Chapter 11. Prophet
In front of the station, there must've been at least a few hundred people packed in tight.
And judging by those placards, it looked like they'd really come out just to catch a glimpse of my face, of all things.
"Hahaha! Look at all these patriotic Koreans flooding the streets of this great republic!"
Syngman Rhee was grinning like a kid in a candy store, for some reason.
In true American fashion, I wanted nothing more than to plant a solid one-two punch right in that bastard's smug mug, but I couldn't exactly perform live dental surgery on a middle-aged uncle in front of a few hundred Koreans who revered their elders more than anything.
"Uh... this is a bit overwhelming."
"Sorry about that. Circumstances, you know. First things first—we should let the elders and your family through. Come on over!"
He shouted something to clear a path, and finally, after a full year, I could see my family's faces.
"Eugene!!"
"Aigoo, Eugene. You've gotten so skinny, like half a person. Aigoo."
Half a person? Come on.
My height had shot up, and I'd bulked up plenty from West Point training.
"I should've sent more kimchi. These Yankees only eat bread, and look how scrawny you've gotten. Or I could pack some fermented seafood from home—want me to?"
"Ahem. Dear, the boy's embarrassed enough as it is."
Thank God for Dad throwing me a lifeline. I grabbed it quick.
I hugged each family member one by one, and right then, Syngman Rhee started hollering again: "The pillar of Korea has returned to his family's embrace, everyone!!" The crowd erupted in seal-clap applause.
And when some little girl came up to present me with a bouquet, my sanity finally rocketed off into outer space.
It was, honestly, one of the weirdest feelings I'd ever had.
Korean National Association office.
"Hahaha, sorry about that!"
Syngman Rhee sipped his coffee, offering an apology that rang about as sincere as a politician's promise.
"Alright, since you've used me to drum up some business, how about showing me the sales ledger now?"
"Kuhahaha, that's our Eugene, alright. Sharp as a tack with numbers."
"I just blew my one measly vacation playing court jester at your little party. If the books don't check out, I'm not gonna be a happy camper."
Truth be told, I was pissed right now.
To repeat: from the second I stepped off that train, I'd been fighting the urge to rearrange his face.
Maybe my rotting mood showed too much, because he wiped the grin off his face and got serious.
"The Japs."
"What about 'em?"
"Things have been tense lately. Can't be slaves to their own empire and feel great about a Korean beating Japanese-Americans to West Point. It's bruising their pride."
"What bullshit. They send students straight from the home islands anyway, don't they?"
"You think pride gives a damn about logic? You know that better than anyone."
True enough.
But what the hell did their bruised egos have to do with me? Crazy bastards couldn't touch a U.S. Military Academy cadet anyway—
"Maybe they want to rough you up a bit."
"Saves me the long explanation—handy, but let me play the adult sometimes. You're right. The lunatics do want to... humiliate you a little."
Hard to tell if he meant actual humiliation or if it was diplomat-speak for something worse.
But with Japs? I could totally buy them slicing sashimi into my gut while I cluelessly strolled off the train.
"Ha. Fucking psychos."
"That's why I threw that circus. Didn't mention it there, but plenty of Chinese folks showed up too."
"Chinese?"
"Yeah. Over the past year, you've become the shining star of San Francisco's Asian immigrants. Even the Japs hate you but spout crap like, 'Koreans and Japanese are one, so Kim Eugene might as well be Japanese.' Says it all."
What a joke. Now they're rewriting family trees.
But whatever—this guy was clearly bragging that he'd boosted my fame.
"Hmm... that kind of image doesn't just happen naturally."
"Exactly. Took some maneuvering, of course."
Princeton's Syngman Rhee jumped at the prompt like he'd been waiting.
It had helped, sure... but it still pissed me off. No doubt he'd bill me for this too.
I was mulling how to settle accounts, sipping my tea, when a thudding from downstairs started shaking the place.
BAM!!
"Haa, haa. Unam! Unaaaam!!"
"Well, if it isn't—"
"You bastard! You lied about tomorrow!!"
A man with pomade-slicked hair, neat mustache, and a sharp suit—sweat- and dirt-streaked—stormed up, jabbing a finger at Syngman Rhee nonstop.
I figured some debt collector at first, but the face looked familiar the more I stared.
Right—like—
"You must be Kim Eugene."
"Yes, sir."
"Pleased to meet you. I'm An Chang-ho. I work with that scoundrel here at the Korean National Association on the independence movement."
Dosan An Chang-ho!
Last year, I'd only gotten his letter—missed meeting him in person.
