I bowed several more times in gratitude, but I had to add a condition. “I have to see what my husband says. He works, as you know.”
Mine was not a situation with which they were familiar, and they laughed good-naturedly.
“You and the baby must be tired,” Gi-won said. “Let us take you to your house.” Then the corners of her mouth turned up, and she added, with plenty of insinuation in her voice, “Your husband has been eager for you to arrive.”
The others howled. I blushed.
“No need to be bashful with us. You didn’t get that baby by just looking pretty.”
She motioned for me to follow, but the others came along too. We threaded through another series of olles. Up ahead I caught sight of the school. To the right was a series of small houses, each behind its own stone wall.
“All the teachers live in these,” Gi-won said. “Here is yours.”
One of the other women yelled, “Teacher Yang, your wife is here!”
With lots of giggling, the three women pushed me through the gate. Then they sauntered back down the olle, leaving Jun-bu and me to greet each other privately. When I saw his silhouette in the doorway, all the worry of these last months—being separated, caring for a newborn without her father, the impending battle on our stepping-stone of an island—drained out of me. I was a haenyeo—independent and resilient—but I’d missed my husband. He rushed to me, stopping a meter away so we could bow and exchange endearments.
“I missed you.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“You look well.”
“You look thin.”
“Your daughter. I named her Min-lee.”
He peeled back the piece of persimmon cloth that protected her face from the sun. He smiled. “A beautiful girl. A beautiful name.”
“I have Yu-ri in the cart,” I said.
A shadow passed over his features. Perhaps this was not the reunion he’d anticipated, but then his expression shifted. “Let’s go get her and everything else,” he said.
The driver lugged my things. Jun-bu escorted his sister. I prepared a place for her next to the warmth of the kitchen wall. Jun-bu and I put away my belongings. Min-lee fell asleep in her cradle. Without eating the dinner my husband had prepared, we lay out our sleeping mats. He was hungry for my flesh. I was hungrier still for his. We did not worry about Yu-ri watching or hearing us. When we were finished, and I curled myself into the crook of his arm, I sent a prayer to Halmang Samseung. Plant a son in me tonight.
The next day, the emperor of Japan signed the agreement officially ending the war, which sent many soldiers on Jeju out of their caves and tunnels like ants flooded from their homes. They didn’t wait for military transport. They just booked passage on ferries and left. But thousands of soldiers remained, still camped on the hillsides. Barely a week later, the cycle of the moon told me that the month’s first period of diving had almost ended. I stood in my doorway, Yu-ri sitting at my feet, as haenyeo from other parts of Bukchon made their way past my house to the sea. Many of them called out, “Join us” or “Come to the bulteok.” I just waved and watched them go. In the afternoon, after I’d swept the courtyard, washed Yu-ri, and pickled vegetables for winter, I watched them come home—happy, loud, and strong. I found myself missing the company of Kang Gu-sun and Wan-soon, the comforts and companionship of the bulteok, and so much else.
On September 10, the Committee for the Preparation of Korean Independence met for the first time in Jeju City. The members had all led or participated in anti-Japanese movements. The goals, of course, were to have true independence for the island and all Korea and to have our first-ever elections. Eventually, this organization became the People’s Committee. On Jeju, every village started its own chapter to create youth clubs, peacekeeping units, and women’s associations. With the help of these committees, every village instituted literacy efforts. All boys were to be educated, but women and girls were also encouraged to attend classes.
“Village leaders want to instill political awareness in women like you,” Jun-bu said. “I hope you will go.”
“My mother wanted me to be literate, and she surely was political,” I responded.
“Now you can be an inspiration to our daughter as your mother was to you.”
But I wondered what use I would have for an education when all I wanted to do was dive.
* * *
Ours was not a traditional marriage. Jun-bu went to work every morning, which meant someone had to take care of Min-lee, which, in turn, meant I couldn’t dive. In addition to baby chores, I had to make sure Yu-ri didn’t wander off. I cleaned the house and washed clothes. Jun-bu came home tired and still having to grade his students’ work, which meant I had to cook dinner. He kept encouraging me to go to the night school to learn to read and write, so I went. I didn’t have a gift for reading and writing, though. My skills were in the sea, but I was trying to be a traditional Korean wife. I sowed seeds in my kitchen garden. On a rare hot fall day, I made my husband a chilled soup with shredded cucumber and homemade soybean paste in raw damselfish broth. When my husband caught a cold, I stirred for him bean-powder porridge with tofu and wrapped rice in young bean leaves. For his part, my husband did not sit under the village tree, make and feed our baby abalone porridge, gamble, or drink. Our lives were upside down and contrary to the nature of Jeju. I thought we’d be fine. Then, as the moon moved across the night sky and I saw that the next diving period was coming, I felt the pull of the sea very strongly. I had made it a little over three weeks.
One night—after the baby and Yu-ri fell asleep and Jun-bu and I had made love—I gathered my courage to speak. “We’ve been living under the same roof for only a short time after almost a year of separation. Before that, we were together for only a few weeks—”
“And we still don’t know each other very well,” he finished for me. “I want to know you better and not just on our sleeping mats.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Have I hurt your feelings in some way? I hope you know how grateful I am for all you do. Taking care of my sister alone . . . But please, tell me how I can be a better husband.”
“You’re a wonderful husband, and I want you to be happy always,” I said. “But I miss the sea.”
He turned toward me, a confused expression on his face. “I don’t want to be the kind of man to live in a household that depends on the tail of a skirt.”
“I’m not saying you are.” I tried to explain it to him in a way he’d understand. “I love the way you touch me and the time we spend together on our sleeping mat, but being a haenyeo—”
“Is dangerous.”
I corrected him. “Being a haenyeo is who I am. There are parts of it I need. I long for the water and the triumph I feel when I find something valuable. I miss the company of women.” I didn’t add that I loved how women could speak and laugh in the bulteok without fear of hurting a man’s sensitive ears. “Most of all, I miss contributing. I’ve worked my entire life, why should I stop now because you’re a teacher?”
“I had hoped to keep you safe after what happened to your mother and Yu-ri, but it’s clearly important to you, and I won’t fight you on this matter. I am my mother’s son. She didn’t quit diving when my sister had her accident, and she hasn’t given up now that my father is . . .”
Even Jun-bu couldn’t say what had to be true—that his father was a hungry ghost, roaming the shattered ruins of Hiroshima.
“We already have a daughter,” he said, quickly changing course. “If Halmang Samseung is good to us, maybe we’ll have many more children. Whether they are boys or girls, I want them to be educated, just as I want you to have the opportunity to learn.”