The Calligrapher's Daughter (27 page)

“I heard that your school post ended for the same reasons mine did. May I ask what happened?” Hansu sat near Father, who indicated that I should sit and answer.

“Since it was a small private school and far from the city, it didn’t seem to matter how many Korean teachers we had.” The year I’d graduated from Ewha, a new ordinance decreed that all teaching be done in Japanese language, and required that Japanese nationals comprise half the staff in any school, private or public. “At least girls were learning to read and write, but by the end of the term, with scarce supplies and food even scarcer, everyone was fired, myself included. They closed many rural schools, and I heard that in the city all the teachers are Japanese now, and the principals too.”

“It was the same in Pyeongyang, sir.” Hansu correctly addressed Father. “The Depression must have hit Japan as hard as here. Hundreds are looking for jobs. My replacement used to work in a dry goods store in Kyoto—a sales clerk turned mathematics professor! At least he can add and subtract.”

I hid my smile at his familiar teasing humor. I was curious to know what work he’d seek in Gaeseong, but conscious of Father’s presence, I asked a question more appropriate for a woman. “How is your wife?”

“Very well. She looks forward to meeting you. Perhaps you’ll join her singing in the church choir?”

“Not likely,” said Father. “No offense to your wife, you understand, but it’s time to think about a husband.” It was just like Father to get to the point.

Mother entered with drinking water and dried plums. “Perhaps Hansu-oppa will say something about his friend,” she said. I dutifully served the men and sat beside Mother, who handed me a laundered shirt to reconstruct.

“Before I tell you about my visit to Reverend Cho and his second son,” began Hansu, “may I tell you what I know of him?”

“A close friend of Hahm Taeyong, isn’t he?” said Father. “Whatever happened to Mr. Hahm?”

“Yes, sir. He’s exiled in Shanghai.” The men exchanged looks, and Father nodded for Hansu to continue. The moment revealed to me how much things had changed at home. Not only did Father treat a younger man as an equal in his sitting room, he directly sought information from him as well.

“Reverend Cho is the minister of West Gate Presbyterian Church and an influential community leader,” said Hansu. He met my eyes to acknowledge the coincidence of the church’s name to West Gate Prison in Seoul, where Hansu had met this man who became his mentor. “When I was at Soongsil Academy, he was my instructor in Chinese for two years. But before I studied with him, I had already heard about this second son.” Hansu looked around at us. Father sucked on his dry pipe and sipped water, and Mother and I pretended to be absorbed by our sewing. Outside, a gentle rain trickled down the tile roof. His storytelling voice matched the soft rhythm of the rain.

“In prison, I learned it was Reverend Cho who led the movement in Pyeongyang. It was he who read the Declaration of Independence to a packed crowd at his church. That morning, he had sent this second son— who was ten at the time—on a special mission. The boy’s mother sewed a secret pocket in the lining of his coat to hide several mimeographed
copies of news about the two o’clock reading, as well as parts of the Declaration. They wouldn’t suspect conspiracy from a boy running in the streets! This is how most of Pyeongyang learned where and when to gather that day. Even at such a young age, this boy showed his patriotism!”

Father grunted his approval and Mother smiled outright. My sewing grew increasingly crooked.

“While I was at the academy,” Hansu continued, “I didn’t meet Reverend Cho’s family. He was far too busy for a nominal student such as myself.” I frowned at his self-criticism, but his grin showed he’d been baiting me.

“Last year during the term break in Gangdong, I had an opportunity to visit Pyeongyang and called on Reverend Cho. That’s when I finally met his son, who was by then a man. He’s twenty-four now, a year older than my honorary sister, am I correct?” Mother nodded while I bent my head further into my sewing, wanting to be the needle sliding deep into the fabric. Hansu smiled broadly. “Their house was enormous! Two stories of brick—” That Father gave no reaction to this information was another indication of how much things had changed at home. In his day, no structure could be taller than the king’s palace, something he frequently mentioned when he passed tall buildings. “But I think the family now lives in a smaller house,” said Hansu. “This brick building was part of the church and had many rooms filled with boarders—refugees and other souls the minister had met in prison, or who’d come because of his reputation. I’ve never seen a church as large as his. It’s the biggest American-built church in all of Korea, they say.”

