The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [95]
“True, true!” said Hansu.
“But what is your opinion of the Communist movement in the north?”
Remembering the Karl Marx book, I listened with interest.
Mr. Cho took time to think, then answered as carefully and formally as before. “In that its development was a reaction to the failures of an agrarian society such as ours, with its ancient and paternalistic divisions of class, it seems there could be wisdom in attempting to establish equality through an evenhanded distribution of community property.”
Father’s fingers twitched, and he, too, let time pass before speaking. “But what if those properties belonged to you? Suppose you were the landowner with hundreds of li of the best rice fields. And they were summarily taken from you after generations of your family members, every peasant in your home village, every brother and servant who had worked the land had benefited from it. Suppose these fields were portioned to each man in even parcels, everyone working in community as you say. Each man is also apportioned his share of human nature, wouldn’t you agree? Envy. Greed. Industriousness. Foolishness. Drunkenness. Laziness. Ambition. To whom would these men turn for leadership, to arbitrate disputes? How can a legacy of thousands of years be demolished without resulting in chaos? What of ordered living? What of the lessons of our ancestors?”
Mr. Cho remained visibly thoughtful in the ensuing pause. “Excuse me, sir, for speaking thus,” he said. “But I doubt that it will be possible to return to the old ways. New generations are being bred under imperialism. Modern ideas have flooded our universities. My father believes, as do I, that the model of democracy may best serve our nation—a congress of leaders freely elected by thinking men, and a president-figurehead to exemplify the dynastic traditions of leadership.”
Hansu interrupted, “Perhaps someone like Kim Il-sung?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Cho. “But he, like the Communists, has no God. Without Christian compassion and democratic understanding of the equality of all people, it matters little, ultimately, how strong one’s arm is, who one’s father is or how charismatic one’s personality is.”
Father cut in. “Man might be equal in the eyes of God, but heritage cannot so easily be washed away. Are you not your father’s son? Was Moses not a son of Israel? How can bloodline be irrelevant?”
“Excuse me, sir. I’m not discounting heritage. I’m speaking of suffering. When people suffer, as ours do, as peasants have for hundreds of years, God has compassion, indeed, proven with the example of his own son, his own bloodline—Christ and his human suffering.”
Mother said “Amen” and fidgeted with the fruit plate. I knew she worried that such a discussion might irk Father and ruin his digestion. And I thought Mr. Cho was clever to turn politics toward God, diverting rather than conceding his point. I caught Hansu searching for a reaction from me, and I flushed. With irritation? Eagerness? Embarrassment? Acknowledgment? Discomfortingly, I recognized it was all four.
Father waved the fruit aside and started to respond, but Mr. Cho bowed and said, “Honored Sir, forgive my argumentative tone. There were many such discussions at my father’s house, and your hospitality has put me so at ease that I must apologize for having overstepped my manners. How can we be Korean and not respect our bloodline? Naturally and historically, it’s an essential part of our national character and must always be so.”
“Hm,” said Father. His spine softened and he gestured that refreshment should be served. “I see we have much to speak of.”
Mother relaxed beside me and Father asked Mr. Cho to pray. He prayed with authority, his intonation as careful and formal as his arguments. He prayed for the nation, the freedom of its people, gave thanks for the gathering of these three families and asked God’s blessings for the bread we would break. When everyone said “Amen,” Mother lifted her eyes to me, and I saw that she was pleased with his prayer. I served water and precious rice cakes, conscious of