Ji-min Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Alone

  Taken

  Evicted

  Embargo

  The Woods

  Hardship

  Town

  Survival

  Blood from a Stone

  Think Big

  Salvation

  Escape

  Perceived Slights

  Seoul

  Burn the Ship

  Subway

  Soldiers

  President Pak

  Faith

  The Story Continues

  Dedication

  Copyright © 2017 by Eric Johannsen

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  FIRST EDITION

  V1.2

  Alone

  Kneeling in the crusty dirt between rows of crops, Ji-min scrutinized wilting potato leaves. The autumn sun dipped behind bleak, wooded hills and a chill touched the gusty air. The gaunt tween drew her shabby jacket tight against the cold, clipped an LED bulb to a small battery, and inspected another plant. “Got you!” She plucked a brown-and-yellow-striped beetle the size of her thumbnail from a stem and squeezed until the creature popped. These pests will eat everything before the harvest.

  One row over, her father knelt in the soil, his gnarled hands searching for the leaf-eating insects. The day’s work made hardly a dent in the section her family tended on the communal farm. They worked the land with a dozen other families, isolated from the rest of the country by rising terrain on three sides and a dreary sliver of ocean to the south. With a weary groan, he stood and stretched his back. “Ji-min, come here.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and held it out to her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A present the foreman gave me for helping repair the tractor.” He pressed it into her delicate hands. “And now it’s my gift to you.”

  An elated smile formed on Ji-min’s lips as she unfolded the paper. “A cookie! Thank you, Appa.” The luxurious scent of sesame overwhelmed the farm’s earthy smell when she broke it in half. “Here!” She offered her father a share.

  He shook his head. “I want you to have it, Ji-min.” Appa watched her eat the rare delicacy, her eyes bathed in joy. When she finished, he held her gently by the shoulder. “You’re a good daughter,” he said.

  “Ji-min!” her mother called from the door of the family’s wood-and-tin hovel. “Come in now.”

  “Just a few more, Eomma.” The wind picked up, and she wrapped thin arms around her shivering body.

  Appa wrapped himself around his daughter, lending her what warmth he could.

  She snuggled into him.

  “Ji-min. Now!” Eomma’s voice was faint.

  “Listen to Eomma,” Appa said. “You’re my great helper, but the air’s frigid tonight.”

  “Yes, Eomma,” Ji-min said, her words carried away on the crisp wind. She searched a final leaf for bugs then headed to their house, such as it was.

  “Come in, daughter,” her mother said.

  Their home was a one-room wooden building with a tin roof that leaked when it rained, let the winter wind bluster through, and trapped the sweltering heat of summer. It smelled of dirt laced with mold. A bare bulb provided dingy yellow light, but there had been no electricity for weeks. A coal-burning stove offered blazing heat when coal could be had. When not, pieces of wood, dried leaves, and plastic scraps were burned for the warmth they afforded until they, too, ran out. A single drafty door stood against the weather and two narrow, dusty windows, one on each long side, looked out on the farming collective. The family bed was a thin mattress with thinner blankets rolled up against a rickety, windowless wall. An unfinished pine table and three plain chairs served as the dining space. There, Ji-min sat.

  “Eat,” Eomma said, serving a wooden bowl of watery soup with potato slices and bits of onion.

  It tasted bland. Ji-min was too hungry to care.

  “Ji-min,” Eomma said, “I don’t want you working after dark.”

  “I’m twelve. I’m old enough to help.”

  Eomma drew her brows together. “You do help. Let Appa tend the crops when the weather turns bad.” She touched Ji-min’s arm. “If you catch your death of cold, who will take care of us when we’re too old to work the fields?”

  Ji-min emptied her bowl in silence. So hungry still.

  Eomma offered another ladle of soup.

  “No, we better save the food for Appa,” Ji-min said.

  With a sigh, Eomma pulled a chair behind Ji-min’s and stroked her daughter’s hair.

  The door opened, admitting her father and a burst of frigid air.

