How I Became a North Korean Page 16

  On the fourth day I set the dinner tray beside her and lit her a candle, as had become my routine. She eyed me, a potential predator. “You’re wasting your time being nice. You’re not getting anything from me.”

  “It’s for myself,” I said. She looked as if nothing I said could make her believe me.

  Her hands clutched at the blanket and the veins rose on the backs of her hands. “I don’t need friends. I’ve always taken care of myself.”

  “Think of me as a dongsaeng, not as a man. I can be a little brother. I can be anyone now.”

  “Dongsaeng?” She shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything like a dongsaeng.”

  We couldn’t eat ice cream or thrill ourselves with amusement park rides, try foreign foods like hamburgers and pretend to enjoy them, or walk by the river the way I had with Myeonghui. We couldn’t do anything. But we were usually together.

  She told me about her few happy childhood moments, how she wished she’d been born a man because men lived free from fear. I painted a village for her on the wall, the sky a cerulean blue, a sun glowing with heat and light. When she limped out on her walking stick for the first time, hope grew in me. But after one look at Cheolmin’s and Bakjun’s prowling eyes, at Daehan’s stormy eyebrows, she rushed back into her concrete box.

  I ate quickly and went to her with a tray.

  “There wasn’t enough room at the saang,” she said.

  While she ate, I tried to read the Bible. The words of Daniel walked in front of me. One tiny black leg of each letter ahead of the next, then the next. The wiggled ahead of the . The slowly clambered over the . When I woke up, there was a pillow under my head—Jangmi’s.

  I sat upright. Imagined her hands cradling my head, my neck. “Do you want your pillow back?”

  “What pillow?” she said scornfully.

  We sat in silence. Suddenly she laughed, and her hands fluttered up and covered her mouth. Her laugh, her gesture, moved through me as real and necessary as water or sleep.

  “You’re a good person,” she said. She sounded surprised by herself. Then she leaned in and I smelled the sweet sesame of her breath. “My baby—she never even had a name.”

  • • •

  Soon we had a second intruder, a white man who Missionary Kwon called an ally of our people. Still, we shrank from the tall American who ducked to pass through the front door. I assumed all white people were Americans. The man had a thin, ungenerous nose and an overdeveloped torso, like a tree stump. He took off his black cap and sunglasses and said, “I’ve been so eager to meet all of you.”

  His eyes were the color of grass. He wasn’t my first white man; there were times in Pyongyang when people parted at a white man’s approach, afraid to attract attention by looking at him, and I’d seen plenty of them in smuggled movies.

  “Say hello to our guest.” There was a warning in Missionary Kwon’s voice.

  The man’s broad smile didn’t drop away and he waved both hands in the air to show that he was harmless. But he was a stranger and a foreigner, and only Daehan and I managed to greet him in formal Korean.

  The white man addressed us with the honorific form in pristine Korean and bowed, confusing us. We were young, we were refugees—used to pity but never respect—we were the ones who should be bowing. I found myself bowing back, a situation so absurd that I laughed. But this only angered me. Laughing, when everyone I loved was gone.

  All around me the murmurs began. “White man, white man.”

  “Matthew’s an American raised in South Korea. He’s an ally of yours—a friend.” As usual, Missionary Kwon gave us a skeletal explanation. “I expect you to tell him all about your lives and answer his questions.”

  “I’m not eating at a table with a long-nose,” Bakjun said, standing to his full height, at age sixteen no bigger than ten-year-olds I would see in the South.

  “Nonsense.” Missionary Kwon was firm. The American was a journalist and the son of Missionary Kwon’s good friend. “Matthew’s father came as a missionary himself to South Korea several decades ago and is now one of the country’s best pastors. His family’s practically Korean.”

  This man drew back at the mention of his father.

  “Too good,” he said in perfect Korean, and laughed hoarsely. “He’s a hard man to live up to.” It hurt to think that I could never be a better son for my abeoji.

