Stars Between the Sun and Moon (7 page)

Eventually, I closed my eyes. Now I knew why my mother never liked for me to sing.

“What is a nobleman?” I whispered to myself, the question the flower girl had asked her mother.

“If only such a man were to appear to you, as if in a fairy tale,” I replied, whispering the mother's answer.

Chapter Nine

During the planting
and harvesting seasons, the fourth and fifth months and the ninth and tenth months of each year, students in the higher grades were assigned to farms in the countryside. We had to move there, either living with a family or being billeted in government-run compounds. Once I was sent to the same farm as my close friends Mihwa and Sumi, but the other times I was assigned to farms far away, where there was no one I knew.

The first year I did this farm duty, I expected I would at least be well fed. I was shocked to discover I was rationed even less food there, despite all the hard work I was doing, than I got when I attended school. I received a bowl of wheat rice for breakfast, and sometimes the cook gave me some cabbage. That was all I had to sustain myself on until evening, when I was given the same meal again.

That first year, I was so hungry that I would tuck corn and turnip into my pockets as I left the field. I got away with it for a few days. But then the guards watching over the workers caught on. A female guard patted me down and discovered the stolen items. She took them from me and started yelling that being a thief was being disloyal to the ideals of our great leader. My eyes grew misty, which I hoped the guard would perceive as tears, my repentance for stealing. But the truth was, I was sad because I was starving and no longer had the extra food. As I walked back to the home of the family that was billeting me, I strategized about ways to steal food in the future, including hiding the vegetables in my underwear. That would be far more difficult than to slip something discreetly into my pockets, though, since the workers were always watching one another. I ended up just going hungry.

During my second-last
year of
Joong-hak-kyo
, or middle school, Grade 9, I was sent to a farm on the Tumen River for the harvesting season. The air was fresh with the scent of grass but also something I had never smelled before: fish from the river.

That year, to our surprise, Mihwa and I were billeted with the same family. Within a few days of arriving, the two of us began to steal food. In the mornings, when the aging mother of the family, her daughter and her daughters-in-law headed to the river to wash the men's shirts and pants, we pretended to follow the men in the family as they left for the fields. But as soon as they disappeared over the hills, Mihwa and I would duck behind the house and sneak up on the cage where the chickens were kept.

We would wait patiently until one of the chickens made some clucking sounds and an egg popped out. Then we would snatch the egg, poke a hole in the end of it with a stick, and take turns drinking the contents. We managed this every morning for an entire month, until we greedily started taking an egg each. One morning after that, instead of us outwitting the family, the male head outwitted us.

Just as I had finished slurping my egg and was licking my lips, the man came up behind me and began beating the backs of my legs with a stick. He used so much force that the fabric on my pants tore and blood was drawn. He did the same to Mihwa. By the time he was finished, we could barely walk and were wincing with pain. But we were not allowed to wash or bandage our wounds. We limped our way across the hills to work the fields.

From that day on, no one in the family spoke to us. The mother would push our rice and turnip across to us in the mornings, but our portions were cut in half as further punishment for our crime. What had started as the best work placement of my school years turned into the worst. My eyes clouded over from hunger, and my body grew weak. My nails and hair began to break. My moods slipped into melancholy.

Mihwa and I were not allowed to bathe in the house, so we went to the river. I did not venture far into the icy waters, barely wading in past my knees before crouching in the waves to wash my body with a rag. For one thing, I didn't know how to swim. For another, the river was on the border between our country and China. I watched people who lived in the area swim right out in the river and say hello to the Chinese people who lived on the other side. “Leave the Chinese pigs alone,” I wanted to scream at the family who had punished me for eating eggs. I felt what they were doing, in speaking to the Chinese was far worse than my own crime.

“There is nothing worse than befriending Chinese
daenum
or Russian
mawoojae
,” I whispered to Mihwa.

Mihwa and I had seen Russians before. Like the Chinese, they came to Yuseon to sell items like cigarettes and rice. Russians had white, white skin, blue eyes, and bodies twice if not three times the size of ours. They wore big billowy coats and furry hats in winter.

“Chinese and Russians will try to kidnap us,” Mihwa whispered back. “Only we North Koreans are pure of spirit and mind. All the rest of the people are beasts.”

