Jung-myung Lee - The Investigation

— MATTHEW 5:3–10

Dong-ju had made peace with unfathomable despair, even in his brutal, barbaric death. Now, these calm sentences that had meant so much to him soothed me.

One day, I opened the back cover of the Bible and a small piece of paper, covered in neat, familiar handwriting, fluttered out like a feather.

EIGHT BLESSINGS

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

Blessed are they that mourn

For they shall mourn forever.

I felt an immense despair. The repetition seemed to fore-shadow the acceptance of his fate, but the last line emphasized that the pain would go on for eternity. Had Dong-ju resigned himself to this? I shook my head. That wasn’t like him. He would have looked squarely at the hardship he faced; his poem was a promise that he would accept and survive it, no matter what happened. I couldn’t give up now. I had to face these times courageously, just as he had done.

With renewed energy I headed to the post room every day, filled my mailbag and brought it back to my office. Once in a while there was a big package. But my duties bored me; all I was doing was snooping into other people’s correspondence. Postcards flew in and out of my office like a flock of swallows, gliding over the prison walls and onwards to the mountains and the ocean.

One day at the end of May I came across a letter addressed to Warden Hasegawa. I hadn’t seen the warden receive personal post; he usually only got official documents sent from the police department or the Interior Ministry. I flipped through the logs to see how Sugiyama had dealt with similar letters, but the warden had never received private letters under Sugiyama’s watch, either. I held the brown envelope under the light and noticed the foreign stamp. It was from Manchuria. The warden had never been stationed in Manchuria, and if he’d had a friend in the Kwantung Army, he would have used the military post, which was cheaper and faster. Who sent this letter? There was no return address, and the sender’s name consisted of uncommon Chinese characters: . Hakuaki Jutaro? Hakuteru Jutaro? Or was it Hakumitsu Jutaro? What kind of name was this? All of a sudden, the letters began to regroup before my eyes.

The first character, , could be divided into two: . 300. That meant that the next character, , might not be aki or teru , meaning bright, but a number as well — mitsu meant three. Hakumitsu. , which I’d read as ju , could be , meaning ten, which had the same pronunciation. The numbers revealed themselves in front of my eyes. ! 330? With wide eyes I stared at the last character. I suddenly remembered the first time I’d brought Choi into the interrogation room. When I asked him for his Japanese name, he’d replied, ‘Call me Ichiro ( ).’ Taro ( ) was, like Ichiro, another name to refer to the eldest son of a family. . 331. Choi Chi-su. Could it really be? Was he still alive?

My need to see what was in the letter overruled my hesitation; my hands were already ripping open the envelope. I justified it to myself that I had a duty to review all incoming post. I pulled out a brownish piece of paper, the same paper we used here. What was it doing in an envelope from Manchuria? I shouldn’t open this letter. But it was too late.

Dear Warden Hasegawa,

I apologize for not sending news earlier. I hope you understand; I returned to Manchuria after such a long absence that I had many tasks to do. I realize I wouldn’t be writing this letter if it weren’t for you. So, thank you. If you hadn’t helped me, risking everything, I would never have been able to escape Fukuoka Prison.

Here, I am leading a platoon of 460 soldiers for the independence movement. Seven days ago we destroyed three Kwantung Army platoons. Now the Kwantung Army stationed in Manchuria is powerless. All of that is thanks to you.

First, the news that you have been waiting for: unfortunately, the three men you sent along with me are dead. They weren’t as smart or intelligent or strong as you’d thought, though they did protect me on my way to Manchuria through Vladivostok. It was a miscalculation on your part to think that a few rule-abiding men would be able to deal with me in this rough part of the world. Because of our longtime affection, I buried them deep so they wouldn’t be eaten by wolves.

I have another piece of news. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to obtain the gold bullion. I know you smuggled me out and sent those three secret agents with me for the gold, but it was all for naught. I didn’t take your share; the gold bullion never existed. But you shouldn’t think that I tricked you. What I told you was true — I was indeed the only one who knew of an enormous amount of treasure hidden in Manchuria. What you didn’t know was that I was talking about my leaving prison, that priceless freedom. But the greedy, like you, took that statement to mean that I was referring to the Kwantung Army’s gold, and you let me escape so you could get your hands on it. I found my treasure, but you didn’t. You must know Hiranuma Tochu. Yun Dong-ju, the poet? He calls that a metaphor — a truth hidden in a false sentence.

I have a request. I would like you to keep my promise to Watanabe Yuichi, the soldier-guard. I promised to tell him about the life and death of Sugiyama Dozan, but I won’t have the chance now. He’s probably figured out what was going on in the prison by now, but I don’t think he knows about our deal. Tell him for me. Even if you don’t, I’m sure he’ll keep digging until he finds out.

I have another request. I suppose you could call it a warning. I hope nothing bad happens to the Koreans you’re holding hostage. If anything happens to them I will send a copy of this letter to the Interior Ministry. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see the Special Higher Police rushing to the prison.

Thanks for feeding me and clothing me and giving me a place to sleep for all those years.

Number 331

What was going on? Choi clearly knew I would read his letter. In the end he’d kept his two promises: he’d repaid me for the paper I’d given him, and he was making sure I’d hear the truth about Sugiyama’s death. But I was afraid. What was the point of mining for truth in this godforsaken place? What did it matter that a guard had been killed? I could take the easy route and burn the letter. It was wartime; no one would question post from Manchuria going missing. Hasegawa certainly wasn’t expecting a message like this from Choi. The letter, trembling in my hands, awaited its fate. Finally, I stamped it: Censorship Completed . The letter would be delivered to Hasegawa, who would know that I’d read it. I might have done something I shouldn’t have. I might regret it deeply. But there was no turning back now.