The Hero
6:00 in the morning.
— Click.
An Jung-geun checked the time and snapped his pocket watch shut.
"Six o'clock."
One by one, people were beginning to stir outside the window — women stepping out with buckets in hand to draw water for the day.
From now on, he could slip into the crowd without drawing a second glance.
An Jung-geun lifted his thick polo coat from the rack and draped it over his shoulders, then pulled down a flat cap shaped like a baker's loaf and settled it on his head.
He gathered his belongings and opened the door, only to meet the anxious eyes of his host, who had been bouncing his knee in the parlor. The man shot to his feet.
"...! You're leaving, sir?"
"Ha ha, that I am. I slept wonderfully — a full night, better than I've had in ages."
"I hardly did anything worth—"
"Your humble room was grander than the inner palace itself, I assure you."
The host pondered this for a moment, then fetched a bowl of cold water from the kitchen and offered it with both hands.
"...Next time you come, I will serve you far more faithfully."
"Next time. My heart would have me promise I'll return. ...Well, then."
An Jung-geun downed the cold water in one draught and broke into a wry smile.
"The wind whistles bleak, and the Yi River runs cold; once the brave man departs, he shall not return. — The wind is bleak this morning indeed, and the water cold enough to match."
"······."
"That hit the spot. You know, I once stayed at the Sontag Hotel back in Seoul, and its keeper could not hold a candle to you. Why not try your hand at the hotel trade someday? Ha ha ha!"
He clapped the host on the shoulder one last time, opened the door, and was gone.
Into the space he left behind, the north wind clawed and squeezed at the gap beneath the door, desperate to claim the warmth of the man who had just departed.
From the moment a child takes its first steps, every person leaves footprints behind them.
Wherever you go, whatever you do, they are the friend that clings to you relentlessly.
"Whew."
But today of all days, An Jung-geun wished he could part ways with that friend for a little while.
With every step, the prints pressed into the ground stuck to him like a shadow.
Countless footprints, soaked with Manchuria's damp morning dew, pocked the clinging earth — and why did his own, of all of them, stand out so vividly? He knew perfectly well it was his nerves playing tricks on him, and yet he could not stop fixating on it.
"Whew."
He exhaled long and slow, and his breath traced back along the path his footprints had taken, drawing a long circle in the air before it faded.
An Jung-geun resumed walking.
"So what's for lunch today?"
"Rice balls, obviously. What else would you expect?"
In every corner of Harbin, down every alley, Chinese soldiers stood with their rifles propped beside them, chatting the hours away.
An Jung-geun turned up the collar of his polo coat and lowered his head.
At an easy, unhurried pace, he angled toward their blind side.
Where are the Russian troops and the Japanese?
So far, only Chinese soldiers met his eye, and a flicker of impatience stirred in him.
What if word that Ito was coming to Harbin had been false intelligence all along?
This was the cunning statesman who had swallowed an entire nation whole. Leaking a false report and chairing his meeting elsewhere was a possibility he could not dismiss.
An Jung-geun drew the pocket watch from the left pocket of his coat and pressed the clasp.
— Click.
Six-thirty in the morning.
According to what Jo Do-seon had confirmed, the train would reach Harbin at half past nine.
Three hours yet to go.
— Thud!
Someone jostled against him from behind.
"Ah, sumimasen!"
A woman in a fur hat, speaking Japanese. Just in case, An Jung-geun released the pistol grip he'd been clutching inside his coat and answered in Japanese as well.
"Quite all right."
"Oh my, a fellow Japanese! Thank you for accepting my apology."
"You seemed in such a hurry — where might you be headed?"
"What do you think? Being Japanese yourself, you'd know — the consulate-general here in Harbin has been hounding everyone half to death."
Hounding, from the consulate-general.
"Unfortunately I'm in the trading business, so I wouldn't know. I only arrived in Manchuria a few days ago."
"Ah, then I suppose you might not have heard. The consulate-general's been cracking the whip, saying every last Japanese must come out for the welcome festivities since His Excellency Ito is arriving. Honestly — as if they've ever once considered our convenience, and now they're ordering us about like this."
