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A NOVEL

The Martyted

By

Richard E. Kim

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THE WAR CAME early one morning in June of 1950, and by the time the North Koreans occupied

our capital city, Seoul, we had already left our uni-

versity, where we were instructors in the History of

Human Civilization. I joined the Korean Army, and

Park volunteered for the Marine Corps—^the proud combat outfit that suited his temperament. In a short

time—^because junior cheers died very fast in the early phase erf the war—^we were trained and battle- tested, and we both became officers. We survived, but we were both wounded. The shrapnel of a mortar

shell had grazed my right knee during the defense of

Taegu, and a sniper had shot Park in his left arm in

the mopping-up opoation in Seoul after the Inchon

landing. We both spent some time in the hospital, were both promised medals, and were returned

promptly to our respective duties.

11

12

Park, who was then a first lieutenant, went back

to combat duty somewhere on the eastern front, but

I did not rejoin my antitank company. Someone in

the Army accidentally discovered that I had been a

university instructor and decided to transfer me to an

intelligence unit. When I came out of the hospital in

Pusan, I was sent to Seoul, where I was put in charge

of a section in the Army PoUtical Intelligence, and

was made captain, temporarily, in due conformity with

the table of organization.

In the second week of October, the United Nations

Forces captured Pyongyang, the capital city of the

North Koreans. We moved our headquarters to that city and estabhshed ourselves in a four-storied gray

marble building. My oflBce, which was on the third floor, looked across the street at what remained of

the Central Presbyterian Church. This was a strange

coincidence. It was Park's father's church; he had

been its minister for nearly twenty years.

I knew very little about him; although Park was a

close friend of mine, he had seldom talked to me

about his father. Which was to be expected. His father

had disowned him and, in turn. Park had denounced

his father. Mr. Park was, according to his disowned

son, "a man of fanatical faith," who had "harassed"

him "day and night with his self-righteousness, with

his exaggerated faith, and his obsession with his

13

equally obsessive God." On the other hand, Park had

become an atheist after his return from a university

in Tokyo, and abandoned the Christian faith in which

he had been brought up. I suspected that he would

not have denounced his father had not Mr. Park told

his congregation, one Sunday morning from his pulpit,

that his son had gone over to the Devil and that he

had asked the Lord His forgiveness for severing all

earthly ties with his son. That was about ten years

before the war.

Park was aware that his father was missing from

Pyongyang; I had informed him of the disturbing news

soon after I moved to the city, and I had done so in

an unsettled frame of mind. I had come to Pyongyang

in a good mood; for the first few weeks I was in a state

of buoyancy, partly because of the exciting novelty

of finding myself in an enemy city that our victorious

army occupied, and partly because of the irresistible

enthusiasm and affection with which the people of the

city greeted all of us, their liberators. Many of my

fellow officers were natives of Pyongyang and, in the

midst of that delightful emotional chaos following

the liberation, they were able to stage melodramatic yet

heartwarming scenes of reunion with their families,

relatives, and friends, or for that matter, with anyone

whose face they recognized.

I had no acquaintances in the city, and som.etimes

14

I felt vaguely envious of these oflBcers. It was at such

times that I felt an urge to go to see Park's father,

though I told myself I had not the slight6st excuse for

doing so. I thought of many reasonable ways in which

I might call on him, yet when I imagined myself actu-

ally knocking on the door of his home and introducing

myself as a good friend of his son's, I could not help

feeling a pecuUar sort of fright. Then I found out that

the Communist secret poUce had arrested him shortly

before the war; and when Army Intelligence let it be

known officially that "an unspecified number of North

Korean Christian ministers" was reported missing and

that the Army "beUeved them to have been kidnapped

by the Reds," I even felt relieved—shamefacedly, of course. So I wrote to Park about it at great length,

but his reply contained nothing but irrelevant matters

—just as I expected—things about his command, about his men, and even about his future plans, but

not a word about his father.

