Once the residence of the kings, the Royal Palace Gardens were now as quiet as a tomb shrouded in a mystic atmosphere. Ancient trees, their trunks as thick as several arms’ span, stood with solemn dignity like sentries. I thought of them as witnesses to the lives of the generations of kings and queens and their attendants who had strolled here weaving multifaceted human dramas. As we passed beneath them I fell into a fantasy that for every word I uttered and every footstep I took now was like planting seeds that I would reap some day in future. The azaleas and the forsythia now at their peak were in delighted coquetry with the fresh, glossy leaves of the shrubs.
There was no human sound around. Only the chatter of birds as they darted in and out of the trees and bushes. We walked in silence through the woods looking for an even more secluded spot. Being in the middle of a wood with not a soul around inevitably made us feel closer. At last we stopped beneath a huge beech tree. I had noticed that he always carried under his arm a large brown envelope filled thick with papers. You could see from the open top that for the most part it was manuscript paper. After rustling through them he produced a folded white paper and handed it to me. It was a long poem. I sat down as he directed on a seat he made for me with layers of newspaper and his handkerchief on top. I read.
Star-counting Night
The sky through which the seasons pass
is full of spring.
With no fears or worries, I think
I can count all the stars, the stars of spring.
One by one, they are impressed
in my heart. And,
If I fail to count them all
It is because the morning is drawing nigh;
it is because there will be another night tomorrow;
and because my youth is not yet finished.
To one star, memories
To another star, love
To another, forlornness
To yet another, yearning
To another, poetry
And to another, mother, mother,
Mother, I give a sweet word
to each star. Names of the girls
Who shared the desk with me at junior school,
Names of foreign girls like Pai, Kyong, Ok;
Names of the girls who have already become mums;
Names of the poor neighbours; a dove, a puppy, a song, a deer,
and names of poets like Francis James, or
Rainer Maria Rilke.
They are far away
Like the remote stars,
And you, mother, are in North Chianto.
With a yearning heart for a certain thing
I inscribed my name on the ground
of a slope on which descended
The starlight from the many stars.
And then, buried it over with the earth.
Do you know why
The insects chirp all through the night?
They are sorrowing for the shame of that name.
But when the winter is over and
spring comes to my star,
Like the grass on a grave revives green,
On the slope where my name is buried
Grass will thrive with pride.
1958. 4. 12. K.
When I finished reading it he calmly gathered me in his arms. The sad and beautiful spirit of the poem had moved me deeply. A man who can write a poem like this can’t be a bad man, I thought. I was overcome by a great sense of relief. I held onto him tight. I was ecstatic, but it was after hearing his confessions that I became even closer to him and resolved that no amount of suffering or even death could separate us now.
‘Sukey,’ he called as he held my face in his palms and looked into my eyes. ‘By telling you this I am putting my life in your hands.’ He went on looking into my eyes.
‘Do I not look forlorn?’
Yes, he did look forlorn and pitiable. He made me think of a deer having a momentary rest behind a rock, after losing its mate on a hunt and still being chased by the hunter. His eyes were filled with fear and loneliness. I nodded. The lingering emotion from the poem I had read a minute ago made my heart ache. It echoed like the sobbing of a soul that had been separated from its loved ones, roaming in a dark valley of desolation, and cherishing a remote dream. Then it crossed my mind. Could he be? I shot at him a questioning look.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I am a lonely man with no family. My home is in Hamhŭng in the North, My real name is Changho Yu.’
My heart missed a beat but I did not show him my surprise or embarrassment. I am known to be cheerful and tomboyish, but when faced with a crisis or a shock I am extremely calm and self-possessed. That is my peculiar characteristic. I calmly heard him through to the end.
He is the only son of a high-ranking government minister in North Korea. His family had lived in Seoul before the country was liberated from Japan in 1945. In that year he graduated from Kyŏng-gi High school. After that his family went North. There he studied law at the Kim Ilsung University and went to Moscow University where he gained a Master’s degree. He was noted as a capable man by the Central Communist Party and eventually appointed a leading figure in an underground operation in the South. He was not keen but knew he had no choice. If he had refused to go he would be killed anyway. So why behave in a cowardly way? When it was finally decided, his intellectual mother, a graduate of the Japanese Women’s University, went for a month without food or sleep.
His father, a strict disciplinarian from the army told him at the last moment, ‘Changho, your country demands this of you. If you save your life in a cowardly manner, you are not my son, remember that.’ In the previous year, he had entered the South through Inchŏn, leading a group of three men, all of his age. He had successfully completed his mission. It had been fairly easy. His only remaining task had been a safe return. Then he saw me, fell in love at the first sight and decided to give up the idea of going back.
‘I went to Pusan and bade a final farewell of my colleagues. If only I had got into that jeep, I would be home by now. They were very fond of me, like a big brother. To the last minute they pleaded with me to change my mind but I said “no”.’ His large, expressive eyes closed as he said, ‘When the jeep started moving, strong-willed as I am, I could not help tears rising to my eyes.’
By now I had come to fully realize the situation. I was having an affair with a spy. Fear gripped me. I was shaking despite my effort to be calm. He went on to explain his position. As for his own security he was absolutely confident. He belonged to an extreme elite group completely different from those that had infiltrated spies in the past.
‘They are blind idiots. It beats me how they can be so stupid. To send down spies in chains in a time like this. If one is caught, the rest are bound to be hauled up like a net of fish,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I won’t tell you the details because if I did, it would only upset your sensitive nature and cause you