The Calligrapher's Daughter Part 23

Najin was wrong. It had all worked out well, and what other people said really didn't concern him. He repeated those words in his mind to mask the remorse that had taken shape inside him. He pressed his lips in a frown and justified his having tears as grief. Finally, Unsook was at rest, free of suffering. He felt proud of the funeral he'd given her, especially since times were so hard. Certainly she was in heaven. And by the grace of G.o.d, he had a wonderful baby-a girl, true, but a healthy child.

Najin, who months ago swore she'd never speak to him again, talked to him frequently about the child. He was selling his art at good prices, and Father was satisfied with his work. He put enough food on the table and had extra on hand. Mother had praised his generosity with Unsook's funeral and had complimented his responsible handling of the family.

Yes, it had all worked out well. As for Meeja, he knew she'd be happy with the wedding ring he meant to give her when she came to him that night.

Korean Royal Treasure

SEPTEMBER 3, 1940 JANUARY 2, 1944

MORNING LIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE PAPER SCREENS AND LIT the baby's cheeks with soft rose pink. I hummed and cooed to welcome her from the dreams of her clean, pure world. The baby's bones felt as delicate as her mother's, her skin as pliant, her scent a whisper of summer. One hundred days ago, her mother's suffering had ended, and I had lifted the baby from her wasted body. Being a Han daughter, nothing had been planned for her one hundredth day. I doubted that Dongsaeng had any idea how many days old his firstborn was. I saw him rarely and spoke to him even less, ever since that woman, my brother's concubine, had moved in. I was glad that it was proper enough to call her Dongsaeng's Wife, so I'd never have to feel her name on my tongue, nor would I have to sully Unsook's memory by calling her Sister-in-law.

At the end of last winter, with war spilling from one continent to another, Korea had become fully incorporated into j.a.pan and we were now considered j.a.panese citizens. Ration stamps and new j.a.panese identifications were distributed. They had erected Shinto shrines inside the churches and, last month, had deported all the missionaries. So on this Sunday, no one prepared for church. It was just as well. Father didn't have to face the emperor's portrait at the altar, and Mother didn't have to face the gossips.

Because the police monitored the church services, we had never grown friendly with our fellow parishioners in Seoul beyond acquaintances with a few men like Elder Kim, whom my father knew from the resistance. It was likely that my family's old-fashioned manners made the others uneasy, or the mere fact that we were newcomers made them look at us askance, and after Unsook's funeral-and the sudden appearance of Dongsaeng's new wife without the benefit of a Christian wedding-even fewer churchfolk took the trouble to greet us. And now, since Shinto worship was required on the numerous j.a.panese festival days and for all public gatherings, we abandoned going to church altogether, choosing instead to attend the required neighborhood ceremonies, which were shorter and where our attendance could be noted.

I fed baby Sunok millet and soybean broth mixed with precious drops of honey. Like her mother, Sunok couldn't tolerate milk, and even if she could have, milk wasn't to be found, neither fresh, nor canned nor powdered. I quickly dressed, changed Sunok's diaper and took the baby to Mother's room, eager to take advantage of the spare morning minutes before the men woke looking for breakfast.

My mother-who was now called Halmeonim Halmeonim, Grandmother- looked tiny beside the window as she combed her hair, her legs tucked beneath her skirt. I explained my idea and she readily agreed. We unsealed the false bottom of Mother's linen chest and dressed Sunok in clothes she'd saved there for thirty years: the blue-peaked cap edged with a gold geometric pattern and the finely woven shirt with striped colorful sleeves. Seeing those sleeves made me remember Dongsaeng at his One Hundredth Day naming ceremony, and how his pudgy fist had grabbed the sorghum ball that fell into his lap. I recalled Mother's worried look and my unvoiced question about the symbolism of that first item-did it foretell a pattern of self-gratification? And then he chose the king's signet, and the men at the party had lauded my father's legacy. It seemed both predictions had come true. Sighing, I cleared my mother's tabletop and arranged the objects gathered the day before. In a semicircle, I placed an abacus, a twist of thread, the king's bronze signet, an old inkbrush I'd found on a dusty shelf in Dongsaeng's studio, and a pencil stub. I added my mother's wooden crucifix and a sliver of wormwood for nurse or doctor, and covered the table with muslin.

