一柒

期末一門課的作業

由於有些浪漫元素，所以就放上來了

此為一篇虛構的回憶錄，敘述一名長年定居於南韓的中年女子與她照顧過的逃北者們的種種往事...

Author’s Note

To protect our precious relatives and friends in North Korea, I have decided to change all the names in this book into alias names. Being said so, all the other events elaborated are left as unmodified as possible.

　　Prologue

　　THE FIREPLACE OF THE HOUSE was making tiny noises, along with noises coming from my typewriter, where my fingers were currently running across. These noises were the only sounds one could clearly hear in this room. And my breath, of course, alas. Sometimes I could barely capture them myself; they were far too smooth and long, but indeed fitting for an old lady at her age of 49.

　　I sit in my office desk in front of a window. Tiny snowflakes in their beautiful hexagonal shape spread all over the window, and suddenly a wind blew in, a few snowflakes gently floated into the room through a gap of the window. I reached out a finger. Minute snowflakes floated on my fingertip and slowly melted into ordinary liquid. The beautiful shapes of the snowflakes simply disappeared.

　　Most things can barely retain their original forms—those that have once amazed people, those that have once been what people have dreamed for; once you come close to them, they will gradually lose their beauty from which you have observed a far distance away. 

　　“And that indeed was the feeling I had when I first came to South Korea,” a voice behind my back suddenly whispered, soft and deep, and it continued its confession, “—when I tried to blend in with the society.”

　　“Things keep their beauty when you view them them far away, ensuring a space for people like us to dream for, to reach for and to fantasize about...” The voice sighed with a deep, complex emotions as it finished up its undone words, “...such as, a better life in the South.” 

　　“Mr. T,” I called out his name, turned to see a well-mannered, well-dressed middle-age man standing right next to me. I looked up and returned his sentimental gaze. He shook his head slightly. The lament in his eyes dissolved right away. 

　　“I brought you a cup of coffee,” The owner of the voice, Mr. T, smiled, gently left the cup on the corner of the table and reached out his arm to close the window.

　　“Mr. H would like to visit us this weekend,” he informed in a kind manner.

　　“Let him know I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I smiled and replied.

　　It has been...almost five years since Mr. H and I last met. We talked on phone twice a year to make sure everything was in good shape, but I was glad that finally we had a chance to meet each other face-to-face again. 

　　“It seems like Mr. X will accompany Mr. H.” Mr. T added.

　　“It was always nice to hear from old friends.”

　　I held up the coffee that Mr. T made for me and took a gentle sip of it. Indulging in its fragrances and the warmness for a small while, I truly felt the pleasure of hearing back from these good old friends deep in my heart. Not to mention, I had once taken care of Mr. H and Mr. X—and Mr. T and Ms. S back when they had just fled to South Korea at their moment of helplessness. They were all North Korean defectors.

　　Returning from my memories, I turned and dropped my gaze on Mr. T, who seemed to have made himself comfortable by sitting on a couch and reading a thick book. 

　　Mr. T looked up and returned my gaze. 

　　“How’s the coffee?” He asked softly, a faint smile appeared on his face.

　　“Best as always.” I returned a smile. “And oh, I started working on the memoir I mentioned earlier, I think it would be better to use a typewriter to recall those nostalgic memories, instead of typing on a modern invention like a ‘kom-pyu-teo’...”

　　“A ‘keom-pyu-teo’.” Mr. T sighed with no offense.

　　We have lived under the same roof for roughly nineteen years. It was not impossible for people with different cultural backgrounds to live together. Instead, what defined a Korean? What defined the invisible boundaries? Was it about being born in Korea? Was it about having the Korean bloodline? Was it about understanding Korean traditions? Was it about the differences between languages? Or, was it simply about living in Korea for most of one’s life?

　　I believed an exact answer would never come to me. However, the memories I had with my good old friends from North Korea were the things I would like to share with everyone.

　　From strangers, we became friends.

　　From friends, we became a family.

　　Thus, I wrote this memoir to remember those precious ones, those precious memories and those pasts.

　　May a better, harmonious future come to us.

　　***　　

　　Mr. T

　　Mr. T was the very first North Korean defector who was embraced by my family in 1997. In 1997, the Settlement Support Center for North Korean Refugees, which later was commonly known as Hanawon, had not yet been established. However, there were still some organizations out there to help those who had successfully defected to the South and taught them the ways to live here.

　　The day my parents went to bring Mr. T in, I was left home to ensure everything was prepared properly. We lived in the countryside, roughly an hour east of Seoul, where my grandparents had built a gorgeous two story villa in the woods. The air was fresh, the sunlight was warm, the environment was quiet and enchanting, preserving an atmosphere of seclusion.