Across the street the church bell clanged. I opened

the window. From the white-blue November sky of

North Korea, a cold gust swept down the debris-ridden

slope, whipping up here and there dazzling snow

flurries, smashing against the ugly, bullet-riddled

buildings of Pyongyang. People who had been digging

in the ruins of their homes stopped working. They

15

straightened up and looked toward the top of the slope,

at the remains of the nearly demolished Central

Church, and then at the gray carcass of a cross-topped

bell tower where the bell was clanging. They gazed

at one another as though they understood the esoteric

message of the bell. Some old women knelt down on

the ground, and the old men removed their dogskin

hats and bowed their bare heads.

The beU was quiet now. The people were back at

their labor, working as silently and stubbornly as they

had day after day. Ever since I arrived in the city, I

had been watching these people. Occasionally, I saw

them drag out of the debris some shapeless remains of

their household goods or, sometimes, a dead body,

which they would quietly carry away on a hand-pushed

cart. Then they would continue digging in the crum-

bled mess of brick, boards, and chunks of concrete.

I closed the window and returned to my desk. The

potbellied, rusty, coal stove in the far comer of the

room gave off plenty of heat, but I shivered as I

settled down in my chair. It was as if a cold hand had stroked my nape as stealthily as the tip of a soft, soft

brush.

Park's father was dead; I had just learned of his

death from my commanding oflBcer.

1

l^l^^H^li^li^l^^l^li^l^l^;^ 2

COLONEL CHANG, the Chief of Army Political Intelligence, had summoned me to his oflBce on the

fourth floor. Seated in his swivel chair behind his desk

under a dusty chandeUer, he did not show any sign

of recognition when I stood before him. His subor-

dinates were accustomed to the way he kept them

waiting in his presence, sometimes for as long as five

minutes. He was a stout man in his late forties, with a

head as bald and shiny as a Buddhist monk's, and with

a bulbous nose that dominated his straw-colored small

face. He began rocking back and forth in his chair,

and peered at me through his glasses.

The junior ofiicers at headquarters were not in-

clined to take Colonel Chang too seriously, though

they admitted he was a baflaing character. Since it was

standard procedure in an intelligence unit not to keep

in the personnel file the record of its commanding

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17

oflBcer, his past was obscure. Those who despised him

said he had been a sergeant in the Japanese Army

during the war in the Pacific; those who disliked him

said he had been a notorious soldier of fortune in

China; and those who did not care one way or the

other said he was just one of those professional mili-

tary men. No one seemed to know precisely how he

happened to be enjoying the rank of a full colonel in

such a young army as ours, though everyone assumed

he was longing for a star.

At last he motioned me to take a seat and, bringing

his swaying chair to a stop, said gravely, "I want you

to start an investigation of the missing ministers."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" I said, to cover my sur-

prise.

His thin lips curled. "You recall those Christian

ministers who were reported missing. We've had a

big break. Our CIC was able to round up a few Reds

who had something to do with the missing men." He

rummaged through the clutter of papers on his desk.

"They were all shot the day the war started."

"A mass execution!"

Casting me an indignant look, he said, raising his

voice, "I call it mass murder."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, there's a problem. The findings of the CIC

18

are conflicting. We are not so sure about the exact number murdered."

"Then they didn't shoot all of them."

"No, no, I am not saying that. However, one source

of information claims there were fourteen, the other

says twelve. Unfortunately, both sources of informa-

tion are no longer available. We seem to have an im- petuous CIC."

"You mean the prisoners were killed?"

Colonel Chang ignored my concern. "Now if we

are to assume there were fourteen ministers and all of

them were shot, and if we can't round up any other

sources of information, well then, it means there are

no witnesses. All we can say is that fourteen were

murdered."

"But, if I may say so, sir," I said, "we can't say they

were murdered, or how many. We can only say that an undetermined nurqbers of ministers disappeared."

"I am glad you said that, Captain. I knew you would

come around to it, and that's why I want you to work

on the problem. The Chief of Army Intelligence just

called to tell me that it belongs in the area of political

intelligence, and I can hardly disagree with him."

"You are suggesting that it may be good material

for propaganda," I said. "A grave case of religious

persecution by the Conmiunists. Of international sig-

nificance, if I may add, sir, particularly in America.

19

In short, we may be able to exhibit to the entire world

the Korean chapter in the history of Christian mar-

tyrdom."

