The Second Summit

November 15th, six in the morning.

Kijo arrived at the Korean Embassy and was summoned to the room where Chairman Park was staying. He stepped inside to find the Chairman in his undershirt, seated in a chair while his personal physician examined him.

Dr. Ji Hong-chang was taking Chairman Park's blood pressure with a manual cuff. One hand lay on the Chairman's pulse; the other worked the bulb, pumping air in and letting it out as he read the needle. He measured twice, took the average, and spoke.

"Everything is normal, aside from your blood pressure running a little high. The pressure seems to be from the time difference and fatigue."

"Is that so?"

Chairman Park grinned and pulled on his shirt. Buttoning it, he said to Kijo, "You ought to get looked at too, Imja."

Kijo shrugged off his suit jacket and sat down before Dr. Ji Hong-chang. The doctor was a direct descendant, in the senior line, of Ji Seok-yeong, the man who had brought smallpox vaccination to Korea. He questioned Kijo, listened to his breathing through a stethoscope, took his blood pressure, and then said, "The interpreter is in good health as well."

The examination over, Kijo was dressing to leave when Chairman Park spoke.

"Have breakfast with me."

A little later the meal was brought to the room: a modest Korean breakfast of rice, soybean-paste soup, and steamed egg.

"Eat American food all day and your stomach turns on you. I need some rice settled in my belly."

Chairman Park, whose tastes ran plain and country, grinned. They were about to begin across a small table when he scooped half his own rice into Kijo's bowl.

"I can at least go through the motions of eating. You'll be sitting behind me with nothing at all. Eat your fill."

"Thank you."

Kijo waited until the Chairman had taken the first spoonful, then put a spoon of the warm soup into his mouth. The moment it reached his stomach, the tightness inside him eased.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Kijo spoke.

"About General Maxwell Taylor, who's coming to this morning's breakfast."

Chairman Park, who had been eating quietly, looked at him steadily.

"I've met him before. But I don't think he'll recognize me."

"No?"

"That's why I'm asking. Would you put it to General Taylor—whether he remembers me?"

General Taylor, then commander of U.S. Forces Korea, was the man who had helped in 1954, when Kim Chang-ryong, head of the Counter Intelligence Corps, tried to tie the people of Eundae-ri together with the northern refugees working at the brick factory and brand them all communists. Seven years had passed. Kijo then had been a skinny country youth of twenty-five. That same youth was now interpreting at the side of a head of state on a visit to America; of course Taylor would not know him. And to Western eyes, East Asians all looked alike. It was obvious.

"All right."

Chairman Park said it and did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not ask for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠details. Kijo thanked him for granting the request. He wanted, badly, to fix his face in General Taylor's memory when the man came to see the Chairman.

Taylor, former commander of U.S. Forces Korea, had returned home, served as Chief of Staff of the Army, and retired, only to answer Kennedy's call a few months earlier and become military adviser to the White House. Enjoying Kennedy's trust, he would be ordered back onto active duty the following year and raised to Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. From that post he would shape the Kennedy administration's early conduct of the Vietnam War, and after Kennedy's death he would be named United States ambassador to South Vietnam, exercising influence there for years to come. He was a man who could be of great help to Kijo when the time came to do business in Vietnam.

At eight sharp, General Maxwell Taylor arrived at the embassy residence. He accepted Chairman Park's welcome and went with him to the breakfast table, and, just as expected, he did not recognize Kijo.

Kijo took his seat behind the Chairman. Park asked, "General Taylor, do you remember this young man?"

He indicated Kijo. Taylor's interpreter relayed the question, and for a moment the general looked thrown. He studied Kijo closely, then broke into a bright smile.

"Is your village at peace?"

Kijo was grateful that Taylor remembered Eundae-ri.

"Thanks to you, it is, General."

At Kijo's answer, Taylor turned to everyone at the breakfast.

"The year I met that young man—'54—a great many things happened in Korea. Ambassador Chung Il-kwon, you remember that incident?"

Taylor shaped a pistol with his hand as he put the question to Chung Il-kwon, ambassador to the United States. Chung gave an awkward laugh and pressed a palm to his forehead.

Kijo knew exactly which incident Taylor meant. In December 1954, Commander Maxwell Taylor and Chung Il-kwon, then Chief of Staff of the Army, had attended a conference at Army Headquarters in Daegu. In the middle of the meeting a Korean Army major climbed in through a window of the conference room, planted himself in front of General Taylor, and leveled a pistol at him. Kang Mun-bong, commander of the Second Army, who had been giving the briefing, threw himself on the major and saved Taylor.

Everyone at the breakfast recalled it and laughed. The mood brightened, and stories of the fifties came pouring out. For a moment the tangled memories of that decade flickered through Kijo's mind as well.

The major who had threatened General Taylor—then commander of the United Nations forces—with a pistol had received Syngman Rhee's highest praise, and the reason was the motive he gave.

"The armistice was concluded under American leadership, yet after the cease-fire America failed to provide proper military aid. I meant to press General Taylor to deliver that aid."

Hearing the report, Syngman Rhee exalted him as a patriot and ordered the matter dropped. Perhaps that was why. The Korean major, who had come within a breath of a death sentence for the attempted murder of a superior, was judged insane and spared execution. And Lieutenant General Kang Mun-bong, who had saved Commander Taylor and received a decoration for merit from the American government, was later exposed as the man behind the assassination of Kim Chang-ryong and sentenced to life in prison.

The fifties were that kind of age. A major who committed his crime out of unshakable conviction was declared a madman and lived. A Korean general who became a hero for saving an American commander was imprisoned for the murder of another Korean general.

