The Public Security State

Saturday, January 11. At last Syngman Rhee's dictatorship bared its teeth in earnest.

The police announced that they had obtained warrants from the court and arrested three executives of the Progressive Party on charges of violating the National Security Act. The papers predicted that party leader Cho Bong-am himself would likely not be among those targeted. It was a naive hope.

The Rhee regime had been lying in wait to remove Cho Bong-am, the man who had finished second in the third presidential election. Add the votes cast for Shin Ik-hee, who had died in the middle of the campaign, to Cho Bong-am's own, and the total was large enough to threaten Syngman Rhee. Set beside the Liberal Party's popularity, falling by the day, the arithmetic was plain enough: in the next presidential election, Cho Bong-am might well surpass him. From the very beginning, the regime had been aiming at Cho Bong-am.

Monday morning, January 13, the police took Cho Bong-am into custody. With the arrest they announced that he was implicated in the case of the spy Park Jeong-ho, who had been seized in early November of the year before.

The next day, January 14, Senior Prosecutor Cho In-gu, who had charge of the Park Jeong-ho case, called a press conference of his own accord and told the reporters:

Peaceful unification was the Progressive Party's platform, and the doctrine Cho Bong-am himself advanced. It was also a vision supported by a great many citizens who had already lived through one horrific war. Some believed the North could never be trusted, and that unification by force was the only answer; people who had met the war on the front lines found that claim appalling. The Rhee regime, all the same, branded every theory of unification that strayed from Rhee's own northward march—unification by arms—as the talk of Reds.

January 1958 passed as cold as the weather.

The Progressive Party executives were indicted, and on February 8, before any trial had even opened, the government hastily canceled the party's registration. A party could be dissolved only after a trial had run its course, yet the Rhee regime moved in a rush. The police announcements on the investigation of Cho Bong-am climbed steadily in pitch. It was no longer enough to say he had made contact with spies inside the South; the claims rose all the way to his having taken orders from Kim Il-sung.

The number of people under arrest swelled, and word that spy networks had been swept up in a single dragnet left the public aghast. Rumors went around that a politician who had stood as a candidate in the third presidential election—and drawn a considerable share of the vote—had been Kim Il-sung's errand boy. Whether one believed it was each person's own affair, but as such stories climbed in and out of the press day after day, the mood turned ugly.

From the start of 1958, Ki-jo watched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the country slide into a public security state, and he could not keep a heavy heart down. In the life he had lived before, he had been too busy scraping by to do more than conclude that Cho Bong-am must have been a spy after all. Not now. How badly the Rhee regime was erring lay before his eyes with painful ease. It was not a matter he dared step into, and so he gave himself wholly to his work.

In 1958 he launched two choice new ventures: Angora rabbit farming and a wig business.

Angora fur went into cold-weather goods—earmuffs and the like—and it exported well. On the international market a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kilogram brought about six dollars. For Korea, an agricultural country with virtually no industrial base, the fit was exact. Ki-jo chose not to build a large Angora farm of his own. He subcontracted the raising to people in the countryside and bought the yield back from them, a way to lift the incomes of rural households that were poor enough already. He instructed Ma-ryang, fluent in Chinese, to bring the rabbits in through Hong Kong, and he obtained a Japanese book on how to raise them, had it translated, and sent the manuscript to a printer.

The shop that would print the manual stood near his house: Gwangmyeong Printing. When Ki-jo went to meet the owner, he felt Park Chung-hee's shadow fall across him once again.

The printer, Lee Hak-su, was the man who on the eve of the May 16 coup in 1961 would risk his life to run off three hundred thousand copies of the revolutionary proclamation. He was close to Kim Jong-pil, and he knew Park Chung-hee as well.

Handed the order for the rabbit book, Lee Hak-su broke into a smile.

"So you're going into the rabbit business."

"Yes. That's right."

"Rabbits are easy keepers. They breed well, and out in the country feed isn't hard to come by."

He beamed at the work Ki-jo had brought him.

"I'll be counting on you."

"Of course. I'll have five thousand copies knocked out in no time. If you need more, just say the word."

When the booklets came off the presses at Gwangmyeong Printing, Ki-jo took several copies and went to the Ministry of Education. He wanted the ministry's help in sending the manuals out to schools of every level. Illiteracy ran high in the countryside; handing out books would do little by itself, so he meant to put them first into the hands of children who could read, hoping those children would read them aloud to their parents.

The official who heard him out seemed uneasy about granting a private businessman's request, and asked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what the venture was really for.

"People could say a private operator used the Ministry of Education to turn a profit."

Ki-jo answered, unruffled.

"If I wanted to, I could build a large breeding farm and raise the rabbits myself. This is my business, yes—but I came because I want to help the rural economy. And the booklet I've made would serve well enough as a text for agricultural education."

The official listened, then made a suggestion.

"Have the Ministry of Agriculture and the Ministry of Reconstruction review the project first. If they say it has commercial merit, the Ministry of Education will reconsider whether it has educational value."

"I understand."

Ki-jo left several copies with the man and walked out of the ministry. As advised, he called on Agriculture and on Reconstruction, laid the matter before the officials in charge, and tried to come away with word that the project was sound. Both ministries only shifted the responsibility onto each other and would not cooperate. He could see himself being spun from office to office, and had just resolved to push the work on his own when a call came from Kwak Young-joo.

Ki-jo went with Kwak Young-joo to Lee Ki-poong's residence. It was only their second meeting, and at the sight of him Lee Ki-poong brightened.

"President Lee, is the brick business treating you well these days?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman. Thanks to the care you showed me before, I manage to keep food on the table."

