MyungBo again closed his eyes; this was the revelation that had transformed and occupied him since being released from prison in the summer of 1921. He had taken the earliest ship out to Shanghai, the stronghold of expat activists from across political factions.
Though they had all risked their lives for the same cause, MyungBo quickly found that he distrusted many of his fellow activists. Before his time in prison, he’d reserved his scorn for those who were greedy for money or for prestige. (SungSoo had belonged to this camp, though in memory of their early friendship MyungBo didn’t think this, except in the most hidden corner of his mind.) In Shanghai, he was amazed to discover that for some people, an even stronger motivation was power. He also noticed that these activists spoke of Warren G. Harding as if he were some rich and beloved relation who might someday bequeath an outrageous inheritance—with unbecoming deference and eager expectation. A group of them went to Washington, D.C., to plead directly to the president, and asked MyungBo to come along; but he could never forget how the American consulate had promised help and delivered nothing. Instead, he joined a group of socialists and took the Trans-Siberian train to Moscow in order to beseech Russia.
Though he had spent the previous fifteen years traversing through foreign lands, MyungBo was not a born traveler. But like all those who have poetry in their hearts, he was mesmerized by the wild stretches of the Mongolian steppes, dotted with shaggy ponies grazing upon the frosted grass. The nameless purple and yellow flowers swayed in the windswept moors, raising their plain little faces up to the open sky, and nothing could have been more glorious. As the train snaked around the shores of Lake Baikal, its unfathomably ancient and azure waters lapping against the cliffs, and the mountains rose with the pink sunrise and bowed into darkness at evenfall, MyungBo pulled his eyes away from the window and even dozed with his head bobbing against the glass. Noticing his excitement, one of the socialists said to him, “Russia is truly a great country. It has more beauty than China, which is very grand, and more grandeur than Korea, which is very beautiful. If this landscape is any indication of their spirit, they’ll surely help us.”
Russia was, most of all, a vast country, and the train kept moving for ten days and ten nights. MyungBo, still very frail, hid from the others how often he couldn’t hold down food or felt faint with exhaustion. But in Moscow they were amply rewarded by a private meeting with Lenin, who warmly welcomed them and pledged a generous funding of six hundred thousand rubles.
At exactly the same time, the delegates to Washington met with a completely different sort of reception. Harding was then busy dividing Asia and the Pacific with the Japanese: the United States would colonize the Philippines, and in return let Japan take Mongolia from China and Siberia from Russia. Washington was not going to anger its new ally by encouraging some rebels demanding independence. The Korean delegates trudged back to Shanghai without even a courtesy meeting with a low-ranking official.
This was how MyungBo became convinced that Russia was the one solution to the two evils in his world. Korea would become independent with Russia’s help, and create a fair and prosperous society for all based on communism. That would eradicate both the Japanese colonial government and the avaricious landowning class, which were the two main causes of the suffering of the people. And as for America, some of its people were good and honorable. But for all the talk of world peace and justice, America was a greedy colonial power no better than Japan.
MyungBo couldn’t explain all of this to JungHo, uneducated as he was. But it was clear that he was intelligent in his own way, having survived the unthinkable while leading his underlings, who were as loyal to him as a pack of wolves. MyungBo had always trusted first impressions, and he saw something very rare in JungHo’s plain, unremarkable face. It was the exact quality that MyungBo sought the most from people—honesty.
MyungBo had long been fascinated by how nearly everyone considered themselves honest. People were wonderfully clever and subtle when they needed to rationalize their actions, and so quick-witted that they didn’t even realize they were fooling themselves. But JungHo somehow was different. The young man was obviously capable of hurting people without even pausing for breath. There was very little in the way of checks and balances in him. But he would never betray people—and that was the main reason he seemed so unlike almost everyone else. This straightforwardness, combined with his raw and compulsive energy, was the reason followers flocked to JungHo and trusted him with their lives.
MyungBo sat up straighter, drawing a deep breath. “Have you heard of Russia, Mr. JungHo? Though it feels far away, our country shares a border with it in the North.”
“I’m from the North—of course I know that,” JungHo said. “I’ve met some Yankees and the Chinese, but never anyone from Russia. Do they look like us, or like the Yankees?”
“It depends. When I went to Russia, I saw many people who looked Eastern and had golden skin and black hair—not so different from us—and others who looked like Europeans, with big blue eyes and light hair.”
“That bearded fellow up there.” JungHo pointed at the framed photograph on the wall. “He looks sort of queer, almost half Eastern and half European. Is he Russian?”
“Ah, yes.” MyungBo smiled sadly. “He is Russian, and I’ve had the honor to meet him in Moscow before he passed away. His name was Vladimir Lenin. I will have to tell you more about him next time you visit. Soon, I hope.”