  The stranger’s head tilted toward each of us as he presented himself as a friend to all. He bowed awkwardly in every direction, his sloppy smile spilling into the room. But he, like everyone else in China, wanted something from us.

  That night, terse fragments drifted out from Missionary Lee’s room.

  “A white man, and a journalist!” said Missionary Lee sharply, and he was never sharp. “That’s dangerous, dangerous for all . . . He’ll be all over their lives—they’ve been . . . he could expose them. We’re here to do God’s work, not to sell stories.”

  “Part of the Lord’s work is letting people know what’s happening in that dark country,” said Missionary Kwon. “Matthew will live here, no one will see him; he’s going to write . . . and with the donations we’ll have coming in . . .”

  “There’s enough money.”

  “You know nothing.” Missionary Kwon’s voice rose, but only a little. “Where’s the windfall going to . . . The sky? The trees? Trees don’t pay for my shelters.”

  “God, God will provide,” Missionary Lee said. “If we don’t believe that, what do we have?”

  Missionary Kwon wasn’t present the next morning. Neither was Missionary Lee, who felt ill and stayed in bed. There was only this Matthew.

  The journalist Matthew was deft—too deft—at handling our suspicion and unease and the sneaking stares at the light brown fuzz, like that of a deer’s antlers, that seemed to cover every part of him. He called it his animal hair, tugging at a crinkly strand as he smiled. None of it unnerved him.

  He waited. He ate our food with exaggerated relish, popping a spicy strand of kimchi into his mouth at breakfast as if to show us: I’m like you. He regaled us with stories about being a white man in Asia, though the boys probably only listened so they could skip studying. He passed out exotic sweets and played soccer with them, impressing Namil by keeping the deflated ball aloft for more than a hundred kicks, bouncing it from ankle to knee to hip to head. It wasn’t hard to like him. Only later did he maneuver us to the storage room, one at a time, and, wedged between the sacks of beans and cans of ham, retrieve our stories from us.

  When it was my turn, he cajoled and waited as I fled, avoided him, then reluctantly returned. He was armed with Missionary Kwon’s directive: Ask them anything you want, anything. He knew how to be patient; he sympathized, he prodded with his florid language. To tell was to remember and to remember was to relive, but I had little choice. I cooperated. We all did, except for Jangmi, who refused to be interviewed.

  We sat in a messy circle with Matthew on his last afternoon, waiting for the dipping creak of the front door, the particular music of Missionary Kwon’s arrival. Matthew massaged the pocket stitching of his slacks and said to us, but really to Jangmi, “I was the only white person in a class of forty-five South Korean high schoolers. You been to high school?” He continued. “Mine was on Jeju Island! You ever heard of Jeju Island?”

  He told her about the place, an island surrounded by azure sea, full of lava tubes and sunflowers, with a dormant volcano in the middle. South Koreans had always honeymooned there, though the well-off now headed to Europe or to tropical countries. He glanced down the hall. He must have known that the missionaries didn’t like South Korea spoken of around us because they said it made us restless. “Where did you grow up? Was it beautiful there, too?”

  A tremor passed through her as if her past was moving through her and taking hold, demanding payment.

  “I know it’s diffi
cult for you. I won’t use your name or your face. Your story’s important—it’s the only way to stop the abuses you’ve suffered in China from happening.”

  That may have been true, but Jangmi wasn’t ready to speak.

  “Nothing happened to me,” she said. “I crossed a river and lived in a room. And now I live in another room.”

  The journalist crouched close to her, his green eyes turning filmy in the reflected light. “Missionary Kwon told me where he found you. It must be so hard. Let me help you.”

  Though he was my senior in all ways, I set my hand down on the journalist’s shoulder so that he couldn’t lean in any closer to Jangmi. “Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  Matthew raised his arms high into the air. “Look, I’m a good guy, really.”

  She sought my other hand, laying hers lightly across mine.

  “Do people like me get to go to your country?” Her question made even Cheolmin freeze.