"Haha, do you? I hear you do a great deal of good, too. There's talk you're out again with your sleeves rolled up—this time for the countryside?"

Ki-jo understood at once. While he had been making the rounds of the ministries for the Angora project, Lee Ki-poong had caught the scent and meant to set his own spoon in the bowl.

"Let us do that business together with the Liberal Party. Don't wear yourself out going from ministry to ministry. You have the Liberal Party, don't you—strong, and good at getting things done?"

"It would be an honor, Mr. Chairman."

Ki-jo bowed his head.

"There is an election in May. Our assemblymen must go down to their districts and undertake something for the people there, and I consider this a very fine piece of work. The party's local organizations will assist you with all their strength."

"Thank you."

Ki-jo complied without a murmur of objection. It was, after all, a chance to have the Liberal Party's formidable local machine at his back.

"President Lee, I think it best to begin the Angora business in the Icheon area. What do you say?"

Lee Ki-poong asked.

Ki-jo could see it plainly: the man meant to take Icheon, the district he had been coveting, in earnest. Kwak Young-joo seemed to feel it as well; for a moment his face went blank. Lee Jeong-jae, bound to Kwak by a close tie, had poured his efforts into Icheon, and Lee Ki-poong's sudden interest did not look like a casual thing. But Kwak, for whom the order of power was absolute, was not a man to sit quiet.

"President Lee, what are you doing? Answer him."

"Ah—yes. As Chairman Lee says, I'll begin the business in Icheon."

At that, Lee Ki-poong laughed outright.

"Hahaha. If the Republic of Korea had more young men as clever and diligent as President Lee, how fine that would be. That is how we become one of the four great powers His Excellency the President speaks of, is it not? Hahaha."

Ki-jo agreed to add a line to the cover of the rabbit book, and to print a few words of presentation from Lee Ki-poong, and then he took his leave.

Out of the house and into the jeep, Ki-jo turned to Kwak Young-joo.

"What happens to Jeong-jae hyung?"

"What do you mean, what happens?"

Kwak tossed the question back as if he did not understand.

"Icheon is a place Jeong-jae hyung has been working hard to build up. If the Chairman moves like this without even speaking to him..."

"Hey! Lee Ki-jo! Get a hold of yourself!"

Kwak roared. He, too, had just felt beyond any doubt that Lee Ki-poong wanted Icheon, and he looked badly unsettled.

"Don't so much as open your mouth to Jeong-jae."

"Yes. I understand."

Perhaps ashamed of having shouted all at once, Kwak dropped his voice.

"Ki-jo. We live thinking of the men above us. That's enough. Don't get above yourself, trying to look after every last person."

"Yes, hyung."

"Jeong-jae knows his place. Isn't it the Chairman's favor that's let him grow this big? If the Chairman says he's going to Icheon, of course he'll accept it."

"Yes. He will."

Ki-jo knew well enough how Lee Jeong-jae would take it, but he let Kwak's words stand.

"Let's go," Kwak said.

Ki-jo saw him as far as the gates of Gyeongmudae and returned to headquarters.

In the end, Angora rabbit farming would go forward together with the Liberal Party's campaign to raise rural incomes. He had not wanted the business turned to political use, but the help was real enough. Ki-jo left the rabbits to Ma-ryang and pressed straight on into wigs.

The wig trade, too, had a bright road ahead. Build the manufacturing craft from now, and the 1960s would pay him handsomely. The first year of wig exports would be 1964. Korean wigs would go to the United States, which until then had bought its wigs from China. Once America entered the Vietnam War in earnest and fell out with China, it would ban the import of Chinese wigs—goods out of a country backing North Vietnam. Cut off from China, American wig makers would turn their eyes to Korea, where wages were cheap.

In 1964 Korea would export fourteen thousand dollars' worth of wigs. In 1965 the figure would leap more than tenfold, to one million five hundred fifty thousand dollars. In 1966 it would break ten million, and each year after that exports would climb by another ten million, until in 1969 they reached fifty million dollars. From the middle of the sixties, wigs would take their place among Korea's leading export industries.

Looking for the right man to run it, Ki-jo settled on Ko Wang-chul. Wigs would be made chiefly from hair gathered off poor women in the countryside, and no one was better suited to knot a network across the whole country. He called Wang-chul in to headquarters and sat down with him.

"Director Ko. How are the people at Cheongsan Transport these days?"

"Doing fine."

"Have they taken in a good share of what you know?"

"Yes. Haha. They've stripped the know-how right off me. The work'll go on well enough now, even if I'm not there."

Wang-chul said it plain. When Ki-jo had bound him to a five-year contract in 1955 and paid all five years' wages in a single sum, the man had said as much himself.

"Give it five years and the drivers at Cheongsan Transport will have learned every method I have. You'll have sixty of them, a hundred. And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then you'll look at my pay and decide it's too high."

He had already foreseen it: once the men absorbed what he knew, five years would leave him no one special.

"If I've come to look unnecessary to you..."

Wang-chul asked it carefully.

"What are you saying? I did not call you in for any reason like that."

"Then why did you..."

"When you signed that five-year contract with me in '55, you said it, didn't you? That the day would come when you'd show an ability only Director Ko could show."

"Yes. I said I'd prove I was a man worth four times an ordinary hand's pay."

"You did. That is why I called you."

Ki-jo smiled, and went on.

"I want you to take the wig business."

"The wig business?"

"Yes. We have to bring in hair from women all over the country. The man who can do that well—"

"I'll take it! That's one job I'm more sure of than anybody."

Wang-chul said it like a vow. Looking at him, Ki-jo smiled.