The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [33]
SEVEN DAYS PASSED, the house somber with the relentless strain of not knowing and waiting. A quick look out the gate showed dozens of posters fluttering from tree trunks and fence posts. They pronounced a curfew and listed names of agitators. I almost stuck my entire head out to see more, until I saw two soldiers come out of the near alley dragging something across the street. I withdrew and quickly, quietly latched the gate, my chest pounding with what I’d seen.
Mother and I sewed and prayed together for many hours, which simultaneously irritated me, gave me calm and left me sleepy. Sewing was an endless chore. Skirts, pants and tops were deconstructed before laundering so the fabric would fold perfectly flat and we could beat out the wrinkles with two smooth sticks. Stitch after stitch, threading one needle after another, I grew resentful of the necessity for Confucian perfection in dress. With Mother’s help, I had begun studying the Four Books for Women. Though written in Korean, the vernacular was archaic and difficult, and many proper nouns were in Chinese characters. Schoolwork in Japanese and Korean had taken precedence over home studies, which left me weak in Chinese writing. I had recently read that a virtuous woman ensured that every member of the household was impeccably and properly clothed according to class and family position. As my neck cramped over the exacting work, my head was abuzz with resentment. Who cared about impeccable shirts and virtuous dress when my father was in prison?
Among unnamed errands that made my mother venture daily beyond the gate with Joong, she took as much food as she could carry to the prison. When she returned, her face was always gray, her eyes dark, their expression hidden. There was no way to know if the rice was actually delivered to any of the prisoners. The unusually temperate days and the sweet smells of spring were an affront to our vigil. Playing with Dongsaeng was a distracting, guilty relief. On Monday Mother said the authorities had announced that all businesses must reopen, and children were required to return to school. She refused to let me go. She herself did not visit the market, and we ate dried fish left over from winter storage. I wasn’t allowed to leave the estate, and I assumed that Mother was too afraid to have me outside our walls. In the meantime, we waited for news about Father.
On the seventeenth night after his arrest, I woke to scratching sounds at the front gate. My eyes snapped wide to the fading black of predawn, and I heard my father’s muted voice, “Yuhbo—”
Mother rushed by my door, calling for the menservants.
“Wait—” I yanked off my covers.
“Watch the baby!”
The gate creaked open and Mother cried out. Father said things I couldn’t discern. I heard Byungjo’s and Joong’s voices, then receding shuffles. In my mother’s room, I tucked myself in beside my sleeping baby brother, telling him not to worry, Father was home now. God did watch over him after all. All was well, at least for now. “You’re safe with me, Little Brother,” I said. “I’ll never leave you. I’ll take care of you always.” I said a silent prayer of thanks, whispering that I wouldn’t forget the promises I’d made.
In the morning they remained cloistered in Father’s rooms. Cook delivered the baby to Mother for feeding, but I wasn’t allowed to go in. I broke several rules of protocol by eating breakfast in the kitchen with Kira and Cook, who told me they’d heard that nearly all the town’s men who weren’t already in jail had since been arrested. Several were missing entirely. Cook said, “It’s a lucky thing your family knows how to make influence.” She turned her body, but I saw her