My mother said a prayer with Sunok on her lap. The baby touched her waxen finger to my mother's murmuring lips, and the air grew sweet with the child's movement, the scent of her perfect skin and the muted hues of dawn. I lifted the cloth with a flourish. "What will it be, little one?"

Without hesitation Sunok grasped the old inkbrush and swept it across the table, strewing everything else to the floor. Her laughter was so delightful, we laughed too.

"A scholar-artist, then," said my mother. "Just like your father and grandfather." She cuddled Sunok and stroked her temple. The baby waved the inkbrush close to her eyes, and my mother took it from her. She exhaled with wonder. "Najin-ah, where did you find this?"

"In Dongsaeng's room when I cleaned yesterday, on his top shelf."

She handed me the baby and held the brush to the sunlight. "Your father thought he lost this many years ago, long before the move. He has its case still-but how wonderful that you found it! See on the handle that it's engraved?"

"It looks like an old brush. What does it say?" I was absorbed in Sunok's musical giggles from our game of tickling.

"This was a gift to your father from his teacher."

It took me a moment to understand what my mother was saying. "Scholar Chang's brush?"

My mother nodded and we smiled at each other knowingly. "Korea's Royal Treasure," I said, and kissed the baby's wiggling, agile fingers.

DURING THE NEXT several years our lives seemed to shrink in a tightening spiral focused on food, money and fuel. Thankfully, contrary to Sunok's delicate appearance, she had Dongsaeng's st.u.r.dy const.i.tution, and while not robust she managed to avoid illness. My mother sold some of our garden yield at market, and over time, having gradually cut down three of our trees for fuel, my father sold his woodcarving tools. I had gained a reputation as a competent midwife, but no one had a gourd of grain to spare or even a yard of muslin for my services. Instead, I received vegetable seeds folded in a sc.r.a.p of newspaper, a cool drink of water or words of grat.i.tude and blessing. Even if I had wanted to teach, schools for Korean children-who could barely speak their native tongue-were closed. With my arrest record, I couldn't work for a j.a.panese employer, and nearly all enterprise was j.a.panese-owned.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, j.a.pan heightened already-stringent controls on rationing and patriotic duty, which usually meant donating more things to the cause and showing up for endless rallies. Americans soon rimmed the Pacific with warships, and it seemed the entire world was at war. All forms of Korean and Chinese culture and expression were banned. Occasionally one of Dongsaeng's former buyers would remember him, and he'd receive a referral to paint a sign or a banner in j.a.panese, but as the war escalated it became too dangerous for Dongsaeng to leave the house. We eventually sold all his art materials save a few brushes and sticks of ink.

I overheard Dongsaeng's wife complain about his inability to feed his own daughter, with whom she'd grown attached-a relationship I mistrusted until I happened to see Meeja giving Sunok half of her porridge when she thought I wasn't looking. Meeja, who had not yet conceived, proved to be a dreadful cook and a lazy housekeeper, but she sang all manner of songs to Sunok and found countless ways to amuse her, and anything that could distract the child from her hunger was a blessing.

Then came the worrisome realization that we had nothing left to sell. The false bottom of my mother's linen chest had long been empty of the precious ceremonial clothes that two infants had worn to be named, and the chest itself had been sold. The neighborhood a.s.sociation had even collected Sunok's rubber ball for the war.

Since I was truly the most able-bodied person in the household who could work a steady paying job, I finally found a position-thanks to Elder Kim-at a Methodist-built orphanage run by Korean nationals in rural Suwon, a day's journey from Seoul. I hated to leave Sunok as well as my mother, who would have to rely on Meeja to help manage the household, but with hunger clawing at our doorstep, my responsibility to my family was clear.

