Repatriation to the North
On February 1, the day after the preview screening, shocking news reached Korea.
Japan's Ministry of Foreign Affairs announced that it would send Korean residents in Japan back to North Korea, even if doing so wrecked the Korea-Japan talks. The statement was more than enough to set Koreans burning with anger. The Ministry made it plain that even if it listened to Seoul's wishes on the repatriation, it would yield nothing at the negotiating table. From the first word, the posture was one of contempt for Korea.
Their grounds were these. Koreans in Japan lived in poverty, they said, so return to the North was a humanitarian matter that had to be handled at once; and under Japan's existing immigration ordinance, there was scarcely any legal basis for stopping them from going.
Ki-jo knew precisely how hypocritical that argument was. Even if relations with Korea collapsed, Japan wanted—if it could manage it—to drive out every one of the six hundred thousand Koreans living in the country. Failing that, it wanted their numbers cut drastically. At bottom, Japan took the view that it hardly mattered if ties were severed with Korea, its former colony. A backward country could be ignored without consequence, and friendliness would bring Japan nothing worth having. That was how the Japanese saw it.
The repatriation question had already been in the air since 1955. When Japan normalized relations with the Soviet Union, the General Association of Korean Residents in Japan—Chongryon—organized that same year, argued that if Tokyo meant to normalize ties with North Korea, it would first have to send the Koreans in Japan north. Thereafter the Japanese Red Cross and the International Red Cross exchanged memoranda pledging to cooperate in repatriating each other's nationals living in, or held in, Japan and the North. In April 1956 the Japanese who had remained in North Korea returned home, and that December twenty Koreans in Japan went north.
From 1958 the demands of Pyongyang and Chongryon grew fiercer still. Chongryon staged rallies across Japan and ran a full repatriation campaign. Behind the noise lay the North's desperation. Labor for the five-year economic plan launched in 1957 was critically short. So many young men had died in the war, and with the withdrawal of the four hundred thousand Chinese troops stationed in the North, there were nowhere near enough soldiers left to man the line.
From the end of 1958 the movement took on real force. A Council for the Return of Koreans in Japan was formed, with former Prime Minister Hatoyama among its members, and it urged the government to press ahead with repatriation whether or not the policy poisoned the Korea-Japan talks. Tokyo answered in the affirmative. All of this was unfolding inside Japan, and still the Korean government either did not know or did not care.
Japan, which had been laying the groundwork piece by piece, and North Korea, hungry for labor, found their interests aligned. At last the thing broke open.
On February 13 the Japanese government finally decided to push the repatriation forward, and only then did the Syngman Rhee regime let its fury loose. Rhee opposed it on three grounds. Sending Koreans in Japan to the North would damage Korea's standing in the world. Communists from the South would travel to the North and back by way of Japan. And Japan itself would become a base for Northern spies.
From the day of the announcement, the regime's specialty began: orchestrated demonstrations. As in the 1954 rallies against the withdrawal of American troops, students, unions, disabled veterans, market traders, and merchants' associations of every stripe were turned out until they packed the streets. A column shouting against the repatriation passed in front of Cheongsan headquarters and left the place in an uproar.
Ki-jo paid the marchers little mind. However fiercely Korea objected, the repatriation would happen in the end. It did no good to notify Japan that Seoul would treat the shipment of its people north as tantamount to a declaration of war. The only country that could stop Japan was the United States, and the United States stood with Japan. Both governments demanded that Washington take a position, but America chose neither to support the repatriation nor to oppose it. In effect, it had ruled for Japan. Tokyo promised that if Washington would look the other way, the alliance could be extended without friction. Korea had nothing to offer in return.
In the end the interests of the United States, Japan, and North Korea converged, and the repatriation would not be finished until 1984, after it had driven 93,340 people into the pit of hell. It was a bitter business. There was nothing to be done about it.
When the demonstrators had passed the headquarters, Ki-jo took his coat and hat and came out of his office. Drawing the coat on, he spoke to Dae-ik.
"I'll be in Yongsan. I'll finish the day there, so if anything urgent comes up, reach me in Yongsan."
"Yes, sir."
Ki-jo climbed into the jeep parked in front of the building and drove for Yongsan.
In front of the Yongsan U.S. Army base, a hamburger shop of Cheongsan brick and cement stood finished.
Ki-jo pulled up and went inside. The place had been built exactly to the blueprints McDonald's had sent. Ray Kroc had forwarded the plans for a franchise in Cleveland, Ohio, where the climate was close to Korea's. In the kitchen, cooking equipment shipped by sea was already installed. Perhaps because Ki-jo had written him at length about Korean weather, Kroc had sent four large refrigerators and ten big electric fans. The refrigerators were the basic defense against spoilage. The fans were meant to keep a breeze moving over potatoes stored in the warehouse, so they would not rot in the damp of summer.
Ki-jo looked around the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen and smiled with quiet pleasure. It was completely open, so anyone who ordered could see straight through to the work. He went over every detail with Seo Yong-woo, the man he had named manager. Yong-woo was a graduate of Korea University's College of Commerce, spoke good English, stood tall, and cut a striking figure.
