Min Lee - Pachinko

“You and the women should go home. The minister is being questioned, and you will not be able to see him. You’re wasting your time.”

“You see, sir, my brother isn’t against the Emperor or the government in any way. He’s never been involved in anything against the government,” Yoseb said. “My brother is not interested in politics, and I’m sure he—”

“He’s not allowed to have visitors. If he’s cleared of all charges, you can be assured that he’ll be released and sent home.” The officer smiled politely. “No one wants to keep an innocent man here.” The officer believed this — the Japanese government was a fair and reasonable one.

“Is there anything I can do?” Yoseb said in a lowered voice, patting his pockets for his wallet.

“There’s nothing you or I can do,” the officer said, peeved. “And I hope you’re not suggesting a bribe. Making such an attempt would only exacerbate your brother’s crime. He and his colleagues refused to acknowledge loyalty to the Emperor. This is a serious offense.”

“I didn’t mean any harm. I beg your pardon for my foolish words — I would never insult your honor, sir.” Yoseb would have crawled on his belly across the floor of the station if that would have made Isak free. Their eldest brother, Samoel, had been the brave one, the one who would’ve confronted the officers with audacity and grace, but Yoseb knew he was no hero. He would have borrowed more money and sold their shack if the police would take a bribe in exchange for Isak; Yoseb didn’t see the point of anyone dying for his country or for some greater ideal. He understood survival and family.

The officer adjusted his spectacles and looked past Yoseb’s shoulder, though no one else was standing there.

“Perhaps you can take your women home? They have no place here. The boy and the baby are outside. You people are always letting your kids play in the streets even in the evening. They should be at home. If you don’t take care of your children, they’ll end up in jail one day,” the officer said, appearing exhausted. “Your brother will be staying here tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to bother you. May I bring him his things tonight?”

The officer replied patiently. “In the morning. You can bring him clothes and food. Religious books are not allowed, however. Also, all reading material must be in Japanese.” The officer’s tone of voice was calm and thoughtful. “Unfortunately, he cannot have visitors. I’m very sorry about that.”

Yoseb wanted to believe that this uniformed man was not all bad — he was just another man who was doing a job he didn’t like, and he was tired because it was the end of the week. Perhaps he, too, wanted his dinner and his bath. Yoseb saw himself as a rational person, and it was too simplistic to believe that all Japanese police officers were evil. Also, Yoseb needed to believe that there were decent people watching over his brother; the alternative was unbearable.

“We shall bring his things tomorrow morning, then,” Yoseb said, peering into the guarded eyes of the officer. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.”

The man tipped his head slightly.

Noa was allowed to eat all the taffy and to play outside, and while Sunja fixed dinner in the kitchen, Yoseb fielded Kyunghee’s questions. She was standing with Mozasu tied to her back with a narrow blanket.

“Can you contact someone?” she asked quietly.

“Who?”

“The Canadian missionaries,” she suggested. “We met them a few years ago. Remember? They were so nice, and Isak said they send money regularly to support the church. Maybe they can explain to the police that the pastors weren’t doing anything wrong.” Kyunghee paced in small circles, and Mozasu burbled contentedly.

“How would I reach them?”

“By letter?”

“Can I write them in Korean? How long would it take for them to get the letter and to reply? How long can Isak survive in—?”

Sunja entered the room and untied Mozasu from Kyunghee’s back and took him to the kitchen to nurse. The scent of steaming barley rice filled the small house.

“I don’t think the missionaries spoke Korean. Can you get someone to help you write a proper letter in Japanese?” Kyunghee asked.

Yoseb said nothing. He would write a letter to them somehow, but he didn’t see why the police would care what a Canadian missionary had to say when there was a war going on. A letter would take at least a month.

Sunja returned with Mozasu.

“I put together some things for him. Can I take them tomorrow morning?” she asked.

“I’ll take them,” Yoseb said. “Before work.”

“Can you ask your boss to help? Maybe they’ll listen to a Japanese?” Kyunghee said.

“Shimamura-san would never help anyone in jail. He thinks that Christians are rebels. The people who were in charge of the March 1 demo were Christians. All the Japanese know that. I don’t even tell him that I go to church. I don’t tell him anything. He’d just fire me if he thought I was mixed up in any kind of protest activity. Then where would we be? There are no jobs for people like me.”

No one said anything after that. Sunja called Noa in from the street. It was time for him to eat.

Each morning, Sunja walked to the police station and handed over three onigin made with barley and millet. If there was money in the budget for a chicken egg, she’d hard-boil it, soak the peeled egg in vinegary shoyu to supplement Isak’s modest bento. No one could be sure if the food ever reached him, but she couldn’t prove that it didn’t. Everyone in the neighborhood knew someone who’d gone to jail, and the wildly varying reports were at best troubling and at worst terrifying. Yoseb wouldn’t speak about Isak, but Isak’s arrest had altered him considerably. Patches of gray smudged his once jet-black hair, and he suffered from intense stomach cramps. He stopped writing to his parents, who couldn’t be told about Isak, so Kyunghee wrote to them instead, making excuses. At meals, Yoseb put aside much of his food for Noa, who sat beside him quietly. Yoseb and Noa shared a kind of unspeakable grief over Isak’s absence.

Despite numerous personal appeals, no one had been allowed to see Isak, but the family believed he was alive, because the police had not told them otherwise. The elder minister and the sexton remained in jail as well, and the family hoped that the three of them sustained each other somehow, though no one knew how the prisoners were being housed. A day after the arrest, the police had come to the house to confiscate Isak’s few books and papers. The family’s comings and goings were monitored; a detective visited them every few weeks to ask questions. The police padlocked the church, yet the congregation continued to meet secretly in small groups led by the church elders. Kyunghee, Sunja, and Yoseb never met the parishioners for fear of putting them in danger. By now, most of the foreign missionaries back home and here had returned to their native countries. It was rare to see a white person in Osaka. Yoseb had written the Canadian missionaries about Isak but there’d been no reply.

Under considerable duress, the decision-making authority of the Presbyterian Church had deemed that the mandatory Shinto shrine ceremony was a civic duty rather than a religious one even though the Emperor, the head of the state religion, was viewed as a living deity. Pastor Yoo, a faithful and pragmatic minister, had believed that the shrine ceremony, where the townspeople were required to gather and perform rites, was in fact a pagan ritual drummed up to rouse national feeling. Bowing to idols was naturally offensive to the Lord. Nevertheless, Pastor Yoo had encouraged Isak, Hu, and his congregation to observe the Shinto bowing for the greater good. He didn’t want his parishioners, many of them new to the faith, to be sacrificed to the government’s predictable response to disobedience — prison and death. Pastor Yoo found support for such ideas in the letters of the apostle Paul. So whenever these gatherings at the nearest shrine took place, their frequency varying from town to town, the elder pastor, Isak, and Hu had attended when necessary along with whoever else was in the church building at the time. However, with his weakened vision, the elder pastor had not known that at every Shinto ceremony, the sexton Hu had been mouthing Our Father like an unbroken loop even as he bowed, sprinkled water, and clapped his hands like all the others. Isak had noticed Hu doing this, of course, but had said nothing. If anything, Isak had admired Hu’s faith and gesture of resistance.