The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [146]
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 god.”
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 participate 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 Japanese soldiers! Two of the ten teachers were forced to quit because they say we need more Japanese 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 astonishing 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 attitudes 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 competitions 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 God 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