Dear Leader (17 page)

After finishing the call to his wife, Chang-yong explained to us that his oxen had not been fed today. Tonight, we could stay at his mother-in-law’s place, but he would have to leave us first thing in the morning to deal with the animals. As if on cue, a blizzard descended and buffeted us with snow as we walked. Chang-yong drew his short neck down into the collar of his jacket and began to grumble. He said others might have left us to our fate and that we were lucky to have met a simple farmer like him. When a taxi passed by with a loud honk, he swore in Chinese. That voice seemed to belong to another man.

‘How far is your mother-in-law’s?’ Young-min asked.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Chang-yong replied.

With those two words, he trudged ahead, as if to say it was up to us whether we followed him or not. He was huddled against the cold wind, but behind him, we couldn’t contain our excitement: the soil beneath our feet was not patrolled by North Korean soldiers or by the Ministry’s secret police. As if to reflect this difference, the snowstorm abruptly ceased, and there was the sunset, which seemed extraordinarily foreign and exotic. We were no longer at the end of yet another day lived in loyal obedience to Dear Leader and the Party; instead the sunset portended new days whose potential I could not begin to imagine, just like in my childhood memories. The marbled sky seemed majestic with these thoughts. Young-min too seemed intoxicated by our new environment. And by the time we had climbed the small hill to where Chang-yong’s mother-in-law lived, the view was even better. There were hundreds of village houses spread out before us, all similar but each distinct. In the north, where the winters were long, narrow chimneys rose prominently above each homestead and the smoke that rose from them looked like the fluttering standards of an army gathered to confront Winter himself.

Chang-yong said he couldn’t visit his mother-in-law empty-handed; especially not when he was bringing guests. We stopped by
a shop where meat hung under the eaves outside, facing the street. It went against all the logic we knew from our lives in North Korea – there, the shopkeeper would be standing with his wares around him, and anything as precious as meat would be kept inside, away from potential thieves. We bought two pounds of beef and, as we walked the short distance to the apartment, darkness fell.

Chang-yong had warned us that although he owned several fields and oxen, his mother-in-law was very poor. Nevertheless, when we stepped over the threshold of her house, it was much nicer than a mid-ranking Party cadre’s flat in Pyongyang. Back home, a refrigerator, a colour television and a sofa were signs of this class of prosperity. But here, in addition to those items, even the wardrobe and drawers seemed to be good-quality items too. The mother-in-law spoke in a northern Hamgyong accent just like Chang-yong’s, asking anxiously whether we had hurt ourselves while crossing the river. Her concern for us was more heartening than the heating that warmed the room.

I was looking round, saying what a nice and spacious home she had, when my voice faltered as I noticed the calendar that hung beside the curtains: it showed a large photograph of a Western model clad only in a bikini. In North Korea, no matter how private your home, such a thing would be impossible. In fact, precisely because it
was
the intimate privacy of your home, it was a sanctified place in which you would of course hang portraits of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. There did exist calendars showing famous actresses, but they were to represent their loyalty to the Party through their art: it wasn’t supposed to be about the women’s celebrity or beauty or some product they were advertising. If any North Korean had hung such a calendar as this on their wall at home and it was discovered, that person would be found guilty beyond doubt of worshipping materialism and punished accordingly. Both Young-min and I found the calendar too shocking to bear and turned to sit facing away from
it, as it appeared to our sheltered North Korean eyes like a public display of pornography.

Steam swirled wonderfully from the kitchen and, as Chang-yong’s mother-in-law prepared the beef and chopped vegetables, I inhaled the strange, strong smell of what could only be Chinese spices. As we waited, we listened to Chang-yong explain how there were more than 100,000 North Korean refugees hiding in China. He told us that the Chinese authorities actively sought them out in an attempt to reduce the numbers. Then he proceeded to tell a horrible story about refugees being seized and handed over to the North Korean secret police.

