“After school, come home straight away, Noa. We’ll be here,” Isak said.
Noa remained fixed to his spot on the floor, unable to take his eyes off his father for fear that he’d disappear. The child hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his father until he returned. The ache of missing him had surfaced in his small, concave chest, and he felt anxious about the pain that was sure to return. If he remained home, Noa felt certain that his father would be okay. They wouldn’t even have to talk. Why couldn’t he study at home the way his father had? Noa wanted to ask this, but it was not in his nature to argue.
Isak, however, didn’t want Noa to see him like this anymore. The boy was already afraid, and there was no need to make him suffer any more than he already had. There were many things he hadn’t told the child yet about life, about learning, about how to talk to God.
“Is it very hard at school?” Isak asked.
Sunja turned to look at the boy’s face; she’d never thought to ask him this.
Noa shrugged. The work was okay, not impossible. The good students, who were all Japanese, the ones he admired, wouldn’t speak to him. They wouldn’t even look at him. He believed that he could enjoy going to school if he were a regular person and not a Korean. He couldn’t say this to his father or to anyone else, because it was certain he’d never be a regular Japanese. One day, Uncle Yoseb said, they would return to Korea; Noa imagined that life would be better there.
Carrying his book bag and bento, Noa lingered by the front door, memorizing his father’s kindly face.
“Child, come here,” Isak said.
Noa approached him and sat on bended knees. Please God, please. Please make my father well. I’ll ask this just once more. Please. Noa shut his eyes tightly.
Isak took Noa’s hand and held it.
“You are very brave, Noa. Much, much braver than me. Living every day in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage.”
Noa chewed on his lower lip and didn’t say anything. He wiped his nose with his hand.
“My child,” he said, and Isak let go of his son’s hand. “My dear boy. My blessing.”
6
December 1944
Like most shops in Osaka with nothing to sell, the restaurant was shuttered frequently, but its three remaining workers showed up six days a week. Food had virtually disappeared from the markets, and even when the rations arrived and the shops opened for half a day to long lines, the offerings were unacceptably sparse and undesirable. You could wait six hours for fish and come home with a scant handful of dried anchovies, or worse, nothing at all. If you had high-level military connections, it was possible to obtain some of what you needed; of course, if you had a great deal of money, there was always the black market. City children were sent alone to the country by train to buy an egg or a potato in exchange for a grandmother’s kimono. At the restaurant, Kim Changho, who was in charge of procuring food, kept two storage bins: one, which could be safely inspected by the neighborhood association leaders, who liked to make surprise visits to restaurant kitchens, and another, behind a false wall in the basement, for food bought from the black market. Sometimes, customers—usually wealthy businessmen from Osaka and travelers from abroad—brought their own meat and alcohol to the restaurant. The men who used to cook in the evening were gone now; Kim made up the whole of the evening staff; it was up to him to cook the meats and wash the dishes for the occasional customer.
It was the twelfth month of the year—a mild, wintry morning. When Sunja and Kyunghee arrived for work, Kim asked the women to have a seat at the square table pushed up against the wall outside the kitchen. This was where they usually took their meals and breaks. He’d already placed a pot of tea on the table. Once seated, Kyunghee poured each of them a cup.
“The restaurant will be closed tomorrow,” Kim said.
“For how long?” Sunja asked.
“Till the war is over. This morning, I gave up the last of the metal things. The kitchen’s almost empty now. All the steel rice bowls, basins, cooking pots, utensils, steel chopsticks were requisitioned. Even if I could find new ones and remain open, the police will know that we’ve kept things back and confiscate them. The government doesn’t pay us for what they take. We can’t keep replacing—” Kim took a sip of his tea. “Well, so it has to be.”
Sunja nodded, feeling bad for Kim, who looked upset. He glanced briefly at Kyunghee.
“And what will you do?” Kyunghee asked him.
Kim, younger than Isak, addressed her as Sister. Lately, he depended on her to accompany him to the market to support his civilian status when stopped. Suspicious of military service dodgers, the police and neighborhood association leaders routinely questioned any male not in uniform. To put them off, he’d taken to wearing the dark glasses of a blind man on the streets.