  “My country?” Matthew smiled. “If you mean America, actually, yes,” he said, his voice lowered. “Once you’re out of China, you can apply to live in a number of different countries. Japan, Norway, South Korea, America, you name it. It’s called asylum.”

  “You know people, important people,” she said. “If you wanted to, you could help us. The longer we’re in China, the more dangerous it is for us. You know that.”

  He stood up. “I’m just a journalist, not a diplomat.”

  Jangmi let go of me and gripped his ankle.

  “Help me get out,” she whispered. “I’m begging. You have the power.”

  He shielded his eyes. “You need to stop this.”

  “If you help me, you can take as many photos as you want and I’ll tell you everything you would ever want to know.” Her fingers turned white as she strengthened her grip. “Things you can’t even imagine.”

  He looked awkward and afraid. “Missionary Kwon knows best what to do.”

  The light and speed went out of her. “He’ll keep us as long as he can. Kids? A woman, a boy from Pyongyang? We’re his prizes.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “But you’re different from them—the Christians.”

  Matthew shook his head vigorously. “Believe me, there are many different kinds of Christians.”

  Jangmi said, “We didn’t risk our lives just to end up in this jail. There’s no one in this room who crossed without thinking they could die. You must be able to help us—you know people.”

  “I don’t, it’s not like you think.” He pried her fingers from his ankle and backed away. “I trust Missionary Kwon knows what he’s doing. Give him time.”

  • • •

  That night, I dreamed that people were after me. I was wading through the river again, half-naked and shivering in its glassy chill. I was in Pyongyang watching a Hollywood movie with a friend: I was Leonardo DiCaprio, I was Tom Cruise. Now I was sleeping on cold, marbled rock. Pine needles jabbed into my back.

  I woke up and a cool hand brushed across my sweaty forehead. A familiar voice said, Wake up, my son. It was my eomeoni, so I followed her. We journeyed in reverse across the river and the barren mountains of our country, and back to our home in Pyongyang. The house invited and repelled, opened and closed. It opened again, and we were inside, gazing at another family’s belongings: old-fashioned celadon vases showcased in the hall, a set of painted ceramic dolls, the portraits of our leaders dusted and prominently displayed in gold frames. No one was back from work or school and still the house echoed with bright, new voices. I felt betrayed.

  “And look here,” Eomeoni said, and we were suddenly outside a mansion barricaded by gate upon gate. Tanks surrounded the perimeter, their great noses pivoting toward us until we were past the first gold-plated gate, past a golf course and ponds, a riding stable and a verdant forest with families of deer, then finally inside, under the light of a heavy chandelier.

  “Look.” Eomeoni withdrew a gun from her sable coat. “Here is where your father died.”

  I wasn’t ready to die yet, so I left her and walked out.

  I was walking in the dream in which I had awakened from a dream, and then I was only walking. I found myself in the common room, in its great white silence. The full moon seemed to step on my foot’s shadow. Twice I whirled around, but there was no one there, just the sensation of breath, the weight of heavy steps that seemed to pursue me.

  I went to check on Jangmi, hesitating before looking in. Blankets were pushed into a corner in the shape of a body. The moonlight caught silver cobwebs tangled across the corners of the walls, dust rustled across the room, and there was Jangmi. Jangmi, on the ledge of the window whose plastic sheath she had sliced open with the kitchen scissors, her plastered leg already swung over the ledge, and the other tucked up to her chest, as she breathed in the night air. Her hair flamed blue in the moonlight. She looked peaceful, almost—happy. But her breath came in raspy huffs, as if someone were choking her. She swung the other leg over.

  I stepped slowly across the gritty floor, dizzy, the room devouring me. She was so close—if only I could convince her to wait out the masquerade of the days and months until we were finally free to make the dangerous journey to a safe third country. Then one of her legs settled on the other side of the sill; for her there must have only been the reality of the ledge.

