Min Lee - Pachinko

Yoseb made clean strokes across Isak’s head and threw the cut hair into the metal basin.

“ Yah —Isak-ah.” Yoseb smiled at the memory. “You remember how the gardener used to cut our hair when we were kids? I used to holler like a crazy animal but you never did. You sat there like a baby monk, calm and peaceful, and you never once complained.” Yoseb grew quiet, wanting what he saw in front of him not to be true. “Isak-ah, why did I bring you to this hell? I was so lonesome for you. I was wrong, you know, to bring you here, and now I’m punished for my selfishness.” Yoseb rested his blade in the basin.

“I will not be all right if you die. Do you understand? You cannot die, my boy. Isak-ah, please don’t die. How can I go on? What will I tell our parents?”

Isak continued to sleep, oblivious to his family encircling his pallet.

Yoseb wiped his eyes and shut his mouth, clamping down on his jaws. He picked up the blade again, working steadily to take off the bits of gray hair remaining on his head. When Isak’s head was smooth, Yoseb poured oil over his brother’s beard.

For the remainder of the evening, Yoseb, Kyunghee, and Sunja rid him of nits and lice, dropping the bugs into jars of kerosene, only stopping to put the boys to bed. Later, the pharmacist came to tell them what they already knew. There was nothing a hospital or a doctor could do for Isak now.

At dawn, Yoseb returned to work. Sunja remained with Isak, and Kyunghee went to the restaurant. Yoseb didn’t bother complaining about Kyunghee going to work alone. He was too tired to argue, and the wages were badly needed. Outside the house, the street was filled with the morning bustling of men and women heading to work and children running to school. Isak slept in the front room, his breathing fast and shallow. He was clean and smooth like an infant — all the hair from his body shaved.

After Noa finished breakfast, he laid down his chopsticks neatly and looked up at his mother.

“ Umma , may I stay home?” he asked, never having dared to ask for such a thing, even when things were awful at school.

Sunja looked up from her sewing, surprised.

“Are you feeling ill?”

He shook his head.

Isak, who was half-awake, had heard the boy’s request.

“Noa—”

“Yes, appa .”

“ Umma told me that you’re becoming a fine scholar.”

The child beamed but, out of habit, looked down at his feet.

When Noa received high marks in school, he thought first of his father.

Yoseb had told the boy several times that his father had been a prodigy, having taught himself Korean, Classical Chinese, and Japanese from books with scant tutoring. By the time he went to seminary, Isak had already read the Bible several times.

When school felt difficult, knowing that his father was a learned man had strengthened the boy’s resolve to learn.

“Noa.”

“Yes, appa ?”

“You must go to school today. When I was a boy, I wanted to go to school with the other children very much.”

The boy nodded, having heard this detail about his father before.

“What else can we do but persevere, my child? We’re meant to increase our talents. The thing that would make your appa happy is if you do as well as you’ve been doing. Wherever you go, you represent our family, and you must be an excellent person — at school, in town, and in the world. No matter what anyone says. Or does,” Isak said, then paused to cough. He knew it must be taxing for the child to go to a Japanese school.

“You must be a diligent person with a humble heart. Have compassion for everyone. Even your enemies. Do you understand that, Noa? Men may be unfair, but the Lord is fair. You’ll see. You will,” Isak said, his exhausted voice tapering off.

“Yes, appa .” Hoshii-sensei had told him that he had a duty to Koreans, too; one day, he would serve his community and make Koreans good children of the benevolent Emperor. The boy stared at his father’s newly shaved head. His bald pate was so white in contrast to his dark, sunken cheeks. He looked both new and ancient.

Sunja felt bad for the child; he’d never had a day with both his parents and no one else. When she was growing up, even when there were others around, it had been just the three of them — her father, mother, and her — an invisible triangle. When she thought back to her life at home, this closeness was what she missed. Isak was right about school, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Soon, Isak would be gone. She would have given anything to see her father again, but how could she go against Isak’s wishes? Sunja picked up Noa’s satchel and handed it to the boy, who was crestfallen.

“After school, come home straight away, Noa. We’ll be here,” Isak said.

Noa remained fixed to his spot on the floor, unable to take his eyes off his father for fear that he’d disappear. The child hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his father until he returned. The ache of missing him had surfaced in his small, concave chest, and he felt anxious about the pain that was sure to return. If he remained home, Noa felt certain that his father would be okay. They wouldn’t even have to talk. Why couldn’t he study at home the way his father had? Noa wanted to ask this, but it was not in his nature to argue.

Isak, however, didn’t want Noa to see him like this anymore. The boy was already afraid, and there was no need to make him suffer any more than he already had. There were many things he hadn’t told the child yet about life, about learning, about how to talk to God.

“Is it very hard at school?” Isak asked.

Sunja turned to look at the boy’s face; she’d never thought to ask him this.

Noa shrugged. The work was okay, not impossible. The good students, who were all Japanese, the ones he admired, wouldn’t speak to him. They wouldn’t even look at him. He believed that he could enjoy going to school if he were a regular person and not a Korean. He couldn’t say this to his father or to anyone else, because it was certain he’d never be a regular Japanese. One day, Uncle Yoseb said, they would return to Korea; Noa imagined that life would be better there.

Carrying his book bag and bento, Noa lingered by the front door, memorizing his father’s kindly face.

“Child, come here,” Isak said.

Noa approached him and sat on bended knees. Please God, please. Please make my father well. I’ll ask this just once more. Please. Noa shut his eyes tightly.

Isak took Noa’s hand and held it.

“You are very brave, Noa. Much, much braver than me. Living every day in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage.”

Noa chewed on his lower lip and didn’t say anything. He wiped his nose with his hand.

“My child,” he said, and Isak let go of his son’s hand. “My dear boy. My blessing.”

December 1944

Like most shops in Osaka with nothing to sell, the restaurant was shuttered frequently, but its three remaining workers showed up six days a week. Food had virtually disappeared from the markets, and even when the rations arrived and the shops opened for half a day to long lines, the offerings were unacceptably sparse and undesirable. You could wait six hours for fish and come home with a scant handful of dried anchovies, or worse, nothing at all. If you had high-level military connections, it was possible to obtain some of what you needed; of course, if you had a great deal of money, there was always the black market. City children were sent alone to the country by train to buy an egg or a potato in exchange for a grandmother’s kimono. At the restaurant, Kim Changho, who was in charge of procuring food, kept two storage bins: one, which could be safely inspected by the neighborhood association leaders, who liked to make surprise visits to restaurant kitchens, and another, behind a false wall in the basement, for food bought from the black market. Sometimes, customers — usually wealthy businessmen from Osaka and travelers from abroad — brought their own meat and alcohol to the restaurant. The men who used to cook in the evening were gone now; Kim made up the whole of the evening staff; it was up to him to cook the meats and wash the dishes for the occasional customer.