Authors: Jung-myung Lee
The Investigation (24 page)
I was stunned. I wasn’t sure what it was about the lyrics that made them seditious, but I knew that they were. It made me even more nervous. I feigned nonchalance. ‘You know, because
of the majestic singing, I thought it was an account of the brave exploits of soldiers. I see now that it has a different meaning.’
Midori gave me a wry smile. What was she scheming?
‘Va, pensiero’ hung over me for the rest of the day. I couldn’t work out why it bothered me so. I walked into the inspection office and carefully scanned the
log of confiscated materials. I found what I was looking for in the fourth log:
The Titans of Classical Music
, at the very bottom of box number 645. I opened the book and ran my finger
down the table of contents – introductions to classical composers’ lives and works, from Bach and Handel to Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin and Schumann. I finally came across an entry for
Verdi on the sixth page: ‘Wagner and Verdi, A Two-Horse Carriage of European Opera’. I turned to that page as though I were under a spell:
The chorus ‘Va, pensiero’ appears in Act Three, Scene Two of the opera
Nabucco
. Nabucco is another name for Babylon’s King Nebuchadnezzar, who
appears in the Old Testament, specifically in the Second Book of Kings, the Book of Jeremiah and the Book of Daniel. His powerful kingdom defeated Syria and Egypt and he was thus venerated as
the absolute monarch surpassing Hammurabi. King Nebuchadnezzar felled the kingdom of Israel, which had been divided into Judah in the south and Israel to the north after King Solomon’s
death, and took the captured Hebrews to Babylon. The enslaved Hebrews were forced to construct the embankment of the Babylon River. Psalm 137 in the Book of Psalms contains the story of the
Hebrews who sang longingly for their home along the river bank.
After losing his wife and son, Verdi sank into despair and gave up music, confining himself at home. Merelli, the impresario of La Scala, gave the story for
Nabucco
to
the depressed Verdi. Verdi was moved by the story of the Hebrew slaves who led their lives with resolve, without losing hope of returning to their homeland, and he began to compose again.
Nabucco
brought Verdi immense success. When it premiered at La Scala on 9 March 1842, the Milanese were moved to tears. The performance fanned nationalist fervour in the hearts of
all Italians, who were suffering from the repression of the Austrian Empire and saw parallels in the plight of the enslaved Jews of Babylon; they sang this song all over Italy. ‘Va,
pensiero’ injected despairing Italians with a new passion for freedom.
Italians revered Verdi as the nation’s composer and ‘Va, pensiero’ was treated as the second national anthem. Thirty years after the premiere of
Nabucco
in Milan, Italy became a united country under General Garibaldi. At Verdi’s funeral, ‘Va, pensiero’ was sung in honour of the great man.
I closed the book and returned it to the box. I recalled the lyrics to ‘Va, pensiero’:
Fly, thought, on wings of gold;
go settle upon the slopes and the hills,
where, soft and mild, the sweet airs
of our native land smell fragrant!
And suddenly I remembered another song:
Carry me back to old Virginny,
There’s where the cotton and the corn and taters grow,
There’s where the birds warble sweet in the springtime,
There’s where the old darkey’s heart am long’d to go.
Something shifted, and everything started to fall into place. The Babylonian Hebrews had lost their country, the Italians had suffered under the Austrian Empire’s repression, and the
Negroes had been enslaved in America – these were people whose homes were torn from them, and many became captive far away. And the men who would be singing this chorus were Korean prisoners,
whose homeland had been wrenched away from them, too. Dong-ju habitually whistled ‘Carry Me Back to Old Virginny’, Midori played ‘Va, pensiero’ and she defended the violent,
despicable Sugiyama, while Sugiyama was moved by Dong-ju’s poems . . . They were all linked. Somehow Dong-ju was involved in the selection of ‘Va, pensiero’. After all,
The
Titans of Classical Music
, which I’d found in his box, mentioned Psalm 137, and Dong-ju was the only person in this prison with a Bible.
Dong-ju settled on the chair in the interrogation room shivering like a withered leaf. I took off his manacles. His wrists, scraped by the metal, were swollen and red. He
placed his Bible on the desk and folded his thin, rake-like hands on top. I glared at the Bible like a cat eyeing a fish.
