The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [14]
She nodded and, remembering the nanny, worried that it could also prove to be their downfall. She would trust God. This thought reassured her, and with that reassurance she felt his living presence within her. “Amen,” she said aloud.
He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of that, I also visited the mission director.” He harrumphed and drank his wine. “He said to me, ‘Praise the Lord for your progressive example, Brother Han, and may others see the same light!’ Yah, all that church talk and what else could I say but ‘Amen!’”
Her eyes crinkled, and as she stood and bowed goodnight, she said with a heavy American accent, “Amen!” leaving him with an uncharacteristic mirthful grin.
Over the next few days she made two new hanbok—dark skirts and white blouses with fresh paper collars—and her daughter hemmed and embroidered a large muslin square to carry lunches and homework to and from school. Haejung was gratified when Najin asked to serve the evening pipe and wine the night before school began, and even more pleased when her daughter took the initiative to comb her hair anew, scrub her face and hands, and after seeing how much she’d splashed herself, change into her best blouse, tying the bow with perfection.
In her husband’s sitting room, Haejung looked on approvingly as her daughter used both hands with closed fingers to carefully offer his cup. Holding one hand within the other, Najin decorously lit a strand of straw at the flame of the oil lamp to fire his pipe. She stood before her father, hands at her sides, her head bent and turned slightly, and with her back straight, folded her legs gracefully to the floor, bowing formally and saying thanks in the flowery language of the high court that he loved. Haejung saw a glimmer of satisfaction on his sharp but even features.
Long after Najin fell asleep, the servants retired in their quarters and the house secured for nighttime, Haejung prepared for bed. As she unraveled and combed her hair, her jade hairpin slipped from her fingers and bounced on the lacquer table, leaving two small scratches just so—the Chinese character for human. She smiled, reminded of evenings sewing with Najin, and how she’d scratched a needle on stiff fabric to teach her daughter Chinese characters. She snuffed the lamp, slid between her quilts and breathed deeply, happily, for behind her closed eyes she envisioned the blackboard of her daughter’s new classroom written with the joyous code of learning.
Autumn Walk
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1918
ALTHOUGH I KNEW THE ROUTE, MOTHER INSISTED ON ACCOMPANYING me to school the first day. I was, after all, the first girl from either side of the family to attend a real school. Cook had made breakfast special by drizzling honey on my rice porridge, and Kira and Byungjo had waved goodbye from the gate. At the bottom of our hill, we walked on the rutted main street beside the whitewashed wall that circled the wealthy neighborhood where Japanese officials and businessmen now lived with their families. The early fall morning filled my lungs with an invigorating crispness that called me to run or skip in my new rubber shoes, but Mother was instructing me on proper school behavior. I dutifully harnessed my footsteps to match hers. A new linen blouse chafed my elbows, and the heavy silk of my dark blue skirt swung deliciously against my shins, like the church bell ringing its Sunday welcome.
“You mustn’t speak unless your teacher asks you something. Then lift your chin and speak clearly, but not loudly, and truthfully. If you don’t know the answer, you should say so. There’s no shame in not having the answer. Besides, with the lessons you’ve had at home, you’ll know more than most girls your age. Remember to give your teacher the utmost respect. Call her Sunsaeng-nim.”
“Yes, Umma-nim.” I repeated the instructions in my head in cheerful singsong.
“Treat your classmates courteously, especially if they know less than you, and most especially if they are peasant children. Some students’ families won’t eat for days to pay the tuition. They may be poor and have strange