“Where did you see that? How do you know about it? It’s not Pyongyang. It’s not this country. It can’t be.”
“But…” My face fell.
“Your father told you about it? Said you were going there? Going to live there? But that would mean… that would mean… he’s thinking of leaving the country. He’s planning an escape. That would mean he’s a traitor, that he disrespects our Dear Leader. Yoora…”
I shook my head. What had I done? What had I said? “No, no, no, he’s not. It was Pyongyang, it must’ve been. Maybe it was a part you weren’t near.”
“Yoora, what you described is not Pyongyang. I lived there all my life until I came here. That place that you’re describing, however you know about it, is not in this country, it can’t possibly be. And if your father—”
“He loves our Dear Leader. He bows to Him every day. He… he never says anything against Him… ever… he… he’s a good citizen, my father. He’s loyal… and devoted and… and…”
We both fell silent, and I realised how loudly we’d been talking. I felt my eyes prickle and I was scared, wished I could take back what I’d said, wished my stupid mouth hadn’t emptied out all of that rubbish. But he was my friend, Sook, my best friend, and I could trust him not to say anything. Couldn’t I?
I felt sick.
“Yoora.” He lowered his voice, leaning close to me. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what’s going on. What’s your father planning? What’s he told you? Maybe it’s something you should report. You’d be rewarded.”
I stared at him. I thought of what that reward might be. Food? A better job? Living in that city? I thought of my father, my mother, my grandparents. “Don’t do this to me,” I whispered. “Don’t make me choose.”
He shuffled closer and rested his hand on top of mine, and his eyes, so deep, stared at me as if they were looking right into my soul. “You know, I wish we didn’t have to hide away, only meeting at night, an hour here and there. I wish we could have a future together…”
I smiled at him and all thoughts of Father were gone. “I try not to wonder what will happen to us any more,” I replied. “You know, if this will all have to end, us meeting like this, because I don’t want to think that it has to. I want to believe in it and ignore that your family are a better class than mine, but… but really it can’t happen… not even friendship. It wouldn’t be allowed, Sook. I know that. So do you.”
“But maybe,” he said, squeezing my hand, “maybe if you tell me what your father said, then it could change things for us. We could tell my mother, she could help you…”
“What?” I stared at him, shaking my head. “No. That’s ridiculous,” I spat. “There’s nothing to tell anyway. And even if there was, your mother would never do anything to help me or my family. She’d just have an excuse to get rid of me.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
I lifted a hand to dare to touch his cheek. “She would,” I whispered.
And I knew she would. Honestly. Truthfully.
And I knew that one day this would have to end. I just never wanted that day to arrive.
“You should go in. Check on your mother. But please, Sook… please don’t say anything… not about my father… he’s not what you’re thinking… he’s just…” But I couldn’t find the words.
I looked up to a lightening sky, morning approaching, and we motioned our silent goodbyes with no hint of a smile, but with the briefest touch of hands, and I turned away.
I headed home feeling sad and scared and worried. The conversation playing over in my head, what I’d said, what I hadn’t meant to say, what he thought, what he might do. And then, through the silence of the village, I thought I heard something behind me and I stopped, listening, turning towards the noise. It came from Sook’s house. Voices strained and mingling together, or early morning birdsong? Was that Sook standing at the window, watching me? Should I wave? Or shadows playing tricks on me in the half-light?
I turned and walked away. I didn’t know I would never be back.
I woke to the same noises as always, and I peered out of the window at the same scene that greeted me every morning. As I ate my porridge, I glanced around at the faces of my family: my grandfather with his wonderful smile and his marvellous stories; my grandmother, quiet and drawn nowadays; my mother who worked so hard to feed us all; and my father, my dear father, who could take away my nightmares and make sense of my dreams.
All their kindness for me.
I remembered the warning words from Grandmother just a few months ago, and I replayed my conversation with Sook from the night before. Over and over I heard my voice echoing and shouting through my head, telling him secrets, betraying my father, my family. Words we could be arrested for. Words we could die for.
I wanted to cry, wanted to tell them what I’d done and for them to make it all better again. They could do that, couldn’t they? Take me in their arms, sway me back and forth, whisper in my ear while they stroked my hair, tell me everything would be all right, really it would.
And I would explain that I hadn’t meant to tell Sook, it just came out, and came out wrong. Because Father wasn’t planning an escape because that city was Pyongyang, and Sook must’ve been mistaken. But Sook had lived there for fifteen years, and he had sounded so certain. And why would he lie?
I swallowed a spoonful of porridge, lifted my eyes back to my family and opened my mouth to speak. I felt sick again.
“Are you all right, Yoora?” my father asked.
“I feel a bit dizzy,” I whispered, bringing my shaking hands to my head, watching his eyes, full of concern, looking at me; his thoughts, his most secret thoughts that he’d shared with me that night in confidence, hanging between us, the secret I should’ve kept.
Escape? I thought. Really, Father? Is that really what you’re planning? Is that really what you think of our Dear Leader?
Escaping, or even plotting to escape, even thinking about it, was a crime against the state, against our Dear Leader. A crime punishable by prison or death. And not just for Father – badness runs in the blood for three generations, and so does the punishment.
I had seen it before, maybe five years ago: a radio, broken away from its preset government station, tuned in to a Chinese one instead. No malice intended, no reactionary thoughts or plans, just curiosity about what else existed, and an appetite for music with guitars. But his intentions were irrelevant – his actions went against our country’s teachings.
He was older than me, the boy who did it, but I remember standing close to him at school, hearing his feet pattering out a rhythm I didn’t recognise, the involuntary hum of a song in his throat. I wasn’t the only one who heard it, and I probably wasn’t the only one to report him.
They arrived early one morning and the radio was found; that was all that was needed.
I remembered his family – his mother and father, his uncle, his grandfather, his sister; seeing them thrown on to the back of a truck. I remembered the boy’s eyes staring down at the watching villagers, eyes full of fear and desperation and guilt and disappointment.
I wondered if he still remembered the song. I wondered if he hated it now.
“Get some fresh air,” Father said, his eyes looking up at the smoke from the fire that had settled in a layer under the ceiling.
On