The Purge
Kijo believed he had made several grave mistakes in his eleventh life.
The one that hurt him most was failing to get Sunrye to a hospital any sooner. From her mid-forties she had been tired every single day, and neither of them had treated it as anything but the ordinary course of getting old. They were people of an older time. Age brought aches, and living grew harder; that was simply how it was. She would say each day left her worn out, and still, whenever Kijo suggested they see a doctor, Sunrye refused.
The regret that he might have kept her with him longer, had he only taken her in earlier, had darkened the last years of his life.
Next had been opposing Yeongsu's marriage to his daughter-in-law. In those days he had not understood that a child's life belonged to the child. With the typical mind of an old-fashioned man, he had wanted, badly, for his son to make the match the parents approved. Only after his first grandson was born did he see how hard he had made things for his son and the woman who married him.
Those two mistakes planted a pain deep in Kijo after Sunrye, Yeongsu, and his daughter-in-law were gone from the world.
And there was one thing more. There had been an incident that showed him he had been thinking wrong.
It was May 5, 1989, and Kijo was fifty-nine. Ten years had passed since Sunrye's death, and still he could not get hold of himself; he drifted. He lived out in the country and let the years go by drinking with a friend from the neighborhood. Left alone in the house, he could not bear the thought of his dead wife, and so there had been no other life for him.
That day, too, he sat in a tofu house in the township, drinking soju and staring blankly at the television news.
His drinking companion, listening to the set, clicked his tongue.
"That's what you get with Soft Tae-woo. The man's too mushy, so those leftist students think they can laugh at the law and burn police officers to death. Isn't that it?"
The disaster had happened in Busan, the city where Kijo had lived so long, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could not understand why people had to go on killing and being killed like that. What was politics, that it should take a human life?
He put a bite of anju in his mouth and, though he had things he might have said, said none of them. None of it mattered anymore. That was how he saw it.
"Chun Doo-hwan needs to come back. That Roh Tae-woo can't hold them. Reds start running wild, you've got to smash them at the very start, same as Gwangju."
Mr. Jeong, Kijo's drinking friend, was a hard-line conservative. It wasn't that their politics agreed. He was simply a man who would drink whenever Kijo felt like drinking, and so they kept company — the sort of country fellow you saw all over the villages of North Gyeongsang in the eighties.
"Say what you like about Chun Doo-hwan's relatives lining their pockets. Didn't he run the country right? A country has to be run hard like that."
The moment the words left him, somebody slammed a liquor table down hard in a corner of the room. Kijo and his friend looked toward the sound. Two young men were sitting there; one had the other by the shoulder and was trying to settle him.
Mr. Jeong peered at one of them and called across.
"Well, look at that. Isn't that the Moons' eldest boy? Hey! Come over here! You're Jeong-ho, aren't you? Don't you know me?"
The young man who had been on his feet bowed his head.
"Yes, sir. Have you been keeping well?"
"Yeah. Step over here a minute."
Jeong-ho patted the shoulder of the one who was swallowing his anger, then came and stood before their table.
"You're a college boy now, aren't you? Who's the friend sitting with you?"
"A classmate from school, sir. He came along to help my father with the farm work."
"Did he? Decent of him... That friend of yours with his head hanging — tell him to come over too. I'll give him a drink."
"Sir... maybe later, if you would. My friend's had a bit too much. He's not in good shape."
Kijo studied the young man with his head bowed, fury held down under it. There was a story there; he could see that much.
"Hey. Don't you know I'm friends with your father? I'm drunk myself. It's fine — tell him to come take the drink his elder's offering!"
When Mr. Jeong turned stubborn about it, the local boy whispered to his friend for a long while, then got him to his feet. Mr. Jeong looked at the young man now seated in front of his table.
"Good student, coming all this way to help a friend's father with the farming. Where's home?"
"Gwangju."
"Gwangju up in Gyeonggi? You've come a long way."
"No, sir. Gwangju in Jeolla."
For a moment Mr. Jeong only stared at him, blank.
"Ah... that so? Well, take a glass from me first."
He poured the soju. The young man received the glass in both hands, turned his face aside to empty it, and set it back without once meeting Mr. Jeong's eyes. A little abashed, perhaps, by what he himself had said earlier, Mr. Jeong tried again.
"Since you say you're from Gwangju — and I'm only saying this — you got taken in by Kim Dae-jung and came to grief, so about what I said a minute ago..."
"It wasn't like that, sir."
"What... wasn't?"
"We didn't demonstrate because somebody tricked us..."
Kijo was struck by the sight of him — pressing his anger flat, working so hard to stay polite.
"Ah, well. Way I heard it, the ones who led the violent protests were spies sent down from the North. President Park was dead by then and the country was in a mess, so it could go that way. Same in our time. Spies raised hell on Jeju, and in Yeosu and Suncheon, and the only ones who suffered were the people living there..."
At that the young man lifted his head and looked at Mr. Jeong.
"Sir... what was it we did that was so wrong?"
The talk had turned uncomfortable. Jeong-ho spoke quickly to his friend.