Dong-ju’s eyes flickered. He looked nervous; he was probably wondering why I’d told him to bring the Bible with him. Would it be burned?
I spoke first. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to your Bible. I’m not going to inspect it or burn it.’
He looked at me doubtfully.
I tried to assume a gentle expression. ‘I just want to read one part of it. You’re the only person with a Bible here. Can you lend it to me? It’ll just be for a
moment.’
With both hands Dong-ju quietly pushed the Bible towards me. My heart began to pound when I got to the Book of Psalms. The pages rustled as I turned them. I swallowed. Psalm 137:
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?
These verses were underlined in pencil. I looked up.
Dong-ju pressed his lips together. ‘So you’ve read
The Titans of Classical Music
.’
I nodded.
He nodded, too. ‘The Hebrew slaves who were taken captive sang their old songs by the rivers of Babylon and wept, longing for Zion. The Babylonian keeper taunted them and demanded that
they sing a Hebrew song. The Hebrews were in a trap. If they disobeyed, they would be killed; but if they obeyed, they would be dishonouring their homeland. This was what inspired Verdi in
composing “Va, pensiero”. With this song, he was giving hope to the Hebrews that they would return to Zion with golden wings.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Midori isn’t the one who chose “Va, pensiero”, is she?’
‘Who, if not her?’
I stared at him steadily.
‘It doesn’t matter who chose which song. The sincerity of the song – now, that’s important.’
‘It looks like everything will unfold as you planned it. The singers will sing of returning and retaking their homeland. But the audience will be filled with high-level government
officials and military leaders. What do you expect will happen, if Korean prisoners start singing about longing for their country?’
Dong-ju shook his head. ‘My only concern is for the best possible performance.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘How naive you are! Or are you clever? You know they’ll figure out what this song means! “Va, pensiero” is a resistance song!
You’re giving voice to the Korean independence movement!’
‘Whether you’re Korean or Japanese or Italian, the listener will feel the same sentiment.’
‘Using music and art to push for the independence of Korea is an overt rebellion!’ I cried. ‘In front of all those people! If they find out what you’re up to, everyone is
going to be in serious trouble. What about the singers? What about everyone else involved in the concert? Are you trying to fuck with the warden and Maeda? Are you trying to get me and Midori into
trouble?’
‘This song won’t harm anyone. I just want to hear a truly sincere song. Especially now.’ He looked at me listlessly, spent.
‘This is a mistake.’
‘Why would you say that?’
With a heavy heart I remembered the job the Empire had entrusted me with: censorship. ‘This seditious song will not be performed in front of distinguished guests.’
‘Will you cancel the concert?’ Dong-ju asked.
I couldn’t breathe, it was as though a cobweb were covering my face. I knew I had to stop this concert. But I couldn’t answer him. I dropped my head in despair. The choristers had
put everything they had into their singing. They hadn’t realized they could produce such beautiful sounds; now music was their religion. Midori was practising late into the night. Everyone
was content and carefree during rehearsals, even the other prisoners, who craned to listen to the singing that drifted faintly through the infirmary corridor, the work areas, the cells and the
yard.
Dong-ju looked at me knowingly. I hated him for putting me in this position.
He smiled. ‘The old man in Cell 38 said to me, “If you have to bet on something, bet on hope.” He says you always reap more profits if you throw yourself behind a business
that’s going well.’
I wanted to punish him for his brashness. If I allowed the concert to go ahead, everyone involved in it might face serious trouble. But maybe, just maybe, the audience would be moved and would
applaud. Maybe the concert would be a success. I wanted to see for myself whether the Koreans’ singing could move a Japanese audience. Could I pin my hopes on something that foolish? I was a
soldier; I didn’t want to go along with this precarious plan, putting Dong-ju and Midori in danger. I suddenly grew frightened. I realized I’d done everything Sugiyama had done until he
died: I was now the censor, I escorted the chorus, I kept the underground library hidden; I was accomplishing everything he’d secretly wanted to. Would I get killed for my efforts, just like
him?
Dong-ju’s eyes appeared sunken in the dim light of the interrogation room. His face was dirty; he had been pulling a cart since dawn.
‘You look tired,’ I offered.
