From Wonso Pond (4 page)

20
Chon Chong-hwang, “1920-1930 yondae sosol tokja Å­i hyongsong kwa munhwa kwajong,”
Yoksa munje yon'gu
7 (2001); cited in Samuel Perry, “Korean as Proletarian: Ethnicity and Identity in Chang Hyok-chu's “Hell of the Starving,”
Positions: East Asian Critique
14, no. 2 (2006).

21
Kenneth Wells, “The Price of Legitimacy: Women and the KÅ­nuhoe Movement, 1927-1931,” in
Colonial Modernity in Korea
, ed. Kyeong-Hee Choi, Michael Edson Robinson, and Gi-Wook Shin (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000), 191-220.

22
Ho Chong-suk would later become a high official in the DPRK .

23
Kang Kyong-ae, “Choson yosongdÅ­l Å­i palbÅ­l kil,”
Choson ilbo
, November 28- 29, 1930; Yi,
Kang Kyong-ae chonjip
, 712.

24
Yi Ki-yong, “Puin Å­i munhakchok chiwi,”
KÅ­nu
1 (1929): 63-66.

25
One of the earliest extant films from Korea, now available with English subtitles, is the 1936 “Sweet Dream” (
Mimong
), which dramatizes the figure of the Korean “new woman” in the context of this cult of domesticity. See the DVD set
The Past Unearthed: The Second Encounter Collection of Chosun Films in the 1930s
(Seoul: Taewon Entertainment, 2008).

26
Part of my language here is highly indebted to that of Barbara Foley in her book
Radical Representations
(Durham: Duke University Press, 1993).

27
“Sinmun sosol kangjwa,” 1-8
Choson ilbo
, September 6-13, 1935.

28
Han Won-yong,
Han'guk kÅ­ndae sinmun yonjae sosol yongu
(Seoul: Ihwa Munhwasa, 1996), 452.

29
Kim Kirim, “Sinmun sosol ‘olimp'ik' sidae,”
Samcholli
, January 1933.

30
Tonga ilbo
, July 31, 1934.

31
Ibid.

32
See
Positions: East Asian Critique
14, no. 2 (2006) for a collection of scholarly essays on the proletarian cultural movement in East Asia, including one that focuses on the work of Kang Kyong-ae. In particular, see Ruth Barraclough, “Tales of Seduction: Factory Girls in Korean Proletarian Literature.”

1

What a fine view of Yongyon village that is, once you've climbed up this hill. The big house pointing up over there—the one with the western-style shingles—that belongs to Chong Tokho, who also owns the farmland in front of it. The tin-roofed building over to this side is the township office, the one right next to it is the police station, and those dark spots forming a circle around them are farmhouses.

And that blue pond down there? That's Wonso Pond, the very lifeline of the village. It's the reason the village was settled here in the first place, and the reason the fields were later cleared. Everyone, even the dogs and wild animals, depends on it for fresh drinking water.

Now there won't be anybody around, of course, who knows just how and when the pond actually got there. But the farmers in the village have a legend to tell about it. To the villagers this is their one source of pride, and it's become an article of faith for them.

If you listen to their story, this is what they'll say:

Long, long ago, before the pond was ever formed, a rich official lived here, or so the story goes, with countless numbers of slaves and fields and well-fed livestock. Such a miser was this man that when he failed each year to eat all the grain he harvested, he preferred to see it rot in his storehouse rather than offer it to the farmers suffering around him. Begrudging even a spoonful of rice that the occasional beggar wandered by in search of, he made sure his front gate was locked up tight before letting anyone in the household begin cooking.

After several years of poor harvests, when the local people began to die of hunger, they came to plead with the official several times a day. But the man did little more than turn a deaf ear, and shooed them off with a scolding before they could pass through his front door.

Under these circumstances the farmers felt they had no other choice
but to band together and raid the official's house, which they did one night, taking away his rice and livestock.

Within a few days the official filed a petition with the local authorities and had all the local farmers arrested. Those who weren't subjected to cruel punishments or execution were banished from the area, so the story goes.