But running into another history-maker like this? Deeply moving.
"First time meeting, sir. I got your letter."
"Unam gave it to you? Not like him."
"Hey, Dosan! What do you take me for?!"
"Says the guy who told me Eugene was arriving tomorrow—"
"That was a mistake!"
Not buying it.
The setup was obvious. Spotlight hog wanted Dosan out of the picture.
"Ahem. Anyway, First Secretary Chun is a huge help to our Association, and now his son's a fine young patriot. Lucky us."
"Damn right. No joke—around San Francisco, you're already a symbol of hope and hard work. You know how many young folks have been coming to the Association saying they want to study?"
An Chang-ho beamed.
"I've preached learning, thriving in America—but it never broke through their walls of despair. You, though? You've inspired them by example. If that's not patriotism, what is?"
My hands shook as I gripped the teacup, mind reeling.
Dosan An Chang-ho, of all people, hyping me up like this? Flattering, but embarrassing.
I'd never aimed for nationalism or Korean liberation—grand stuff like that.
Just survival, thriving. West Point was the best way to milk my future knowledge.
Syngman Rhee's flattery felt like sales patter: "Oh boss, you're the best!" No thrill. Made my head hurt wondering what he wanted.
But Dosan stared with laser intensity, words dripping sincerity. Even I felt a pang of shame.
"I just did my best for my own path. You're too kind."
"Nonsense! Every Korean growing into a mighty tree here will one day make Korea's forest thrive. Keep charging ahead—you do you. We'll handle the dirty work. Right, Unam?"
"Heh. Of course. Us old-timers pave the way for the young to rise."
They talked a good game. Listening, I half-expected to wake up a bomb-throwing independence fighter.
"Then, elders, one request."
"Shoot."
"I'm looking to develop and produce firearms. Any chance you could scout technicians and factories?"
They tilted their heads.
No Park Yong-man here, and admitting I knew more about military tech? Awkward.
But I needed it now.
"America's the land of the free—guns are legal."
"True."
"Military and civilian models. If my design works, it creates jobs, builds Korean capital."
They hummed, pondering, no quick yes.
"We know you're a cadet, Eugene, but guns? Hard to believe you're expert-level."
"Fair. But I'll stake the family savings if needed."
In my head: K2, K5, M16, M1 Carbine—burned in crystal clear.
Couldn't build from memory alone. Best I could do: concepts, rough parts specs.
Prototype before WWI entry? Time was tight.
"I'll look into it."
"No, I'll handle it separately. Your network's Korean-heavy anyway, Dosan."
"Hey now. He said ethnic capital—obviously—"
These uncles.
More childish than expected.
Syngman—usually scheming with snakes in his skull—bickering like a neighborhood busybody. Drained me.
"Details later. Gotta see my family now."
"Right, we've held you too long."
"Give Chun our regards!"
I bowed vaguely and bolted.
Needed a break.
"Hmm..."
Once Kim Eugene left, the silent An Chang-ho pulled a pipe from his pocket.
"Put it away."
Syngman Rhee scowled—non-smoker—but Dosan ignored him, lighting up.
"Post-meal smoke brings immortality. Why quit something good for you?"
"Good my ass. One whiff rots your guts. You'll outlive your lifespan."
"Ha. If I die first, I'll bring a pack to your funeral. Docs say smoke one even in the hospital—you smarter than them?"
"Quacks."
Smoker vs. hater—eternal feud. Syngman flung the window open, cleared the smoke, and sat.
"Kim Eugene—what do you think?"
"Think? When we kick the bucket, he'll lead Korean America."
"Yeah... spot on."
Syngman '75, An '78, Kim '93.
15-20 year gap—no rivalry possible.
"He said before enrolling: 'In 30 years, Japs'll bite the Western powers.' I'll be past sixty then."
"All the more reason to build foundations for Korean self-strengthening."
True.
Japan collapsing in 30? Pie in the sky.
But heart yearned to see Japan's fall, Korea free—in his lifetime. Reason demanded facing reality. They warred in his head, as always.
This was God's mission for him, no doubt.
Moses led Jews from Egypt but died before Canaan, passing to Joshua.
He was the same. Only Syngman Rhee could lead Korean slaves. Then hand enlightened Koreans to leader Kim Eugene.
Joshua toppled Jericho; soldier Kim would topple Jap walls.
Journey of a thousand miles starts with one step.
First, dominate Korean America.
He never saw Kim as rival.
War hero? Maybe then.
Shaking off the absurd thought, Syngman resumed with An Chang-ho.