Min Lee - Pachinko

Yoseb closed the door behind him.

Pulling out the packet of candy from his coat pocket, Yoseb said dramatically, “Huh, I wonder where Noa could be. I suppose if he isn’t home, then I can eat his share of the candy. Or I can put it aside for his brother. Maybe today would be a good day for baby Mozasu to have his first taste of candy. One can never be too young for a treat! He’s already a month old. Before you know it, Mozasu and I’ll be wrestling, too, just like Noa and me! He’ll need some pumpkin taffy to make him stronger.” Not hearing a sound, Yoseb unfolded the crinkly paper with a flourish and pretended to put a chunk of taffy in his mouth.

“ Wah , this is the best batch of pumpkin taffy that Piggy ajumma has ever made! Yobo ,” he shouted, “come out here, you must have some of this! Really tasty!” he said, making chewing noises while checking behind the clothing chest and the screen door — Noa’s usual hiding spots.

The mere mention of Noa’s infant brother, Mozasu, should have made the boy bolt out from hiding. Normally a well-behaved child, Noa had been in trouble at home lately for pinching his brother, given the chance.

Yoseb checked the kitchen, but there was no one there. The stove was cool to the touch, and the side dishes had been put out on the small table by the door; the rice pot was empty. Dinner was always made by the time he came home. The soup kettle was half-filled with water, cut-up potatoes, and onions, waiting to be put on the fire. Saturday evening meals were Yoseb’s favorite, because there was no work on Sundays, and yet nothing had been prepared. After a leisurely Saturday dinner, the family would go to the bathhouse together. He opened the kitchen back door and stuck his head out, only to face the filthy gutters. Next door, Piggy ajumma ’s oldest girl was fixing supper for her family and didn’t even look out from her open window.

They could have gone to the market, he supposed. Yoseb sat down on a floor cushion in the front room and opened up one of his many newspapers. Printed columns of words about the war floated in front of his eyes — Japan would save China by bringing technological advancements to a rural economy; Japan would end poverty in Asia and make it prosper; Japan would protect Asia from the pernicious hands of Western imperialism; and only Germany, Japan’s true and fearless ally, was fighting the evils of the West. Yoseb didn’t believe any of it, but propaganda was inescapable. Each day, Yoseb read three or four papers to glean some truth from the gaps and overlaps. Tonight, all the papers repeated virtually the same things; the censors must’ve been working especially hard the night before.

In the quiet of the house, Yoseb felt impatient and wanted his dinner. If Kyunghee had gone to pick up something at the market, there was still no reason why Sunja, Noa, and the baby would’ve gone, too. No doubt, Isak was busy at church. Yoseb put on his shoes.

On the street, no one knew where his wife was, and when he reached the church, his brother wasn’t there. The office in the back was empty, except for the usual group of women seated on the floor, their heads bowed, mumbling their prayers.

He waited for a long time until the women raised their heads.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen Pastor Baek or Pastor Yoo?”

The women, middle-aged ajumma s who came to church nearly every evening to pray, recognized him as Pastor Baek’s older brother.

“They’ve taken him,” the eldest one cried, “and Pastor Yoo and the Chinese boy Hu. You have to help them—”

“What?”

“The police arrested them this morning — when everyone went to the Shinto shrine to bow, one of the village leaders noticed Hu mouthing the words of the Lord’s Prayer when they were supposed to be pledging allegiance to the Emperor. The police officer who was supervising questioned Hu, and Hu told him that this ceremony was idol worshipping and he wouldn’t do it anymore. Pastor Yoo tried to tell the police that the boy was misinformed, and that he didn’t mean anything by it, but Hu refused to agree with Pastor Yoo. Pastor Baek tried to explain, too, but Hu said he was willing to walk into the furnace. Just like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego! Do you know that story?”

“Yes, yes,” Yoseb said, annoyed by their religious excitement. “Are they at the station now?”

The women nodded.

Yoseb ran outside.

Noa was sitting on the steps of the police station, holding his baby brother, who was asleep.

“Uncle,” Noa whispered, smiling with relief. “Mo is very heavy.”

“You’re a very good brother, Noa,” Yoseb said. “Where’s your aunt?”

“In there.” He tilted his head toward the station, unable to use his hands. “Uncle, can you hold Mozasu? My arms hurt.”

“Can you wait here just a little longer? I’ll be right back, or I’ll send your mother outside.”

“ Umma said she’d give me a treat if I didn’t pinch Mozasu and kept him still. They won’t let babies inside,” Noa said soberly. “But I’m hungry now. I’ve been here forever and ever.”

“Uncle will give you a treat, too, Noa. Uncle will be right back,” Yoseb said.

“But, Uncle — Mo’s—”

“Yes, Noa, but you’re very strong.”

Noa straightened his shoulders and sat up. He didn’t want to disappoint his uncle, who was his favorite person.

Yoseb was about to open the door of the station, but he turned at the sound of Noa’s voice.

“Uncle, what do I do if Mozasu cries?”

“You should sing him a song while you walk back and forth. The way I did when you were his age. Maybe you remember?”

“No, I don’t remember,” he said, looking tearful.

“Uncle will be right out.”

The police wouldn’t let them see Isak. The women had been waiting inside the station, with Sunja going outside to check on Noa and Mozasu every few minutes. Children weren’t allowed in the station, so Kyunghee had remained near the front desk, since she was the one who spoke Japanese. When Yoseb entered the waiting area, Kyunghee gasped, then exhaled. Seated beside her, Sunja was doubled over, weeping.

“Do they have Isak?” Yoseb asked.

Kyunghee nodded.

“You have to talk quietly,” she said, continuing to pat Sunja on the back. “I don’t know who’s listening.”

Yoseb whispered, “The ladies at the church told me what happened. Why did that boy make such a fuss about the bowing?” Back home, the colonial government had been rounding up Christians and making them bow at the shrines each morning. Here, the volunteer community leaders made you do this only once or twice a week. “Is there a fine we can pay?”

“I don’t think so,” Kyunghee said. “The officer told us to go home, but we waited in case they’d let him out—”

“Isak can’t be inside a jail,” Yoseb said. “He can’t.”

At the front desk, Yoseb lowered his shoulders and bowed deeply from the waist.

“My brother’s in poor health, sir; he has been this way since he was a boy, and it would be difficult for him to be in jail. He just recovered from tuberculosis. Is there any way he can go home and come back to the station tomorrow so he can be questioned?” Yoseb asked, using honorific Japanese.

The officer shook his head politely, indifferent to these appeals. The cells were full of Koreans and Chinese, and according to their family members, nearly all of them had some sort of serious health problem that should preclude them from jail time. Although the officer felt bad for the man pleading for his truant brother, there was nothing he could do. The minister would be held for a very long time — these religious activists always were. In times of war, there had to be crackdowns against troublemakers for the sake of national security. It was pointless to say any of this, however. Koreans caused trouble, then made excuses.