“It’s known as Jerusalem of the East!” said Mother in a surprising outburst. It confirmed that she and Hansu had previously talked in detail about the Cho family, and that she was quite excited for my father and me to learn about the gentleman.

“His sermons are full of wisdom. Somehow he manages to infuse all who listen to him with pure patriotism and love of God. I always feel on fire for my country and full of hope for our future when I hear him preach.” His earnestness made me smile—same old Hansu! I hardly knew what to do with the shirt placket I held, being unaccustomed to fine
handiwork after years of grading papers, writing reports, chopping kindling and—now and then at odd hours in poor huts—helping a woman give birth.

“I knew many of those men from Seoul,” Hansu continued. “It was wonderful to see them again.”

Mother murmured “Amen,” to acknowledge the reunion of former prisoners.

“But what an industrious place it was! Reverend Cho had purchased stitching machines from a nearby factory that had been taken over to make bombs or guns for those bastards’ usual usurp— Uh, pardon me.” He bowed his head apologetically toward Mother. “Anyway, his entire household was making socks.”

My eyebrows rose.

“I know, strange work for a minister.” Hansu lowered his voice. “But the income is used to pay ransom for political prisoners and to support Kim Il-sung’s guerrillas, who I hear are growing hundreds of thousands strong in the far north.”

“I see,” said Father.

“But pardon me, what I wanted to tell you about is this: the minister took me on a tour of the house. A very noisy house!—sewing machines, people talking in the hallways at all hours, discussing books and arguing philosophy—like a schoolhouse for grown men.” Hansu’s thick hair shook and his cheeks dimpled. I smiled back, remembering his infectious animation all those times when we walked together to and from school.

Father put away his empty pipe and stroked his beard. The sky thickened and rain pelted the porch. Mother gestured to light a lamp, which I set between the men. Knowing Hansu would soon describe the eligible bachelor, I squeezed my knees together, clamped my teeth and forced my features to relax in order to hide any reaction my body might betray me with.

“We passed through the family’s quarters, and in one tiny room I noticed a young man deeply absorbed in his studies, concentrating as if he were alone praying in the middle of an empty church. Even when his father coughed outside the open doorway, this young man didn’t look up. This was the reverend’s second son.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I ask what he was reading?”

“Curious you should ask, because I clearly remember it as being quite odd. He had in one hand the Bible and in the other a Chinese translation of Karl Marx.”

I couldn’t avoid showing Hansu the interest this statement had ignited in me. He smiled broadly. “Of course, when Reverend Cho finally got his son’s attention, he was quite gracious. A very serious-minded fellow, I should think.”

My parents remained expressionless. I remembered that Mother’s letter had touted the Cho family’s Christian and political worthiness, and guessed that most of Hansu’s storytelling was for my benefit. My legs twitched as if they’d forgotten how to sit quietly and graciously receive a guest, as if they wanted to run outside and splash through puddles.

“Cho Jeongsu is his given name,” said Hansu. “But he’s taken an English name, Calvin, since he attended both the academy and Union Seminary. His name is said to have some Christian meaning, but there’s no Calvin in the Bible that I can think of.” Hansu produced an envelope from his vest with a flourish. “Anyhow, with your parents’ permission, Dongsaeng, I wrote to his family a few weeks ago. Reverend Cho was open to any suggestion from such an esteemed family as yours. And so, here is a photograph and a formal letter of introduction.”

Father opened the envelope and withdrew a small photograph, barely glancing at it before passing it to Mother. He snapped the letter open with a crisp pop.

“He’s short in stature and trim,” said Hansu, watching the photograph change hands. “I’m told the eldest is a head taller than he. They were quite poor when he was young, and it’s said he’s short because of childhood malnutrition. There were two younger brothers as well, but tragically, both died of tuberculosis several years ago.”

“How pitiable, how terribly sad!” Mother and I said. I automatically thought of medicines to relieve the symptoms of tuberculosis—ginseng tea and goldthread root powder if you could find it—but there was no cure.

Hansu talked on. “The eldest is already a minister in America, so the second son is lucky to have a brother established there. I’m told Calvin will be going to Princeton and several other seminaries. I’m not sure how he managed that.”