Tending to the needs of more than one hundred children made my years at the orphanage pa.s.s quickly, and I was thankful that the money I sent home every month helped sustain my family and allowed Sunok to grow and thrive. I rarely thought about my husband, except in the summers when the children searched the streams for crayfish, an endeavor which mimicked how Calvin's mudworms forestalled starvation. Then, the day after Sollal in 1944, in the middle of a bright snowy day, all the orphans over the age of twelve-about forty youngsters-were taken away by truck. It was the first time I'd seen a truck powered by coal-fire rigging, and because it hinted that j.a.pan's resources were nearing depletion, it was the first time I dared to imagine that the war might finally end. We were told the boys would become soldiers, and the girls, comfort nurses. The orphanage would receive no further government funding, and my job ended that afternoon.

On the journey home, the train nearly empty and the roadsides crowded with beggars, I thought that my father's presentiment of a bleak future had come to pa.s.s a thousand times over, and I wept for those children I'd taught, fed and slept beside, who now had a future of hardship and misery, if they had one at all.

I reached home safely, was lovingly welcomed, and felt gladdened to see our dear Korean Royal Treasure-almost four years old-proudly and beautifully writing her name on a slate with a brush dipped in water. And when I examined Sunok closely for signs of malnutrition, I was gratified to see she had healthy pink gums and displayed plenty of energy when she gave me a shy but solid hug.

A.P.O.

SEPTEMBER 17, 1945.

THE MAGICAL LEAFLETS DROPPED BY B-29S THAT HAD ANNOUNCED j.a.pan's unconditional surrender could still be found scattered throughout the city-caught in a treetop, composting in a gutter, happily displayed in a store window next to the flyer from the first drop, which transcribed Hirohito's unprecedented radio capitulation. I went outside often to eagerly scan the heavens for those sweet silver birds whose high mechanical roars had heralded freedom. Rumors about the terrible bombs were confirmed. We feared the worst for Hansu and his family in Nagasaki, not because of the bombs but for being Korean in a defeated j.a.pan. We had no idea about the vast fields of death and annihilation those single bombs sowed.

In Seoul, food was as scarce as before liberation, although American rations, cigarettes and amazing foreign sweets at exorbitant prices began to appear in the black market. What had been criminal was now patriotic, and the red linear stamps on identification papers became marks of pride. Collaborators who hadn't joined the j.a.panese exodus were rooted out, tried and imprisoned, or murdered, and squatters quickly moved into homes hastily abandoned by j.a.panese nationals. Hunger was everywhere, but there was talk of free food coming soon from the Russians and Americans.

I walked downtown to pick up newspapers for Dongsaeng and my father, whom we now called Harabeoji, Grandfather, and who, after liberation, was most eager to read the news again. And though we had no money, I wanted to see if rice had become available and at what price. The sun burned as hot as midsummer, and I walked slowly to stay cool and to preserve the crumbling gra.s.s sandals Grandfather had crafted last year.

Since this day was our birthday, I wondered about my husband. Thoughts of Calvin had grown along with the optimism that everyone was feeling as vividly as the fresh colors painted on impromptu flags hanging everywhere. After the monsoons, when I first saw those silver planes soaring high against dramatic receding storm clouds, I wasn't afraid like others were. They called my soul to open and to believe again in possibility-possibilities that were once as remote as j.a.pan's defeat, as war ending, as the rebirth of our independence, as being reunited with my husband.

Calvin would know nothing of our move to Seoul or even if we were alive. Years had pa.s.sed since I'd communicated with his parents, so they wouldn't know we'd left Gaeseong, and then as the war intensified, mail delivery declined to near nonexistence. The few thoughts I had about the Cho family came from a wifely sense of obligation that diminished over the decade of our separation, and were mostly worries about Mrs. Cho's health. I considered that the remote chance of Calvin returning in the near future and finding me might mean I'd have to live with him and his family. But too much had changed and everything remained unstable. He probably wouldn't come back for a long while, and his parents might not have survived the past few years of hardship. I I certainly had changed and could refuse to live with them. In any case, as my mother used to say, it was pointless to worry about problems I didn't yet have. certainly had changed and could refuse to live with them. In any case, as my mother used to say, it was pointless to worry about problems I didn't yet have.