That night, neither Mihwa nor I could sleep. My mind raced with all the bad things the Chinese men on the other side could do to us, including crossing to our side, breaking the windows, stealing the pots and pans, and then tossing Mihwa and me over their shoulders and smuggling us into China, where we would never see our families again.

In the days that followed, these thoughts became so loud inside my head that I worried my fears might be heard by others. I wanted to get as far away from the river as I could. I felt sick to my stomach to see the family we were billeted with up close, knowing they had been talking with the Chinese earlier in the day. Mihwa and I spent our days working in silence, our eyes red from lack of sleep and our skin yellowing from malnutrition. The only thing that soothed us were the calls of owls in the middle of the night, trying to sing us to sleep. When we heard them, we would reach out and hold each other's hands.

That year when
we returned to school, there was a new girl in our class: Youngsook, whom I nicknamed Pumpkin for two reasons. For one, she was very fat. The folds of her stomach bulged over the belt on her skirt. Also, her family grew many vegetables in their yard, including pumpkins. Pumpkin's family had taken over Daechul's house after the Boweebu removed all of the previous family's belongings, including photographs.

The pumpkin vines and the fences surrounding the house made it look like a fortress. “I heard that Daechul's mother was sending messages to the south on a radio from the mountains,” I told Pumpkin and her mother one afternoon when Sumi and I were there visiting.

“How do you feel living in a home once lived in by spies?” Sumi asked them.

Pumpkin's mother declared firmly that she and her husband were Party members. When her mother left the house to hang some laundry, Pumpkin whispered to Sumi and me: “A girl in school is dating a married man. They're having an affair.”

I stood frozen in shock. “What does this have to do with your house and spies?” I asked finally collecting myself.

“Oh, that.” Pumpkin waved her hand. “This is more important. This student is unmarried and the man is married. It is very scandalous.”

I frowned. “Have you ever checked the walls of your home?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Maybe the family left notes tucked in hiding places, chronicling their activities.”

“Don't be silly.” Pumpkin waved her hand again. “You must understand how dangerous it is for the girl to be doing this with that man.”

“Well, why don't they stop?” Sumi said, caught up in the story.

“You can't just stop when you are in love,” Pumpkin sighed, clasping her hands to her heart. “Love is not something that you go out and get and then turn off when the mind says it's not right. Love settles in the heart like a butterfly, and it must be treated delicately, allowed to leave or stay as it wishes. People do wicked things to each other when they hold on too tight. They can do things in the name of love that hurt other people.”

I didn't really understand what Pumpkin told Sumi and me that day. I was more interested in spies and our safety and in our allegiance to the great father. Besides, love to me was a sinking feeling, not taking off like butterflies. Sinking like one of my father's ships. I had no idea then that my feelings might change.

Chulnahm was a
boy in the same grade as me. Both his parents were members of the Party, and his father was a supervisor in a manufacturing company that made wood and iron products. Chulnahm had broad shoulders and eyes that, when the sun hit them a certain way, appeared amber, just like my own. He had strong legs and a crooked smile.

When we were still children but after I had started school, Chulnahm and I had sometimes met on the hill near our houses and tobogganed together in the winter. I would wrap my arms tightly around his stomach, my chest against his back, as we slid down the hill on a wooden toboggan his father had made for Chulnahm and his older brothers. Since we lived in the same grouping of houses, we walked home from school together and we often got together to do our homework and study. We would sit beside each other and engage in elbow wars until we finally settled down and focused on our work. After we had completed our assignments, Chulnahm would lean back against the wall with one knee pulled up and listen as I read him some of my original writings. I thought nothing of our friendship until I was sixteen and found myself sinking one afternoon when he said goodbye.

“Big sister says that when lovers meet, they walk side by side, their arms swinging in unison, their steps matching each other's,” Pumpkin informed me one day at break-time. I'd given in. All she talked about was affairs and lovers. For us to remain friends, I had to follow along.

“But a man proposes to a woman by first spending time with her family,” I replied. “Love comes after everyone agrees.”

“You think so?” Pumpkin smiled, her fat cheeks scrunching up into balls, her eyes narrowing so much I could barely see her pupils. “Big sister says people who are in love don't sit across from each other but side by side. They become one. Kind of like you and Chulnahm,” she smirked, tilting her head to the side.

I gasped.

“Yes,” Sumi chimed in. “When I see you two walking home from school, from the side I can't tell you are two people. You walk as if you are one.”

