“I never had any contact with anyone in North Korea.”
“Nam JungHo, you have an extensive and widely acknowledged history of Communist and antipatriotic activity all your life. You were a follower of Lee MyungBo, the one-time head of the Koryo Communist Party. Do you want to end up like him?”
“I renounced all ties with him back in 1948 when he went to trial. I’ve been absolved of all of that.” JungHo closed his eyes at the mention of MyungBo’s name. In his mind, his mentor’s gentle face flashed like a beacon and then vanished, leaving him alone in the darkness of shame.
“It’s not so simple, Nam JungHo. You weren’t just a follower—it seems you were almost a foster son to him. He personally taught you how to read and write. You lived in his guesthouse for years.”
JungHo looked down at his knees, not understanding how the man in camouflage could know so much of such ancient history. Not even his wife knew how closely he was tied to MyungBo.
“Bring in the witness,” the interlocutor said to his secretary, who stopped typing and opened a side door. Harsh light streamed in from this opening, so that it scattered the intricate pattern made by the two bare lightbulbs in the room. JungHo saw a new shadow in the shape of a manlike creature appear against the wall, behind the interlocutor, before the door closed and it faded away into darkness.
A thin old man had slinked into the room and was seated on the empty wooden chair. JungHo could make out just the slender spine and the narrow eyes shaped like sideways commas. Then he realized with a distant, dreamlike horror that it was his old friend Loach.
“Hwang InSoo, also known as Loach—when did you first come to know the defendant?” the interlocutor asked.
“I was twelve . . . So 1918,” Loach answered, not looking at JungHo.
“The defendant lived on the streets, panhandling and stealing, until he became old enough to use his gang and rip money off the neighborhood businesses, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“What happened after that?”
Loach cleared his throat dryly. “He met Lee MyungBo and became one of his Red cronies.”
“You took me to him,” JungHo interjected in disbelief, but Loach still resolutely avoided his eyes.
“Is that true? You left that part out in your earlier testimony.” The interlocutor frowned in displeasure.
“No, it was JungHo who took me. I followed him, that’s true—but why would I lead him anywhere? He was the chief, that was his title,” Loach said calmly.
“So what happened then?”
“JungHo quickly became MyungBo’s favorite, his right-hand man. They went to a lot of meetings together . . . My heart wasn’t in it, so I dropped out. But JungHo was absorbed right into the Communist Party. He did everything MyungBo asked him to do, and went to Shanghai for some years. We lost touch during that time.”
“When was he in Shanghai?”
“He left around 1941 . . . I’m not sure when he came back, he didn’t let me know.”
“It’s possible, then, that he made contacts with the Chinese Communist Party during that time? The Chinese who invaded South Korea alongside Kim Il-Sung less than ten years later?” The interlocutor raised his voice with the excitement of a game show host.
“Yes,” the witness affirmed.
“Why are you doing this, Loach?” JungHo cried out. Upon hearing that nickname, Loach finally stole a glance at his old friend.
“I do what I need to do.” He breathed out the words so quickly and quietly that they were almost unintelligible to JungHo. The interlocutor acted as though he hadn’t heard.
“Nam JungHo, we searched your house and have the proof of your antipatriotic activity after you came back from Shanghai in 1945.” The interlocutor opened a portfolio and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. He carefully unfolded it and began reading in Japanese. “The bearer of this document, Nam JungHo, is on a special mission assigned by General Yamada Genzo, the Commander of the Fifth Army. Do not impede his mission and grant him safe passage. Tenno heika banzai. Signed, Yamada Genzo, June __ 1945.”
The interlocutor had a very fine pronunciation that hinted at Japanese military academy training; the parabolic fall of his sentences made clear how keenly he savored reading in that language.
“And this—a memento from Yamada, it seems.” He held up something small and rectangular. It had turned sooty gray over time, but it was unmistakably the silver cigarette case.
*
JADE WAS WALKING HOME AFTER finishing the last day of school. She had a month and a half of winter break and was buoyed by a sense of relief and possibilities. She allowed herself to think back to the meeting with HanChol just as a writer dips her pen in ink—with habitual pleasure.