I could only a.s.sume that Calvin was still in America. Thinking of the packet of letters that Major Yoshida had taunted me with years ago, I felt sure my husband would attempt to find me. His earlier letters I had saved were long gone-they'd been stuffed into holes in the rafters or wadded as shoe lining-but I could still visualize that packet of unread letters at my feet, the New York return address in his strong handwriting, and inside all those envelopes, sheaves of words that said a thousand things I would never know.

I had resumed studying English when those planes flew triumphantly over the city dropping food packages and the leaflets, as well as handkerchiefs with a similar message printed in Chinese, Korean, j.a.panese and languages I'd never heard of or seen before. Walking to town, I reviewed the morning's English lesson, mumbling, "I should like to call on you someday. Come whenever you like. I shall be delighted to see you. Are you free this evening? Yes, I shall be quite free this evening."

Nearing a checkpoint that American soldiers now occupied, I noticed a G.I. leaning against the stone archway, smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed to the sun. He had similar coloring to the Gaeseong missionary Christine Gordon, with freckles and sand-hued hair. He'd stripped to his undershirt and I modestly looked away, but something he wore glinted in the sunlight. A gold cross, just like Cook's cross-except surely without the teeth marks-dangled on top of his dog tags. Curious about a G.I. wearing a cross, I stopped and overcame my shyness in favor of practicing English. Perhaps he'd know when the missionaries would return. I blurted, "Esscoos me, herro," laughing and frowning simultaneously at what was certainly frightful p.r.o.nunciation.

"h.e.l.lo there," he said with a surprised smile.

I tried again, "h.e.l.lo," and pointed to his cross. "I am also Christian!"

"You speak English!"

"A nittle."

"You're a Christian?"

"Neh, yes. I am Methodist."

"Hey, no kidding! I'm Protestant too. Presbyterian. That's terrific! I didn't know there were any Korean Christians. Where'd you learn English?"

"Missionary teaches, ah, teaching lessons long time past."

"Well, whaddya know, and you're the first Korean lady I've met. Don't worry! I'm a happily married man. Ha ha. Hey, excuse my manners. How do you do?" He extinguished his cigarette underfoot and stuck out his hand. "I'm Neil Forbes." He was tall and skinny, with eyes of an indeterminate hue: gray then blue then brown all at once. His narrow nose cascaded into a slight b.u.mp and his transformative smile exposed beautiful teeth that made his face as cute and happy as a squirrel eating acorns.

Attempting to sort through his fast speech, to remember Americanisms I'd learned from the missionaries and my Guide to English Conversation Guide to English Conversation, and trying to introduce myself, I bowed and shook his hand awkwardly. "My name is Han Na-, ah, Najin Han." He wouldn't understand that Korean women kept their family name, so I said, "I am Najin Cho. Mrs. Calvin Cho. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine! Your English is great."

"No, it is, uh, very young, like baby. My husband, he is same like you. Presbyterian. He is minister. He is living America." Then it struck me. "I think New York City. Do you know how is New York City?"

"Sure, it's right across the river. I'm from Fort Lee, New Jersey. You ever heard of Fort Lee?"

I shook my head. "I know Princeton, New Jersey ..."

"Of course you wouldn't know Fort Lee or the Hudson, but Princeton? Ya don't say! Your husband's in New York? It's a small world! He went to Princeton? Must be a smart fella. What's he doing there? I didn't know there were any Koreans stateside."

"Can you talk softer, uh, slower, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cho. Right? Mrs. Najin Cho. Sure thing." He retrieved his shirt from where it hung over a rail and put his long arms through the sleeves, waving me closer to the stone archway and ignoring the odd whistles his fellow soldiers delivered from their posts. "Come on over to the shade. It's awful hot out."

