Stars Between the Sun and Moon (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

We walked in
silence for many miles, Taebum sleeping soundly on my back until we reached the first Chinese village. Then he awoke, his weak cries breaking the quiet of the night. I glanced around looking for places to hide. But there was nowhere. The lawns in the village were manicured. There were no trees, shrubs or garbage bins. There were no police cars, though. And since everything was so neat, I guessed that this was an ethnic Korean town, with inhabitants who would be sympathetic. I may have been right since no one came out of their homes seeking the source of the baby's cries.

The three of us made it through the village, the full moon once again shining on us like a spotlight. We reached some farmlands where the Chinese were growing corn. “You must stay close to me,” Jaesung whispered as we turned off the main road and onto a path that led up a mountain. “The Chinese farm watchmen abduct women like you to sell. If they discover you, they will separate you from the baby. Even saying that you and I are married will not stop them from taking you, if they are hungry enough for money.”

“Where are we headed?” I asked.

“To people in the network who will take you where you need to go. I will contact them once I get you to a safe place in the farms on the mountain. Until then, I am your husband. If anyone asks, we left Chosun together. And do not speak to anyone unless I tell you it is safe to do so.”

The Chinese farm watchmen slept in plastic tents. We slipped past them as quietly as we could. By now the sun was rising and my body trembled from fatigue. Taebum began to whimper. I pleaded with Jaesung to let us stop and rest. I was so tired and hungry by then I didn't really care if we made it.

Once we reached a particular tent, he agreed. “This is where you will stay,” he said. He cupped his hands together and made a noise that prompted a Chinese farm guard to join us.

“I trust him,” Jaesung said to me after speaking some words to the guard in Mandarin. “I've told him you are my wife. This man is a friend.”

I awoke after
a long sleep in the tent with Taebum nestled beside me. The tent flap had been propped open and the cool fall air felt good on my flushed cheeks. The sky outside was a calm blue. My head felt light, and I wanted to fall back onto the ground and sleep some more. But something uneasy stirred inside me.

When Jaesung returned, he was panic-stricken. “Sister,” he said in a low voice, “we must flee. This man tells me one of the farmer's guards saw us pass. He believes that guard has now gone into town to negotiate a price for your sale or to turn us in.”

I bundled up Taebum and tucked him inside a warm jacket Jaesung had secured for me.

We made our way higher up the mountain until we were deep in the forest and far from farms and tents. Jaesung broke off some pine branches and covered the damp ground with them. I lay down with the sun warming me and slept with Taebum lying on my stomach.

While I was asleep, Jaesung hunted for food. He returned with several small boxes that contained white rice, some potatoes and some kimchi. I devoured everything. “Where did you get this?” I asked Jaesung.

“From an old lady working in the fields,” he said.

Taebum was awake by now, lying on his back and curling his hands together. His eyes were still unable to completely focus. “He is so young,” I thought. “How can I put him through this?”

Jaesung's words broke into my thoughts. “I have made contact with the man who will take you on from here. I've brought many people to him.”

“Are you sure he will keep us together?”

“Your baby may be the youngest person who has ever made this journey,” Jaesung said. “But I believe you can trust this man.”

Changsoo, an ethnic
Korean, had a round, pleasant face. He lived in a hut similar to my father's. At the end of the day, Jaesung and I said goodbye. He wished me luck as he handed me some yuan.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“Your father had me sell two machines to pay me. This is the amount remaining.” I was well fed over the next few days, and Changsoo gave me clean clothes that he said belonged to his wife. I was forbidden to leave the tent in case anyone saw me, and my body ached from the lack of activity. I was anxious to get moving.

Finally, Changsoo announced Taebum and I would be leaving that night.

“No one has told me where I am going,” I said hesitantly. “Do you know?”

“You're going to South Korea. That is what we have arranged,” he said matter-of-factly.

The news shocked me so much I could do nothing at first but stare at him. I had assumed I was being taken far inland, away from the border where I would be in danger, where I would then be sold. I didn't expect this.

“When you get to South Korea,” he continued, “you will be given money by the government. You will owe some of that to the human smugglers and someone will find you there to collect the money. You and the baby will be safe once we get you out of China.”

That evening, a tall, slim ethnic Korean man with quick movements arrived at Changsoo's house after dark. There was a Chinese police car waiting for us at the bottom of the mountain, the man told me.