  “It’s so chilly, Appa,” Ji-min said. Trembling from the fresh onslaught of cold, she curled into bed and nestled into the family blanket.

  Appa shivered as he shoved a chair next to the stove. “Let’s hope for a few mild days before winter.” Shoulders hunched, he drank the last of the dinner straight from the pot. “If winter started already, it’s going to be a rough one.” He yanked off his mud-soaked boots and collapsed in the bed beside his daughter. Eomma brought a wet rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and the dirt from his hands. Appa was already asleep.

  #

  Diesel motors rumbled in the distance, rousing Ji-min from a fitful sleep. “Appa? What is it?”

  Her father peeked out the window. “Soldiers.” He pulled on his faded orange jacket and strode into the brisk morning air, Ji-min following on his heels.

  Dozens of enlisted men swarmed out from heavy military trucks, steel shovels in hand, and dug potatoes from the earth. Parked at the front of their truck convoy was a boxy car that sparkled in the morning light, the type of vehicle only the elite could afford. The man standing next to it was tall, moved confidently, and wore an officer’s uniform. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, then jabbed at the air with it, directing the other men’s efforts.

  “Are… Are they helping with the crops?” Ji-min asked.

  “No,” Appa said.

  “What are they doing then?”

  “I’ll find out.” Appa held Ji-min by both shoulders and stooped to her level, his thin brows drawn together. “Wait here. Understood?”

  Ji-min nodded. There was a seriousness in his demeanor she seldom witnessed.

  Appa picked his way over the potato mounds, careful not to damage even a single leaf. The soldiers working the dirt ignored his approach, but a scrawny supervisor in an ill-fitting enlisted uniform moved to intercept him. Appa gave the man a swift bow then they exchanged words Ji-min couldn’t hear. Her father pointed at the ground and gestured toward the trucks. The supervisor stepped right into Appa’s face. After a tense moment, the two walked toward the row of vehicles parked along the village’s only road.

  The house door flew open and Eomma ran out to Ji-min, grabbing her hand. “Don’t speak,” she said, hands trembling. “That officer they’re taking Appa to is the Colonel responsible for this district.”

  “How do you know?” Ji-min asked.

  “The foreman described him and his car. He’s afraid of the Colonel.”

  The closest neighbors peered out of their doors and windows but dared not step outside.

  The supervisor led Appa to the officer with the cigarette, the Colonel. He appeared well nourished, with strong shoulders and straight posture. His olive-green uniform was well pressed, with a chest full of colorful medals. A plush winter hat emblazoned with the gold-and-red
national emblem kept the cold from his neatly trimmed hair.

  Appa greeted the Colonel with a deep, formal bow.

  The Colonel took a final drag and tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground.

  They spoke for several minutes, Appa with his gaze lowered. The Colonel lit another cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke, and ended the conversation with a hand wave. When Appa turned to leave, a soldier raised a well-worn rifle and brought it down on the back of his leg, knocking him to the dirt. Other men grabbed hold and yanked him to his feet. One of them struck Appa in the stomach, doubling him over. They grappled him again and heaved him onto the back of a truck.

  “Appa!” Ji-min screamed and rushed forward. What’s happening, Appa? Where are they taking you? Eomma’s grip held her tight.

  “No, my daughter.” She pulled Ji-min to her chest and wrapped slender arms around her daughter. “No. You mustn’t.”

  Ji-min struggled and cried and pleaded as the soldiers loaded one truck after another with most of the harvest. When the last truck was filled, motors roared to life, and the convoy drove away.

  Appa was gone.

  #

  An icy draft carved through Ji-min’s paper-thin blanket. Windows rattled, struck by a gust of wind. Half-asleep, she pressed against her mother and shivered for warmth. Disturbing thoughts meandered through her subconscious. Where’s Appa? He’s late coming home. Cold, too cold. The crops… we have to harvest them. As she drifted back to sleep, images ran through her dreams. Spring. When will spring come? Eomma, so gray. So weak. It shouldn’t be windy in spring. Wind. Her eyes shot open. Stark moonlight bathed the bed in ethereal white. “Eomma.” She shook her mother’s shoulder. “Eomma, the wind.”

