New Year's Day, 1959

On the first morning of 1959, Ki-jo arrived at DBC early.

He stepped into the president's office and went over the script for the New Year's special one more time. The 1959 special, Hearing from the Ambassadors, was a conversation program that brought in the ambassadors of West Germany, Italy, France, and the Republic of China—Taiwan—to speak. He had secured them by steadily seeking the cooperation of the envoys he had met at the Taechang Nylon Show the previous autumn, and the broadcast was set to run for four days beginning on January 1. Each country would have forty minutes, in which its ambassador introduced his nation and spoke to the outlook for relations with Korea.

The manuscripts sent ahead were, true to diplomats, filled with nothing but rosy forecasts. West Germany, Italy, and France had written of their hope that exchanges in culture, economics, science, and technology would let both sides prosper together. Ki-jo hoped only that things would turn out as those pages promised, and he meant to do what he could to see that they did.

Last of all he reviewed the manuscript from the Republic of China. Its burden was to stress the history of Korea and China standing together through the Imjin invasions and the independence movement, and to call for unification in the fight against communism.

When he finished with the scripts, he went to the studio where the filming would take place and checked the set. The flags of Korea and West Germany stood at the center, and around them doves had been painted as symbols of peace. He spoke with the announcer, who had come in early to prepare for the day's discussion.

"Announcer Im, you've read the points the West German embassy asked us to observe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Under no circumstances are you to bring up the Nazis, or the Jews."

"Yes. I'll keep strictly to the postwar years."

"And nothing about why they didn't come into the Korean War as part of the UN forces. West Germany is a country that cannot send troops to a war overseas."

"Understood, sir."

Satisfied that the program was in order, Ki-jo returned to the president's office.

A little past nine, President Chang Key-young and Technical President Hwang Tae-young came in to work and stepped into his room.

"Happy New Year, President ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Lee."

"A happy New Year to you, sir."

Ki-jo poured tea for them, and they talked. The subject, inevitably, was the revision of the National Security Act, rammed through the National Assembly at the close of the year before.

"The heart of this third revision is the crime of agitating the public mind." Chang Key-young laid out the dangers of the new law. "Any way you look at it, this is a gag on the press."

He cited Article 17, Paragraph 5.

That was the provision.

"Of course the press must not spread falsehoods. But now and then we make a mistake. And if the government decides that mistake was deliberate, and claims it benefited the enemy, then a reporter—or I myself—falls under the National Security Act."

Hwang Tae-young nodded at Chang's words. "Once you're caught under the National Security Act, the charge of espionage follows, I suppose."

"That's exactly it, President Hwang. That's the frightening part. They branded Cho Bong-am a spy and sentenced him to death, didn't they?" Chang was worked up. "Hang it on the nose and it's a nose ring; hang it on the ear and it's an earring. That's the kind of law this is. The government is telling the press: watch your mouths, or one blow and you're finished."

Ki-jo knew which paper was marked for that single blow. The Kyunghyang Shinmun. The Syngman Rhee government, perhaps uneasy about closing the nation's second-largest newspaper—the very paper that had warned the National Security Act would be turned into a tool for suppressing the press—by means of that same Act, would instead invoke Military Government Ordinance No. 88, a holdover from the days of the U.S. Army military government, and order the paper shut down.

For a while Chang Key-young and Hwang Tae-young talked over the National Security Act upheaval of Christmas Eve the year before. The scandal was the affair in which the Liberal Party had mobilized three hundred police sergeants drilled in the martial arts, beaten the opposition lawmakers, locked them in a basement, and then passed the bill. It was one more proof that the Syngman Rhee government was a dictatorship.

It was never released to the public, but the very day after the National Security Act passed, U.S. President Eisenhower sent Syngman Rhee a personal letter to this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠effect.

The president of the United States had sent a personal letter at once, and the judgment in it was harsh: the intent of the new law was suspect, the procedure had been wrong, and by any reading this was not something a democratic nation ought to do.

Syngman Rhee took the letter as American interference in domestic affairs. Ki-jo, though, thought he should not have ignored the warning. There was, of course, room to call it meddling—but the United States was no fool. Even at the cost of being accused of interfering, Washington had in effect warned Rhee that if he went on in this way, disaster would find him. That warning was due to come true the following year.

Having finished a thorough denunciation of the Rhee government, Chang Key-young returned to his own office. Technical President Hwang Tae-young stayed behind. He looked as if he had something to say.

"President Lee, among the things President Chang said just now—he claimed the Syngman Rhee regime wouldn't last long...."

Ki-jo knew that Hwang Tae-young was well disposed toward Syngman Rhee. It was Rhee's help and backing that had let Hwang go to the United States and make contact with RCA, and again when he had set out to launch HLKZ-TV. Hwang spoke excellent English, and Rhee was exceedingly fond of people who did. When Hwang wrote him in English to say he wanted to open a television station in Korea, Rhee invited him to Gyeongmudae and spared neither encouragement nor support.

The April 19 uprising would come the following year, but not every citizen would welcome the fall of the Rhee government. A fair number believed that to fight the wicked communists, the country needed a stubborn leader of Rhee's kind. Ki-jo thought it only natural that Hwang should doubt Chang's confident prediction that the regime's end was near.

