Krys Lee - How I Became a North Korean

“Isn’t that the clearest thing you’ve ever heard a Christian say?” Daehan’s voice startled me.

Daehan was standing just outside the lantern’s ring of light, and though his dislike of me was clear, I was grateful not to be alone.

He hunched down to my level and cupped his hand to my ear. “They’re talking about you.”

“I know.”

“I’m only here because Yongju asked me to keep an eye on you.”

As the voices continued to rise, he frantically grabbed handfuls of his hair with both hands. He said he’d been told to board up my window but thought I should have fresh air. He talked about reading the stars the way the ancients had and how he wished we could see the stars that would map our way. Then he gripped my hand.

“Don’t give up, nuna .” His voice was as fervent as his grip. “It’s a mistake to give up. I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

Fatigue overwhelmed me. I wondered if my baby would have been like Daehan, always feeling too much. Or calm, like her abeoji, who would always have his way.

The murmurs became shouts.

“This is my life’s work. Don’t waste my time any longer. Get out.”

“Listen—”

“Get out. Get out!”

Missionary Lee entered my room and, with a faltering smile, kissed me on the forehead. Then he grimaced, as if a hand had reached in and squeezed his heart, and toppled sideways to the floor. I drew back from his straw-colored flesh; Daehan shouted for help and the others rushed to the missionary’s side.

Missionary Lee murmured, “I’m fine, it’s just a little dizziness.” His breath was shallow, his forehead sticky with sweat.

Daehan said, “He needs a doctor!”

“I’m perfectly fine, no need for the fuss.” The missionary rubbed at his chest.

Within minutes I heard the front door open and the stairs echo with footsteps.

• • •

My window was sealed with wood, and slivers of light came in through the slats by the time I woke up. I longed for the sun-covered hill of my village, for the way my eomma and I peeled hot potatoes in winter. The heat, I told myself, was responsible for how weak I had become. I crawled out from under the blanket, trying to believe that yesterday was merely the past and everything before that even more distant from me. When Yongju leaned toward me, his face as slender as candlelight, I drew back onto the yo.

“Have you been sitting here watching me all night?” I was sure of it.

“Only till this morning.” He flexed his feet as if they were numb.

“What happened to Missionary Lee?”

His hand brushed gently across my eyelids, closing them. “I don’t know, but, nuna, I’ll be here, if you need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.” I pulled the thin blanket over my head. But I listened for his movements.

When I dared to look out again, Yongju was slouched against the wall, his fingers picking precisely through the Bible’s pages as if they were the taut strings of a gayageum . But he wasn’t reading; his dark eyes were resting on me. I turned away. Caring about someone was another weakness and I couldn’t afford to be weak again.

I hobbled out of the room alone, avoiding the arm he offered me. Daehan darted in once I left, as if he had been outside listening.

The briny smell of the common room made me gag. The others were sprawled and tense in the stifling room. Their every sentence concerned what would happen when Missionary Kwon returned and whether they would finally be sent to a safe country. Their tension shocked me awake, and I flipped through some books from the shelf, the words just pictures to me as I thought about the few choices I had left. Until voices rose from talking to shouting, and Cheolmin slapped Gwangsu across the head.

“Get out of my sight,” he said. “You make me sick.”

Gwangsu cringed and crawled away on his knees.

Bakjun said, “If I don’t get out of here, I’m gonna lose my mind. I’m gonna kill someone. Or maybe I’ll jump out of the window.”

He looked alarmed as he glanced my way, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

They huddled together, speaking in low voices, until Yongju came out.

Yongju said, “What is it?”

Cheolmin stuck a wad of gum under the saang . “Nothing, nothing.”

“Just waiting for Missionary Kwon,” Bakjun said, “like everyone else.”

Yongju stopped in front of them and gave them a long look. “Are you boys hiding something from me? Troubles already multiplying.”

“Now we’re not even allowed to talk?” A tear ran down Cheolmin’s cheek before he angrily wiped it away. “What is this place? Missionary Kwon, and now you?”

When Missionary Kwon returned the following day, I took in his rumpled linen trousers and his shoes still caked with mud, and became anxious. Yongju took the garment bag and suitcase from him, then beat the shoes against the door with his free hand.

“You boys been good?”

Cheolmin said, “What else is there to be here?”

Namil said, “Where’s Missionary Lee?”

“It was a heart attack, not Missionary Lee’s first, it seems. He had to have double bypass surgery. He’s very lucky to be alive.”

“You mean Missionary Lee isn’t coming back?” Yongju dropped the shoes.

“No, probably not. But that tough old snail will be okay. God was watching out for him.” Missionary Kwon patted Yongju on the back. “You could say his heart sent him a stern warning.”

“What will happen to us?” Hope flared in Yongju’s voice, but I knew better than to hope.

“You’ll be moved to new safe houses in the next few weeks where my people can be with you full-time,” Missionary Kwon said. “In the meantime I’ll be completely available to you here.”

In front of me was another safe house, another bare cell of a room. Like a rock, I would be worn down by the wind and the sand in this country that had taken everything from me. I thought of my eomma . Maybe she blamed my abba, then me, before retreating into a medicated haze. I thought of how easily I had left her, how I could never take that back.

Cheolmin hurled a slipper at the plastic-covered window. “What kind of scam is this?”

“This is my establishment and my rules.” Missionary Kwon unlocked the door and swept it open. “If any of you want to leave, anytime, feel free. You’re not a prisoner here.”

The boys’ voices rose in protest, but no one walked out.

The missionary looked fiercely at us. “How do you understand God’s will? You can’t understand, you merely accept.”

The will to live is stronger than hope, and I made my decision before I knew there was a choice to be made. Maybe I would have decided differently if Missionary Lee had been with us.

The day I was to have my cast removed, Missionary Kwon drove me to the doctor’s house, an hour’s drive away. It was the first Western-style house I had ever seen.

I had visited this confused house that first terrible time, but only now was I able to see it. Missionary Kwon’s hand curved around my waist, his touch an electric shock. “Come,” he urged, and steered me into the house.

The back room where I’d been treated before was cluttered with reproductions of paintings and souvenirs from the doctor’s travels. Travel, something beyond my understanding. The doctor directed a blur of questions at me, then told me to sit on a long raised bed. While he cut open the cast with an angrily buzzing machine, he kept flashing his pink, fleshy gums and gold fillings at me as if a smile could make everything better. I had lost my family, my country, my unborn baby. Where were the smiles in that? I thought of Yongju’s face, how it carried its sadness so plainly, how it comforted.