When the war ended and Korea was liberated, HanChol set immediately to the task of rebuilding his garage. He was determined not to ask his father-in-law for support—and surprisingly, help came from where he least expected. His Andong relatives reached out to him with the news that his father’s first cousin had died without heirs or younger brothers. He, HanChol, was the closest living male relative to that bloodline, a prosperous one heading an estate of nearly ten thousand suk of rice a year. All HanChol needed to do to claim it was to be formally adopted by the cousin’s widow. With his own mother’s blessing, HanChol became the son of a woman he’d never before met and used his new income to rebuild his company. He had even grander ambitions than before. Not only would he repair cars, but he would also find a way to produce them from scratch. Now that he’d survived the war and become stronger, HanChol was even more irrevocably convinced of his abilities. On the whole he tried to remain as humble and meticulous as he’d always been, but the gleaming black eyes framed by energetically raised eyebrows betrayed his new confidence.
His father-in-law, however, had found a different sort of change at the war’s end, HanChol thought as he caught sight of Kim SungSoo entering the courtroom between two policemen. SungSoo was wearing one of his fine wool suits rather than a white hanbok robe that other defendants preferred. He looked distinguished and proud with his full head of silvery white hair. The people whispered and clicked their tongues in disapproval, but SungSoo didn’t seem in the least bit concerned.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge ___,” someone announced, unseen behind rows of black and gray heads. The judge was an unexceptional-looking old man in jet-black robes, which shocked some ignorant peasants in attendance for bearing too great of a resemblance to mourning clothes. Rising and sitting back down with the crowd, HanChol noticed how he wasn’t in the least nervous for his father-in-law and lashed himself with a tiny flick of guilt.
The judge called upon the prosecutor, a young man in a dark pinstripe suit. The charges against Kim SungSoo were long and grave: the defendant was a lifelong Japanese collaborator, whose uncle was made a count by the abominable Governor-General Ito Hirobumi himself. Kim’s father avoided his estate being confiscated by colluding with the Japanese. Kim himself was no better, being close friends with the police chief of Jongno station, Japanese military men, and the like. He supplied the Japanese army with funds almost until the day of the surrender. That was the sole reason he had managed to survive the war unscathed. The prosecutor spoke with genuine emotion, shaking his fist in the direction of the defendant—whose head was proudly erect—and the spectators clucked their tongues even louder. “These bastards must all be put to death by quartering,” said a thick rustic voice somewhere in the middle of the room, rather loudly so all could hear. People around him murmured in agreement.
It was clear that the courtroom was against Kim SungSoo. But HanChol still felt no fear on behalf of his father-in-law, the grandfather of his three children （SeoHee was at home, heavily pregnant with the fourth）， the man who had raised him up from abject poverty.
The judge called forth Kim SungSoo’s lawyer, a plump and pale man wearing thick round glasses and a purple bow tie. He looked around contemptuously at the audience before beginning.
“Your Honor, it would be easy to give in to the worst instincts of humanity when we have just been released from shackles, but it wouldn’t be just. We have heard about Kim SungSoo’s relatives’ crimes, and yes, his uncle was a traitor to be sure. But he died years ago—and is it fair to punish a man for his uncle’s sins? Aside from the fact that Kim SungSoo had a social relationship with policemen and gendarmes, nothing has been proven of his own guilt or treachery. Kim had to pretend to like those men in order to self-preserve—and if we punished every man who ever got along with the Japanese, who would be left alive in this country?
“Contrary to accusations, Kim SungSoo was in fact a patriot who worked tirelessly to bring our country’s independence. His outward friendship with the Japanese was solely to elude suspicion,” the lawyer stated, rocking back and forth on his polished leather shoes. The audience murmured angrily. “What a dog!” a man shouted from the back; it was unclear whether he meant the defendant or his attorney.
“Objection, Your Honor,” the prosecutor cut in, but the judge raised his right hand and the lawyer went on, smiling.
“I have the evidence of the defendant’s patriotic activity,” he said, walking to his corner. When he turned back around, he was holding something rectangular and dark in his hands. At a glance it looked like a small box that women use to hold their jewelry.