"Is that so."
"Anyway, sir, hurry on to Harbin Station yourself! If you're late, who knows what indignities those soldiers and the consulate police might inflict!"
The woman bowed politely and was soon gone from his sight.
An Jung-geun slipped the pocket watch away, then drew a rosary from his pocket and turned the beads one by one between his fingers.
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5–6."
Rolling the rosary bead by bead, An Jung-geun followed in the woman's wake toward Harbin Station.
Only then did Russian soldiers with rifles begin to appear among the Chinese.
A quiet sense of relief settled in his chest.
He rummaged inside his coat, produced a matchbox and a cigarette case, and set one between his lips.
— Scratch!
Smoke rose and, mingling with his breath, climbed high into the Manchurian sky on the biting north wind.
He burned the cigarette down to the last drag, dropped it to the ground, and ground it out under his heel.
Collar raised, An Jung-geun walked into Harbin Station.
— Dong... dong... dong...
Inside the station — built grandly in the Western style, classical with a strong Russian flavor — he lifted his head toward the clock mounted high above.
— Dong... dong... dong... dong...
The bell tolled seven times in all.
Seven o'clock sharp.
Turning from the clock, he surveyed his surroundings: the station even housed a modest café, along with a kind of convenience stall selling newspapers and snacks.
An Jung-geun approached the yawning shopkeeper.
"One newspaper, if you please."
"Yes sir! Will that be in yen, or rubles?"
"Rubles."
"Right away, sir!"
He handed over a few notes, took the paper, and sat down on one of the station benches with a clear view of the clock.
Russian gendarmes and an honor guard, is it?
Russian troops with Mosin–Nagant rifles slung across their backs marched into the station in matched step. The honor guard was busy preparing for an inspection, while the gendarmes, as they appeared to be, paired off in twos and began patrolling here and there.
Once they had taken their positions, a tide of yellow faces came pouring in.
"Now, now — anyone without a flag, raise your hand! Quickly! ...You there, don't have one? Here, pass one back to him. Hurry!"
A bespectacled middle-aged diplomat in a business suit, his arms piled with Japanese flags, dashed back and forth marshaling the crowd.
"Now! What did I tell you all? When His Excellency Ito arrives, we salute him with three rousing bansai — together! Are we clear!?"
""Yessir!""
Every one of them stood clutching a rising-sun flag, waiting. It was certain, then.
An Jung-geun flipped through the newspaper, thinking.
Ito dies here today.
— Dong... dong... dong...
The clock struck eight.
Eight in the morning.
— Whoosh!
"Eek."
"Lord, it's cold."
Most of Harbin Station stood open to the elements, and when the fierce gust came tearing through, people huddled into their coats or drifted toward the warm stoves.
An Jung-geun flexed the hand gripping his newspaper.
The leather gloves kept his fingers from freezing, but if they happened to stiffen at the crucial moment, it would be ruin.
He rose from the bench and made for the enclosed café inside the station building.
"A cup of tea, please. I'll pay in rubles."
"Yes, sir!"
The café keeper soon brought out a cup of black tea. He took a vacant seat, stripped off his gloves, and wrapped his hands around the steaming cup.
Through the window, he watched Japanese soldiers file in among the Russians and stake out their positions.
He took out the pocket watch and opened it.
— Click.
"Half past eight."
One hour to go.
Flexing his warmed fingers and kneading the pressure points in his palm, An Jung-geun sought to quiet his pounding heart.
— Click.
8:45.
Forty-five minutes left.
He brought the black tea, now cooled to the perfect warmth, to his lips. The sweet heat slid down his throat and spread through his whole body.
— Click.
Nine o'clock.
"That hit the spot."
"Yes, sir! Come again!"
Instead of promising to return, An Jung-geun left the café and moved toward the platform.
— Click.
9:10.
The flesh-cutting wind had finally died down, so he drew the cigarette case from his pocket and set another between his lips. He put the case away, lifted the matchbox, and drew out a single match.
