Two Short Stories

The first story. Flight.

The year was 1951. North Korean Communist forces were marching, marching. All the citizens of Pyongyang who were not communist sympathizers were fleeing for Seoul. My grandmother was 28 at the time, and her husband, my grandfather, was fighting in the war with the South Korean forces. She had three children. A daughter, whom I've never met. My father, who was five. And another baby, who died.

My father didn't want to walk to Seoul. He was only five. He stopped on the road and threw a temper tantrum and refused to move. My grandmother couldn't carry him because in one arm she held the baby, and with the other she was balancing a large and heavy jug of water on her head. So my aunt, the one I've never met, hoisted my father onto her back, and carried him for seven hours. She was only eight.

My aunt became exhausted. She had to put my father down. But even after being carried for seven hours, my father still refused to walk. My grandmother pleaded, cajoled, commanded, begged, and then gave up. She told him that he could stay there by himself, but that she was going off with the others to be with his father. My father didn't budge. She and the other two children continued down the road. They walked almost a mile before my father caught up with them, his face smeared with dirty tears.

The second story. Rice.

The North Korean army had crossed the 38th parallel, and Seoul was in danger. So the family had to flee Seoul, too. Conditions were terrible. They hadn't eaten in days. Everyone herded into overcrowded and dirty trains to leave the city for Busan. My grandmother had no food to give her children. Some of the people on the trains were eating rice wrapped in seaweed, but no one offered to share.

The train stopped to refuel. My grandmother got off the train to see if she could find some food for her children. She saw some people eating white rice and pickled cabbage. She asked them to spare just a morsel for her children. They refused. She saw a man with red bean dumplings. She asked him for a bite for her children. He said no. And so it went. So she gave up. She walked back towards the train. She cried, and she hung her head down. And then she saw a smushed rice roll in the dirt. Someone had stepped on it. It was disgusting. But she picked it up and cleaned it off as best as she could. She gave half to my father and half to his sister. My father looked at it, ate it silently, and didn't ask for food again for three more days.