"Min-gyo. Leave it. Let's go."
"Jeong-ho. There's one thing I want to ask this gentleman before I go."
"You're drunk. Come on, let's go."
"Sir..."
The young man from Gwangju called to Mr. Jeong with tears standing in his eyes.
"I still don't understand... what my mother and my little brother did wrong in May of 1980..."
Jeong-ho stepped in at once.
"Sir, my friend has something of a story. I'll explain it to you properly later, if I may."
Mr. Jeong seemed to catch something in those words, and moved to close the matter.
"Ahem. All right, tell me later. Still, I'll say this one thing. Just because you're college students now, don't go demonstrating. Hear me? You saw what happened in Busan, didn't you? What kind of business is that? The ones protesting and the ones stopping them — all young men of the same Republic of Korea, aren't they? We can't have our own fighting each other and burning to death. You follow me?"
At that the young man from Gwangju bowed his head and wept, desolate. Kijo felt a wrench of pity for him, crying the way people said an ox cries — great tears, falling hard.
"Sir... what the students did at Dong-A University was wrong. It never should have happened..."
He was weeping as he said it, and Mr. Jeong, uneasy himself, put in a word.
"Good. Long as you know that. If I came down too hard earlier, forgive me. I only talk that way because I worry about you young ones, and I worry about the country..."
"But sir... why was my mother shot dead? Why did my seven-year-old brother take a bullet in the back? They went out to buy rice. What great crime was that, that soldiers drove bullets into my mother's back, and my brother's...?"
Watching him break into ragged sobs, Kijo felt his sight blur. In the young man's face he saw two people at once: himself, who had lost a wife, and his son Yeongsu, who had lost a mother.
Even Mr. Jeong, who had denounced the tragedy of May 1980 in Gwangju as a riot stirred up by spies, found he had nothing left to say. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and let out a long sigh.
"Let's go, Min-gyo..."
Jeong-ho took him by the shoulder and got him up.
"We'll be going, sir. We're sorry."
"Yeah, Jeong-ho. I'll cover the drinks. Just go on."
He said it without quite being able to look at either of them. Kijo watched the two young men duck their heads and leave the low-ceilinged tofu house, and his chest ached.
Until that day he had not really known what May 18 was. Politics had never interested him, and in '79, with Sunrye dead, the affairs of the world had interested him even less. He had vaguely supposed it was something like the Buma Uprising in Busan and Masan that October — the protests grown fierce, the soldiers opening fire, a violent clash between citizens and troops, and nothing more.
After that evening a quiet interest in May 18 began to take hold of him, and little by little he learned what had happened in May of 1980. The conclusion he reached was simple. The order to fire on the citizens should never have been given. And he found he could not, no matter how he turned it, think well of Chun Doo-hwan. The country, he decided, would have gone on perfectly well even if Chun had never taken power in 1980.
People said he had managed the economy skillfully, but that had been less Chun Doo-hwan's achievement than the three-lows boom of the eighties — cheap oil, cheap credit, and a cheap dollar. Whoever had sat in the presidency, the world economy of those years was bound to steady prices and swell exports. Far too much refused to fit if one tried to lay it all at the feet of His Excellency Chun Doo-hwan. He was, rather, the man who had taken a knife on a whim to the great firms that had grown so sturdily through the Park Chung-hee years and broken their nerve; who had merged the broadcasters and shut them down, and muzzled the press. He was the one who had dragged society backward.
That was why Kijo meant to purge the New Military before it ever had the chance to rise.
He went on ahead to the gisaeng house Jeongnan-gak and waited for Kwak Young-joo. When Kwak and the station chiefs came in, he greeted them warmly and seated Kwak in the place of honor.
"Well then. Shall we loosen these ties and enjoy ourselves?"
Kwak Young-joo had been treated to the Dongdaemun outfit's roaring hospitality more times than he could count, and he knew how to take his pleasure. They were in full swing when one of the chiefs raised his voice and put a question to Kijo.
"President Lee, do you know that insolent lieutenant who's been standing guard out in front of the factory? Before the Superintendent has to step in, we mean to teach the bastard a lesson at our own level."
It was excessive loyalty, and it took a little of the shine off the evening. Once one chief had spoken, another, not to be outdone, opened his mouth.
"I've got his name memorized. We'll turn his family inside out first, then every relative he's got. After that he'll come kneel in front of the Superintendent on his own, put his hands together, and beg pardon."
A contest of loyalty to the real power come down from Gyeongmudae rolled on.
"Superintendent, just give the order. I'll take a flying column and drag that lieutenant in."
The talk was growing dangerous. Kwak Young-joo, though, seemed rather pleased with the chiefs. He laughed, a rough haw-haw, slipped an arm around the waist of the gisaeng beside him, and spoke, well content.
"What's all this? I only came down to look around and see that nothing's amiss in Busan. Why do you keep trying to make a case of it? On an evening as pleasant as this. Isn't that so, Myoseon?"
"Korea Military Academy. Eleventh class."
Kijo dropped the words in, and every eye turned to him.