I spent twenty minutes by the roadside with Private Neil Forbes, who was greatly impressed that my husband was a Korean pastor, and more, that I hadn't seen him for eleven years after just one day of marriage. I complimented the beauty of his wife in the photo he pulled from his wallet and sympathized with missing his newborn daughter-a pale blob of blankets in the picture-he'd left ten months ago. He suggested I write to my husband in care of the New York Presbytery and promised he'd post it through the military mail. He said he was completely charmed to have made my acquaintance, wondered if I'd coach him a tiny bit in the Korean language, and said I should bring the letter tomorrow at the same hour and place. We agreed that our meeting was a blessing, and when we parted, I said, "I shall be delighted to see you tomorrow."

He shook my hand energetically, saying, "Me too!" I was glad my English was understandable even if it was apparently funny enough to make him laugh so heartily.

That evening, after a plain supper of fishbone soup and millet, I told my family about Pfc. Forbes and the possibility of writing to Calvin. Necessity had erased the habit of separate living quarters, especially on the coldest nights in winter when there was only enough fuel for a single brazier. To preserve fuel, we had also used the braziers to cook in the sitting room. Venting the awful fumes sometimes made it as cold as if there were no embers, but then the wind would die and warmth would glow on our faces. On warm summer and fall days such as this, we reclaimed the kitchen and gathered as usual in the sitting room for meals, all of us by now completely accustomed to eating together. Grandfather sat with Sunok happily ensconced on his lap, her favorite place of late, and his favorite place for her as well. The child had done more for my father's health than any combination of herbs. Next to Grandfather sat Ilsun, with Meeja a little behind him, and on the other side I sat with Grandmother. We three women picked the few flakes of fish from our bowls and popped them in Sunok's mouth.

I asked Dongsaeng if he could spare two sheets of paper for me to write a letter and craft an envelope.

He shook his head. "I've nothing left."

"In my study," said Grandfather, "there's a history book on the middle shelf. Its end papers would do."

I looked at him appreciatively. These five years in Seoul, either something in my viewpoint or something in his had changed. I worried at first that he'd given up completely, that time had defeated his personal battle for the righteous old way. But when I learned that the cause of his refusal to leave the house was to avoid speaking j.a.panese, I felt rea.s.sured. I also guessed that some of his reticence to go out resulted from the catcalls and stares directed at him as he walked the streets wearing yangban hanbok, as threadbare as mine but always clean and pressed.

After my father had turned sixty, without fanfare much to everyone's regret, I'd noted his steady withdrawal into woodcarving until his tools were sold or "donated" to the cause. I had also a.s.sumed that his retirement age and status as grandfather were the roots of his inner calm and steady good health, rather than a submission to j.a.panese rule. Or perhaps scarcity in material life had accented for us both the richness we shared in family. I also attributed it to Sunok's blissful presence among us, and how a simple origami frog or a crumpled ball of paper tied to a string could give her joy. This was the cause of Ilsun's lack of available paper for letter writing and therefore Grandfather's willingness to deface a precious book of history.

I saved a few grains of millet to use as paste, and after the sun had set and the house was quiet, I composed my letter, writing tightly with a narrow brush, filling every centimeter of the thin paper.

September 17, 1945, Seoul. Husband, if this letter finds you we must give thanks to an American G.I., Neil Forbes, a Christian angel, who kindly offered to post it through U.S. Army mail. Forgive the funny paper. You will see from the return address that we moved. We came here at winter's end in 1939. I could not let you know this because of the China War, then the big war. Although I received no letters from you for many years, I learned later that you had written frequently. That knowledge gives me the courage to try contacting you. They said you were a spy for the Americans. I do not know if you can come back any time soon, but at least you can know we are all well and in Seoul. I cannot remember when I stopped writing to you, but remember clearly your last two letters. The story of your twice-over survival is one that I cherished through the many years separating us. It gave me hope that G.o.d does indeed have a plan that will vindicate the inhumanity of war, the suffering of its victims. The second letter I remember because you said you would be ordained and go to New York. This is why I write to you in care of N.Y. Presbytery, a suggestion made by G.I. Forbes. Another reason to bless this kind soldier. Dongsaeng's wife, Min Unsook (did you know he married?) died of T.B. on May 27, 1940. At the end, we were able to save her baby, a wonderful girl named Sunok. Your niece has brought us much joy in hard times. Dongsaeng's second wife is Chae Meeja. No babies yet, but we pray when things get better, then maybe. There is no post here and I have not heard from your family for many years. When everything turned Shinto, I worried that your father suffered persecution because of his high church position. Please let me know what you have heard. I pray for them daily and beg your forgiveness for not fulfilling my duty to your parents. Hundreds of refugees fill the streets. My father has lost hope of finding his brother in Manchuria, and my mother prays she can contact her family once the mail is working. When things improve, we hope to return to Gaeseong. Dongsaeng says many homes and buildings there that were used by the J. are now housing Russians. He thinks town records will help us prove ownership. We heard about the bombs. The world is changed. More soon. Write back c/o Forbes's A.P.O. Blssngs in C, yr wife.

