Day of delight: liberation from Japan's rule

Mamoru Shigemitsu, then Japanese foreign affairs minister, signs the Japanese instrument of surrender on board the USS Missouri on Sept. 2, 1945. Gen. Douglas MacArthur, far left, and Gen. Richard K. Sutherland stand in front of Shigemitsu. / Korea Times file

• Published Aug 14, 2016 6:06 PM KST
• Updated Aug 14, 2016 6:06 PM KST

By An Hong-kyoon

The day began just like any other day. I woke up to dull, humid air that promised another sweltering day, typical of mid-summer Seoul. I was a month short of 13 years old and, since April 1, had been a first-year middle school student ― the American equivalent of the 7th grade.

That morning, my house was nearly empty because most of the members of my family had been evacuated to our country house in Guangju, some thirty miles southeast of Seoul. Many cities in Japan were being bombed by American B-29s, and we were afraid Seoul might face the same fate any day. Only a week earlier, the Japanese imperial high command reported that the bombs that had hit Hiroshima, and Nagasaki three days afterwards, were Tokushu bakudan, special bombs. Strangely, no cities on the Korean peninsula had been subjected to American airstrikes to that day, except that on several occasions, a single B-29 flew majestically high above in the sky, leaving white vapor trails in its wake. We watched the silver-colored Superfortress ― the name we learned later ― in awe. There were no Japanese interceptors in sight, and people wondered why.

As I finished putting on my khaki school uniform, complete with a pair of gaiters, our house maid Sukja brought in my breakfast. I glanced at the rice bowl and grimaced. It was half full and the food in it was nearly black, mostly sorghum and little rice. Sukja smiled at me uncomfortably as if it was her fault. Japan had been at war with the United States for nearly four years and the food ration had grown worse.

"Sukja is an orphan," my mother had told us several months earlier when she had brought Sukja from my mother's native county, Cheongyang. Sukja was a year older than I and small for her age, but she had unusually sharp and shining eyes. After cleaning the dinner dishes, she often came into my room and watched me doing homework. I knew she was illiterate by the way she handled my books. Yet she was full of curiosity and seemed intrigued by my English textbook.

After breakfast, I walked the four miles to school at a brisk pace and was sweaty when I reached my school. The school building, once a white-walled structure and one of the landmarks in Seoul, was painted black to avoid being targeted by airstrikes.

Passing through the campus gate, the obligatory daily ritual began. First, I, like everyone else, stood in front of the Hoanden, a small concrete shrine, and bowed. The shrine housed two imperial edicts, one relating to the ethical and moral principles of the Japanese, and the other the December 8, 1941 declaration of war that started the war in the Pacific. At eight o'clock, the entire student body was in the customary parade formation. At the high-pitched command of the teacher on duty, we turned to the east in the direction of the imperial palace and bowed deeply, bending 90-degrees. Then we recited in unison the pledge of allegiance to the emperor. It was telling that natural-born Japanese were not required to recite the pledge, only colonial Koreans. It was the daily reminder that we had to be loyal to Japan.

When the morning assembly was over, Principal Shimada said that there would be no regular classes today. All would continue to do the same work as in the past weeks: upper classmen digging trenches; junior classmen collecting pine oil. "By the way," he said as if in a second thought, "there will be an important government announcement at noon today. All are required to assemble at the nearest schoolyard and hear the broadcast. No exceptions," he said sternly.

Marching in a column of fours to the Bugak Mountain north of our school, one classmate wondered aloud what would the important broadcast be about. "Nothing extraordinary," another opined. "Some big shot will tell us we must work harder for the final victory, the usual lecture." We all agreed in silence.

Even while the battle lines in the Pacific had been steadily moving northward from the South Pacific islands to the Philippines to Iwo Jima and Okinawa, the Japanese high command repeatedly assured us that no filthy American boots would be allowed to step on the sacred soil of Nippon, the divine land under the Arahitokami emperor Hirohito, the reigning god in human form. We will beat back the invading Americans at our shoreline, Japan's war propaganda machine shrieked incessantly, and we had no reason to doubt it.

To do our part for the war effort, we roamed Bugak Mountain and collected pine resin. Pine resin, we were told, was used to produce pine oil, which supplemented petroleum that the Imperial Navy desperately needed. In those days, it was a common scene that the mountains and hills were covered with students collecting pine resin. The total collected in a year, we learned, was enough to fill two naval fuel tankers. I thought that wasn't much for the nationwide effort, but I kept the thought to myself. You'd better watch your mouth in wartime, nervous parents cautioned their children repeatedly.

As noontime approached, we were taken to a nearby elementary school. Besides us, the schoolyard was filled with factory workers and local youth group members as well as townspeople, all standing in military formations.