"The eleventh?"
Kwak asked it indifferently. At that the station chiefs came alive.
"Just as I thought — it's them. You hear it everywhere. The eleventh class of the Academy is nothing but trouble."
"They say they're the first real class of the Academy, and they look down on their seniors. Nasty pieces of work."
"They even protested to the Minister of National Defense, demanding to be called the first regular class. So what does that make the men ahead of them? Back then we were short of officers, so men were trained fast and sent to the front — and these scoundrels, who spent the Korean War training in the rear, can't even keep courtesy toward the seniors who defended the country!"
"Kids these days don't even know they eat and live because their seniors kept the country. Every one of them thinks he's the one who's special."
As the denunciation rolled on, Kwak stepped in.
"Looks like I'll have to take them in hand myself."
He said it with a flash of a grin, and the chiefs' praise followed at once.
"You ought to show them what's what, Superintendent."
The gisaeng crowded close, cooing, and wondered aloud what he meant to do with the soldiers. Kwak turned to the one whose waist he had been kneading.
"And what should your big brother do with these soldiers who've got their hackles up? Bite them with my teeth? Like this...?"
With that he yanked open her jeogori and made as if to bite her breast. As the closeness between Kwak and the women thickened, the chief seated beside Kijo leaned in and asked, low.
"At this point we ought to make ourselves scarce, shouldn't we?"
The chiefs, too, seemed to know that this was Kwak's time with the women.
"We've had a table set in a side room. Move over and keep enjoying yourselves."
"Aigoo, President Lee. A man who's attended the Superintendent in Seoul, through and through. Ha ha ha. Very good. We'll leave him in your hands."
He passed a whisper to the others, and one by one the chiefs rose. The one who had been beside Kijo turned to Kwak.
"Superintendent, we thought we might change rooms. You must be tired, coming all the way to Busan — please rest easy."
"Leaving already? I'm not tired."
Kijo, who knew it was only something said, gave the chief beside him a look.
"Ha — seems we can't keep up with the Superintendent's stamina. We're the tired ones, so we'll just..."
"Ah, all right. Go and rest. We'll push tomorrow's inspection back a few hours."
"Yes, Superintendent."
They put on their caps, saluted, and left the room. When Kijo remained alone, Kwak looked at him.
"What, you want to play along with me? Kijo — do you even know how?"
"No, Superintendent."
He bowed his head as he said it. Kwak was a little drunk.
"Then you're going to stand there and watch me at it? Ha... lewder than he looks, this one."
The gisaeng tittered.
"I'd like to give you the roster of the eleventh class."
"Ah, right. Those bastards. Stick it in my suit pocket. Sons of bitches... I'll strip the uniforms clean off them and tie them up in front of Gwanghwamun..."
The women burst into bright laughter. Kijo slipped the Oseonghoe roster he had prepared into the pocket of Kwak Young-joo's jacket.
Oseonghoe was the forerunner of Hanahoe, a private fraternity Chun Doo-hwan had formed by gathering five cadets of the Military Academy, all of them sons of Gyeongsang. Five names were written on it: Chun Doo-hwan, Roh Tae-woo, Kim Bok-dong, Choi Seong-taek, and Baek Un-taek.
Once the list was in the pocket, Kijo crooked a finger at the gisaeng sitting farthest from Kwak. He took ten one-dollar bills from his wallet, put them in her hand, and spoke.
"In the morning, when the Superintendent starts coughing, bring him a bowl of dried-pollack soup — and tell him the list of the eleventh-class men who've been causing trouble is inside his suit."
"Oh my, sir. Aren't you the attentive one. The devotion you show in serving your superior — it's really something."
She winked and bumped his shoulder with her own, then tucked the ten bills down into her bosom. When Kijo stepped out of the room, she came pattering after him. Opening one door after another as they passed, she followed him all the way to the front gate.
"Sir, I don't think the Superintendent's going to choose me tonight... Would you care to spend a little time with me before you go?"
"No. Just be sure to do exactly the thing I asked."
"I really have taken a liking to you, sir..."
She was looking at him with heat in her eyes. Kijo gave her a single line.
"I'll be at Cheongsan Shipping."
"Shall I come there...?"
"No. If the Superintendent asks for me in the morning, tell him I'm at Cheongsan Shipping."
"Yes..."
Leaving Jeongnan-gak, he had had a few drinks and gave up on driving. He left the jeep where it was and walked to the Cheongsan Shipping office in Nampo-dong. The hour was far too late to impose on Oh Yang-soo's house. The clerk on night duty opened the door for him.
"Sir, what brings you at an hour like this?"
"Sorry to come so late. I'll sleep in the office, so you rest in the duty room."
At that the clerk went into the night room. Kijo lay down on the sofa in the darkened office and looked at the ceiling. Now and then the beam of a lighthouse swept through and lit the room. The face of the young man from his previous life rose up before him — the one who had wept so wretchedly. Thinking of that young man, he found that this first laying of a hand on Korean politics did not weigh on him. If anything, his heart was light.
Early the next morning, Kijo opened his eyes.