“You look like apricot trees,” Pumpkin teased, “standing in a perfect line.”

I stepped back and shook my head. “How can you say such a thing! I am just a young girl,” I stammered, “and he is a friend. Never, never, would I do such a thing. I will marry when my mother and father choose my match.”

Pumpkin and Sumi laughed as I stood before them, my face burning.

For weeks afterwards,
I avoided walking home from school with Chulnahm, darting out the back of the building even though he waited for me out front.

As I half-ran, half-walked up the streets toward my home, two voices warred inside my head.

“We grew up with each other,” I heard myself say. “His father is a vice-supervisor in a government factory and his mother oversees a government-run restaurant. We would be seen as a good match. I might finally make my grandmother proud of me, by marrying such a man. She might even give me a candy.”

But the reality was far different. “I'm only sixteen. I won't ever be a member of the Party. Chulnahm will never marry me. He will join the military and meet someone his family will accept.” In the end, these realistic thoughts won. I knew the most I could aspire to was to become a kindergarten teacher like my mother. Even for that, my marks at school might not be high enough. I vowed never to think of the other feelings I had for Chulnahm again.

I did start to walk home from school with him again though, firmly believing that we were just friends. “There will never be anything between us,” I had assured Pumpkin and Sumi. Yet, occasionally, as we walked, I would look down and see that Chulnahm and I were walking in tandem, our arms and legs moving at exactly the same rate. Whenever I noticed this, I would speed up or slow down, so that our steps no longer matched.

Chapter Ten

My mother's hand
shook as she looked through my final marks. “How did this happen?” she eventually exclaimed, looking at me with angry eyes.

I shook my head as I crumpled to the floor in dismay. My marks were average, not good enough for me to gain admittance to university.

“I didn't study hard enough,” I stammered. “I wanted to. I tried. Now I can't be a teacher like you.”

“No,” my mother replied curtly. “You'll have to become a factory worker instead.”

“I didn't mean for this to happen,” I said, my eyes fixed on the floor. “I just couldn't wake in the mornings. I was always tired and hungry. I am not like Sunyoung, who works hours upon hours, studying all of her coursework. I just wanted to write poems and stories.”

“You'll have your own children one day,” my mother said, moving toward the door to my father's office. “You can teach them what you hoped to teach as a kindergarten instructor. But now, you must tell your father the news. You will start technical school,
Yunhapgisoolyang sung bahn
, for mechanical skills training in a few months.”

My father was
not pleased I had done so poorly at school. But he didn't beat me, which I had expected him to do. Instead, he ignored me in the months that followed. The day I was due to start technical school, my father left for work early. I didn't even see him that morning. But I did see Chulnahm.

I was surprised when we bumped into one another at the train station, for I was certain Chulnahm had gone off to the military. All young men did when they finished school. “I'm taking another year before I join,” he explained, anticipating my question. “I'm going to Yunhapgisoolyang sung bahn where I'm going to learn to weld.”

And so our friendship resumed, as did our walking side by side in unison. I no longer looked down to check. I liked feeling Chulnahm beside me. Now I thought of nothing else when I was with him.

Some of the girls at my new school were dating already, and they spoke openly about the young men they met after classes or in the evenings, sneaking out to see them when their fathers were not home. When I overheard their whispered conversations about kissing these men I forced my attention back to my lessons. I was learning how to use heavy machines. I would marry and kiss my husband when my mother said I was ready, not before, I lectured myself.

Other than Chulnahm, I spoke to none of the boys at the technical school. I would lower my head whenever a male student walked past me in the hallways. Only one young man, Ilhyun, seemed to notice me. He was slim with lithe arm movements and a quick smile I did not trust. He would wink at me when we passed on the grounds at school. A few times that autumn, Ilhyun ran after me when I went home at midday to finish the bowl of rice I had saved from the morning. Pretending I did not see him, I ran faster to stay ahead.

In a month when the frost was still on the ground by mid-morning, my mother presented me with a new outfit: green pants and a matching jacket. I was proud of the green pantsuit, and I felt grown up as I set off for school.

When Ilhyun saw me coming out of the women's classroom later that day, he stopped and stared, a big grin crossing his face. I lowered my head to avoid his eyes, quickening my pace as I headed for the women's washroom. I opened the washroom door and then quickly slammed it shut, leaning against the door as Ilhyun pushed on the other side, trying to get in. He banged his fists against the wood and pleaded for me to come out.

