The Korean Government's Summons
The Government-General building was now serving as the provisional government office of the National Preparatory Committee. Every document and every scrap of institutional know-how the Governor-General had accumulated over thirty years of ruling this land was stored inside those walls, so it was hardly surprising that the newly independent cabinet had set up shop there first.
Even before independence, an order to report to the Government-General had been a frightening thing. But now, with the chief of my station telling me to make my way to that very building, my heart plummeted.
In that moment, I regretted the three meaningless years I had let slip by. How much reason could a regime that had just won its independence have to demand the custody of a colonial policeman? And not some politically significant figure — just a rank-and-file officer like me.
Looking back, I didn't think I had ever treated the locals here badly during those three years. I never participated in brutal crackdowns, and honestly, I'd never once struck someone who was innocent. It wasn't as if I'd ever fought guerrilla fighters or members of the righteous armies, either. So was the problem something from before my time?
That was strange. Three years ago, right when I had taken over this body, Ajisai Mizuko had been a freshly minted patrolman. That was precisely why the clumsy, fumbling behavior I'd shown immediately after transmigrating could be brushed away as "well, she's a new recruit, and a woman at that." After I'd settled in, I'd become something of an icon of Jongno, but no one had ever ordered me to take down Kim Du-han at the Woomigwan or anything of the sort. The police station simply didn't care about Korean gangsters unless they caused trouble big enough to notice. For their part, the gangsters had no reason to provoke someone whose fighting prowess was the stuff of rumor — and who belonged to the Police Affairs Bureau, no less.
I had minimized, by any means necessary, anything that might entangle me with Koreans in a negative way. But had it somehow not been enough?
Should I have started preparing for liberation ages ago — donning a mask like something out of a masked-hero tale and carrying out anti-Japanese activities? But there was a problem with that. In the KBS drama, Lee Kang-to had been Korean to begin with, so his sudden embrace of patriotism and betrayal of the Japanese police made perfect sense. Ajisai Mizuko, however, had been born and raised in Chiba — a native Japanese, with no Korean parent in her lineage.
Even if I'd put on a mask and started beating down Japanese policemen, it would only have been bizarre — from the Korean government's standpoint, utterly inexplicable. Besides, no matter how strong I was, my frame was unmistakably a woman's; a mask or a disguise wouldn't have concealed my identity at all. There were a dozen reasons I could never have become a masked hero fighting for my homeland. Most fundamental of all, there was no way to prove that my true homeland was Korea.
Come to think of it, plenty of my colleagues looked down on Koreans or treated them far more harshly than I ever had. Even Minami Jiro apparently hadn't had his custody demanded. So why me? Was I meant to be made an example of? I had been something of a symbol among the Japanese patrolmen — so even though I'd never actually done much that was terrible, perhaps they intended to dig up my sins, publicly shame me, and proclaim that a new era had arrived?
If so, I could beg, at the very least, to be spared the death penalty. I know how to draw the Taegeukgi perfectly — I could paint one, shout "Long live Korean independence," and they'd let me live, wouldn't they? For a nobody criminal like me, such a humiliating display would be far more useful to their propaganda than an execution would…
"What is the meaning of all this…"
The thought struck me suddenly, and I quickened my pace. Riding a horse would have been faster, but the horses belonging to the police station had almost certainly already been loaded onto transport ships and sent back to the mainland. Such precious war materiel could hardly be handed over to the Korean government.
I didn't feel like taking a rickshaw or a streetcar either, and the distance itself was walkable.
The Government-General building. A massive, modern structure squatting on the very spot where the royal palace of Joseon had once stood. I considered geomancy to be superstition and didn't believe in it, but looking at where that building sat, I could half understand what people meant by "blocking the vital energy." For my part, I doubted the architects had seriously believed in divination either. But when they raised that building, they had unquestionably intended to exploit the psychological effect of its position.
Atop the building, which had never once flown a flag of its own, now hung the Taegeukgi. It seemed to want to proclaim that a new era had come — and yet, for now, it hung there hollow.
It would probably be a very long time before anyone tore that building down. In the era I came from, Kim Young-sam had destroyed it because he felt a need to settle accounts with Japan in his own way. Because he believed it had to be demolished to stop the rise of that contentious, odious logic — that Koreans of the colonial era had been cooperative with the Japanese. But this government had come into being far more gently than the Republic of Korea I knew, and in some ways a good deal more dirtily.
Japanese companies had not yet withdrawn from this land. If anything, they seemed poised to play a central role in keeping its economy running. The Korean government, presumably, would never cut off grain exports to Japan. The trade relationship, once something close to plunder, would shift to one with fair compensation paid — though even that effort would have its limits.
Demolishing the Government-General building was unthinkable. It would mean Korea renouncing its status as a "friendly independent nation," and it might hand Japan the very pretext needed to justify reinvading.