‘Why didn’t the soldiers shoot as we crossed the river?’ I wondered aloud. Chang-yong suggested that the North Korean soldiers did not have permission to fire towards China. He grinned and patted us both on the back for sprinting so well. He added that although he had met many North Koreans on the run, we were the only gentlemen to have given him the sum of $700. Apparently, it was enough to buy a cultivator, he said loudly enough for his mother-in-law to hear, and his face glowed with pleasure at the thought. He then frowned, saying that if he were found to have accepted money from us, the fine would be twenty times as great as the fee. He repeated several times that if we were caught, we must not tell anyone that we had given him any money.

As we listened, we realised that our escape was far from over. We had managed to run away from North Korean soldiers, but there were Chinese soldiers waiting for us here.

Suddenly, Chang-yong’s mobile phone rang. He listened for a moment and then answered, ‘Hey, I said I couldn’t come home tonight. What? Say that again?’

His expression became serious. Although it appeared that the person at the other end had already hung up, he kept the phone clamped to his ear as he stuttered at us, ‘Are … are you murderers?’

The question caught us both completely by surprise. The mother-in-law, who was still cooking in the kitchen, stopped what she was doing too and peered through to see what was going on.

Chang-yong said, ‘That was my wife on the phone again. She says that border guards
and
armed police have been searching the village. The time, your clothes, your height, it all fits. According to the message from North Korea, you’re murderers. They say you’re armed and dangerous. The border areas have gone crazy.’

My chest tightened and my face flushed hot with anger. How could they possibly frame us for murder? Our worst crime was that we’d fled for the sake of our loved ones.

Chang-yong leaned in closer. ‘I know you’re not just ordinary folk,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘The defectors they’re really desperate to catch – well, North Korea always frames them for murder. I know that much because I’ve lived here all my life. You have money and you’ve got good skin. You’re from Pyongyang. You probably held important jobs. Who are you?’

We decided to trust this good man completely, as the Chinese authorities were on our trail now. I told him curtly that I was a member of the United Front Department and my friend worked for Section 5, and that both institutions were attached to the Central Party.

‘Please, tell me so I can understand. I get the Party, but what’s the United Front Department, and what’s Section 5?’

While I hesitated to reveal our full identities, Chang-yong’s large eyes grew wider with fear, and the fluorescent light above reflected brightly in his dark pupils.

‘The United Front Department oversees policy and operations related to South Korea,’ I explained. ‘And Section 5 – how can I put it – it takes care of Kim Jong-il’s personal needs, through entities such as the Joy Division.’

Chang-yong leapt up in surprise. I thought it was in reaction to my
mentioning the United Front Department, so his next question threw me off completely.

‘Joy Division?’ he exclaimed. ‘That thing where Kim Jong-il sleeps with girls? But your friend here is a man! You’re not saying that Kim Jong-il sleeps with
men
?’

His heavy northern emphasis on the last syllable was even more pronounced, and both Young-min and I burst out laughing. Chang-yong’s confused expression made us laugh even more. At this point, his mother-in-law came in carrying a small table laden with wine and beef stew. Chang-yong reached for the wine, but instead of pouring us all a glass, he asked agitatedly what we meant by Section 5.

Still grinning, Young-min explained, ‘The most powerful entity in North Korea is the Organisation and Guidance Department of the Workers’ Party. That’s because our General, I mean Kim Jong-il, exercises all his powers through that Department. Under it falls the chain of command over every single Party, military or administrative entity in North Korea. Section 5 of the OGD oversees matters relating to Kim Jong-il’s private life. Kim Jong-il’s guesthouses, villas, health, food, hobbies and entertainment – all of this is the responsibility of Section 5. The girls you were thinking of, they’re also employed by Section 5. That’s why, in North Korea, we call pretty girls “Section 5 girls”. We have staff in every county, city and district, and part of their duty is to go around girls’ middle schools to hunt for the prettiest ones.

‘They only pick thirteen-year-olds, which is also the age when many of them start menstruating. After selection at the age of thirteen, the girls undergo an annual physical inspection to check for disease and to make sure they’re still virgins. At sixteen, when the girls finish middle school, the regional branches of Section 5 make a selection from among them. The ones who make it through to the final round are sent for a year’s training and then dispatched
throughout the country to Kim Jong-il’s holiday homes or hunting grounds. They receive their assignments at seventeen and end their service at twenty-four. Most of them go into arranged marriages with Kim Jong-il’s personal guards or senior cadres cleared to work in foreign affairs. Some even go on to become cadres themselves. Section 5 manages the whole operation.

