The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [42]
“Sunsaeng-nim, I’m returning the books I’ve had at home.” I unwrapped my bundle and removed the books.
“Yes, and now the principal says that all the books, no matter what kind, must be reviewed. I’m afraid they’ll be destroyed.” She turned her head, but I saw tears.
“Please don’t worry. I’ve promised to hide it well.”
“What?”
“The Chinese-English phrasebook you gave me.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s right. Everything else is ruined.” Her shoulders slumped and she hid her face in her hands.
Something was terribly wrong. Fear and concern made me bold, and I touched her wrist. “Are you ill, Sunsaeng-nim?”
She grasped my hand, her face contorted in a way that reminded me of my mother giving birth. “Illness! If only it were that simple!” She twisted my fingers painfully.
“Excuse me, Sunsaeng-nim. Should I get help? Do you want the principal?”
“No! No—oh, I’m sorry, Najin.” She touched my shoulder. “Come sit for a moment before the others arrive.”
My fingertips thrummed with released blood, and I thought to offer her a hand massage, anything to help relieve her of her demons. “My mother taught me how to relax the hands. May I show you?” We sat on the front students’ bench and I opened my palms.
“No, thank you.” She held my hands gently in her lap. “Such a thoughtful young woman you are. Yes, you should hide the phrasebook. And should the Japanese ever come to your door, you should hide yourself as well as you can.” Her skin turned waxen and her eyes seemed to tunnel inward. “Even if it’s the police. Especially if it’s the police. Monsters! You must hide, do you hear me?” Her voice sounded trapped in her throat; her breath smelled of ash. She twisted our hands together. I was surprised at my own feelings of being more worried about her than afraid of her strangeness. My mother’s lessons had finally sunk in, I thought, but it was easy to think first of my beautiful teacher, whom I deeply loved. I examined her fingers as if they were wounded birds, and massaged the thickest part of her palms as my mother had taught me.
She turned her hands and held mine still. “Thank you. You have a healing touch for such a young girl. Perhaps you’ll be a nurse someday.”
Warmth from the compliment spread to my neck and ears, and I wanted to give her something back. “Is anything wrong?” I asked shyly.
“I’m going to tell you a secret. You mustn’t tell any of the other girls. You’re my best student and I have only the highest hopes for you.”
I flushed again and lowered my eyes.
“Times are only going to get worse and I may not always be your teacher.” I looked at her in alarm. “Not now, but one day, yes,” she said. “It doesn’t matter who your teacher is. You must never stop learning and asking questions. A woman’s life is hard. Without a husband it’s nearly impossible. But nowadays, with education, a single woman such as myself can at least be of some help to her family.” Her voice broke, her cheeks rivulets of ignored tears. I sat bound by the intensity of my teacher’s heightened emotion and inexplicable revelations.
“My brother and my betrothed—both—died this summer. The last time I saw my fiancé was more than a year ago, the day before the demonstration. I learned only recently that he died, and for all that time I knew nothing about him. His father wrote to say he’d been badly beaten during the madness in Seoul, and he became like an idiot and lived on, unable to care for himself, more helpless than a deformed newborn, until mercifully he died. My brother also went to Seoul and was taken to Gyeongseong Prison. He died of pneumonia there. They came for my father two weeks ago, and no one can tell us where he is or even if he’s alive.”
I could think of nothing to say and almost wanted to cover my ears. I wondered about Hansu in prison. Had he been beaten? Was he still alive? I felt crowded on the bench with Yee Sunsaeng-nim, the sides of our skirts touching. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t think of a single lesson from my mother that would apply. But