— Snap.
"...Damn it."
Instead of the broken match, he fished out a fresh one and struck again.
— Ssshh...
This time the flame caught, then died.
"Honestly."
He pulled out yet another match.
— Scratch!
This one took. But the moment he raised the flame to the cigarette at his lips, a gust snatched the match right out of the air.
"...I'm losing my mind."
An Jung-geun slid his hand into the matchbox.
...Damn it all — was that the last one?
He chewed on the unlit cigarette and let out a long sigh.
Then—
"Who uses matches these days?"
"?"
A face he knew well drew near, holding out a lighter.
"...You — Officer."
"It's been a while, sir."
An Jung-geun stared blankly for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Ha ha ha! Well, I never — to run into you here. Weren't you stationed in Fengtian?"
"Orders from above said come, so what could I do? I came."
"Hm. Your superiors are far too hard on you!"
An Jung-geun accepted the offered lighter, waving it back and forth.
"Though for me, of course, it's a stroke of luck."
"Ha ha."
The officer's small chuckle, hands clasped behind his back, was reflected in the sleek silver lighter. An Jung-geun flicked his wrist and the lid sprang open with a bright ting.
— Click. Click.
He spun the wheel of the lighter again and again, but beyond a lot of futile sparks, no flame caught.
"...Why won't it light?"
"Let me do it."
The officer reclaimed the lighter and rolled the wheel.
— Click!
A bluish flame leapt up, then settled into red.
"Well, I'll be. Does it know its master, then?"
"Hard to say. Though I'd wager it's less that it recognizes me and more that your hand was shaking too much, sir."
"My hand?"
An Jung-geun looked down at his own fingers.
"...It does tremble — like an aspen in the wind."
"Here's your flame, sir."
"Thank you."
Only when the officer cupped one hand against the wind and brought the lighter up did the cigarette finally catch.
"Mm. Whew. Now I feel alive again."
"Ha ha, do you?"
The officer who had lit his cigarette gave his usual soft smile and spoke.
"They say cigarettes contain something called nicotine."
"Nicotine?"
"It calms the mind and body, if only briefly. Overuse will breed illness, of course."
"Well, I never. I've never once skipped my books or my newspapers, and that's a first for me."
Come to think of it, his hands did seem to tremble a little less now.
"Some things are best done with fire in the belly, but there are times when a calm and tranquil heart serves better."
"I agree."
"So don't shake so much, sir. You will succeed."
An Jung-geun's head snapped around.
"...Succeed at what, exactly?"
"Keep the lighter. Then — I wish you good fortune, Mr. An Jung-geun."
"Look here, Officer—"
But instead of answering, the officer bowed his head slightly and vanished into the crowd of Chinese soldiers standing watch far beyond the platform.
An Jung-geun gazed after him until his cigarette had burned itself down, then set a fresh one between his lips and flicked the lighter.
— Click.
This time, the flame caught without a hitch.
— Click.
It was 9:25.
"Otdeleniye, smirno!"
— Pa, pam, pa-pa-pa-pam.
The Russian honor guard and military band fell into drills and music at the commander's barked orders.
The platform was packed wall to wall with flag-waving welcomers, no room left to set a foot.
In the distance, the express train came gliding in, belching soot at the sky.
He burned the last cigarette in the case.
Inside his coat, his hand closed around the Belgian automatic pistol. If it misfired, there was the pistol in the opposite pocket. If that failed too, the American-made revolver sat tucked in the small of his back.
An Jung-geun pressed himself into the brief gaps that opened and closed between the bodies, like a man leaping from stone to stone across a stream.
— Screeeech——!!
The train ground to a halt.
"His Excellency Ito! His Excellency Ito! His Excellency Ito!"
"Banzai to the Empire of Japan! Banzai to the Empire of Japan!"
"Long live Russo-Japanese friendship!"
The moment the door slid open, the welcomers surged forward, flags whipping in the air.
An Jung-geun pressed close, up to the second rank of the formation, and watched with care.
