The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [92]
“In prison, I learned it was Reverend Cho who led the movement in Pyeongyang. It was he who read the Declaration of Independence to a packed crowd at his church. That morning, he had sent this second son— who was ten at the time—on a special mission. The boy’s mother sewed a secret pocket in the lining of his coat to hide several mimeographed copies of news about the two o’clock reading, as well as parts of the Declaration. They wouldn’t suspect conspiracy from a boy running in the streets! This is how most of Pyeongyang learned where and when to gather that day. Even at such a young age, this boy showed his patriotism!”
Father grunted his approval and Mother smiled outright. My sewing grew increasingly crooked.
“While I was at the academy,” Hansu continued, “I didn’t meet Reverend Cho’s family. He was far too busy for a nominal student such as myself.” I frowned at his self-criticism, but his grin showed he’d been baiting me.
“Last year during the term break in Gangdong, I had an opportunity to visit Pyeongyang and called on Reverend Cho. That’s when I finally met his son, who was by then a man. He’s twenty-four now, a year older than my honorary sister, am I correct?” Mother nodded while I bent my head further into my sewing, wanting to be the needle sliding deep into the fabric. Hansu smiled broadly. “Their house was enormous! Two stories of brick—” That Father gave no reaction to this information was another indication of how much things had changed at home. In his day, no structure could be taller than the king’s palace, something he frequently mentioned when he passed tall buildings. “But I think the family now lives in a smaller house,” said Hansu. “This brick building was part of the church and had many rooms filled with boarders—refugees and other souls the minister had met in prison, or who’d come because of his reputation. I’ve never seen a church as large as his. It’s the biggest American-built church in all of Korea, they say.”
“It’s known as Jerusalem of the East!” said Mother in a surprising outburst. It confirmed that she and Hansu had previously talked in detail about the Cho family, and that she was quite excited for my father and me to learn about the gentleman.
“His sermons are full of wisdom. Somehow he manages to infuse all who listen to him with pure patriotism and love of God. I always feel on fire for my country and full of hope for our future when I hear him preach.” His earnestness made me smile—same old Hansu! I hardly knew what to do with the shirt placket I held, being unaccustomed to fine handiwork after years of grading papers, writing reports, chopping kindling and—now and then at odd hours in poor huts—helping a woman give birth.
“I knew many of those men from Seoul,” Hansu continued. “It was wonderful to see them again.”
Mother murmured “Amen,” to acknowledge the reunion of former prisoners.
“But what an industrious place it was! Reverend Cho had purchased stitching machines from a nearby factory that had been taken over to make bombs or guns for those bastards’ usual usurp— Uh, pardon me.” He bowed his head apologetically toward Mother. “Anyway, his entire household was making socks.”
My eyebrows rose.
“I know, strange work for a minister.” Hansu lowered his voice. “But the income is used to pay ransom for political prisoners and to support Kim Il-sung’s guerrillas, who I hear are growing hundreds of thousands strong in the far north.”
“I see,” said Father.
“But pardon me, what I wanted to tell you about is this: the minister took me on a tour of the house. A very noisy house!—sewing machines, people talking in the hallways at all hours, discussing books and arguing philosophy—like a schoolhouse