Beasts of a Little Land(98)

“You dirty, stinking pig!” the officer screamed. The veins were popping out on the back of JungHo’s fist as he held on to the case; but after a few seconds, he released his grip. The officer stepped off his wrist and kicked the case far behind him, smiling contemptuously. He had lowered his gun in his moment of satisfaction. His voice too was husky from thirst, and fat drops of sweat rolled off from under his visor and fell on the dust. After swiping at his brow, he gave JungHo a leisurely kick in the stomach, just as animals toy with their kill before eating. JungHo crouched low and felt for the knife inside his waistband.

“Stop!” a voice called out from a distance. “Leave him be.” It was the general. He was striding toward them with something that glinted red in the last rays of the sun—the cigarette case.

“Where did you find this?” he said, holding up the case in front of his face, standing closely enough that JungHo could easily kill him.

“My father gave it to me,” JungHo found himself answering.

“Your father?” the general repeated, frowning and apparently deep in thought. “Where are you from? And what is your father’s name?”

“I’m from PyongAhn province. My father’s name was Nam KyungSoo.”

The general turned the case over in his hand that was missing the last two digits. The man was completely vulnerable—but as JungHo felt for the handle of his knife with his thumb, the general lifted his head and fixed his gaze on him.

“I gave this to your father . . . We met by chance in the mountains, almost thirty years ago. He saved my life. I told him then that he can show this to anyone if he ever gets into trouble. Little did I think it would be me,” he said. “I never thought I’d see this again.”

JungHo couldn’t understand anything except that somehow, this man had known his father and even gifted a token—the same heirloom he himself had cherished his entire life. All thoughts of killing the man vanished.

“My first instinct was that you’ve somehow stolen this, but you are telling the truth.”

“Why would you believe me?” JungHo asked in confusion.

“Because you look exactly like your father,” the officer said, running his finger on the engraving. “See, there. My name . . . Yamada Genzo.”

Yamada turned to his adjunct, who had suddenly become meek. “This one, I’ll handle myself. Take the others to the camp,” he said. “Try not to kill them all before they even reach the front. We need bodies.” The adjuncts nodded and started rounding up the men, and Yamada motioned to JungHo.

“Follow me,” he said, leading the way outside the courtyard and into a corridor, then a small office with a window opening out to the streets. Once inside, Yamada gestured at a chair against the wall. He poured a cup of water from a jar and handed it to JungHo.

“Drink,” he said, and sat down behind a desk. JungHo collapsed onto the chair and at the same time, gulped down the water in a single swig. He himself refilled his cup and drank while Yamada busied himself with writing something.

“How did you meet my father?” JungHo asked once he was done with his third cup.

“We were hunting and we got lost. I found your father in the woods. He was too weak to make it down on his own, but I gave him my food and he recovered. Later on, when we were making our way down . . . A tiger tried to attack us, but your father somehow drove it away. He had nothing—no weapons, just his bare hands. I still don’t understand how he did it.” Yamada looked up from his papers and shook his head. “He was a small man, like you.”

“He told us the story of the tiger a few times, but he never mentioned meeting any soldiers . . .” JungHo wondered whether his father left that part out because he was ashamed to have helped the Japanese, even by coincidence. “So is that why you gave him that case?” JungHo asked.

“You could say that.” Yamada sighed. “Now listen very carefully. I’ve written up a letter saying that the bearer of this paper is on a special mission assigned by General Yamada Genzo, the commander of the Fifth Army. Take this and go somewhere safe. If anyone from the military questions you or tries to take you in, show the letter and they’ll release you. It’s very important that you don’t get caught again, you understand? If you get sent away, you won’t come back. The Germans have surrendered long ago, we’re alone against America to the south, and Russia is coming for us from the north. The war will be over soon, but not before we lose every single troop in our armies. That’s already been decided.”

Yamada put his red seal at the bottom of the letter, put it in an envelope, and handed it to JungHo along with the cigarette case.

“You should keep the case,” JungHo said.

“No, it’s yours,” Yamada said with the faintest trace of a smile. For a moment he looked more whole, like someone remembering a funny episode from childhood; then the light in his face faded and he assumed his usual dry air. “You should leave now. Good luck.” Yamada opened the door and stood aside. JungHo stumbled to his feet and left the office, not even knowing the exit out of the building but slouching like an animal toward the hint of fresh air and the way to freedom.

*

JADE SAT IN A DAZE, facing the garden, wondering how the trees alone went on, indifferent to everything. She had finally sold all her jewels, clothes, furniture, and linens, and there was nothing in the house that was of any value save for the diamond necklace. It was still buried under the aengdoo cherry tree, which bore the only reliable food Jade had for a month in early summer. There came a point with hunger when even breathing became exhausting. Everywhere, people who used to be perfectly well before were quietly starving to death, too ashamed to draw attention to their calamity. Jade also thought of simply lying down and never getting up again, but some hidden energy roused her from her stupor. She listened to a voice in her head saying, I want to live. That she was hearing things didn’t faze her, because she was past the point of surprise. It only reminded her of what JungHo said once about being given a clear choice to either hold on to life or let go. He had told her he’d refused death every single time.