"President Chang was probably speaking with next year's presidential election in mind. Since we moved to a direct vote, President Rhee's share has been falling steadily, hasn't it? I imagine he was weighing that trend."

Rhee's share had slipped from 74.61 percent in the second presidential election to 69.98 percent in the third. And that had happened even as the fraud grew worse with every contest, so it was easy to guess that if one peeled back the true tally, the figure would have fallen further still.

"That could be." Hwang nodded.

For Hwang, a Liberal Party man, Ki-jo put up a tactful defense of Chang, who was anything but, and then said, "I have to get over to Yeouido Airport. Someone is due in."

At that, Hwang rose. "I think I spoke out of turn. Everyone has his own thoughts about politics."

"Not at all, President Hwang. As I see it, President Rhee will be reelected comfortably in the 1960 election."

"You think so? So do I."

Hwang smiled at Ki-jo's words and left the room.

Ki-jo was working alongside people whose politics were all different. He believed that keeping them at a distance over those differences would only cost him. It would be the same with the people he worked with in the years ahead. Some would have fought in the independence movement; others would have collaborated with the Japanese. If he weighed every such thing and pushed people away, he thought, it would be hard to accomplish anything large in Korea.

After Hwang had gone, he put his papers in order and stepped out of the president's office himself.

Ki-jo drove the jeep out to Yeouido Airport to meet Park Hee-jun, home from the United States. An NWA—Northwest—airliner in from America touched down, and when the cabin door opened, Park Hee-jun was the first off. Carrying two large bags, he came down the airstairs and called out to Ki-jo, who stood waiting.

"President Lee Ki-jo! It's been too long!"

Two days in the air, by way of Hawaii and Tokyo, had left Hee-jun looking worn, but his face was bright. Four months apart, and he was fairly buzzing with it. Together they went into the immigration office.

In those days the place was as shabby as a country station, and the formalities were simple. Even so, a measure of discrimination held. Westerners were usually through with the mere showing of a passport, while Koreans were searched with care. Park Hee-jun was unmistakably an American, but the moment he fell into Korean with Ki-jo, a clerk asked to inspect his bags.

Taking out what he had brought from America in front of the customs officer, Hee-jun turned to Ki-jo beside him. "I bought gifts over there. The third one must have been born by now?"

"Yes. A boy."

"Congratulations, President Lee! One son is far too few. You want three or four before you can rest easy."

Laughing cheerfully, he produced four gift bundles. "I had to stuff them in the bag, so I couldn't wrap them properly. I did bring the paper and the ribbon, though."

The wrapping paper he drew out bore the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mark of J.C. Penney, a department store for the American middle class. He pointed to the first bundle.

"Give this to your wife. It's an evening dress."

"And this is a set of school supplies for Yeong-su, your eldest."

"For Yeong-eun, your second, a doll that's all the fashion in America these days."

Having set out the three, he asked, "What's the third one's name?"

"Yeong-jun."

"This is formula and a baby bottle for little Yeong-jun. American mothers these days mix formula instead of nursing and feed it from a bottle. I suppose it must be better for the child. Ha ha ha!"

It wasn't, though there had been a time when Koreans thought so too.

"Thank you, President Park."

"I haven't shown you your own gift yet."

"Haven't you? I'm quite all right. The gifts for the family are already more than enough."

"Please take this."

Hee-jun drew a key ring from his pocket and pressed it into Ki-jo's hand. A Cadillac emblem was set into it.

"This is—"

At Ki-jo's start of surprise, Hee-jun laughed. "A 1959 Cadillac ought to be coming into Busan by way of Japan right about now."

Looking at the key in his palm, Ki-jo felt the weight of it. In the Republic of Korea, not even the sitting president rode in the latest Cadillac.

"How can I accept a car? You ought to be the one driving it, President Park."

"I knew you'd say that, so I ordered two and sent them both to Korea. I'll be driving the very same car. Ha ha ha!"

Hee-jun, by now something of an expert on Ki-jo, laughed out loud. "When they come in, come down to Busan with me and we'll collect them together."

"Ah—yes, of course. Thank you, President Park." Ki-jo thanked him once more.

While the two of them were talking, the people in the immigration office crowded over to gawk at Hee-jun's gifts. Sensing they were about to butt in with every question they could think of, Ki-jo said, "Let's get to my car. You must be tired—I'll take you straight to the hotel."

"Ah, yes. Let's."

Hee-jun, too, seemed burdened by the onlookers. He gathered his luggage with Ki-jo and they hurried out of the office.

On the drive to the hotel, Hee-jun passed along what he had heard in America: the economy there was worsening more than anyone had expected. He was well into a long complaint when Ki-jo, at the wheel, asked, "President Park, if the American economy sours, used cars and used machinery over there ought to get cheaper, shouldn't they?"

Hee-jun, full of worry over the slump, caught himself at the words. Yes. This is how business ought to be done. Watching Ki-jo look for a way to turn an American recession to account, he understood all over again that a businessman, no matter what befell, had to find the bright side and get to work.

While he was still marveling at that, he remembered meeting the president of McDonald's in the States. "Ah! I nearly forgot. I saw him and delivered your letter. And then he asked me something—quite seriously."

"What did he ask?"

Ki-jo kept his eyes on the road, but he was listening hard. He wanted to know what Ray Kroc had said.