  Her mother struggled out of bed and peered out the dirty window. Her face went pale. Droplets of sweat rolled over her cheeks, defying the room’s chill. “The harvest!” Eomma said, pulling herself into her clothes.

  Ji-min sprang up and looked outside. “No, no, not again.” The sun was still below the horizon, casting a dim, purple glow into the clear air. She flitted across the floor to the other window. A billowing, foreboding wall of dark clouds churned over the western hills. She scanned the potato field. Hunched shapes, barely visible in the predawn light, moved between the mounds. The other families are taking the crops. Or, taking what little the army left us. “Eomma!”

  “Yes, Ji-min.” Eomma pressed a worn canvas bag into her daughter’s arms. “Hurry.” She gathered a pair of baskets and a handmade backpack then ushered Ji-min into the frigid morning. A neighbor encroached on their crop. “Go to your own section!” she yelled, fist raised.

  The man ignored her.

  “Quick, gather all the food you can.” Eomma’s voice was frail, her words buffeted by the approaching storm.

  Ji-min rooted through the earth, pulling out everything she found. When her bag was full, she took a basket from her mother. The neighbor foraged within a stone’s throw of her. A jagged rock peeked out from between wilting leaves. A stone’s throw. She shook her head. No. That’s not me. “Hey. Hey! Tend your own crop,” she shouted over wind gusts.

  He averted his eyes, undeterred.

  The sun crested the horizon, its pale glow illuminating frail people clawing at the dirt, desperate to find nourishment for the impending winter. Rays of light vanished into the storm front, absorbed by the gloomy mass. A torrent of water raced across the field, drenching the villagers in icy rain.

  Ji-min shuddered as much from the punishing weather as from the thought of how the downpour eroded the soil around the few remaining unharvested plants. Like last winter when the storms carried away the crop. She redoubled her efforts even as her muscles refused their duty, numbed by the chill that infused her body.

  Eomma worked the dirt, scratching at the earth, refusing to relent. “Ji-min, your ears are bright red. Go back in now. I’ll be along soon.”

  The other villagers rushed toward their own hovels.

  “Go,” Eomma urged.

  “I’ll go when you go,” Ji-min said.

  “You’ll go now.” Her mother’s eyes pleaded for obedience.

  Ji-min nodded. “Should I start a fire?” We have so little coal. Who knows when they’ll bring more. If they’ll bring more.

  “You must,” Eomma said.

  “If you’re not back by the time the fire’s hot, I’m coming for you,” Ji-min said. She shouldered the full bag, lifted the half-filled basket, and rushed to the relative refuge of home. Her knuckles ached, and her fingers jittered. She struggled to light the stove. Come on. I have to make a fire. She warmed her hands under her armpits then tried again. A yellow flame flickered to life. She set a pot of water atop it, added a pinch of tealeaves, and hurried to the window. At last. Eomma’s on the way back. She rushed into the storm to help her mother home.

  The two huddled around the meager fire, sipping their weak tea. Their limbs thawed, and the shaking subsided, replaced by the uncomfortable chill that accompanied every winter.

  “I miss Appa,” Ji-min said. “When will they bring him back?”

  Eomma bowed her head. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The horror and loss in her eyes confirmed the terrible truth.

  #

  Days passed, and Eomma’s condition worsened. She hardly left the bed.

  Ji-min made soup and tea, warmed stones to heat the bed, and wiped her mother’s brow while she slept.

  “Ji-min,” Eomma said after waking from a nap, “you can’t work the farm alone. The neighbor boy. You’re too young, but you must survive.”

  “What? Why are you telling me this?” Ji-min stroked Eomma’s forehead. We’ll work it together. Always together. And Appa will come back, he has to. We’ll all work the farm, one family. My family. “Dear Leader will defeat the imperialist Americans, and everything will be better again. You’ll see.”