Exactly at noon, a radio announcer stated that his majesty the emperor would read an edict to his subjects. The Japanese national anthem streamed through a loud speaker as we stood at straight attention. Then there was the voice of Emperor Hirohito, the living god, no ordinary people had ever expected to hear in their wildest dream. The highly formal court language he delivered in his high-pitched voice via the poor reception was nearly impossible to follow, however. Standing in tight attention under the glaring sunlight, I quickly lost my interest. Bored, I looked at my Japanese teachers standing in front of us. Most were listening intently One seemed unimpressed. He appeared puzzled, and his face grew slowly contorted as the emperor's voice continued. He must have sensed something ominous. I did not care. I was thirsty and wanted to go home. A while later, it was over. Our teachers dismissed us. No more work for the remainder of the day. We gave a cheer and hurried home.

Sukja who was home alone wondered why I came home early. Dedicated as usual, she served me with two slices of watermelon.

Then my father came home. It was unusual for him to leave his office so early. He called me into his room and instructed me to sit. I knew he was serious. He said, "Japan lost the war and the emperor surrendered to America!"

What? Japan surrendered? What does it mean? My head spun and then turned white blank. I stared at him.

"Now, Hong-Kyoon," looking at me squarely, my father asked, "are you happy or sad?"

A chill ran through my back. I knew that this father of mine was asking me a very, very important question, so critical that how I answered would determine whether I was a worthy a son for him or not. Many thoughts flickered through my head all at once. Did I not swear my allegiance to Japan several hours earlier that morning?, But... Then my instincts took over, hard: Japan has surrendered, but I am a Korean, not a Japanese. That's it! "I am happy that Japan surrendered," I answered with deliberate certainty.

"Right," my father's face broke loose into all smiles. "We are liberated from the Japanese rule. Korea will become an independent country, again." Almost unconsciously, he touched his close-cropped head. Barely a couple of months ago, my father had succumbed to the pressure of the rising war fervor and had cut his Western-style long hair short. All males were expected to look like soldiers.

I was delighted that I had passed my father's test. And I felt a surge of exultation steadily engulf me at the realization that Korea was free again from Japan's colonial rule. It was almost a miracle few Koreans had seriously anticipated until noon of the day, August 15, 1945. Our nightmare of 35 years since our country was annexed by Japan in 1910 was over.

There was a knock on the front door, and Sukja led in my aunt - my father's eldest sister. The aunt was happy to see that my father was home. After a short exchange of pleasantries, my aunt cautiously asked my father what Japan would do now. It was obvious that my aunt was concerned about her two sons. The older son was working at a munitions factory somewhere in Japan, and the younger one had been inducted into the Japanese Navy. My aunt did not know where her second son was. My father assured her that they would come home soon. "They will come home," he stressed.

My father then took off. He wanted to meet with his friends to discuss Korea's future.

I called Sukja to ask her for slices of watermelon for my aunt, but there was no answer. She must have gone outside, my aunt told me.

My aunt then asked me if I remembered how to write my name in Hangul, the Korean alphabet. I had not written anything in Korean since my second grade year when the Korean public schools stopped teaching the Korean language. Ever since, the Korean language had been banned in schools and in public, we could only use Japanese. Under the expectant eyes of my aunt, I tried to write my name in Hangul, and I failed miserably. I was stunned and embarrassed. At thirteen, I could not write my own name in my own language. My aunt stroked my back gently and taught me how to write my name. I mastered it in less than five minutes.

That day, like all of my fellow Koreans, I held the vexatious Japanese version of my name forced upon me by the Japanese colonial rulers several years ago.

I stepped out of the house to see my aunt off, and saw many townspeople pushing in scrum, shouting Haebang...Dongrip - liberation... independence. In a distant street corner, I saw a black-uniformed Japanese policeman with the regulation sabre hanging on his side watching the crowd apprehensively. It was a striking sight, Koreans shouting "Independence" in front of a Japanese policeman, unthinkable before noontime that day. A sense for a new reality, a phenomenal new era, began to permeate into my heart.

The dusk of a summer evening slowly descended upon the earth, and our maid Sukja was nowhere to be found. I was alone, getting hungry and began to worry about her. She had never been away for so long at a time and without permission. It was almost dark when she returned. She stood before me stiffly, and before I had a chance to open my mouth, she declared, "I want to leave."

"Leave? What do you mean? Where have you been?" Sensing something untoward, I asked her as gently as I could.

"I don't want to be your maid any more. Our country is free now, and I want to be free. I was talking with Mr. Yun, and he told me what had happened today. He told me I could have a better life, no need for me to be a maid, I can even go to school." Mr. Yun was our popular neighbor, a college student. I knew him well, and he was like an elder brother to me. He had loaned me many books.

I was awestruck. "But where is my dinner?" I asked her, and I realized it was a foolish thing to ask.

"I am going back my home village tonight. I will catch the midnight train. I have to pack," she said and retreated to her room adjacent to the kitchen.

I lay down on the floor and watched the ceiling, totally lost.

"Goodbye," I heard Sukja saying, and with a small pack on her back, she disappeared into the dark street.

I started to sob. And I heard a voice murmur into my ear: "Why do you cry? You are a big boy now, and aren't you ashamed of yourself for crying? What's the matter with you? Do you miss her?"

"I don't know why I am crying," I answered to the murmur. "No, I don't miss her. It's just that I thought she had to protect me; she betrayed me, and I am sad."

I soon fell asleep.