What concerned Ki-jo most was the grill. They could not cook with gas as they did in America, so they had settled on charcoal.
"Would you like a demonstration?"
At Ki-jo's word, Seo Yong-woo told the cooks to put meat on. Lit charcoal already packed the bed beneath the grate, and when a cook threw the switch, a blower under the grill spun up and drove the fire hotter. He laid the patties on and began to sear them. The smell of meat over charcoal spread through the kitchen. When they were done, the staff built a hamburger with bread and vegetables set out in advance and handed it over.
Ki-jo let the fresh burger cool a moment, then carefully took a bite. Charcoal aroma soaked through the meat and filled his mouth. The juices were just right, and the flavor came alive. He swallowed a mouthful of the cold cola Yong-woo offered.
"Good. Shall we try the fries?"
He and Yong-woo moved to the fryer, an electric model brought over from the United States. Prepared potatoes went into oil that was already hot, and a lively sizzle rose.
"We can't put in very many, I see."
"No, sir. The manual from McDonald's headquarters said the electric fryer runs cool, so we're to use fewer potatoes."
The cook lifted the finished fries in a strainer, shook off the oil, salted them, and tossed them. Ki-jo waited until they had cooled, ate a few plain, and dipped a few more in ketchup. They were crisp and richly savory.
"Good. Excellent."
When he smiled, the whole staff let out its breath and grinned.
Next came the milkshake. Cold milk and the shake mix went into a blender, and a moment later a fresh one was ready. Ki-jo tasted it. Neither too thick nor too thin—just right.
"Good. Hold that texture. And add a little more sugar. Americans eat sweeter than we do."
Inwardly, he judged it. Perhaps because the meat had been grilled over charcoal, the hamburger was better than any McDonald's burger he remembered from his previous life. The fries fell a little short. The milkshake, if anything, was better than what he had drunk in the 2000s—probably because it was made from real milk rather than powder. Taken all together, it earned a passing grade well above what he had expected.
Coming out of the kitchen, Ki-jo inspected the dining room, which former houseboys had been given to run. The floor was tiled so it would look sanitary, and the walls were painted a light color. Both were immaculate. He ran a rehearsal with the floor staff. Stepping up to the counter as if he were a customer, he watched the clerk brighten and answer in English.
"Welcome to Mac O."
"One cheeseburger, an order of fries, and a cola, please."
He placed the order in English, of course.
"One cheeseburger, one fries, one cola. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"Cheeseburger, twenty-four cents. Fries, seventeen. Cola, fifteen. Fifty-six cents in all."
Ki-jo deliberately held out a ten-dollar bill.
"Ten dollars received. Your change is nine dollars and forty-four cents."
The clerk reckoned it exactly and handed the change back.
"Ah—one moment. Change the fries to a large."
"Large fries. That will be five cents more, please."
Ki-jo deliberately offered a one-dollar bill, and the clerk returned ninety-five cents. Less than thirty seconds after the order, everything he had asked for was ready. He carried the tray—burger, fries, and cola—to a window seat.
From a table looking straight out at the Yongsan base, he ate with Seo Yong-woo across from him. Ki-jo took the hamburger and milkshake he had already tasted in the kitchen and had Yong-woo eat a freshly ordered burger.
"Manager. You know our food runs five cents above local American prices."
"Yes, sir."
"The GIs can buy American food here in Korea, so they'll pay even if it costs more. But if we're five cents dearer, we have to be worth every cent of it."
"Yes. We'll earn the difference with service and flavor."
Ki-jo nodded. Food at Mac O cost more because the ingredients cost more to get than they did in America. Meat and milk flowing out of the U.S. bases, and the charcoal used for fuel, drove the price sharply up. He took the charcoal at cost from the briquette works, and even then it was dear. But dear as it was, the charcoal scent in the meat made it competitive enough.
"When did they say the sign would come?"
"Around two."
"Good."
When the tasting was done, he gathered every employee in the dining room.
"On opening day, even if the crowd piles up, don't rush. Even if it takes a little longer, cook it perfectly, and then serve it."
"Yes, sir!"
"I'm satisfied with the food and with the service. We have to hold this standard until we can open inside the PX."
"Yes, sir!"
"Sanitation comes first. Taste second. Courtesy third. Those three together will make this shop's name. Let's work to keep that name high. Thank you for everything you've done to get us ready."
He applauded, and the staff applauded one another and laughed.
At two o'clock a large sign made at Cheongsan's sign works arrived by truck. Once the boards went up on the roof and over the entrance, the building looked far more the part. Against the red field that stood for McDonald's, yellow letters read:
When he turned, the American soldiers on duty at the base's main gate were studying the sign. Some of them had binoculars up. Ki-jo spoke to the staff.
"Our future customers over there are looking us over. Let's wave."
At his word the Mac O crew waved as one and cheered. A few whistled and bounced where they stood. The soldiers at the gate laughed and waved back. Ki-jo smiled brightly and waved with them.