Spring Comes to Deokjin-ri
March had arrived for the Giant Killer. While the frozen ground thawed under the spring breeze and green sprouts began to emerge one after another, South Korea’s political scene remained locked in winter. The hearings that had begun the previous winter had unleashed a relentless barrage from the opposition, and with strikes breaking out across the country, President Roh had finally played his trump card: a public security crackdown. Politicians walked on eggshells to avoid being branded communists, and police responses to demonstrations grew markedly harsher. The atmosphere was tense and oppressive, yet Deokjin-ri felt like another world entirely.
Construction crews were tamping down the new road and digging drainage ditches along the roadside. The rhythmic shouts of workers echoed from every direction. Even behind the main building of Deokjin Elementary, a large new cafeteria was rising. All of it was part of the village improvement project launched in the name of ID Technology. Yoo Jae-won’s own name stayed hidden. Spending this much money would inevitably draw attention, and attention could bring trouble—or worse, make him a target. Instead, the principal, President Hyun-mi Yoo, and the other shareholders of ID Technology stood at the forefront. Though their shares had been converted to non-voting preferred stock, they remained proud owners of the company. The thought of them brought a lump to Jae-won’s throat. These were people who had no idea how to look after their own wealth, so he quietly resolved to make them genuinely rich through generous preferred-stock dividends whenever the opportunity arose.
In any case, construction had begun simultaneously across Naeo Village and the rest of Deokjin-ri. Praise for ID Technology poured in from every corner. Those who knew the full story praised Jae-won; those farther removed credited the principal. One small addition had been made to the original plan: the neighboring township of Neungseo-myeon, where Jae-won’s maternal relatives lived. He had realized, with some relief, that he had nearly forgotten them. Adding one more township did not dramatically increase the total cost, and the work itself was straightforward. With excavators, dump trucks, and concrete mixers flooding the area, the rural landscape changed visibly with each passing day.
Because this kind of donation was unprecedented, even the local newspaper and the mayor of Yeoju took notice. Interest quickly turned into action. The mayor offered to support the project in any way he could, most notably by coordinating with the Gyeonggi-do Waterworks Headquarters to expedite the arrival of municipal tap water. Even if village pipes were laid, water would not flow until they connected to the regional supply network. Jae-won had planned to pump groundwater in the meantime, but the mayor’s single promise solved the problem. It cost the mayor nothing, required only a word, and would yield a nice commemorative photograph once the project was finished—a classic case of riding someone else’s coattails. Jae-won did not mind. After all, mayors were still appointed rather than elected; the first direct local elections would not come until 1991, nearly three years away. Most appointed mayors paid no attention to elections, yet this one, while eager for a photo opportunity, was at least attentive to local welfare.
“Everyone, attention! Salute the principal!”
Jae-won’s voice rang across the schoolyard. From first grade to sixth, the students raised their hands in salute—none of them soldiers, yet every one of them trying. Their postures were uneven and their timing scattered, but with more than six hundred children saluting at once, the sight was still impressive. It was March 2, the first morning assembly of the 1989 school year at Deokjin Elementary.
Jae-won had entered sixth grade, class one, and now held the titles of both class president and student council president. In an era without genuine student self-governance, these positions were simply assigned by the teachers. That the school’s star pupil should receive both roles felt entirely natural. His parents had been delighted; if success through ID Technology still felt like something from another world, class president and student council president were achievements they could fully grasp. They had been ready to throw a village celebration, just as they had when he received the ministerial award the year before. His uncle, village chief Yoo Bong-cheol, had been especially enthusiastic. In the end, no celebration took place. With construction underway throughout Deokjin-ri, no one had the time or energy for festivities. Most villagers were already working on the project as laborers, leaving no one free to attend a party. Instead, they decided to make and distribute rice cakes.
