The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [148]
Hansu stood and bowed, and the scholar also rose, saying, “Blessings for your child and family. May God 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 Japanese couple moved in next door, and Han had Byungjo mortar over the gate between the properties.
Box of Light
WINTER 1938–1939
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