“I will not reveal much about our plan,” the man said. “But this you need to know. You will appear to be a prisoner in the back of the police chief's car. With a baby, you are unable to walk the underground network we usually use to help people escape the checkpoints. The only way to get you to our destination is by car, acting as if you are a defector we are taking to jail. A Chinese policeman I have paid will accompany us.”

Changsoo spoke kindly, seeing that I was numb with terror. “Don't ask any questions,” he advised, handing me some apples for the journey. “It is best for your safety that you know as little as possible.”

We drove in
silence for several hours. As I nursed Taebum, I looked out the window at the flickering lights of a town and then the empty fields bathed in the gentle glow of the crescent moon. Each time we reached a checkpoint, the driver spoke to the Chinese guard who poked his head into the car and shone a flashlight in my face. Each time we were waved through. My nerves were so shattered, I felt I was suffocating with fear.

At Hwaryong, the policeman parked the car. The ethnic Korean man turned to me and explained that our cover story had changed. From here on, he was my husband, Taebum our son, and we were ethnic Koreans living in Helong. The name I should use for him was Bongchun, he told me.

Once we'd climbed out of the car, Bongchun hurried me along the street by the elbow, propelling us toward the bus station. Our story was that I was sick and he was taking me to a doctor in a far-off city who was a family friend. “I have a fake document that states you are my wife and ethnic Korean,” he explained. “Just don't talk to anyone.”

We disembarked in a strange city several hours later, after undergoing two police checks along the way. For the next four days, Taebum and I were locked in an apartment bedroom. I saw my human smuggler only once each day, when he brought me food. One afternoon, he gave me some Chinese dumplings and some clean clothes to wear.

Through the door, I could hear the man making many phone calls. He spoke Russian at one point, a language I recognized from school. “It will be cold where you are going,” he told me on the fourth afternoon. He brought me more clothes to layer underneath my own and some extra pieces to pack in a bottari small enough that I could carry it along with Taebum. He also gave me some cloth diapers and a blanket.

Despite the warning not to ask questions, I was desperate to find out what I could.

“On the phone,” I said, “I heard you speaking Russian. Aren't we going to South Korea?”

“Mongolia.” He smiled for the first time, a crooked grin revealing a missing front tooth. “From Mongolia you will go to South Korea. Now, don't ask me anymore.”

That night we
boarded another bus, pretending again to be husband and wife. The man played the part well, taking my hand and holding it, stroking my leg when guards at the checkpoints walked up to us.

“I'm taking my sick wife to a friend who is a doctor,” he explained to them. The checkpoint officer eyed us up and down, then handed the fake papers back to the man.

We changed buses twice. On the third bus, I scanned the faces of the passengers and saw that there were others from Chosun. When we passed through checkpoints, I saw them also give the guards papers that said they were legal. I had started to sweat, despite the cool air. Taebum had become agitated, perhaps picking up on my fears. I settled him by singing softly into his ear the song I remembered from
The Flower Girl
:

“Every spring the hills and fields bloom with beautiful flowers, but we have no country, no spring, When will flowers bloom in our hearts, on the hill path Brother was dragged along? Spring comes and flowers bloom every year.”

We got off
at a busy bus station. Bongchun led me to a pickup truck at the back of a nearby parking lot. By now, the others from Chosun who had been on the bus—a woman with a teenaged son and daughter and an older man—had joined us. Bongchun handed some yuan to an ethnic Korean man with black-rimmed glasses and beady eyes, then gestured for the others to climb into the back of the truck underneath a tarp. “You get in the front,” Bongchun ordered me. “And goodbye. I am leaving you now.”

He turned and left before I could even thank him.

The main cab was warm. I huddled close to the steamed-up window, holding Taebum in my arms. The new smuggler got in beside me. Without a word, he started the engine and began backing out of the lot.

Once we'd left the city, we drove for hours across naked earth. I watched the wind blow loose grass across the wrinkled mud.

“I'm going to drive you as close as I can to the fence,” the smuggler said finally. “Then you'll need to climb over on your own. I won't be coming with you.”

He handed me a piece of paper with writing on it. “It is written in Mongolian, Russian and Korean,” he explained when he saw my confusion. “The others have a paper like this too. Give it to a Mongolian guard once you've climbed the fence, and make sure he reads it.”

I hurriedly tucked the piece of paper inside my shirt. I felt faint and short of breath. It was really happening. I was leaving everything behind.