As Kijo knew, Commander Taylor was bound up with Chairman Park as well. While Taylor commanded U.S. Forces Korea, he had approved the promotion to general of Park Chung-hee, then a colonel. In that chaotic time everyone was tangled together, each of them connected, if only by a thread.

Those reminiscing over the fifties eventually let the stories wind down and, in the easy warmth that remained, turned to the modernization of the Korean armed forces. General Taylor, too, made plain his firm support for strengthening them.

When breakfast was over, and before he left the residence, Taylor offered Kijo his hand.

"I never thought I'd see you again in America. It makes a man curious where we'll meet next."

"Anywhere is fine. The next time, please know me at a glance."

"I will. You have my word."

Kijo was satisfied. He had left his mark with General Taylor.

Breakfast done, Chairman Park and his entourage went straight to the United States Department of Agriculture. At ten in the morning Park called on Secretary of Agriculture Freeman and asked that America send still more of its surplus farm goods to Korea, to ease the country's food shortage. Those surplus commodities were also a major source of revenue for the Korean government. Seoul could sell the cotton and wheat America shipped to private companies and use the proceeds as public funds. The money could be spent only where the American government directed—but most of it went to defense, and so the aid was indispensable.

That business finished, Chairman Park went at eleven to the Department of Defense and sat down with Secretary McNamara. The talks ran on through the lunch hour, and Kijo had to interpret on an empty stomach. He was hungry, but this was where the dispatch of troops to Vietnam was under discussion, and he gave it everything he had.

When the meeting with McNamara ended, Chairman Park moved on to the Department of Commerce. In the car Kijo ate a sandwich that Won Chung-yeon, chief of the Office of Public Information, had pressed on him, and then they went in.

Secretary of Commerce Hodges was a humorous man of sixty-three. He said he had heard the joke Chairman Park had made to Kennedy on the first day of talks, the one about reporters, and he presented a gift: a statuette of a black cat.

"I hear the reporters have been giving you a hard time. Whenever you meet them, stroke this fellow. Then they won't make trouble."

Park set to stroking the cat in earnest, and Secretary Hodges laughed out loud.

After the laughter, the talks began. Chairman Park laid out Korea's Five-Year Economic Development Plan and asked for loans and for investment by American firms. He had been meeting cabinet-level officials since eight that morning—four of them—and before he knew it, the hour had come to leave for the White House.

They arrived at four sharp. Kennedy, waiting before the entrance, came out to receive Chairman Park. Unlike the first meeting, there were no reporters. A joint communiqué had been issued after the first round, and the press had lost interest. Kijo was glad of it. There was no ceremony to eat the clock.

Inside ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the White House, Chairman Park went straight into talks with Kennedy. Kijo drew a quiet breath and made ready to interpret. He held to a single thought: heaven helps those who help themselves. Korea was resolved to sell blood if it had to, to break the economic crisis, and determined to carry something—anything—away from America.

Chairman Park opened the agenda.

"Next year, when the Five-Year Economic Development Plan begins, will be the hardest year of all. I ask for special help in the form of foreign loans."

Kennedy answered, "If you have other requests, make those as well."

He offered no real reply—only another chance to ask. Kijo felt something ominous as he interpreted. Chairman Park seemed to catch Kennedy's vagueness too; force gathered behind the eyes screened by his pale sunglasses.

"Korea can secretly dispatch to Vietnam, under civilian cover, a unit specialized in intelligence collection and guerrilla operations. The Korean government will work for Vietnam's stability and against its communization. In return, we ask that the American government, as our ally, provide sufficient support."

Kennedy regarded him with a serious face and gestured for him to go on. Chairman Park then requested that an international loan consortium be formed to build a steel mill.

Kijo could feel the faces of the entourage darkening. Kennedy's manner—say everything you want—was unsettling them all. Park himself seemed to judge that there was no point in saying more to a Kennedy whose intent he could not read, and he brought his remarks to a close.

"We hope the aid your country provides next year will be held at this year's level, and we ask for loans for power plants and for the steel mill."

Kennedy nodded, then motioned to Secretary of State Rusk to bring something. A single sheet was passed to Kennedy, and Kennedy passed it to Chairman Park. It was an English document, untranslated into Korean—a diplomatic discourtesy—and Park was thrown.

"If you fulfill every requirement written in that paper, everything you have requested can be carried out."

At Park's side, Kijo ran his eyes quickly over the document Kennedy had handed across. He could not help being stunned. He had expected events to break from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠history he knew, but this went beyond anything he had imagined.

He turned to Chairman Park. "Shall I read it to you?"

Park nodded.

Kijo drew one long breath and began with the first article.

At the first demand, Kijo's breath caught in his throat. It was blatant interference in internal affairs, past any ordinary measure—a demand, by American standards, for a constitutional amendment. Setting aside the vice presidency, it was identical to the Twelfth Amendment of the United States Constitution. He had no choice but to watch Chairman Park's face.

When Kijo said nothing, Park spoke.

"Read on."

Kijo stopped. Chairman Park said, "Next."

Chairman Park's finger gave a small twitch.

Having read all five demands, Kijo pressed his mouth shut. They were requirements so stark that it would not have been strange in the least if Chairman Park shoved his chair back that instant and walked out of the room. Kennedy seemed to have foreseen even that. His face was detached, empty of expectation.

Chairman Park sat rigidly upright, his gaze fixed on a single point. He was not looking at anyone. He was not looking at any object. His eyes were set somewhere in empty space.