Min Lee - Pachinko

“The war’s over,” Noa reminded Mozasu firmly. “It’s probably Hansu ajeossi ’s men. Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.”

The truck stopped, and two Koreans working for Hansu brought out a stretcher carrying Yoseb, who was bandaged and deeply sedated.

Kyunghee let go of the spear, letting it fall on the soft earth, and she put her hand on Mozasu’s shoulder to steady herself.

Hansu stepped out of the cab of the truck while the driver, a ginger-haired American GI, stayed behind. Mozasu snuck glances at the soldier. The driver had light, freckled skin and pale, yellow-reddish hair like fire; he didn’t look mean, and Hansu ajeossi didn’t look afraid. Back in Osaka, Haru-san, the leader of the neighborhood association, who was most often in charge of rations, had warned the neighborhood children that Americans kill indiscriminately so everyone must flee at the sight of any American soldiers. Death at your own hands was preferable to capture. When the driver noticed Mozasu looking at him, he waved, showing his straight, white teeth.

Kyunghee approached the stretcher slowly. At the sight of his burns, she clasped her mouth with both her hands. Despite the terrifying news reports about the bombings, she had believed that Yoseb was alive, that he would not die without letting her know. She had prayed for him continually, and now he was home. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head. Everyone was silent until she rose. Even Kim was crying.

Hansu nodded at the slight, pretty woman who was weeping and gave her a large parcel wrapped in paper and a military-sized tub of burn liniment from America.

“You’ll find some medicine in there. Mix a very small spoon of the powder with water or milk and give it to him at night so he can sleep. When it runs out, there’s no more, so you have to wean him off it little by little. He’ll beg you for more, but you have to tell him that you’re trying to make it last.”

“What is it?” she asked. Sunja stood by her sister-in-law and said nothing.

“He needs it. For the pain, but it’s not good to keep taking it, because it’s addictive. Anyway, keep changing the bandages. They must be sterile. Boil the fabric before you use it. There’s more in there. He’ll need the liniment because his skin is getting tighter. Can you do this?”

Kyunghee nodded, still staring at Yoseb. His mouth and cheek were half gone, as if he had been consumed by an animal. He was a man who had done everything he could for his family — this had happened to him because he had gone to work.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you for all that you’ve done for us,” Kyunghee said to Hansu, who shook his head and said nothing. He left them to speak to the farmer. Kim, who had returned by then, having finished his bath, followed Hansu as he walked to the farmer’s house.

The women and the boys led the men carrying the stretcher inside the barn and made a place for him in an empty horse stall. Kyunghee moved her pallet there.

A short while later, Hansu and the men drove off without saying good-bye.

The farmer didn’t complain about having one more Korean on his property, because the other Koreans did Yoseb’s share of the work as well as their own; harvest season was approaching, and he would need them. Though none of them had mentioned it, Tamaguchi sensed that soon enough, they’d ask him for money to leave, and the farmer was determined to get as much work as he could out of them before they left for home. He had told them they were welcome to stay for as long as they liked, and the farmer meant this. Tamaguchi had been hiring returning veterans for small jobs, but they grumbled about the dirtier tasks and openly refused to work alongside foreigners. Even if he could replace all the Koreans with Japanese veterans, Tamaguchi needed Hansu to transport his sweet potatoes to the markets. All the Koreans could stay.

The transport truck returned regularly, but Hansu didn’t come back for weeks. Yoseb suffered. He had lost the hearing in his right ear. He was either shouting in anger or crying in agony. The medicine powder was now gone, and Yoseb wasn’t much better. In the evenings, he cried like a child, and there was little anyone could do. During the day, he tried to help out on the farm, repairing tools or attempting to sort the potatoes, but the pain was too great for him to work. Now and then, Tamaguchi, who abhorred alcohol, gave him some holiday sake out of pity. However, when Kyunghee started to beg him each day for more, he told her that he couldn’t spare any, not because he was a stingy man, because Tamaguchi wasn’t, but because he had no intention of having a drunk on his property.

A month later, Hansu returned. The afternoon sun had dimmed only a little, and the workers had just returned to the fields after their midday meal to begin their second shift. In the cold barn, Yoseb was alone, lying down on his straw-filled pallet.

Hearing the footfalls, Yoseb lifted his head, then laid it back down again on the straw pillow.

Hansu placed two enormous crates in front of him, then sat down on the thick slab of wood by the pallet, which was being used as a bench. Despite his well-tailored suit and highly polished leather brogues, Hansu appeared at ease in the barn, indifferent to the harsh smells of the animals and the cold drafts.

Yoseb said, “You’re the father of the boy, aren’t you?”

Hansu studied the man’s scarred face, the ragged edges of a once-sloping jawline. Yoseb’s right ear was now a tight bud of a flower, folding into itself.

“That’s why you do all this,” Yoseb said.

“Noa is my son,” Hansu said.

“We owe you a debt — something we may never be able to repay.”

Hansu raised his eyebrows but said nothing. It was always better to say less.

“But you have no business being around him. My brother gave the child a name. He should never know anything else.”

“I can give him a name, too.”

“He has a name. It’s wrong to do this to the boy.”

Yoseb frowned; the smallest movement hurt. Noa had his younger brother’s mannerisms — from the way he spoke in Isak’s measured cadences to the way he ate his meals in modest bites, chewing neatly. He behaved exactly like Isak. Whenever Noa had any time to spare, he would take his old exercise books from school and practice writing, though no one told him to do so. Yoseb would never have believed that this yakuza was Noa’s biological father except that the upper half of Noa’s face was virtually a mirror image of Hansu’s. In time, Noa would see this. He had not mentioned it to Kyunghee, but even if she had guessed at the truth herself, she would have kept her suspicions from Yoseb to protect Sunja, who was closer to her than a sister.

“You don’t have a son,” Yoseb said, taking another guess.

“Your brother was kind to help Sunja, but I would’ve taken care of her and my son.”

“She must not have wanted that.”

“I’d offered to take care of her, but she didn’t want to be my wife in Korea. Because I have a Japanese wife in Osaka.”

Lying on his back, Yoseb stared at the barn roof. Jagged slats of light broke through the beams. Column slivers of dust floated upward in diagonal lines. Before the fire, he had never noticed such small things; also, he had never hated anyone. Though he shouldn’t, Yoseb hated this man — his expensive clothes, flashy shoes, his unchecked confidence, reeking of a devilish invulnerability. He hated him for not being in pain. He had no right to claim his brother’s child.

Hansu could see Yoseb’s anger.

“She wanted me to go, so I left at first, planning to come back. When I returned, she was gone. Already married. To your brother.”

Yoseb didn’t know what to believe. He had learned almost nothing about Sunja from Isak, who had seemed to believe that Noa’s origins were best forgotten.