This Burns My Heart Page 0,13
window, paying attention to who got on and off the bus. Soo-Ja couldn’t tell if he felt a genuine interest, or if he was just trying to create an aura of casualness around them.
“The two are not so different,” said Soo-Ja, surprised that Min had shared that with Yul. She’d mentioned it to Min almost in passing, and was glad to see that he remembered. “With literature, you learn how people behave, and you learn empathy, a good trait to have as a diplomat.”
“Did you always want to be a diplomat?” Yul asked, still looking around.
“No, not always. When I was little, I wanted to be a waitress.” Yul laughed at this, and Soo-Ja smiled at him before she continued. The bus began to move again. “I liked the uniforms, and the idea of feeding people all day. Then I wanted to be a journalist. I liked arranging words on a page. It changed, though, with the war.”
Soo-Ja looked out the window, and she remembered the view from the car on the day they fled the city—the seemingly endless lines of refugees, walking the narrow roads above the rice paddies, carrying their belongings on their backs; some split their loads by each holding one end of a stick, their bags in the middle. They walked in a long line, Indian file, like prisoners in a chain gang, eyes looking down into the ground. Occasionally, someone would look up at her as the car went by, and she would nod slightly, as if she knew the person. If it was a girl, she’d even smile, as if to say, I’ll see you when we get there, I’ll meet you by the seaside. It’ll all be fine.
“My parents and I had to evacuate, like everyone else, and go to Pusan, at the seaside. We stayed with an aunt of ours, by Haundae Beach, and all through the fall and winter, we watched as the refugees came. I remember it very vividly, the guards squeezing all these women and children into these crowded camps. Their clothes were made out of recycled army uniforms, and a lot of them slept and went to the bathroom on the streets. There were rats everywhere. I remember little boys with shaved heads and tin cans in their hands running after army jeeps, begging for food. My family was lucky. My father had retrofitted his shoe factory into an army uniform maker, and the President was very grateful to him. We stayed in my aunt’s big house, and never went hungry during the war. In fact, we ate pineapples.”
“You shouldn’t feel badly about that,” said Yul. “Your father probably saved the lives of a lot of soldiers.”
“Well, every day I heard stories of people being killed, and bodies mangled, and found on the roads. It was terrifying. I was fourteen at the time.”
“Did anyone in your family get hurt?”
“No. No one. It felt like a miracle. I remember when it all ended, the day we came back home. It felt like everything was gone—buildings bombed, roads filled with debris. Only our house, still standing. There were some people living in it, mostly men—war deserters, vagabonds, idlers. They napped on the floors. Some played hato cards. They had these bored looks on their faces, like they didn’t care that the South had won Daegu back.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, my father started telling people to get out. He used his factory-owner voice—very firm, but also kindly. Like he was saying, Go now, before the real owner, who’s much meaner, catches you here. Nobody protested, the men just got up and started leaving. My mother gave each of them some money, enough for a hot meal, I think, and I remember everyone took the money, but nobody thanked her, or even looked her in the eye. When they left, I wondered where they’d go.” Soo-Ja paused and looked at Yul again. “Are you really sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes. Go on,” he said, his gaze encouraging her. The bus began to move faster now, over paved asphalt, and Soo-Ja could see the Geumho River rise beyond the windows; the sun’s rays rested languidly over its waters—as still as a lover’s outstretched arms.
“That night, we slept in the bare rooms. Everything we had was gone—they’d taken all our furniture, every single jar in the kitchen, every dresser and bookcase, all the lamps and writing desks. And what they couldn’t carry out, like the doors, they’d pulled out parts of with screwdrivers. The