We stopped at
the edge of a field. A barbed wire fence was small on the horizon but shining in the moonlight. “You are in between border checkpoints,” the smuggler told us as we gathered around him. “Each patrol is about a hundred
li
away,” he warned. “If you see lights of any kind, it will be guards. You must run as fast as you can on this side, and then on the other side, until you see a Mongolian border guard.”

There was no time to think. The woman's teenaged son began running before the smuggler had even finished speaking. The daughter and her mother were close behind him. The old man, carrying a large tapestry bag, remained beside me.

The shoes I had been given to wear had small wedged heels. After we had run a few metres in the open field, I tripped. I kicked both shoes off. Taebum was crying by now, and I continued moving as quickly as I could, half limping from the rocks digging into the soles of my feet. The old man had pulled ahead.

From the corner of my eye, I saw flashing lights. A car was moving toward us fast. Suddenly, the fence was right in front of me. The woman and her teenagers were already on the other side. The old man had made it over, too, and as the headlights neared, he lifted the bottom of the fence enough so I could throw the bottari full of clothes and diapers underneath. I slid Taebum to the man as well. The space was not big enough for me, though, so I had to climb. The barbed wire at the top of the fence ripped into my clothes and skin. By the time I had reached the other side, blood seeped through the fabric and gushed from the palms of my hands. But there was no stopping.

I jumped down the rest of the way and grabbed Taebum. He was wailing by now, and as I ran, I braced myself to be shot in the back. But it was dark, and the Chinese gunshots missed us all. Taebum kept screaming, but I forced myself on until I had reached the others. Then I fell to my knees, heaving from lack of air and cramps in my abdomen. After a minute, a spotlight was trained on my companions and me by two men in uniforms sitting atop midnight-coloured horses. The others were holding up the signs the human smuggler had given us.

One of the uniformed men dismounted.

“Come with us,” he said in choppy Mandarin.

As the guard helped me to my feet, Taebum's crying stopped. With shaking hands, I pulled the paper the smuggler had given me out of my shirt pocket and held it high in front of me.

The uniformed man shone his torch on my sign.

“You're safe now,” he said to me. Turning to the others, he repeated his statement. “You are all safe now.”

We walked to the border guards' office, but we were not imprisoned there. We were given steaming hot cups of tea, and a uniformed man handed me some shoes to wear. The Mongolian border guards were kind. One even helped me wrap Taebum in a clean blanket.

When we were seated again, I took out the piece of paper the smuggler had given me and read it myself for the first time. As I did so, tears welled up in my eyes.

“We are from North Korea,” it said. “Do not send us back to China. Contact the South Korean embassy immediately. Tell them we are escaping North Korea and wish to seek asylum there.”

Epilogue

Once we had
safely arrived in Mongolia, the group of us from Chosun were taken to an apartment, then to a small house, and finally to a hotel in the city of Ulaanbaatar. We spent a month there, having long interviews with a representative from the South Korean government. Taebum, you were the youngest among us. I told the South Korean representative much of the story I've told you in these pages, to prove I was who I said I was.

Not a day goes by when I do not think about my mother, a woman of spirit who loved to sing and dance. In my mind's eye, I see her as a young woman in the hills full of deulgukhwa blossoms, telling me her stories of lost love and pain. I remember my father as the quiet man who did not how to express love very well, but who I realize now always loved his family. I see him also as the man who made machines for people who had none and who designed the plastic bag that carried you, my son, to safety.

I remember Hyungchul, Hyungwoo and my sister, Sunyoung; the games we played as children and the way our lives overlapped as we grew older. And, of course, I think of Sungmin. Maybe he'll read these words one day, recognize his own story and come to this new country to find us.

I couldn't keep my word to my mother—I didn't return to her after five years. I couldn't risk the safety of my family by trying to smuggle myself back into Chosun. My son Taebum and I lived in South Korea until 2008, when we immigrated to Canada. I am now a Canadian resident, granted permanent status on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. Taebum has since been joined by a younger brother who was born in Canada.

I have learned that my father is now dead. I am uncertain whether my mother, younger brother and sister are still alive. I have never had word about the fate of my brother Hyungchul.

It is a comfort to visit these family members in my dreams. Their faces shine from the end of the road of poplar trees. I may never see them again, and you may never meet them, Taebum, but they are with us all the time. It was their spirits that drove us forward, and with their assistance, we have survived.