　　I stood in the hallway of the second floor, staring at the two empty rooms in front of me, pondered. There were four empty rooms in total in our house; two were located on the first floor and the other two were located on the second floor beside my room. My parents did not live here permanently, both of them were physicians, most of the time they had to attend to medical conferences across the globe or live in their apartment in Seoul to commute. But when they stayed here, they preferred to stay in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. 

　　The sounds of passing car distracted me from my thoughts. They were back. At once, both nervousness and excitement crowded around me. I took a slow, long deep breath to calm my beating heart, and went toward the front door.

　　Quiet and shy. And thin as an autumn leaf. These were the first impressions I had of him when I first met Mr. T. Due to the Arduous March that was happening in the North, North Koreans were suffering serious floods and droughts. A wisp of breeze seemed to be enough to blow him down.

　　I greeted, beginning to introduce myself. I was a third year Ph. D student, interested in the study of North Korean language and literature. I told him not to worry or be bothered by his word choice nor accent, I could understand most of them. In fact, I did not have a perfect South Korean accent either, and I believed no one ever did. The policy of languages kept changing from time to time. 

　　Finally, I asked him. “Is there anything you like to do on weekends or during vacation?” We never asked about their trip, their past. It was tough enough for anyone to make it here. In addition, sometimes people lost their loved ones during these difficult trips. By local polices, by accidents, by the impassable gulf between life and death.

　　Mr. T lowered his eyes, pondered for a second. “Stargazing,” he whispered quietly. “I’m interested in stargazing.” He repeated it once again more firmly and looked up straight to me. I could feel the passion deep in his eyes from his intense gaze. 

　　I said, “I heard Yeongyang has a good place to view the starry sky,” which was later known as the YeongyangFirefly Eco Park, recognizing by the International Dark-Sky Association in 2015. “Maybe we could visit there together one day.” I suggested.

　　Mr. T’s eyes widened. Shortly later, he smiled shyly. 

　　This was the first time he expressed his happiness to us, and it was as stunning as the stars in the night sky. 

　　I showed him the rooms we had for him. One of which was painted light blue, while the other one was painted navy. He chose the room with navy walls.

　　Education was tough for all North Korean defectors. No matter how smart they were back in the North, South Koreans used tons of vocabulary that differed. And thus, reading a textbook could be a serious problem. Surprisingly, Mr. T did extremely well. I helped him learn Sino-Korean vocabulary and English loanwords. He passed several courses’ proficiency exams, successfully enrolled in the last year of senior high, passed the CSAT and attended several interviews, ultimately, he received a great offer from one of the top universities in South Korea. 

　　Afterwards, as Mr. T settled down in an apartment, from where he would commute to college, we went to Yeongyang to commemorate this pleasured moment.

　　Beneath the night sky, my parents were preparing for dinner next to the tent. Mr. T and I were lying on the soft, vast grassland.

　　The fragrances of the grassland surrounded me, I could not help but breathe deeply, letting the fragrances flow deeply into my nose. I closed my eyes, indulging myself in these smells, in the seclusion of the mountain. Then, I opened my eyes, and basked in the fabulous view of the starry sky.

　　“We could have all seen this stunning starry sky,” Mr. T whispered suddenly. “My family, my friends and I.”

　　Lying beside him, I heard the words clearly. Air pollution, natural disasters and deforestation, these were all possible factors that stopped North Korean from enjoying the beautiful starry sky, regardless of the low light pollution.

　　“Thank you for bringing me here.”

　　Mr. T said, and reached out his hand to hold mine firmly.

　　***

　　Ms. S

　　Ms. S was the second North Korean defector who came to our villa in the woods. She was a year younger than Mr. T when he first came. My grandparents built this villa to remember their old friends, when they were separated during the Korean War. My parents said they never had a chance to hear back from my grandparents’ old friends nor their decedents. And hence, aiding North Korean defectors by any means became my grandparents’ last wish.

　　Mr. T and I drove to Hanawon to meet Ms. S. It was 2000, Hanawon had begun operating, and Mr. T as well had been attending medical school for two years now. He had grown significantly taller, which was surprising and impressive. Since the average height of an adult North Korean defector tended to be less than 5.2 feet, I did not expect to run into a man on the street whose height was roughly 5.8 feet tall and claimed to be Mr. T.

　　“What is so funny?” Oh, recently Mr. T received his driver’s license, this was worth mentioning. Among the children I had taken care of, he was the only one who has a Korean driver’s license; Mr. X received his license in the United States. That is a later tale. 

　　“Remember the afternoon when I ran into you, after a year not seeing each other? It’s hard to believe you have grown into such a tall man...”

　　“And you threw your purse in my face as a return.” There was a trace of smile in his voice.

　　My face suddenly flushed. “Y-You shouldn’t have pulled my arms...” which made me mistake him for a molester...