Finally there was silence. When I put my ear to the door and listened, I could hear Ilhyun pacing back and forth. I couldn't remain in the washroom forever so I decided I would try to skirt past Ilhyun and get back to my classroom.

I opened the door a crack, then slipped out. As Ilhyun turned and saw me, I stopped in mid-stride, paralyzed on the spot. The veins on Ilhyun's forehead were throbbing. “Why do you run away?” he asked sharply, stepping so close our bodies nearly touched.

I lowered my eyes to the floor, feeling Ilhyun's heavy breathing on my cheek. My body had started to tremble.

“What are you doing?” I heard Chulnahm call out. I looked up and saw him coming toward us at the same moment Ilhyun touched my hand lightly. “I like you,” Ilhyun said near my ear.

“You stupid girl,” Chulnahm chided, reaching us and pushing Ilhyun away. “Go to your classroom.”

I darted past them, not daring to look back. Chulnahm's words stung as if I had been slapped in the face. From that day on, I refused to walk with him again.

The year before
I graduated from high school, my paternal grandfather had come to live with us for a few months. My grandmother had died a year earlier, and he was lonely.

My grandfather shuffled from room to room. He got my name and the names of my siblings mixed up. He ate double his ration of food, meaning the rest of us had less. My mother had stopped working a few years earlier to be home when my sister and brothers got back from school. The little money my parents had saved was reserved for Sunyoung's and my own wedding and dowries so there was none left over for extra food.

One afternoon during his stay, my grandfather had asked to speak with my mother alone. He pulled her into my father's room and shut the door. Curious, I put my ear against the wall and listened.

“The foundations of this family are not good,” I heard him say, his voice deep but shaky in his old age. “Your family is full of South Korean defectors. Because of that, my son has suffered. He should have been made supervisor at the factory years ago. He is still a labourer, and that is because of you.”

“He just received news that he will be given a promotion to
bujikjangjang
, vice-manager,” I heard my mother reply.

“That is nothing!” my grandfather exclaimed, the wall shaking as his fist pounded against it on the other side. “All my other children have high positions in the Party. Changwoon, my firstborn son, has the least. You are the downfall of this family.”

When I heard my grandfather shuffle toward the door, I moved away quickly and pretended to be doing my homework. My mother came out of the room shortly after, her face red from embarrassment and tears. She looked at me and sighed. She knew I had overheard.

Since then, I had accepted that I would never get Party membership. I knew there was no point in my even attempting to do so. I would not be able to find a sponsor to guarantee my good standing in society so my marriage prospects were limited. When my paternal grandfather died later that year, part of me was happy. He would no longer have to see what a failure his eldest son's family had become.

A few months after the incident with Ilhyun, Chulnahm started coming to my family's house after school. He would talk with my mother and offer to help her with the farming. I would watch from the window as they dug up the earth and watered the plants. When Chulnahm came into the house for some water one afternoon, I rushed past him not stopping until I was outdoors.

“What is going on with you two?” my mother demanded.

I shrugged my shoulders and remained silent.

Over the last few months of school, Chulnahm would seek me out after class and try to strike up a conversation. I ignored him.

“You know he is courting you,” my mother told me one evening after Chulnahm had visited, this time helping her put down basins in the house since the roof leaked. “If you want to proceed with this, you will need to visit with his mother and family next.”

“No,” I replied, stomping my foot. I replaced one of the basins Chulnahm had laid down with a bigger one, rolling my eyes at my mother. I was still too angry at Chulnahm to even consider it.

That autumn, I
started work at a metal manufacturing factory, overseeing the compression machine. I travelled to work with my father on the train, since my factory was located just a few blocks from his. I buried any thoughts I had of Chulnahm. Every time his face popped into my mind, I would shake the image away. He had joined the military by now, so it was easy. I no longer saw him.

But as harvesting season arrived, the cloak of anger I had put up toward Chulnahm had disappeared, and in its place was longing. My daydreams were full of Chulnahm's laugh, his smile, and the way we had walked side by side, as if we were one. At work, I could not focus properly on operating the machine. I was always in a fog, thinking of Chulnahm.

Finally I came to the conclusion that I had to reach him. I had to tell him. I had to let him know.

I wanted to be his wife.