"All right, all right. I am not suggesting anything,**

Colonel Chang said impatiently. "Now, let me return

to the problem. It's a simple matter of arithmetic. If

we assume there were originally fourteen ministers,

and if we take into account the claim that only twelve

were shot, then it is possible two have survived, is it

not?"

"Of course."

"As you know, it is impossible for us, at this early

stage, to check every single living Christian minister

in North Korea. But the curious thing is that there

are two in Pyongyang, right this minute, who were

imprisoned by the Reds. Actually they were still in

prison when we took the city. It is an interesting

coincidence, don't you think, however hypothetical it

may be?"

Something in his manner—perhaps it was the sud- den, quick gleam in his eyes, or the way he tilted his

bald head—impressed me that he knew more about the two ministers than he was willing to tell me.

"Well, what do you think of this possibility?" he

asked.

"Hypothetical, as you say, sir," I repUed.

He was pleased with my response. "Good. Now, I

20

want you to go and see these ministers. Shin and Hann,

and tell them about our problem. Be tactful about it,

because I don't want to create the impression that

I am handling Christians roughly. Christians in this

country are quite influential these days," he said with

a faint smile. Then, after a pause, he continued with

an undisguised tone of acidity. "Ever>'one seems to be

Christian nowadays; it seems fashionable to be one.

From the President to cabinet ministers, generals,

colonels, all the way down to privates. Why, even the

Army has to have Christian chaplains, just to please

the American advisors. Ah, well, you can see my dif-

ficult position."

"Yes, sir."

"I am not suggesting that these men had anything

to do with the murder, or that they were originally

included in the murder plan. Also, I have no intention

whatsoever of implying that I am suspicious of the

circumstances relating to their fortunate survival,

although it may be highly desirable for me to be so;

that is, from the point of view of an objective intelli-

gence analysis. Their fortunate survival, Captain Lee,

please note my word. Anyway, oflBcially speaking, I

am merely asking you to see them and inquire, yes,

inquire politely, if they would be kind enough to en-

lighten us concerning the exact number involved in

21

this mass murder; that is, if they know anything about

it at all, you understand?"

I felt confused, but I said, "Yes, I fully understand."

He seemed delighted. "Good. That's what I like

about you. Civihans seem to have a keener sensibiUty

in affairs of extreme deUcacy," he said, smiling. "Oh,

incidentally, one of them, Hann, I believe, is presum-

ably crazy."

"You mean—he is not well?" The colonel darted a sardonic glance at me. "For-

give my indeUcacy, Captain Lee," he said. Then he

stood up, grabbed a pad of paper from the desk, and

strode over to the window. "That is all," he fairly

shouted.

The church bell clanged.

Colonel Chang swore. "I can't stand that bell!

Clanking, clanking day and night! Intolerable!"

"Sir," I said, "the minister of that church . . ."

He cut me short. "He's dead."

^;^^l^;^^^^^^^;^l^ 3

I WAS WAITING for my driver to bring the jeep to the sentry box outside headquarters. Whenever a

whistling gust whipped past the box, spraying a sil-

very mist of pulverized snow, I could hear the bell

clanging, clanging over the slope, and I could visual-

ize Colonel Chang banging on his desk, swearing as

he glared out of the window. I asked the sentry to tell

my driver to wait for me, and walked toward the

church.

There had been an alley off the street between

houses and shops leading up the slope to the church.

Nothing was left standing now. Houses had been

smashed to bits in the bombardment, and their ruins

buried the alley; a wooden board that said Cameras,

soiled and cracked, hung lopsided from the remains

of a shattered shop. A trolley car crawled along the street, clanking, flashing cold, blue sparks. An Army

22

23

jeep drove past, its loudspeaker blaring out an unintel-

ligible message. Loose wires were lashing at a pros-

trated lamppost.

In the rubble, people were still digging, and when

I started up the slope, a few of them stopped working

and looked at me. An old man followed me, keeping

several paces behind, but when I came close to the

front of the church, he came abreast of me. We ex- changed perfunctory bows. He wore a black coat,

but he had no gloves, and he rubbed his hands to-

gether, blinking in the sun and in the wind that nifSed

his white hair.