‘As for me,’ Young-min went on, ‘I served as a court musician. Kim Jong-il’s longevity is not just about physical well-being, but emotional well-being too. I’ve been part of Kim Jong-il’s personal entourage for ten years. And my friend here, he’s a classmate of mine from music school. I majored in piano, then went on to study composition, while my friend finished his music studies and moved to work in literature. He studied at Kim Il-sung University, before starting work at the United Front Department.’

In his earnest desire to explain, I feared that Young-min was speaking much too honestly. But it was spilt milk, and we had nothing to lose, so I decided to chime in.

‘My friend here is a highly respected composer in North Korea. He had the special trust of Kim Jong-il, who personally gave him a piano. His grandparents are mentioned in our textbooks as leading anti-Japanese resistance fighters, as well as in Kim Il-sung’s own memoir,
With the Century
.’

Chang-yong and his mother-in-law made no response, but remained like stone, stunned by what they’d heard.

Young-min spoke: ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ He quickly rose and took a worn envelope from our rucksack. ‘This is the address of my relative in China, from a few years back. I would be grateful if you could take us there.’

After peering at the address, Chang-yong raised his voice. ‘What a rich relative you have! This neighbourhood, everyone in the region knows how expensive it is there. So you’re thinking of settling there with your relative?’

It seemed that he finally trusted us, and he leaned over to fill our cups with wine.

‘No, we’re planning to head to South Korea.’ We spoke almost in unison.

There was a moment of silence before Chang-yong raised his cup high. ‘If you want to go to South Korea, leave it to me,’ he said solemnly. ‘My nephew, he’s a professional. Defectors of your rank are guaranteed a comfortable journey to South Korea.’ Then he bent forward and whispered, ‘You know, my nephew – he speaks directly with South Korean spies.’

‘Really?’ We both spoke at once. Chang-yong nodded emphatically, and insisted that the South Korean spies would probably send out escorts for defectors of our stature. At this, we raised our cups and clinked them together. Chang-yong’s mobile rang again. He looked shocked as he listened. ‘What? Why on earth did you tell them? Stupid woman. What, they knew already? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? OK, fine.’

Chang-yong leapt from his seat. ‘Get up! The authorities are on their way! They asked my wife for her mother’s address. I mean they checked it with her, because they already had it.’

We gathered our belongings and left the house quickly, to the scolding of Chang-yong’s mother-in-law, whose careful preparation of dinner had been spoiled. We hurried after Chang-yong, blindly following whichever alleyway he chose to run down. The squeaking of snow under our feet and the barking of dogs all around made my panic worse. When it was brighter, the village with its multitude of chimneys had looked like a forest. But a couple of minutes running through alleys brought us to a dark and wild mountainside. Chang-yong stopped to catch his breath, like an ox that had come to a halt after being forced to do more work than its strength allowed. As he slumped to the ground, he grasped one of his ankles and moaned. I wondered if he might have sprained it.

I wanted to ask whether he was all right; I wanted to show my genuine concern, but it was all I could do to suppress a burst of absurd and pathetic laughter that was bubbling up inside me. We were running like this for our lives; but with our entry into his quiet life, for a sum of US$700, I could see the wretchedness we had brought on Chang-yong as clearly as I could visualise his yellow trousers with their pattern of pink flowers. I managed to compose myself as I examined his ankle, but then all three of us began to laugh.

As farmer Chang-yong finally caught his breath, he began to fume. ‘Remember I asked you how you found my house, and you said a Chinese woman showed you the way? I bet it was her who told on us. That bitch must have reported you to the authorities. She’s done it once before.’

Although it was dark, his breath was visible with every word.

‘I swear I’ll never help another one of you. I tell you, it’s the money. I shouldn’t have taken the $700 from you. In fact, other defectors are fine, but tangling with you two – it’s too dangerous. You don’t know how many times I’ve been interrogated already, living near that damned river. Anyway, where will you go now? It’s dark.’