The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [76]
The loom clicked and whirred. “Najin-ah, I know you’ve become a woman, but you’re still my child. You cannot have secrets from your parents. How can we know your heart if you keep it hidden from us?” Her hands worked steadily, but her voice quavered. “Tell me what you know and what it has to do with the soldier today.”
“Umma-nim, I didn’t know then that she’d been sexually molested. Imo-nim told me about Queen Min, and I realized it then. It’s horrible that Sunsaeng-nim took her life for that reason—”
“You know so much, you should know this as well.” Mother cast her shuttle firmly. “She was pregnant from it.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, poor thing. She felt she had no recourse. I’ve prayed many hours for her, and I trust that God took her in his mercy, because there is no Japanese or Korean or Chinese in heaven. Only souls, free souls, like hers now and the unborn baby’s.”
I was relieved to hear my mother’s conviction about my teacher’s soul, but I also wanted to cry out, Why was she raped? Why do they hate us? If there is glory in martyrdom, where was it for my teacher whose pain was too great to continue living, only to be denied heaven? Why does God let them treat us like that? Why does he let men do what I saw today?
I squinted into my sewing by the wobbly light of the lamp, jabbing the seam. The room hummed with the rhythm of Mother’s beater comb against the weft.
Presently she said, “Tell me about the soldier.”
I told her the truth, and that I’d been reluctant to do so, both to protect her and because it required speaking crassly. After she was sure that neither of us had been touched, she said, “How frightening! Of course we should tell your father.”
“Umma-nim, please excuse me, but here’s why I was reluctant to tell him. It’ll only make him more upset. He’ll never let us go outdoors by ourselves again. Isn’t it household business? If Joong were to find out, Kira is sure he’ll reject her.”
She thought a moment, weaving. “Yes, he’s as old-fashioned as your father that way. Well, I can certainly tell Joong that you saw a soldier, and to go with her to the stream. My guess is that he’ll be more than willing. It was he, after all, who noticed her first. As for your father, leave that to me.”
“Thank you, Umma-nim. Thank you for listening to me.” My throat opened and I breathed relief, my eyes blurring on my stitches. I’d been feeling the violation of that soldier more keenly than I’d realized.
“I can see how you’ve grown in more ways than physical,” said Mother, shuttling quickly through the warp. “I pray for your safety and wisdom, and I see my prayers answered today.” I wondered at how Kira had said the same. We worked until the oil sputtered in the lamp. Mother said a prayer in my room and tucked me in as if I were still her little girl.
I drifted in my smooth quilts, felt them pressing coolly on my neck, hands and thighs. I smelled the water-scent of my bedding, ran my fingers through my scalp and rubbed my feet together. A beguiling seed of pleasure at my base pressed for relief and I drew my knees close, wiggled my hips, pressed my muscles in, so, and again, as I’d discovered the last few months alone in my room in Seoul. My small breasts freed from the day’s bindings itched with warmth that spread from below my belly, and when I pictured the soldier’s hand pulling up and down, I closed my eyes and shuddered with lightness, only to collapse moments later in guilty tears of shame and self-loathing. I was no better than he. Never again would I seek this private pleasure.
ONE HOT SUMMER Sunday, as parishioners filed from the church, Missionary Gordon approached and walked the aisle beside me. “Are you Han Najin? How you’ve grown!” The Gordons had gone back to America for a while and had recently returned to Gaeseong. Even after many years of seeing her around the church and mission, Miss Gordon’s glassy blue eyes unnerved me. I dipped my head.
“My brother told me you were in