A Korean Dressed Like a G.I.

OCTOBER 1945.

THE DAMP AUTUMN WIND PREDICTED RAIN. IT SEEPED STIFFNESS INTO my hips and knees, hinting at loss of youth and making me worry about my mother's painful joints. I wrapped an old blanket around my shoulders and slid my feet into Dongsaeng's torn and battered leather shoes, glad that he sported a decent pair, courtesy of G.I. Forbes, who had visited us several times since that day by the roadside. Everyone in my family adored him, and not just because of his generosity; he was comical and made us all laugh with his antics trying to communicate with horrible Korean, gangly gestures and animated features.

Dongsaeng had gone downtown to meet someone about designing a logo. He'd gained notoriety when he redesigned into Hangeul the masthead of Dongah Ilbo Dongah Ilbo, and was featured in its first Korean-language issue: "Seoul Artist Restores Traditional Korean Calligraphy." Soon, he was called upon by editors feeding the explosion of new newspapers and magazines in the city, people who fervently expressed their politics and opinions in a wondrously free and open press. Dongsaeng's earnings went first to rice, then art supplies and a little treat for Sunok, and with outrageously inflated prices, the money evaporated like hot breath on a cold day. Luckily, our diet was supplemented by the generosity of Pfc. Forbes, who brought gifts of military kit rations.

I went to reap the last vegetables from the garden, an empty crock in hand, fretting over the impossibility of repaying Neil Forbes's kindness. A vehicle pa.s.sed the house and honked. I thought it odd that a car would drive through this remote neighborhood, but my main concern was if the cabbages had yielded a few more leaves. I slid the door open, the broken soles of Dongsaeng's ruined shoes flapping on the threshold.

A man said, "Yuhbo."

The sound of his voice alone made me scream. My hands flew to my face and the crock smashed on the step. It was an apparition, I was sure, grown out of hunger from the depths of my memory. He touched my elbow. I turned and met eyes as serious and calming as I remembered. But how strange! Here was the face of a ghost, a thought, a glimpse in a mirror, and yet here he was-my husband, real, smiling, crying like a child, and handsomely dressed in an olive drab military coat and hat.

"How-?"

He clasped my hands and said, so softly I wasn't sure if I heard correctly, "Forgive me. Never again. Never."

Dongsaeng ran from the Jeep parked on the road. "Look who I found! Harabeoji! Halmeonim! Yuhbo! Make coffee! Hyung-nim, Brother-in-law, come in. Nuna, don't just stand there. Make him welcome!"

I was aware of my faded dress, the tattered shoes, gnarls on my palms and deepened lines on my face. The broken bowl forgotten, I drew him indoors, my heart beating as if for the first time.

Calvin greeted my parents with a bow to the floor. "My deepest respects, Jangin-eurun, Jangmo-nim Jangin-eurun, Jangmo-nim, Father- and Mother-in-law. Profound regret for the hardships you have suffered."

"Yes, yes. Look at the prodigal son, come back as an American soldier!" Grandfather reached for Calvin's hand and held it a moment in both of his. "Come in, come in. Daughters, something to eat and drink!"