  There was a hot hiss of liquid, and a musky smell rose from her. I caught a glimpse of her wet, trembling leg. She was afraid, of course she was afraid to jump. If I made a mistake, one more life would be lost.

  “Dongmu.” I kept my voice a gentle harmony even as my heart thundered in my ears. “Take my hand. You’ve gotten this far.”

  “You don’t know what’s happened to me. You’re a man . . . you can’t know . . .”

  I thought of my eomeoni, my dongsaeng, and it hurt to breathe.

  “It’s two floors up. You’ll be badly hurt, and you won’t get what you want.”

  She made small, shuddering animal pants. The shadows of trees danced across the walls and the wind breathed out, breathed in. Her foot, hands, and lips, her whole body was soaked blue with moonlight. A breeze gusted in, stilled.

  “Dongmu, trust me.”

  “Trust is what dead people do.” She sucked on a strand of hair caught on her lip. “I want to decide when I die.”

  “You’ll make it out of here, I promise.” Slowly, I stepped closer. “We’ll make a way.”

  In that room where time had slowed down, I finally took her by the waist and pulled her trembling body in.

  “Just a little more, you’re almost there. China’s the worst part—everyone says that. We will get out,” I said. “We will.”

  17

  Jangmi

  Voices whirled outside my room, making shapes that I couldn’t understand. The tin sheet of roof rattled with rain. I thought of calling out, suddenly scared of what I might do alone. I didn’t trust myself anymore. I gazed at the torn window covering, the great gap into the rest of the world, and I tried to believe that the future still meant something.

  This was what I believed: Men are animals. Everybody wants something from one another. Everything is an exchange.

  I asked myself: What does Yongju want from me? The missionaries continued to talk. I tried and failed to sleep. Their sounds continued from down the hall as I felt my limbs, my hair against my shoulders. I was all there. My leg smelled of dried urine and my face was tight with dried tears. I disappointed myself. I expected to be stronger than this, for hadn’t I given up my world for another?

  I heard Missionary Lee say, “Yongju’s right. This isn’t working. If he hadn’t seen her—we almost lost her.”

  “Who decides what’s going to work or not? It takes time.”

  “The journalist was . . . a mistake.”

  Their voices continued to drift in. Beside me was a basin of water and a
cloth. Yongju had left it for me, and the thought made me feel like a dried-up apple. He had seen me so compromised. I washed my face, then scrubbed down my leg, though someone had already cleaned me up.

  Missionary Kwon said, “We’re giving them an incredible chance to walk hand in hand in a new life with God. You think the streets are better for them?”

  I was so tired. Missionary Lee’s voice dropped.

  “You don’t think I care?” Missionary Kwon asked. “I used to guide them, dodging police, slave traders, border guards. And you’re telling me that we should send them all south right away because one girl tried to jump?”

  “You’ve devoted your life to helping them,” Missionary Lee said. There was some mumbling, then, “We almost lost her.”

  “What about their religious education? Saving their souls? You know the conversion rates drop steeply once they leave China.” There was pacing. “And who will sponsor us if we bring them in for a week or two, then let them go? Which church organization is stupid enough to do that? It’s safety or nothing!”

  “God will provide,” said Missionary Lee. “There are good people everywhere, but good is too simple a word to describe God. Maybe the more important question to ask ourselves is, Am I living a good life? A worthy life? We should be asking ourselves this right now.”

  “Isn’t that the clearest thing you’ve ever heard a Christian say?” Daehan’s voice startled me.

  Daehan was standing just outside the lantern’s ring of light, and though his dislike of me was clear, I was grateful not to be alone.

  He hunched down to my level and cupped his hand to my ear. “They’re talking about you.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m only here because Yongju asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  As the voices continued to rise, he frantically grabbed handfuls of his hair with both hands. He said he’d been told to board up my window but thought I should have fresh air. He talked about reading the stars the way the ancients had and how he wished we could see the stars that would map our way. Then he gripped my hand.