The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [40]
Han’s ears burned, thinking of her ordeal and her remarkable bravery, and what he had withstood, and how easily they had broken him. “They shouldn’t have marched—”
“Did they not shout as loudly as we did? Did they not die as tragically as men? Do they not desire independence as passionately as we do? Isn’t your own daughter pursuing an education?”
“That’s not your concern. Did your wife and your daughter-in-law appear on the streets that day?”
“Forgive me, B-B-Brother Han. This isn’t the discussion we should be having.”
Han settled onto his cushion and surreptitiously slipped a hand beneath his vest to press on the growing pain in his belly. He wished he had his pipe.
Deacon Hwang took the last melon slice. “There’s news that bodes well. It actually might be advantageous for our sons.”
“What could they possibly offer that would benefit us?”
“Advanced study abroad.”
“They’ve already coerced thousands of our youth to attend university in Tokyo. Our sons are forgetting what it means to be Korean! Now they’ll take the women too?”
“Not just Tokyo. Any worthy student, man or woman, can study in America, Germany, or France, perhaps. They also plan to expand Soongsil Academy and Union Seminary in Pyeongyang.”
“Bribes. Means to control us!”
“Brother Han, I sympathize completely. I’m not arguing, just conveying what I hear.”
Han quelled a rising desire that Ilsun might study in America. But what was he thinking? What of classical education? Would he even be able to find a tutor when Ilsun was ready? He changed the subject. “What news from Shanghai? Will a response be organized?”
“T-t-too many were arrested and shot.” Hwang drank his tea and gazed steadily at Han, who kept his face impassive.
Han wondered, not for the first time, how the deacon had escaped beatings or arrest, and if others wondered the same thing about his relatively short prison term. However, he had scars to prove his loyalty. Indeed, spies were everywhere—but again, what was he thinking? Hwang was an old friend, a familiar face long before the annexation, and a trustee of the church! This was yet another evil of the occupation: that a man would suspect treason in his own circle.
“I’m weary and impatient,” he said as an apology.
Hwang demurred, “On a long journey, even one’s eyelids grow heavy.”
“Thank you for dinner.” Han clapped his thighs and stood slowly, feeling a recurring stab in his lower back and knees. He cursed those bastard guards who were to blame for his stiffness.
“There’s one other thing, Brother Han.” Hwang examined the melon platter as if more fruit would appear. “They say the expenses in Shanghai are exorbitant.”
“I’ll send Joong by tomorrow.” He had already donated thousands to Syngman Rhee’s provisional government and wondered now if he was merely throwing money into the sea. Another independence movement faction and a provisional government in Hawaii were also calling for his support.
“You’ve always been very generous,” said Hwang, ushering him to the door.
Han grunted to pass off the perfunctory remark. He bowed goodbye and walked into the setting sunlight, an hour well before curfew, yet his eyes stayed keen on the darkening profiles of passersby, watchful for policemen.
The Curious Power of Words
AUTUMN 1920
THE MORNING AFTER I TALKED TO FATHER ABOUT THE BOOKS, I RAN to school, hoping to catch Teacher Yee before the other students arrived. In the field by the checkpoint, patches of fog faded in sunlight streaming like bright fans from high clouds. From the humidity coating my cheeks, I could sense the coming heat. I rejoiced just to be running before the temperature rose. The