. My breathing slowed, my eyes shrank, each sense dulled in waiting, pinpointed to the exact moment when the light would lie like a gift in my lap, the guard's boots would crack the icy dirt outside the cell door, the key would turn in the lock and he'd deliver the bundle from Mother.

Major Yos.h.i.+da interrogated me weekly in much the same manner as before, once saying I could have my husband's letters when I confessed to being a spy. The letters would prove the truth of his involvement with the American government, the major said, and would also show how he had implicated me. a.s.sured by their existence, I no longer cared about the contents of the letters. In those moments, I was oddly grateful that I'd been arrested, else I would never have known the fact of his constancy. I used my mother's rice paper scripture as the basis to tell more about Jesus toward the end of each interrogation, as was Major Yos.h.i.+da's wish. He always left curtly.

The major's strange curiosity about the Bible made me wonder if my imprisonment was a call for me to declare my faith, or was a test I'd pa.s.sed, as evidenced by my relatively healthy condition, though I was slowly growing weaker. I knew I should be glad for the chance to share the Gospel, but the contrast of the nights to the days confused me. Even if I could accept that it was the opportunity to speak the Word that had spared me from the other side of the prison compound, the suffering inflicted there refuted the existence of a merciful, loving G.o.d.

Because of the humiliation of having to ask the guard, I tried to hold my need for the toilet to once at dawn and at sundown. I had to overcome my embarra.s.sment and ask for rags when I menstruated, but I only bled the first month. I felt my body shutting down as my mind closed to sensation with each pa.s.sing day. I kept the wool shawl wrapped around my head and over my face when I slept. Although I shook lice from my blanket every morning, I didn't itch as much as in the beginning. I was given another blanket, but there was no protection from the frigid draft that rose from the frozen earth beneath the planks. I began to look forward to the interrogations because the room was somewhat warm and the guard would bring a washrag. When I talked about Jesus, I focused on the single brown ceramic cup of water, sometimes tea, on the table before me. I was grateful for its curve and the s.h.i.+mmer of light on the water's surface. It gave me something pure to focus on and made me think of life, fluidity and strength.

I counted eighteen days of snow, six days of freezing rain, thirty-four days of clouds, twenty-three days of sunlight ...

The twelfth week, during interrogation, I talked about the book of Luke, John the Baptist and the temptation of Satan in the desert. I remembered stories out of order but told them when they came to me. I spoke of miracles: the centurion whose slave was healed, the fishes and loaves, Lazarus, walking on the Sea of Galilee, the leper cured. I related what I could of the politics in the Acts of the Apostles, and the preaching of Peter and Paul. In a long pause that followed, I prayed to be given the words to continue.

Major Yos.h.i.+da stood and left, as always.

The next five nights there were no sounds of torture, an unusual- and welcome-relief.

The twelfth Sunday, I woke to the quiet world of snow. Flakes drifted through the high window to land on my cheeks and melt like morning dew. The guard unlocked my cell. He led me to the toilet as usual, but this time, afterward, he took me to the main gate. "You are released," he said without expression. I stood in disbelief for a moment and refrained from looking back, angry that I wondered if Major Yos.h.i.+da watched me leave. Outside the walls, I stared at the sky, its dizzying whorls of white, and felt the free winter wind caress my face. I thanked the skies for my release and protection, and I prayed for the souls of the faceless men whose suffering I had witnessed.

Clutching my frayed coat, I tightened the shawl around my head and shoulders and walked slowly, my legs weak from inactivity. The snow slowed to a dusting about an hour later when I thought I might be close to town, and I saw ahead on the road the silhouette of my mother, her recognizable steady gait, her beloved form. I found myself running and when I reached her, I fell to her feet and embraced her ankles. We sat together on the road in the snow for some time, sobbing, searching each other's face to prove it was true, wiping each other's tears, my mother ensuring I was whole and unharmed, praising G.o.d. I was certain that in all the dampened snowy earth there was no sweeter sound than her voice, no sweeter vision than her eyes upon mine.

Mother held my arm and we turned toward home. We walked cautiously and slowly, my feet unsure and legs unsteady. With long stretches of silence in between, she talked about the goings-on at home. "Father and Dongsaeng still argue about the value of cla.s.sical education. Father considered agreeing to let him teach, but decided he's too young to impart any learning. Imo writes that her nephew received top marks at university. Unsook still goes every Monday to the orphanage. The director said the children had a wonderful Christmas because of her. Unsook is a little short of breath these days and I'm praying that she'll miss this month's bleeding."

I recognized by the foreignness of what I heard that my mind had been altered, and this was her attempt to nudge it back to the life I'd known before. I tried hard to focus on the words, but it was her voice that helped normalcy seep back in.