The Central Church was rather small and was built

of red bricks. A flight of stone steps led up to two dirty marble columns, above which was the bell tower, with

a golden cross on its top. The exterior of the tower was

torn open and the black iron beU could be seen hang-

ing precariously inside, its rope swaying loosely in

the wind. Beyond the columns, two white doors, now

dusty and broken, stood wide open, one of them wob-

bling on its loose hinges as though it would collapse

at any moment. Through the open doors the interior

of the church was dimly visible. Either a bomb or an

artillery shell had blasted the middle section; the pews

had been tossed about, twisted and smashed, though

the altar had been left intact.

A shrieking wind swirled about us for a moment.

24

The bell clanged. I looked up at the tower and saw

the rope violently jerking, to and fro, up and down.

I turned to the old man, who shrugged his shoulders.

"What's the matter with the bell?" I asked him.

"The bell?" he muttered, squinting his blinking

eyes.

"Don't you have anyone to take care of it?"

"Why, I don't see anything wrong with the bell, do

you?" he said, rubbing his eyes. "Nobody touches it.

The wind comes and rings the bell."

"Why don't you church people do something about

it?"

"You can't get up there. The stairway is almost

gone, and it's too dangerous to use a ladder. The

tower may crumble at any moment."

"But I still think you ought to do something about

it."

"We're waiting," the old man mumbled. "We're all

waiting for our minister to come back to us. Any day

now, because we're wirming the war, they say. When

he comes back, maybe he can do something about the

church"—slowly he focused his bleary eyes on mine —"and maybe he can do something about the bell, too. Who knows?"

"You know what happened to him, don't you?" I

said.

"No, we don't," he said. "Yes, we do, but we aren't

25

sure, nobody is sure, what's happened to him. He was

taken away by the Communists some time before the

war broke out, and that's the last thing we've seen of

him. 'Don't worry,' we tell each other, 'he will come

back.' Any day now. Yes, any day now. He will come

back."

I hastily echoed his sentiments. "Yes, any day now."

I moved a few steps closer to the threshold of the

devastated church. It was then that I saw someone

inside. Though the pews were strewn about and the

debris from the broken roof was piled over them, the

rear white wall with its small, shattered stained-glass

window was still there beyond the altar. The left bal-

cony had fallen halfway down, and was hanging

loosely, almost touching the front edge of the altar.

It was there, directly beneath the twisted balcony,

that I saw the prostrate gray figure of a man, with his

bare hands stretched out over his head, clutching at

the edge of the barren altar. I looked at the old man

beside me, but he only shrugged his shoulders and

pointed a finger to his shaking head. "A madman,"

he whispered. "I don't know who he is."

"Well, you'd better tell him, I mean tell someone

to stop him from getting in there. He may kill himself."

"He comes around here once in a while," the old

man said. "I talked to him once. He just stared at me

—you know the way they look at you—almost fright-

26

ened me. You know what he said? *I come here to

pray.* That's what he said. Well, he didn't sound like

a madman to me. So I let him do whatever he pleased.*'

Then, suddenly, the man came out of the church,

saw us standing there, and leaped back inside, turning

to peer at us suspiciously through the doorway. I

stepped forward. The old man grabbed my ann,

whispering, "No, no." But I could not restrain myself

from shouting, "Listen! You'd better come out of

there. It's dangerous. You may kill yourself there!"

To my astonishment, he cried, "Go away!" There

was a pause and he said, "Go away!" once more and

disappeared.

I might have dashed mto the church after him,

had not my companion held onto my arm, begging

me to leave him alone. Then I heard the man laugh-

ing, and I was . . . yes . . . dumbfounded when his

laughter was followed, a moment later, by a wail like

that of a hungry, abandoned baby, a piercing cry that

mingled with the clanging of the bell. I told the old

man to inform the proper authority, though I had

not the vaguest notion as to who the proper authority

might be. He paid me no mind, and when I left he

was on his knees in the dirty snow.

I hurried across the street back to the sentry box,

dismissed my driver, and drove oflE.

