Human Acts(50)

And even now thirty years have gone by, on the anniversaries of your and your father’s death, I find myself troubled when I watch your brother straighten up after bowing over the offerings. The thin line of his lips, the stoop of his shoulders, the flecks of white in his hair. It’s the soldiers, not him, that your death should have weighed on, so why did he grow so old before his time, so much quicker than all his friends? Is he still troubled by thoughts of revenge? Whenever I think this, my heart sinks.

—

Your eldest brother’s quite the opposite, always sure to keep a smile on his face, and never a hint of anything else. Twice a month he comes down to visit, to slip me a little something for the housekeeping and make sure I’m all set up for meals. Then he’s back up to Seoul the very same day, so his wife will never even know he was gone. Your middle brother lives practically round the corner, but the eldest has always been kindly by nature.

You, your father, and your eldest brother are all cut from the same cloth, you know. Your long waist and sloping shoulders are a family trait. As for your ever-so-slightly-elongated eyes, your square front teeth, you were a carbon copy of your brother. Even now, when he laughs and reveals those two front teeth, broad and flat as a rabbit’s, the look of youthful innocence they give him clashes with the lines etched deeply around his eyes.

Your eldest brother was eleven when you were born. He turned into a teenage girl around you, running home as soon as school was out so he could dandle you on his knee. He cooed over your pretty smile, supported your neck with tender care while he held you in his arms, and rocked you back and forth until you gurgled with delight. After you’d passed your first birthday and he could carry you on his back in a sling, he’d strap you on and proceed to stride around the yard, singing painfully out of tune.

Who would’ve thought that such a sweet, sensitive boy as that would end up scrapping with your middle brother? That now, more than twenty years down the line, they’d find it so painful even to be in the same room, barely able to exchange more than a handful of words?

It happened three days after your father died, when the eldest had come back home to join us for the grave visit. I was busy in the kitchen when I heard something smash, and when I ran into the main room, there they were going at it, full-grown lads of twenty-seven and thirty-two, panting fit to burst and trying to grab each other by the throat.

“All you had to do was take Dong-ho by the hand and drag him home. What the hell were you thinking of, letting him stay there all that time? How come you let Mother go there on her own that last day? It’s all very well to say you could tell that your words were just going in one ear and out the other, but you must have known he would end up dead if he stayed there; you were perfectly aware, how could you let it happen?”

An incoherent, drawn-out howl burst from your middle brother; he flew at the eldest and grappled him to the floor. The pair of them were yowling like animals.

I suppose I could’ve tried to pull them apart, sat them down, and straightened the whole thing out. Instead, I turned and went back into the kitchen. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just carried on flipping pancakes, stirring soup, and threading meat onto skewers.

—

I can’t be sure of anything now.

When I went to see you that last time, what might have happened if you hadn’t promised to be back that very evening? If you hadn’t spoken to me so gently, setting my mind at ease?

“Dong-ho’s promised to be back home after six, when they lock up the gym.” That’s what I told your father. “He’s said we can all have dinner together.”

But when seven o’clock came around and there was still no sight of you, your middle brother and I went out to fetch you. Under martial law the curfew started at seven, and the army was due back that evening, so there wasn’t so much as a shadow stirring in the streets. It took us a full forty minutes to make it to the gymnasium, but the lights were off and there was no one to be seen. Across the road, some of the civil militia were standing guard in front of the Provincial Office, carrying guns. I’ve come to fetch my youngest boy, I explained, please, he’s expecting me. Their faces pale and drawn, they insisted that they couldn’t allow us in, that no one was permitted to enter. Only the young can be so stubborn, so decisive in the face of their own fear. The tanks are rolling back into the city as we speak, they said. It’s dangerous, you need to hurry home.

“For God’s sake,” I begged, “let me inside. Or just tell my son we’re here. Tell him to come out, just for a moment.”

Your brother couldn’t stand by any longer; he declared that he’d go and fetch you out himself, but one of the militiamen shook his head.

“If you go in now, that’s it, we can’t let you back out again. Everyone who’s stayed behind has decided to do so at their own risk. They’re all prepared to die if they have to.”

When your brother raised his voice to say that he understood and was prepared to go in anyway, I quickly cut him off.

“There’s no need,” I said, “Dong-ho’ll come home as soon as he gets the chance. He made me a promise….”

I said it because it was so dark all around us, because I was imagining soldiers springing out of the darkness at any moment. Because I was afraid of losing yet another son.

And that was how I lost you.

I pulled your brother away from the Provincial Office, and the two of us walked back home through those deathly silent streets, with the tears streaming down our faces. Neither of us spoke.