　　“Growing pains were hard to endure,” Mr. T whispered, “but they were indeed worth it.”

　　I glanced at him in silence, waiting for the following words.

　　Mr. T continued, smiled. “At least, I can grab a book for you when you can’t reach it yourself.” 

　　Finally, we arrived at the support center.

　　The administrator of Hanawon came to welcome us, led us to meet Ms. S, who had just turned sixteenth this year.

　　According to the administrator, Ms. S seemed to wish to pursue in a career in singing.

　　Mr. T was silent for a moment. “It would be tough.” He said.

　　As Mr. T speculated, after learning of Ms. S’s interest in trot, we all felt it was hard to swallow. Ms. S was indeed a gorgeous girl. However, trot was, unfortunately, not the taste of South Korean mainstream audiences. 

　　“I can contact some of my friends for you.” I wanted to try my best to do something for the girl.

　　Ms. S stayed with us for three years. She was not talented in academic learning, but she indeed had a gift in singing. When she graduated from the senior high, she decided to accept an invitation from a performer, who had been pursuing traditional arts her whole life, participating in troupes all over South Korea for years.

　　Before Ms. S left, she came to me and made a confession. 

　　“I hoped one day I could go back to visit North Korea,” she said with a faint smile on her face, “as a member of a trot troupe, performing on stages, in front of all the people...”

　　“And let my mom know I am living well, better than she hoped.” 

　　She gave me a last hug, and said firmly, “Farewell.”

　　***

　　Mr. X

　　At the age of thirty-five, I finally received my doctorate degree in linguistics, specializing in the applications of North Korean language. In the meantime, the third North Korean defector, Mr. X, came to join the house at the age of eighteen.

　　Ms. S, who had completed her first nationwide tour with a traditional art troupe came to visit us by chance. She sat on one side of the table, and Mr. X, who was struggling with his schoolwork, sat on the other side. He was doing exceedingly well in school, but the teenage boy had encountered a rather different challenge, which to some extent most of us may never encounter in our life. 

　　“What does ‘homosexual’ mean?” Mr. X came and asked me helplessly one night. 

　　I pondered the memory as I was preparing a big meal in the kitchen. 

　　“Be careful.” A voice interrupted my thoughts. 

　　In front of the stove, Mr. T grasped my stir fry spatula firmly and took over the fry pan. “The two kids are doing fine, no need to worry.” He said gently, smiled. All of a sudden, I felt comfort and released.

　　In the dinning room, the gorgeous girl Ms. S, who had just turned twenty-one a month ago, was full of vivid curiosity. She asked the other teenage boy curiously. “What does it feel like to be homosexual?”

　　Mr. X replied with a question. “What does it feel like being heterosexual?”

　　“Could I be homosexual as well?” Ms. S frowned. “How did you realize you were homosexual...?”

　　Mr. T was carrying out one of the dishes. Coincidentally, he slipped, nearly dropping the plate on the table. He caught himself right away with his right arm on the back of Mr. X’s seat, and slowly, calmly, set the plate on the table.

　　Mr. T lowered his head to look down at Mr. X, who was almost embraced in his arms, and asked hoarsely with his deep voice. “Did you get hurt?” 

　　Mr. X was stunned for a moment, but he slowly shook his head, turned toward Ms. S, answering her question. “One would realize by coincidence, by situation...such as what just happened. Oh damn, my heart is beating hard!”

　　Mr. T freed Mr. X as I walked out of the kitchen, carrying more dishes and failing to suppress my laughter. I indulged myself in this harmonious atmosphere. The merriment brought by these children had always satisfied and purified my soul.

　　“What a lavish spread!” Ms. S seemed to be amazed.

　　I could still recall the night when Mr. X first learnt the notion of “homosexuality”. 

　　That was a thundering night, I was calming the fragile child in the living room. 

　　“I left my hometown, escaped from the North and came here,” Mr. X confessed to me, sobbing. “But I realized it’s not the end of my journey yet, since I still must face my true identity.”

　　Minority. The status he considered himself, and in fact, he might be.

　　He was a North Korean defector in a South Korean society. 

　　He was a homosexual in a largely heterosexual society. 

　　After dinner, Mr. X brought out a birthday cake from the kitchen, a smile spread widely on his invigorate face.

　　“Happy birthday,” Mr. T said to me, lighting the candles. “And congratulation on your doctorate degree.”

　　Surrounded by loved ones and a peaceful atmosphere, I blew out the candles and made a wish deep in my heart.

　　‘May a harmonious future come to all of us.’

　　***

　　Mr. H

　　Among North Korean defectors, thirty percent suffer from depression, thirty percent suffer from different forms of PTSD, and thirty percent confess they have had suicidal thoughts at one time or another. 

