The Aquariums of Pyongyang_ Ten Years in the North Korean Gulag - Chol-hwan Kang [85]
In the critical letter, An-hyuk kept repeating that “everything was going really well,” that “things were looking up,” and so on. He also announced the forthcoming “wedding ceremony of our friends.” The reference was oblique, but I understood. We got together and, assessing the situation, agreed we had to escape. But where to? Reaching the South wasn’t our primary goal. We simply wanted to avoid the camps any way we could. I had, however, entertained the thought of moving abroad before and had put some money aside for that purpose. The time for action had come; it was almost a question of life and death. If they got us this time, we would be going to a hard-labor camp.
If our plan were to succeed, it would have to remain secret. Even our families would have to be kept in the dark, and telling friends was entirely out of the question. Fortunately, because I was working in the distribution of beans and corn, people were used to seeing me leave town for several days at a time. Our departure thus would not be a cause for immediate suspicion or concern. Questions would eventually arise, of course, but by that time we hoped to be long gone.
It was difficult for me to go this way. I was leaving behind my family and a young girl with whom I was in love. I had met her in Yodok. Her family, who was released when we were, benefited from the aid of a grandmother in Japan. Out of the camp, she had blossomed into a beautiful girl, and I was always thinking about her; yet my shyness and constant moving about made a relationship difficult, and I never declared myself. In the North it’s difficult to go steady with a woman, because that sort of intimacy is viewed poorly. So I couldn’t even tell her of our plan. What if she turned out to be against it? What if she started telling people?
An-hyuk, for his own part, had been living a relatively happy, independent life for some time, so his parents wouldn’t notice his departure for at least a few days. Leaving with him gave me hope. We were friends and trusted each other like brothers. With him by my side, the adventure didn’t seem quite so impossible. Had he not already been to China? It’s true that he had come back between two border guards, but the experience had surely taught him something. Moreover, a friend of his who had managed a successful escape had let him know that things would be much easier once we were in China.
What I brought to the partnership was a perfect knowledge of the train system and the route to the border zone. In the period following my release from camp, I often took the Pyongyang-Musan line to visit family, who lived up in the north. To avoid any problems—my identification card noted my internment at Yodok—all I had to do was ply the conductors with bribes. When one asked for ID, I told him I didn’t have any, but that my parents were Japanese and that I had some yen in my wallet. “I need to travel,” I explained, “and if you’ll permit, I’ll give you what you need.” We would go back to his compartment, chat, smoke my Japanese cigarettes. I always dressed impeccably, wearing all-Japanese clothes, and knew exactly how to make the conductor drool: “What else do you need?” I asked. “I’ll get it for you next time.” It was almost too easy. Rules, however, needed to be observed. I couldn’t distribute the gifts haphazardly; they had to be rationed in small, constant doses, so that the receiver would remember and think about them constantly.
I once gave a conductor a Japanese tape recorder. He was very happy, and we began chatting like old friends. When he threatened a woman who was trafficking something, I interceded on her behalf. “She seems really poor,” I said. “You should let her be. . . .” And he did. Another conductor, to whom I spoke of my imprisonment, was outraged to learn the cause of my family’s travails. But I tried to get him off that