Just as his thoughts were turning to the knife still hidden in his waistband, an officer came around and picked him up for questioning. But instead of a solitary room as JungHo had imagined, he was taken to a large courtyard where three army officers were seated at a long table. The prisoners were filing in front of them in one long line, and then being taken across the courtyard. When JungHo reached the table, the decorated general in the center looked at him with an almost bored expression.
“Name and date of birth,” the general said, pointing at a piece of paper with a hand that was missing the last two fingers. JungHo wrote down his name and birthdate, stamped his thumb with red ink, and went to join the others standing in the courtyard.
The sun made its arc across the sky and the shadows in the courtyard moved with it. The men burned in its spear-like rays without daring to follow the shade. JungHo’s throat tasted of ashes, but he closed his eyes and kept himself empty of any thoughts, especially those of water. By the time the light had turned bloodred, there were hundreds of men in the courtyard, standing in silence.
The three officers got up from the table and walked over to the men. The general, with the grim look of someone doing something purely out of formalities, stepped forward and spoke in sharp, clipped Japanese.
“You have each been blessed with the opportunity to defend our empire from the grasp of Western Imperialism. Some of you will fight in the Pacific against the arrogant America, and some of you will fight in Manchuria against the hateful Russia. No matter what, dying for His Majesty the Emperor is the highest glory that can be attained by his humble subjects, an honor for which you must all be grateful.”
The general stepped back and let his adjuncts take over; they barked orders to strip down into undergarments. All around JungHo, men hurriedly took off their clothes and folded them into a bundle at their feet. Most of them, who didn’t understand Japanese, merely followed what the others were doing with a dazed and questioning look. They didn’t fully grasp that they were being shipped off to the jungles or the steppes to fight with nothing but bamboo spears, and their eyes absurdly reflected equal parts fear and hope. JungHo alone stood still in his sweat-soaked jacket and pants. He actually felt a lightness of heart, realizing that this would all be over soon, and that he may even be able to kill a few high-ranking officers before slashing his own throat.
“There, you son of a bitch!” One of the officers noticed JungHo in his clothes and shouted at him. “Step forward!”
JungHo stood in his spot, but the men around him stepped away from him, creating a pocket of empty space. The officer pulled out his gun and aimed it at JungHo’s head.
“Take off all your clothes immediately, or I will blow off your head like a melon,” the officer said.
JungHo decided to take off his jacket and lure the officer in. When he shrugged it off of his shoulders, something small and shiny tumbled out from the inside pocket—his silver cigarette case. Reflexively, JungHo bent over to pick it up, and the officer strode toward him, the gun still leveled at his head.
“You dumb son of a bitch! Leave that there!” the officer cried out in a rage. JungHo still reached for the cigarette case, as if he didn’t understand or care. The moment his hand closed in on the case, the officer stepped on his wrist and dug into the ground.
“You dirty, stinking pig!” the officer screamed. The veins were popping out on the back of JungHo’s fist as he held on to the case; but after a few seconds, he released his grip. The officer stepped off his wrist and kicked the case far behind him, smiling contemptuously. He had lowered his gun in his moment of satisfaction. His voice too was husky from thirst, and fat drops of sweat rolled off from under his visor and fell on the dust. After swiping at his brow, he gave JungHo a leisurely kick in the stomach, just as animals toy with their kill before eating. JungHo crouched low and felt for the knife inside his waistband.
“Stop!” a voice called out from a distance. “Leave him be.” It was the general. He was striding toward them with something that glinted red in the last rays of the sun—the cigarette case.
“Where did you find this?” he said, holding up the case in front of his face, standing closely enough that JungHo could easily kill him.
“My father gave it to me,” JungHo found himself answering.
“Your father?” the general repeated, frowning and apparently deep in thought. “Where are you from? And what is your father’s name?”
“I’m from PyongAhn province. My father’s name was Nam KyungSoo.”