　　Mr. H was the last North Korean defector who I took care of. He came in 2010 at the age of fourteen but left the house for a short period of time at the end of the year, after he attempted suicide.

　　It was an ordinary night. When Mr. T was bringing some late-night snacks for Mr. H, he discovered a pool of water flowing out from the gap under the door. He immediately pushed the door open, and rushed to the bathroom.

　　“Call 119!” A moment later, I heard Mr. T calling from the staircase. “Call 119!”

　　And when I ran up, Mr. T had already begun the emergency treatment.

　　I forced myself to remain calm, made the phone call, and pulled out some blankets to wrap around Mr. H’s wet body. His face was pale, and he seemed fragile lying on Mr. T’s chest as if he had already left us behind. 

　　‘There are things that can barely retain their original forms—those that have once amazed people, those that have once been what people have dreamed for; once you come close to them, they will gradually lose the beauty you have observed a far distance away.’ Likewise Mr. T and all the other North Korean defectors came to the South, trying their best to blend in with a society that once seemed beautiful from far away.

　　There are things that should be treated softer. For instance, the human heart.

　　Mr. H was born in a family, in which all his family members were categorized as hostile class. In North Korea, there is a system of ascribed status called Songbun. It will not be written on your birth certificate, nor will the government inform you, but anyone can sense it by ways.

　　Mr. H had told us that he had been through several isolations throughout his life in the North; as a child, no one wanted to make friends with him because they were warned by their parents not to do so. Mr. H was sincerely glad that he finally came to the South. Yet, it seemed he had failed to blend in with the society. 

　　I suppressed my tears, holding Mr. T’s hand, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. 

　　After we arrived at the hospital, and heard the good news from the doctor hours later, Mr. T suddenly kneeled down on floor and embraced my legs tightly.

　　“Please let me stay by your side.” He requested vulnerably, laid his face upon my knees and repeated it again and again. “Please.”

　　I could feel his quivering breaths, his tears, as if we were back to the night when we first viewed the starry sky on the mountain of Yeongyang, he held my hand firmly, trying to hide his shivering and his silent tears…

　　***

　　Epilogue

　　“You helped all these North Korean defectors.” The reporter concluded during the interview in a quiet corner of a park. “Have you ever thought of adopting any one of them into your family?”

　　“We have already become a family in every shape, way and form.” I answered and smiled. “But in fact, I indeed adopted one roughly ten years ago...”

　　“—Nine years and a month.” A cup of hot coffee was placed in my hands. The warm heat passed to my fingers through my gloves. “And I prefer another type of certificate.” The owner of the voice, Mr. T, said to the reporter, and gave her a faint smile. 

　　Mr. T glanced at his watch, and looked toward me. “It’s about time.”

　　That afternoon, when Mr. T and I walked down along the street, he walked quietly by my side, holding two cups of coffee in his hands. 

　　“You’ll live longer than I will,” I whispered, and as I imagined an old Mr. T surrounded by several children, I smiled.

　　“If that is your wish,” he replied gently, “I’ll try my best.” 

　　When we arrived home, Mr. X, Mr. H and Ms. S were already waiting in front of the villa for us. 

　　We had a great dinner together. Mr. X vividly shared his colorful life experience in the United States. Mr. H presented an album, in which there were several photos taken by him during the road trips where Mr. X brought him on after receiving his driver’s license. Ms. S took out some tickets from her pocket—next month, she was going to have her first solo trot concert. 

　　That night, when everyone had settled down, I stayed on a couch in the living room for a little while, watching the snowfall outside. 

　　Ms. S slept in her room on the first floor. Mr. X returned to his room beside Ms. S’s. Mr. H was back in his room with the light blue walls. This sense of reunion was strange, slightly unfamiliar, but satisfying and warm. 

　　There is something I have never told anyone before; not Mr. T, not my parents, not anyone until this moment, in this memoir.

　　When I was in my senior high, I met a boy who was a North Korean defector. Because of similar interests, we soon became good friends, clandestinely—he never let me admit the friendship. 

　　In school, the boy was isolated due to his short height and his heavy accent. He did not let me stand for him or even talk to him in class. I knew the reason, and of course, his intention. It was about protecting his pride. It was about protecting me. 

　　However, it did not prevent him from committing suicide, when everything reached its limit. 

　　“Everyone has gone back to their room.” Mr. T entered the living room, two blankets draped across his arm. 

　　“Except you and me.” I watched as Mr. T added more small logs into the fireplace before he walked toward the couch.

　　Mr. T spread a blanket on my thighs, and sat next to me.

　　“Thank you for giving me a family.” Slowly, he laid his head on my shoulder.

　　Outside the window, minute snowflakes were falling. 

　　It was a beautiful snowy night.