Jae-won had not particularly wanted either title. They were nothing but trouble and carried no real authority. Still, he felt genuine gratitude toward the principal and vice-principal for the kindness they had shown him. Respect and loyalty welled up naturally, and when he shouted the salute, his voice carried powerfully across the wide playground. Even the principal’s typically clumsy morning address—smooth and eloquent in private conversation yet oddly halting in front of students—now seemed filled with sincere concern for the children, and Jae-won listened attentively.
“Wow, when did you ever do student council president before? You’re pretty good at it,” Jumin said on the way back to class, sounding impressed.
“First time. I was so nervous I thought I’d mess up.”
Jae-won played along. Even with his past-life experience running businesses and serving as president of his own company, standing before more than six hundred pairs of eyes had made his back break out in cold sweat. Only by thinking of the debt he owed the principal and vice-principal had he managed to keep his voice steady.
“It’s fine. After a few times you won’t even think about it,” Soo-kyung added as she walked beside them.
Both Jumin and Soo-kyung had been placed in class one with him. Soo-kyung had kept the class-president post every year until sixth grade, when she handed it over to Jae-won. She had not stepped down from all leadership roles, however; she now served as vice president. Since the only real duty of class president was to call the class to attention when the teacher entered, the vice-president title was equally ceremonial.
Jae-won had been about to ask whether she minded losing the position she had held for so long, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She seemed genuinely relieved. Five years of being class president must have grown tiresome. Sixth grade had changed Soo-kyung in other ways as well. The tomboyish energy of fifth grade had softened; she seemed calmer, more feminine. Three months was not long, yet the difference was clear—especially in her appearance. The deep tan from constant outdoor play had faded to a much lighter tone. She must have been diligently using the sunscreen he had given her for Christmas. The after-school computer lessons had become less frequent lately, but until early February she had never missed a single session. Spending one afternoon a week together had naturally made them closer than most same-sex friends. She had even confessed, shyly, that she worried her darker skin would draw teasing once she entered middle school. Jae-won’s solution had been the twelve tubes of sunscreen, packaged in pink boxes with ribbons to suit a girl’s taste. He had promised that consistent use for a year would leave her skin as fair as any city child’s, and she had taken the advice to heart.
The classroom was noisy when they returned. Many students had been reassigned to new classes, but because everyone in Deokjin-ri already knew one another, the room quickly turned into a lively marketplace. The moment the front door opened and the new homeroom teacher stepped inside, silence fell.
The teacher for sixth-grade class one was Jeong Hyeon-ung. He had served as the computer-club advisor and had accompanied Jae-won to the programming competition, where they had won an award together. That connection had led him to become a shareholder in ID Technology. His hometown was in Seoul, and he had spent the entire winter vacation there, missing both shareholder meetings. He had delegated his votes to the principal, however, and fully supported the company’s direction, so there had been no issue. Even after his shares were converted to preferred stock, he had not complained. Like the principal, he had been startled by the size of the dividends, yet unlike the principal he had no intention of ignoring his own finances. He had participated in the donation drive, but he had also used part of his windfall for himself—buying a car, moving out of the staff dormitory into a nicer rented apartment in town, and acquiring better clothes and a watch. His quality of life had changed dramatically.
“Attention! Salute!”
As class president, Jae-won rose and led the greeting.
“Good to see you all. I’m Jeong Hyeon-ung. Let’s have a good year together.”
Teacher Jeong wrote his name on the blackboard in large letters and introduced himself.
“I’m also in charge of the computer club, so if you’re interested in computers, sign up. The principal has promised to keep the computer room open more often this year, so you won’t be limited to once a month like last year. At the very least, you’ll have two one-hour sessions a week. And if you show real talent, you may be invited to the advanced class led by our class president, Jae-won. In the advanced class you’ll learn directly from Jae-won after school.”
The advanced computer class had been created at Jae-won’s request. Its original purpose had been to teach computing skills to the friends who had once helped him assemble software packages by hand in the back of the advertising agency’s warehouse the previous year.