"I found him at the Bando Hotel! Can you imagine?" Dongsaeng crowed. "We came right home." Amid the confusion of introductions to Meeja and baby Sunok, the surprise of his monochromatic army uniform beneath his coat and the repeated cries of wonder, I dashed to the kitchen, patted down my sleeves and skirt and hastily wiped water on my face and hair. I slapped my cheeks, as much to ensure I wasn't asleep as to put color in them. In the sitting room, as I served drinking water and a tin of cookies-another gift from Pfc. Forbes-I saw that Calvin kept his eyes on my every move, and I felt him smile when I smiled as Grandfather took three cookies for Sunok in his lap.

"I'm sorry that I come unprepared," said Calvin. "My hands are empty today, but my heart is full."

If I hadn't been completely stunned by his presence, I might have been embarra.s.sed by the tears that wet my husband's cheeks once more. When I sat across from him, Grandmother nudged me to sit next to him. Preferring to see his features, to watch him sitting in this room talking, drinking, breathing, I didn't move. Grandfather asked him to pray.

"Father in Heaven," said Calvin. "We give thanks for this joyful reunion and are humbled to witness thy mystery and grace, which has gathered us here together in the most extreme coincidence. We pray in thanksgiving for this reunion ..." He paused a moment to collect himself, and I peeked at his face. His cheeks seemed rounder, his jaw softer, his mouth fuller. His eyebrows were a little wild, but his skin shone with the same polished gleam that I remembered from when I first saw his photograph. He prayed, his voice sounding deep and as solemn as what I'd heard in my head when I read his letters years ago. A thousand questions flooded my mind, and I wished he'd finish praying so I could learn how he'd found us, how he managed to get here, was he a minister now, did he really know how to drive a Jeep, and what was the meaning of those colorful patches and bright insignia on his clothing? I closed my eyes, nearly laughing out loud at the sheer joy and shock of him, and at my mounting impatience for him to quit praying so we could talk!

He mentioned Unsook and the Gaeseong house, and I was glad that Dongsaeng had briefed him on all our major life events, which allowed me to sidestep speaking to him about hardship. I kept sneaking looks as he prayed with his head bowed, hair parted as before, still thick on top and cut short around the ears and neck, his eyes shut, frowning, tears coming now and then. Finally, I sensed he was winding down, and I closed my eyes as he prayed for our liberated country. "That its leaders find the strength, compa.s.sion and wisdom they need to undertake the tasks of rebuilding and uniting us as a democratic, self-determined free nation. We ask this in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, who taught us to pray, saying ..."

During our recitation of the Lord's Prayer, I remembered our years-ago conversation about the Protestants and self-determinism, and excitement sparked when I thought that discussions barely begun could be continued. Then I quaked, for he was not some fellow student to bandy intellectual ideas about, but my husband-now obviously a man of G.o.d-and I, his wife, a Christian hypocrite! Shame and anxiety surfaced for a moment but were easily lost in the excitement of his being here. The ritual of prayer gave me time to gather my spinning feelings.

"Amen," said Grandfather. "Thank you, Calvin, you've completed your minister education, I see!"

Warmed by the gentility Calvin's formal intonation had restored in rooms that had long missed such civility, my blood soon became a tranquil current calming my pulse and thawing my heart. "Yuhbo," I said, the familiar address feeling as foreign on my tongue as his sitting across from me. "How is it that you came here in this American military uniform?"

"It's impossible to think it mere coincidence." Calvin looked directly into my eyes.

"It was amazing!" said Dongsaeng. Grandfather cautioned him to silence with a glance.

"I flew into Gimpo this morning and had just checked in with Army Headquarters at the Bando Hotel. I requisitioned a Jeep right away and set out to find this house." He reached into his breast pocket. "Yuhbo, I received your letter two days before I left New York."

"Thanks to the American!" said Dongsaeng.

" Ajeosi Ajeosi Neil?" said Sunok boldly to this new elder. "Is Uncle Neil your soldier-friend too?" Neil?" said Sunok boldly to this new elder. "Is Uncle Neil your soldier-friend too?"