The children in the village who had lost their mothers and fathers and the elders who had lost their daughters and sons called out for their loved ones until their throats were raw. They cried in the man's courtyard, refusing to leave.

They cried and cried, and cried even more, so that in the course of a single night they transformed the official's splendid mansion into a pond of tears. This pond, according to the story, is the very same blue pond you see down there.

Now anyone can guess with a glance at its surface how wide the pond is, but there's not a soul around who knows how deep it goes. There's talk of someone long ago who let several spools of silk thread down into the water in order to measure its depth, but none of the spools reached the bottom.

Whenever new people move into the village, the first thing the farmers tell them is the legend of Wonso Pond, and as soon as children learn how to talk, their parents teach them the story. Little children and adults alike, they all know the legend by heart. And even if the facts remain somewhat obscure, they hold a certain hope in the pond.

It's for this reason that the farmers seek comfort from Wonso Pond whenever they're distressed or tormented by something—one glance at Wonso Pond and their troubles are gone, they say.

On the four major holidays the farmers used to carry down white rice and rice cakes and bury them beside Wonso Pond, sometimes even offering their clothes or shoes to the water. Such was the extent to which they once showed their devotion. Even people on the verge of death, they say, would come to pray at the pond and be cured of their illnesses.

As the years passed, their blessed Wonso Pond notwithstanding, increased suffering and misfortune for some reason fell upon the villagers. And, in recent years, with little more than wheat gruel and acorns to eat, it was a rare soul indeed who could bury white rice and rice cakes near the banks of the pond.

Still, the villagers were convinced that Wonso Pond alone could cure their pain and sorrow, and they continued to make a practice of looking out over the pond for comfort.

Today, as ever, the water in the pond is as blue as blue can be—so blue that all who see it want to dye their white clothes the color of the water.

 

Down below the pond, where the eulalia reeds grow sky high, Wonso's water trickles gently out into a stream come springtime. The ancient willow trees encircling the pond seem dead at first glance, but fresh, green buds are emerging.

Out of nowhere a single beetle jumps onto the surface of the pond, glides freely in a circle, and flies off once again. And then, from somewhere in the distance, comes the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

2

The footsteps grow closer, and a girl comes bounding down the hillside. It appears as though she is being chased by something—or someone—for as she runs down the slope out of breath, she keeps looking behind her.

She is wearing a blouse dyed pink with the bindweed flowers that bloom throughout the village; her complexion is somewhat pale, but bright and unblemished. The basket of wild herbs she carries seems something of a burden, for she keeps switching it between her right arm and her left, and eventually balances it on her head. But here, too, it seems troublesome, and with a frown she finally holds the basket against her chest with both arms. She glances back up the hill every so often.

Soon afterwards a woodcutter—hardly more than a boy—appears waving a long stick at the girl.

“Stop it right there, you stupid girl!”

Shouting at the top of his lungs, the boy races toward her with incredible speed. The girl lifts the basket onto her head and runs down the hill as though her life depends on it, until she falls head over heels and tumbles to the base of the slope. The basket keeps rolling and rolling.

Finding this quite amusing, the woodcutter steps up to the girl with a snicker.

“Now why didn't you just give me some right away instead of running off like that? Did you really think you could beat me? Well, it serves you right! Happy now?”

The sniffling girl jumps to her feet, looking around for her missing basket. She spots it at the edge of the barley field just beyond them, then glares at the boy. She slowly turns her back to him. The boy quickly runs off, then brings back her basket.

“Look, you stupid girl! I'm going to eat all your sourstem. . . .”

Standing right in front of the girl, with the basket in his arm, he sticks his hand inside and takes out a piece of the sourstem. He starts to chew on it, smacking his lips all the while.

“Give it back, you jerk!” she says, still glaring.

She takes a step toward him and snatches away the basket. “Hah, ha!” The boy snickers, thinking her pouting funny. Then the mole on her eyebrow catches his eye. “Hey, what's that?” he asks, poking his finger into the girl's eyebrow.

“Ouch, that hurts! You idiot.”