‘I’m no old man,’ he said, giving me a wide smile. ‘I’m only twenty-six and I’m still all right. I’m due at the infirmary tomorrow. I’ll feel
better after an infusion.’ His eyes twinkled expectantly.
He was completely different with me than when he’d pulled the cart, covered in grime; when he’d stood blankly on the poplar hill; and when he’d crouched under the wall basking
in the sun. Speaking of poetry reanimated him, like Lazarus from the grave; his voice was vibrant and his eyes emitted light.
He launched into a poem. ‘“Liver.” On a sunny rock on the shore / I will lay my damp liver flat to dry, / Like a rabbit fleeing the Caucasus mountains / I will circle around
and guard my liver. / My pet eagle! / Come peck at it, without a single worry. / You will fatten / And I will lose weight, but, / Turtle! / I will never again fall for the sea god’s
seduction. / Prometheus, poor Prometheus / A stone around his neck for the crime of stealing fire / Endlessly sinking Prometheus.’
This poem was shockingly different from his others. Violent emotion and condensed rage sprang from every line, taking the place of mild contemplation and private musing. Fire leaped in
Dong-ju’s eyes, but when he addressed me his voice was calm. ‘I tried to publish a book of poetry just before graduating from Yonhi College in 1940. I collected nineteen poems, but as
the poems were written in Korean, they wouldn’t have passed the Japanese government’s censorship. My mentor persuaded me not to publish the volume, for fear of my life.
The Sky, the
Stars, the Wind and Poetry
’, he continued, sighing
.
‘That’s what it was supposed to be titled.’
I sat up straight. ‘Did you say
The Sky, the Stars, the Wind and Poetry
?’
He nodded.
‘Not
The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry
? And didn’t you graduate from Yonhi College in 1941, not 1940?’
‘What does that matter?’ He gave me a puzzled look.
None of it would matter if he were anyone else. But this was Dong-ju. And these were seminal moments in his life that he couldn’t possibly forget.
‘You can’t really trust your memory anyway,’ he remarked, flashing me an easy smile.
I was troubled. Was it lack of nutrition? Was it the hard labour? Or had he been beaten too much? I could only hope that his confusion was temporary. Something was definitely wrong. Something
was gnawing away at him. His face was thinner and his physique even gaunter. Even the smallest wounds didn’t heal quickly and he spent more time staring blankly up at the sky. Once he
confused Caesar and Augustus, and on another occasion he mixed up Stendhal with Hugo.
He coughed into his uniform sleeve: it was wet with blood. I pushed his sleeve up and saw a long cut that was mottled with blood.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Near the end of the day my cart tipped and I got scratched by an ammunition case. It won’t stop bleeding. Maybe because I’m not
eating well?’
‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ I shouted. ‘It’s been over two hours!’ I undid my gaiters and used them to bind his forearm.
Dong-ju gazed at me with murky eyes. ‘It’s because of the weather. I’ll get better when spring comes. At least I’m getting medical treatment.’
‘I can’t wait for this awful winter to end.’
His eyes regained their focus. ‘Spring comes only after brutal cold and fierce snowstorms. Just as a rainbow appears only after a shower, beauty comes after hardship. Beauty without
suffering is meaningless.’
‘When you go to the infirmary, tell them exactly what your symptoms are,’ I ordered. ‘Hopefully they’ll be able to prescribe proper medication or give you a
shot.’
He coughed. ‘I’m not the only one. Everyone’s eyesight and memories are failing, too. The doctors say all of these are temporary reactions because the infusions are a shock to
our systems. They told us we’ll get better if we continue with the treatment.’
I looked him over carefully. His once-handsome face was unrecognizable from ringworm and the constant beatings by my fellow guards.
His eyes glazed over again, like a dusty sheet of glass. ‘Don’t worry!’ Dong-ju said, smiling. ‘I’m going to survive. I’m walking out of this place on my own
two feet.’
A thought flashed through my head – I knew who could help us. Midori. I got Dong-ju to his feet. At the steel gates that led to the infirmary corridor I told the guard that I was escorting
an emergency patient. He opened the gate. The noise of clanking shackles preceded us in the dark corridor. We could hear the piano. Midori stopped playing and turned to look at the source of the
disturbance.
