The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [171]
I reached home safely, was lovingly welcomed, and felt gladdened to see our dear Korean Royal Treasure—almost four years old—proudly and beautifully writing her name on a slate with a brush dipped in water. And when I examined Sunok closely for signs of malnutrition, I was gratified to see she had healthy pink gums and displayed plenty of energy when she gave me a shy but solid hug.
A.P.O.
SEPTEMBER 17, 1945
THE MAGICAL LEAFLETS DROPPED BY B-29S THAT HAD ANNOUNCED Japan’s unconditional surrender could still be found scattered throughout the city—caught in a treetop, composting in a gutter, happily displayed in a store window next to the flyer from the first drop, which transcribed Hirohito’s unprecedented radio capitulation. I went outside often to eagerly scan the heavens for those sweet silver birds whose high mechanical roars had heralded freedom. Rumors about the terrible bombs were confirmed. We feared the worst for Hansu and his family in Nagasaki, not because of the bombs but for being Korean in a defeated Japan. We had no idea about the vast fields of death and annihilation those single bombs sowed.
In Seoul, food was as scarce as before liberation, although American rations, cigarettes and amazing foreign sweets at exorbitant prices began to appear in the black market. What had been criminal was now patriotic, and the red linear stamps on identification papers became marks of pride. Collaborators who hadn’t joined the Japanese exodus were rooted out, tried and imprisoned, or murdered, and squatters quickly moved into homes hastily abandoned by Japanese nationals. Hunger was everywhere, but there was talk of free food coming soon from the Russians and Americans.
I walked downtown to pick up newspapers for Dongsaeng and my father, whom we now called Harabeoji, Grandfather, and who, after liberation, was most eager to read the news again. And though we had no money, I wanted to see if rice had become available and at what price. The sun burned as hot as midsummer, and I walked slowly to stay cool and to preserve the crumbling grass sandals Grandfather had crafted last year.
Since this day was our birthday, I wondered about my husband. Thoughts of Calvin had grown along with the optimism that everyone was feeling as vividly as the fresh colors painted on impromptu flags hanging everywhere. After the monsoons, when I first saw those silver planes soaring high against dramatic receding storm clouds, I wasn’t afraid like others were. They called my soul to open and to believe again in possibility—possibilities that were once as remote as Japan’s defeat, as war ending, as the rebirth of our independence, as being reunited with my husband.
Calvin would know nothing of our move to Seoul or even if we were alive. Years had passed since I’d communicated with his parents, so they wouldn’t know we’d left Gaeseong, and then as the war intensified, mail delivery declined to near nonexistence. The few thoughts I had about the Cho family came from a wifely sense of obligation that diminished over the decade of our separation, and were mostly worries about Mrs. Cho’s health. I considered that the remote chance of Calvin returning in the near future and finding me might mean I’d have to live with him and his family. But too much had changed and everything remained unstable. He probably wouldn’t come back for a long while, and his parents might not have survived the past few years of hardship. I certainly had changed and could refuse to live with them. In any case, as my mother used to say, it was pointless to worry about problems I didn’t yet have.
I could only assume that Calvin was still in America. Thinking of the packet of letters that Major Yoshida had taunted me with years ago, I felt sure my husband would attempt to find me. His earlier letters I had saved were long gone—they’d been stuffed into holes in