“Hey, you're pretty tough for a girl . . . Just give me one more . . . ?” The boy sticks out his hand with a sniffle.

Her fears eased by the gentle sound of his voice, she picks out one more stalk of sourstem and tosses it in his direction.

The woodcutter turns to pick the sourstem off the ground, and without bothering to peel off its skin, begins chewing on it, sucking out its juices. Sensing something missing, he turns to find the girl is gone. He looks around him and sees she's made her way well past the pond.

“Stupid girl! Going back all alone.”

The words roll off his tongue unthinkingly. Staring out at the black dot of the girl's distant figure, suddenly he, too, wants to return to the village.

Shouting “Hey, Sonbi! Wait for me,” he runs to catch up with her, but the girl is nowhere to be seen. “The nerve of that girl! Going back all alone . . . ” he grumbles. “Where the heck did she go?”

After a brief rest, he happens to look down, and spots a scruffy-looking figure clearly reflected in the water. Surprised by what he sees, he bursts out laughing. As he stares into the water he swings his arms and legs and stretches out his neck. Just then the mole on the eyebrow of the pouting girl flashes into his mind. “Who's that?” He quickly spins his head around. Nothing there. “I'm telling you, that girl is just . . .” he
mutters under his breath as he looks out over the grove of willows into which the girl has long since disappeared. Suddenly thirsty, he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt, and flings it into the grass as he goes to the pond for a drink of water.

Lying flat on his stomach, he stretches out his neck and drinks thirstily. The water passing through his throat is oh, so sweet. After drinking his fill, he jumps to his feet and takes a deep breath of air.

Sweeping over Wonso Pond, a light breeze picks up the strong scent of grass in the distance, refreshing him as it dries the sweat beneath his arms. Then all of a sudden the boy spins around.

“My A-frame. . . ?” he mutters unconsciously, as it dawns on him he's followed the girl far from where he left his pack. He scrambles back up the hill to his wooden pack, picks up his sickle, and goes into the woods where he starts cutting trees again.

Once he has returned with his newly cut wood, he sits down on the ground and leans against his A-frame. The scent of grass still strong in the air, he feels completely refreshed inside. Ready for a bit of a nap, he closes his eyes.

Suddenly he hears someone calling, “Hey, Ch'otchae!”

3

Having just drifted off to sleep, the startled boy jumped to his feet. He quickly looked to either side of him, and there—gasping for breath—was Yi Sobang, hobbling toward him with the aid of a wooden crutch.

“Yi Sobang,” the boy cried. Seeing the man, he felt happy, and also hungry.

“So this is where you've been. I've been searching all over for you, boy.”

Leaning heavily on his crutch, Yi Sobang looked affectionately at Ch'otchae. The shadows of the man and boy stretched far down to the base of the mountain. With a grunt Ch'otchae lifted his load of wood onto his back.

“You were looking for me?”

“You bet I was. The sun's going down already! Now, listen to me, no more talking back like that to your mother.”

Ch'otchae laughed sweetly, as he walked side by side with Yi Sobang.
The strong light of the low sun was so blinding it was hard to tell if it was morning or sunset.

“Your mother cooked rice, you know. She's been waiting all day for you.”

Yi Sobang kept mentioning his mother so that the boy's anger toward her might subside.

“She made rice?” asked the boy. Stopping in his tracks, Ch'otchae looked over at Yi Sobang, and then stared into the distant paddies, lost in his thoughts. In the light of the setting sun the fields look as soft as silk.

“Yi Sobang, I sure hope I can start working in the fields this year.”

Yi Sobang felt the boy's words pierce his heart. How can he want to work in the fields? He's just a boy, he thought. But he remembered how he himself, long ago, had been just as anxious to start working. Yi Sobang let out a deep sigh, staring out at Mount Pult'a with vacant eyes.

“I can be out weeding, Yi Sobang, and you could bring me lunch in the fields. . . And then . . .”

The boy was all smiles, happy just to talk about it. “And just what fields do you have to weed?” thought Yi Sobang, suppressing the impulse to speak his mind right then and there. Something surged up uncomfortably inside him.