A Sister’s Promise by Grace Lee

The night before, my sister sobbed a waterfall into the sleeve of my silk pajamas. My own eyes are bone dry like the wooden roof we lay under. Rain hasn’t come in weeks and the tomato plants outside are decaying like autumn leaves crumbling to dust underfoot. The market was shut down weeks ago by Japanese men with eyes painted with malice.

“But you can’t go!” my sister whines; the phrase has echoed like a broken record throughout the afternoon. “Dad’s away fighting and you’re—”

“I’m all the hope we have left for food,” I interrupt. “I’m well suited for this job. It’s far, but I must go, Nabi.”

I remember I suggested the name for her. Nabi, literally meaning butterfly—soft and free, like a wish I had for who she would become. My own name, Haneul, literally meaning sky, is something I interpreted as a prophecy that I must go far, stretch out to Japan like the vast blue sky above me.

“But factory work?” Nabi cries. “You could tend to the plants outside. I’ll help.”

“Those plants are no better than dead and you know that,” I reply. “I’ll be back. Of course, I will. Just a few months and I’ll be tending to you again.”

“I want a letter,” she demands. Her thin eyelids hold back her tears like a straw dam. Her onyx hair veils the rest of her face. “Once a week. Promise that much, Haneul.”

And I do.

The boat is rocky against the mountain-like waves as I climb aboard, with hundreds of girls—stretching boundlessly before and behind me. Nabi, I’m no longer Haneul. Not your sister, our father’s daughter, or the girl named after a sky, but I am a factory worker, a number, a girl serving the country. A crew member stamps a number onto my arm: 512. I am number 512.

It is cramped inside the ship and my lungs contract, shriveling up inside me as the door shuts and I’m bathed in black. Nabi, you’d hate it here. It’s only when a lantern is lit that I see my bunkmates. One is frail like a blade of grass, with hair so wispy and eyes so watery I think of Nabi’s tears. The others are twins, I figure, with hair cut to their chins and drooping eyelids that cover most of their pupils. From the slivers of their eyes that meet mine, I sense no anger or fear—only the heavy weight of unspoken misery.

My eyes catch the smallest hint of a teardrop swelling before my arm is grasped by a thick, calloused hand and dragged across the stained wooden planks of the boat. I cannot see more than three meters ahead of me, but I don’t dare scream. The calloused hand seems strong enough to take the breath away from my lungs. My feet stop dragging across the hardwood floor next to stairs that seemingly ascend forevermore, and I wonder if they might reach the heavens above if I extend my arms high enough. I face the man tugging my arm, whose visage is finally revealed as he turns around.

His jagged jet-black hair and sharp unforgiving eyes give him away. Days and days of seeing the same malicious look in the eyes of the Japanese soldiers back home implanted the expression in my mind. I bite my tongue to stop the river of curses I long to spit out as he unfolds and examines a crisp piece of parchment.

“512 goes to floor five,” he says, his thick accent concealing nearly all meaning. “512 receives food at half past four.” Nabi, I wonder if he means the morning or the afternoon. “512 is in room 14.”

He folds the paper, lowers it, and then looks at me blankly. I want to shout. Words flurry inside my otherwise empty guts in a hurricane of hostility. I want to say my name, scream it out, but already, it feels unnatural. Haneul is not kept away from the broad, shining sky. Haneul is not reduced to just one out of a thousand numbers.

“512 is restricted from leaving the assigned room or going into floor six. The punishment for this is no food rations for one week.”

“Meals once a day,” I mutter to myself, but the man takes it as a question, or perhaps a sign of disobedience. His eyes narrow. I am a germ under his microscope eyes.

“Food once a day is enough,” he spits out. “Korean girls need that much to be strong enough to work, but not strong enough to resist. That’s what you’re here to do. Until you meet the soldiers—then you’ll be eating even less to be skinny enough to perform. 512 will go to her room now.”

My mouth parts to question the meaning behind his crude words, but his rough hands shove me against the stairs. By the time I turn around, he has vanished. I climb the stairs and wish they take me to the unworldly realm that they seemingly lead to. Somewhere far, far away from here, perhaps abundant with peaceful moments, and the thought traps me in a reverie. My worn-out limbs, famished stomach, heavy eyelids, and aching heart desire it, but what breaks me from the trance is the memory of Nabi, to whom I make it my mission to return. Nabi, I will return to you, do not worry. She is not at the top of the stairs, so I do not ascend there.

When I wake, I realize we have arrived. Voices are yelling and I hear footsteps loud like thunder above me. I nearly jump out of my rock-hard bed to exit the room; the factory is just as scary, but the thought of a glimpse of sunlight after hours in this cold, dull gray room is exhilarating. Nabi, how are the plants at home? Are any leaves sprouting?

But when the Japanese men spot me, they wrap a bandana around my eyes so the only light that reaches me as I step outside is muffled by the ink-black fabric. It feels wet against my eyes as my salty tears stain it. Nabi, has rain come yet?

I realize I’ve made it into the factory when I hear the first creak of a machine. The bandana is removed and I wipe my eyes to reveal seas of gray-ish black machinery before me. Nabi, I feel as though I’ll disappear between machines like the pebbles that sink into our garden soil.

A woman approaches me without a smile. Her cheeks are so sunken her face seems more like a barren skull. Her eyes are light brown, yet still feel darker than the machines. She mutters to me, “We work from the morning bell to the evening bell. At night, don’t make a sound. The ones that do go away—they are taken—until the morning bell rings. Then, they work again.”

“Taken?” I question urgently. “Where?”

The only response is a soft sigh as if expelling more breath would deplete the last reserves of strength needed to endure another day.

As I work, a man watches me. Nabi, his eyes are menacing. His eyes linger on my body, crawling across my skin until he moves on to the next.

It is night now. I know because not a single thing can be seen, and my back is against a hard, flat surface some might deem a bed. Darkness envelopes my universe. Some girls mutter about something, while others sob. My limbs have been handled like fresh meat today—stretched, pushed down, and overworked.

They come for us in the middle of the night, yet no one is sleeping. I feel hands grip my legs and tear me from my bed. Heavy footsteps indicate there are more of them, maybe a dozen, at least. I hear a girl sob quietly, but most don’t make noise. No one asks where we are going, then we see a crack of light. I take solace in it, yet it’s only enough to reveal the shadows of the men who brought us here. Tall and large, they are mountains and we are blades of grass beneath them. The air is thick with sweat and dust. Nabi, I want to return to the darkness, or even better, the sky. I want to see the sky.

Then, it begins, and it is the worst pain of all. Nabi, it is worse than the darkness and the rocky ship and the harsh machinery. They strip our sweaty clothes and begin roaming their calloused hands over us. No one makes a noise. Nabi, please save me.

The only thought that anchors me is the letter I vowed to send. Nabi, the sky is collapsing around me. I am too powerless to fulfill my promise.

Grace Lee

Image by dae jeung kim from Pixabay