This country would surely want a better position than Manchukuo's, but there was no guarantee it would be any freer than Manchukuo. In the end, it all depended on how the war turned out. With that thought, the fear in my steps toward the Government-General gave way to something deeper — a quiet sense of regret.
I hadn't wanted to draw attention, so I had come wearing modern Western civilian clothes instead of my patrolman's uniform. Perhaps that was why the Korean guards at the Government-General didn't recognize me.
"Beyond this point is the provisional government office of the People's Republic of Korea. You cannot enter without authorization."
Speaking Japanese would leave a bad impression, I figured. Korean was the more familiar tongue anyway — there was no real need to use the Japanese that came equipped with this "body."
"Excuse me… I was told the government summoned me, so I've come…"
I glanced around once, discreetly. The security was sloppy. The Government-General building was enormous, yet the manpower guarding it was thinner than before the Japanese withdrawal, and their vigilance had slackened. Among the staff on duty, an air of "the crisis is over" hung over everything.
The truth was that the police Japan sent to Korea had never been particularly high-caliber to begin with. But for a Korea that had won its independence so abruptly — through negotiations between Ricchūren and Yamamoto, no less — acquiring forces of real quality would have been even harder.
If it came to it, I could probably escape even by smashing through a window. If I went inside and someone suddenly came at me with clubs, I should decide in advance which way I'd run.
"Summoned by the government… ah, yes, a guest of the Vice Minister of Military Affairs…"
One of the guards flipped through what looked like a visitor log as he spoke. The Vice Minister of Military Affairs? I'd heard that the Ministry itself was slated to go to Hong Sa-ik, who was in the Philippines and reportedly on his way home. Who was the vice minister, then? Not that news at that level would ever have reached my ears.
"Could I… have your name, please?"
"Ajisai… Mizuko."
I answered. The guard pulled a small photograph from the visitor registry, comparing it against my face, then nodded.
"That's her. I've only seen you in uniform, even in the photos, so I didn't recognize you for a moment. The Vice Minister is waiting for you."
"The M-Ministry of Military Affairs?"
"Yes, that's correct. You can find the office using the floor plan inside. Things are rather chaotic in there at the moment, so please don't cause any unnecessary commotion. If you think you might get lost, we can escort you."
"No, I'll be fine… but is there anything else I should watch out for…?"
"Just don't enter anywhere marked 'restricted.' It's written in Chinese characters, so you should be able to read— ah, forgive me, that was rude of me."
His tone was more courteous than I'd expected. There was no trace of contempt or disgust at my having been a Japanese patrolwoman. If a guard treated me like this, did that mean I hadn't been summoned with ill intent? And yet — the Ministry of Military Affairs. Not some other department, but the one that amounted to a ministry of national defense. I couldn't fathom what business it could possibly have with me.
Suppose they wanted me to become a soldier in this newborn Korea — that struck me as strange. A patrolman is not a soldier. Similar organizational cultures, perhaps, but no one would credit my service as military experience, and without a drop of Korean blood in my veins, I would struggle to fit into the ranks regardless. It would be far more reasonable for them to demand the return of Korean-born officers who had served in Manchuria, or Koreans who had been conscripted by force, so they could serve in the Korean army. There was no reason to demand my custody from the Government-General at all. What I was good at was unarmed fighting — not military command.
Armed with the floor plan, the office of the Vice Minister of Military Affairs — the person who had supposedly summoned me — proved easy enough to find. It appeared that since the man slated to be Minister of Military Affairs had departed from Japan and not yet returned to Korea, the vice minister was using the minister's office in his stead.
When I arrived at the Minister of Military Affairs' office, I gave the door a light knock.
"Who is it?"
A young woman's voice came from within. Her secretary, presumably. I answered as politely as I could manage.
"It's Ajisai. I was told to come here…"
"Come in. It's open."
The same woman replied. I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. There was no one who looked like a secretary. Only a single person occupied the room — a young woman seated at the desk, fountain pen in hand, scribbling something across the documents before her.
"…I was told the Vice Minister wished to see me…"
At that, she sprang up from her seat. And in the instant that woman rose, I felt a strange sensation — as though the very air had tightened around my throat. A young woman who looked barely old enough to be a high school student. Long, loose black hair spilled over her shoulders, and her wide-open eyes held a darkness that seemed capable of swallowing the universe whole.
Those eyes — I had seen them somewhere before. Where…
"I am Choi Hui-yeong, Vice Minister of Military Affairs of the People's Republic of Korea."
She closed the distance to me in a rush and seized both my hands tightly. She had been standing a fair distance away, yet her footsteps had been so swift I couldn't tell when she'd crossed the room.
"At last we meet again, Unni."