I looked around, but it seemed I was the only one piqued by this information. His study in America was the second thing I found interesting about him.

Mother examined the photo. “Reverend Ahn said that all the American missionaries know of his father’s sermons. How pleasing to think he’ll follow his father’s profession.”

I realized that Mother had evidently queried our minister about the Cho family, and I felt further trapped. She showed me the photo. Calvin Cho had a high forehead—a sign of exceptional intelligence—and strong angles to his clean-shaven jaw. This feature of determination seemed to be softened by an almost-smile. The silvery sheen of the photograph glowed in his eyes, and I was relieved that at least he was pleasant enough in appearance. As the letter passed from Father to Mother, I noted that Calvin Cho’s handwriting was firm and meticulous. I closed my eyes and heard loud drips. The rainstorm had ended. How I wanted to slide the doors wide and run across the rain-soaked slate, let the rainwater stream between my fingers as it sluiced down gutters into cisterns. I laid my hands calmly in my lap and waited.

Mother raised her eyes to Father. “Studious writing,” he said.

“A proper letter,” said Mother, reading quickly. “You say he’ll be coming to visit you soon?”

Hansu said yes, grinning as my alarmed eyes rounded. Mother folded the letter and nudged Father’s hand when she returned it to him. A look passed between them. She resumed her sewing and Father reset his pipe on its stand. Everyone waited. I slanted my eyes at Hansu as if we were still kids, daring and double-daring each other. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, as innocent as a fox.

At last Father said, “It would please me if the young man came to visit.” And it seemed that Hansu and Mother released an enormous joint sigh. For me, the walls of the sitting room shrank, the bindings of my skirt tightened and seized my breath. I caught a scent of the outside and inhaled deeply.
Be like the rain, like water
, I thought, exhaling quietly.

A FEW WEEKS later, the three of us waited in Father’s sitting room for the arrival of Hansu and Mr. Calvin Cho. I hadn’t yet seen Dongsaeng, who was still at school, and since it had been some years since I last saw him, I
wondered how he would react to this activity at home. Based on what I’d gleaned from Mother’s letters, I doubted he’d be very interested.

My father read, my mother sewed, and I sat quietly pretending I wasn’t anxious. A windy day, the sound of each leaf skipping on the courtyard’s slate made me quake. I thought,
I’m too old for this.

We heard the outer gate rattle open and shut. “Don’t embarrass me,” said Father in a low voice. “Speak only when proper.”

“Of course, Father. I’m not a child.”

“See how you talk back! Will you never learn?” His tone jarred me to realize that I had unknowingly spoken, and with terrible impudence. How had that slipped from my lips? It was disturbing childhood reversion at work. “This is a pointless visit,” he said. “You will grow old and alone, and forever be a burden to your dongsaeng.”

I bent my neck, chagrined and obedient.

Mother whispered, “He’s here.” In the vestibule, the men could be heard shuffling off their shoes, then Joong led them to the sitting room.

Hansu made introductions. Being presented with my head bowed made it only possible to see Mr. Cho from the knees down. I glimpsed a pair of dark green silk socks with brilliant orange and yellow stripes on the sides. Father asked Hansu about the health of his aging parents, then directed questions to Mr. Cho about his education and family. During these structured politenesses, I surreptitiously examined Calvin Cho. He properly kept his eyes only on my parents and spoke in a soft northern accent. His voice was full, deep and round, his diction commanding, and I could easily tell that my parents were impressed. With lowered lashes, I struggled to balance my desire to be fiercely critical of him with some of my mother’s equanimity. I could tell that Hansu was studying my face, and I pointedly kept it bland. I thought that Mr. Cho’s features were clear and open, but yes, he was small, and noting his shiny socks and wide tie patterned with blood-red curlicues shot with yellow, he seemed quite taken with Western fashion. How silly in a man!
He does speak well
, I thought,
but his nose is too big and I am not interested!

“This person,” said Calvin with correct formality, “is fortunate to have Reverend Robert Sherwood as a sponsor for this person’s further learning in America. This person will study the origins and methods of Protestant
branches in America, and how they translate to the Christian practices of Korea.”