  “He’s a poor match, but he’ll have to do. He must. You must…” Eomma drifted into a feverish, restless sleep.

  Ji-min stirred slices of rotting vegetables, scraps begged from neighbors, into a watery broth. The room was dark, save for a solitary candle and flickers of deep-orange light that escaped the coal-fired oven. The bucket held scant few bricks, but Eomma needed whatever nourishment the warm soup might hold. “Here we go, dinner,” she said, bringing a bowl to the bed where her mother lay. “Eat.”

  Eomma awoke at the words and forced a wan smile. “May the devas watch over you, my daughter.”

  Ji-min wiped Eomma’s brow. Please don’t leave me. Please. Eomma’s eyes closed again. Ji-min put the untouched soup back on the fire. It was snowing outside, a blessing because snow days were warmer. Winter crept through the walls today. On clear days, it assaulted their tiny home.

  The neighbor’s window glowed persimmon. Persimmon. Such a lovely, warm color. Ji-min’s vision blurred. It’s so unfair. If Appa were here, we would get our fair share of coal.

  Overnight, winds buffeted the house, rattling the walls and sending tendrils of frigid air swirling through the room, slicing through the blanket and gnawing at Ji-min’s skin. She clung to her mother’s frail body, lent her what little warmth she could. The snow clouds blew away, revealing a dark sky and brilliant stars. The full moon flooded through the east window, its pale light tracing down the wall and across the floor. Ji-min drifted into an uneasy slumber. She dreamed of spring, of running through a field of emerald grass dotted with goldenrod- and lavender-colored flowers. Appa stood at the edge of a grove, jade leaves fluttering in a gentle breeze. He waved, his kind smile warming her spirit. Golden sun caressed her skin. Eyes closed, she turned her face skyward, a yellow flower soaking in the sunlight. A shadow crossed over her and bitter frost encrusted the spring blossoms. Winter blew through the grass, through her soul. She shivered. She awoke.

  “Eomma!” she shouted. She pulled at her mother, struggling to wake her.

  Eomma was cold and still.

  Taken

  Minister Pak Song-san sat at his massive ma
hogany desk on the top floor of the Ministry of Finance building, sipping coffee while studying spreadsheets on his laptop computer. The triple-glazed, modern window behind him offered an unblemished, panoramic view of the capital. Downtown’s five- and ten-story concrete buildings were dwarfed by the solitary, one hundred and five-story, pyramid-shaped Ryugyong Hotel. The building could have been the world’s tallest hotel had it opened on schedule but instead stood uncompleted and unoccupied for decades. It was urban blight that should have been a symbol of power.

  A chime sounded from his desk phone and a female voice said, “A courier from the military has an envelope for you, Minister. I told him to leave it with me, but he says he’s instructed to deliver it personally.”

  “Very well. Send him in.”

  The courier approached, held a gold-embossed envelope in both hands, and bowed while presenting it.

  Minister Pak cut the edge with an obsidian letter opener and withdrew a typed note:

  Honorable Minister of Finance Pak Song-san,

  Comrade Jang Yeon-chol has been judged severely derelict in his duties as Minister of Agriculture. The firmest of punishments was selected because of the attitude of insubordination he cultivates. You are commanded to attend his execution tomorrow, noon, at K-24 Air Base.

  The message was signed by Dear Leader.

  A searing flame seemed to crawl up Minister Pak’s neck and scorch his cheeks. Outrageous! He’s a good man. Not a careful man, but a good man. A friend.

  The messenger, still bowing, asked, “Shall I convey a reply?”

  Minister Pak crumpled the letter and pounded it on his desk. He stood and gazed at the cityscape. “Inform Dear Leader I shall gladly attend.”

  “Yes, Minister,” the messenger said, withdrawing from the office.

  Minister Pak paced the room then dialed his cell phone. “Did you get it?” he asked.

  “Get what?” the Colonel’s voice replied.

  “Yeon-chol has fallen out of favor. Too far out of favor. He’s being executed tomorrow.”