Hwang Sok-yong - Princess Bari

“When the country goes wrong, the little ones are the first to suffer,” he sighed. Then he mentioned his long-awaited business plans to Father. “China seems to think that the situation here has become very serious. A message came down from the authorities to the merchants’ association we’ve been trading with. It said to deliver food relief immediately, and aid will be provided afterward in the form of loans. Those who can do need to get back to work.”

“But half our workers are gone. Most of the miners have left.”

“There’s a company that wants to haul away all that sand and dirt piled up in front of the Tumen River mines and refine it for iron ore. They’ll give you money or food, whatever you need, in exchange for it.”

“That’s just slag. How much iron do they expect to get?”

“If you’re just going to discard it anyway, why not get something for it?”

Our throats were dry from eating the moon cakes, so we took a break to drink some water and rest, and then we started eating again, all the while listening to the grown-ups talk. It was difficult to follow, but we caught the gist of it: there was hope.

“Fine,” Father said. “Let’s go talk it over with our comrade, the chairman.”

Uncle Salamander cleared his throat, took a glance around and then spoke in a lower voice: “By the way, Elder Brother … Have you heard about your wife’s brother?”

“Last I saw of him,” Father said, eyeing our mother, “he was blubbering about being in the red.”

Mother scooted closer. “Have you heard from him?” she asked.

Uncle Salamander’s round eyes grew even wider, and his voice got very quiet. “Seems he … fled to the South. Apparently there was a commotion in Shenyang. A group of refugees stormed the embassy.”

“Oh no!”

“How could that be? No one’s said anything around here.”

Uncle Salamander looked annoyed by the naivety of his question. “You know the government is too busy to keep track right now. Between the flooding and the famine, people are dying all over this country. When someone goes missing, it’s usually assumed that they died while searching for food.”

Father looked up at the ceiling, half-worried and half-resentful, and then muttered weakly: “I knew that son of a bitch would ruin this family.”

“Elder Brother, I beg of you, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else. If the Party finds out, we’ll deal with it then … Survival is like a cockfight: You have to anticipate what your opponent is going to do before he does it, so you can get out of the way. Remember that.”

“You’re right. Aigo, that crazy son of a bitch!”

*

With the start of autumn, starving people descended upon the banks of the Tumen River in droves. Those who had relatives in China crossed over in search of food and money; survivors who’d lost loved ones surged across the border along with workers from factories that had shut down, vowing to bring back money and save their families. No one dared to cross the river in daylight, but once night came they formed groups and crossed the shallow Tumen together. There were fewer than half the number of border guards required to patrol the entire waterway, and the ones who were there were just as hungry as everyone else. They usually pretended not to see the money and goods clutched in the hands of those coming and going across the river. It wasn’t until a few years after the famine had subsided that the border patrol was beefed up, and anyone caught trying to cross was punished. But when it began, the Korean-Chinese and Han Chinese living in villages near the Tumen took pity on the refugees and tried to help by giving them food. They would even cook fresh rice to feed those on the verge of starvation who came right to their doors to beg. We still had no idea what was happening to people living in the interior, blocked by wall after wall of mountains. All we heard were rumours — told on the sly by Party workers from the trade bureau who dropped by our house now and then on official business — that the entire Republic was on the verge of mass starvation.

Uncle Salamander returned and started overseeing the haulage of leftover ore, and cargo trucks filled with food arrived. Musan slowly returned to life. The number of workers from other parts of the country also grew. The food situation improved greatly, but most of what came in was taken away by train to Chongjin. Then, one day, right around lunchtime, we had all gathered at home and were just about to enjoy a pot of sujebi soup made with dough flakes from the wheat flour we’d received, plus big chunks of potato that we’d sliced up, when we heard someone clearing his throat in the courtyard outside. We looked up to see two men’s heads peeking over the windowsill at us. Grandmother nearly dropped her spoon in surprise.

“Who are they? What do they want?” she said.

Their heads lowered back into the courtyard. Father took a look around and then called to them from the windowsill.

“How can I help you, Comrades?”

I heard one of the men say: “We’re from Chongjin. You’re the vice chairman, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You need to come with us. Please step outside.”

Father went outside without stopping to respond to the wide-eyed, searching look Mother gave him. We all crowded around the window and watched our father’s strong, hunched-over back retreating from us with the two men. One of the men wore a grey, short-sleeved Mao suit and carried some kind of ledger behind his back. The outfit, along with the square flag pin, showed that he held a high position. The other man wore a worker’s cap and serge jacket like the Great Leader’s.

Late that night Father returned home, exhausted. We were sitting around in gloomy silence, not having had the heart to eat dinner, but we poured out onto the wooden veranda upon his arrival. Of course Mother didn’t dare ask him what happened. Not even Grandmother could bring herself to ask.

He glanced around at us and asked weakly: “They eat?”

“How could anyone eat at a time like this? Tell us what happened,” Mother said. Father sank to the ground.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

Grandmother couldn’t wait any longer either and asked: “ Ya , who were they?”

“They said they’re from the Ministry of State Security. I figured they’d show up sooner or later.”

Even as children, we all knew what that meant. We silently wolfed down our dinner of hard-cooked cornmeal. As soon as the dinner tray was cleared away, Grandmother confronted Father again.

“Out with it already. This was because of their uncle, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Charges were raised against him for causing a deficit and then taking off. I swore I knew nothing about it. Because I really don’t.”

“What’ll happen,” Mother whispered, “if rumours get out that he ran to the South?”

“Hush! What are you talking about? That rascal went searching for food and died in the streets.”

“So, then, it’s over?”

Father stopped replying. That night, neither of our parents seemed to get much sleep: we could hear them murmuring in their room until late into the night, sometimes raising their voices at each other. We tossed and turned, and Grandmother didn’t get much sleep either because she kept tucking the blankets back around us and whispering to us to go to sleep. The next morning Father left for Chongjin with the two men.

This was the start of the misfortune that visited our family.

Three days passed, and then five, and still Father didn’t return home. Mother went to the train station every day to wait for him. Then one day, a group of soldiers and a familiar-looking Party official came banging on our door. The official handed our mother a slip of paper.