The first to descend was... a Russian.
Silk hat, tailored suit, a tie at his throat — a bureaucrat. The Russian finance minister, perhaps.
Russians who looked like aides stepped down behind him and formed his escort.
Breathe slowly.
His breath drew a circle in the air and vanished.
Next. At last, a yellow face descended.
Young — far too young, this bespectacled man with the mustache.
Breathe again.
His breath drifted up and scattered into the sky.
The familiar bespectacled man took his place at the side of the carriage and waited for someone.
An old man in a silk hat appeared. Liver spots mottled his face, and a snow-white beard hung down to his breastbone.
Was that Ito?
He couldn't be sure.
After the string of assassination attempts, Ito had erased his photograph from every corner of the world.
Other Japanese followed him down the steps.
Roughly two men of about the old man's age.
Which one? Who was Ito?
"Your Excellency Ito! Wave to us, please!"
"Your Excellency Itoo—!!"
Someone behind An Jung-geun shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Your Excellency Ito!!"
The old man in the silk hat tilted toward him, raised his hand, and waved.
Found you.
Ito.
"Hey — are you insane?! Why'd you shove me?!"
Ten paces to Ito.
The hand tucked inside his coat slid out past the hem of the coat.
Nine paces.
"Hnn. Whew."
He drew in his last breath — and held it.
Eight paces.
"What the—"
A Japanese gendarme turned, too late.
Seven paces.
The pistol cleared his coat.
Six paces.
"St- stop him—!"
Five paces.
The target had never been wider.
He raised the pistol level with his eyes and aligned the sights.
"I, An Jung-geun, Lieutenant General of the Korean Righteous Army, shall slay the enemy of Asia — Ito!"
— Bang—!
The pistol's slide kicked back. The cartridge casing tumbled slowly through the sky. Ito's body swayed with the impact.
— Bang—!
Ito's body folded.
— Bang—!
Ito crumpled face-first onto the platform. His silk hat bounced free and rolled across the ground.
Five rounds left.
What if that was Ito's kagemusha?
He shifted his aim. The aged high officials standing behind the old man.
Four more casings arced through the air.
"Aaaagh!!"
He flung both hands toward the heavens.
"Korea Ura!! Korea Ura!!"
"Seize him — seize him now—!!"
Japanese gendarmes and Russian gendarmes alike swarmed over him, but he kept shouting.
"Korea Ura!!"
As he thrashed against the men pinning him down, his eyes caught someone far away — someone who had been trampled in the crush. That someone was looking straight at him.
As if he had known everything all along.
"Korea Ura!!"
······.
Come to think of it — did I ever tell him my name?
"Korea Ura!!"
That man could not possibly know my real name. How, then?
······.
Ah.
So that's how it is.
An Jung-geun wrenched himself free of the Russian gendarmes with strength that came from nowhere and roared:
"You — sons of Korea!
Fight!
Fight for the future you desire!
Build the Korea you dream of!
Make a better world!!!!"
The last thing he saw was a club flying toward him — and then his vision went dark.
But An Jung-geun saw it, plain and clear.
He saw the man nod.
That was enough.
I leave it to you.
March 26, 1910.
Lushun.
"The death sentence of the accused, An Jung-geun, is hereby carried out. ...Have you any final words?"
"I die for the independence of Korea, and I die for peace in the East — how could I begrudge death itself?"
"...Proceed."
— Clunk.
The guards bore the body of An Jung-geun, clad in white, carefully to the coffin, and buried him in the burial ground near the prison.
"...Let us return."
"A truly remarkable patriot, that one."
He was a man whose character compelled even the guards and the prosecutor to bow their heads in admiration. The guards pressed their palms together one last time, left the burial ground, and returned to their duties.
And when their eyes were well and truly gone—
Someone emerged from the darkness.
He cross-checked the nearby landscape against a map, and jotted coordinates into a notebook.
"Please wait just a little longer. The Army of the Republic of Korea will come for you, General. I promise you that."
With one final salute, he melted back into the darkness.