^;i^;^^;j^;^;i^^^;^;^^;^ 4

THE SOLITARY HOUSE stood at the top of a hill

that commanded a wintry view of the city of Pyong-

yang and the Taedong River. I drove up the winding

road that ended halfway up the hill, parked the jeep

and walked the rest of the way. A gravel path, almost hidden in the snow, led to the front of the two-storied

gray house through shrubs, stubby, crooked pine

trees, and a dilapidated garden cluttered with piles

of dirty snow. A small balcony with iron rails was supported by two short pillars of gray stone.

I knocked on the white front door, which was finally

opened by an old woman, who let me into a dim

hallway. She peered at me warily, wiping her chapped

hands with her apron. She told me that Mr. Shin was

not at home for he usually spent his day at his church

downtown, that he was busy, very busy, and that I

could leave my message with her. She was blocking

27

28

my way, as it were, firmly planting herself in front

of me in the hushed hallway.

I asked her, then, if I could see Mr. Hann. "How

did you know he is here?" she said, surprised, and

even frightened, I thought.

"Are you from the police?"

I told her I was not, that I was an army oflBcer.

But why did she ask me if I was from the police? She

ignored my question.

"Anyway, he isn't feeling well. I ought to know,"

she said. "I am his nurse."

So I ventured to ask her if she minded my paying

my respects to him.

She gasped in protest.

"I promise you that I shan't take too much time,"

I said.

"Well, he isn't home either,'* came the prompt reply.

"But you told me he is ill."

"He isn't a sick man. He can go out for a walk,

can't he?" she said as though she were pleading.

I looked at her closely, but her eyes did not meet

mine. I decided to leave. I told her I hoped I might

have the pleasure of meeting the ministers some other

day. She gave me an appreciative glance and asked

me who I was. Would I care to leave any message?

When I said no, she seemed relieved and asked me

where I was from. Was I a Christian? I said I was

29

not, but I had gone, when I was small, to the Sunday

school of a neighborhood church in Seoul. I told her

that I was sorry I had disturbed her, and I turned to

go away. But as I touched the cold, brass doorknob,

I found myself impulsively swinging around, facing

her. "What would you say if I told you I saw Mr.

Hann this morning at the Central Church?"

'*No!" she said. "Not there!"

**Yes!" I was about to tell her what I had seen when

I heard someone on the stairway. I collected myself

and looked up.

A man garbed in a black robe stopped halfway down the stairs, waiting for the nurse to withdraw,

his dark eyes looking down at me. Then he came

straight to me.

"Mr. Shin?" I said.

"Yes. Forgive me. I could not help overhearing.

You wanted to see me?"

I took off my helmet and introduced myself.

As soon as we were seated in a bare, dusty room

—

there was no furniture other than a few brown wooden

chairs, nor any sign of heat—^he said quietly, "You say you have seen Mr. Hann?"

"Do you think I might have seen him?" I said,

feeling ill at ease.

"It is possible." Mr. Shin drew his garment tightly

30

around him. His Adam's apple twitched as he ad-

justed his long neck to the robe. There was a hollow

look in his unshaven face, and his large, feverish eyes

gazed steadily into mine. "Yes, it is possible."

He coughed—a dry, racking cough that convxilsed his thin frame. "I have been worried about him," he

said. "He went out last night and hasn't come home

yet. This is the first time he has stayed out so long.**

"Didn't you look for him?'*

"We couldn't go out last night. There is a curfew,

as you know. Unfortunately, I am ordered to be in

bed by my doctor, and I couldn't send the nurse out

for fear she might lose her way. So I have been waiting

for the janitor of my church, who comes here once

a day, but he hasn't come yet. I am only hoping that

Mr. Hann hasn't troubled the authorities and that he

will come home any minute.**

"The nurse told me he is ill,'* I said. "Is he seriously

ill?"

Mr. Shin did not reply.

"Is there anything I can do?" I did not know why

I said it.

"Why should you care for us?" he asked, frowning

sUghtly. "We hardly know you."

"Why should you be surprised?'*

"Aren't you here to . . . how shall I put it ... to

interrogate me?"

31

I did not like the tone with which he deliberately

stressed the word, interrogate. "No," I said.

"But you are from InteUigence."

'•Yes, but I am not an interrogator."

"Sorry. I did not mean to offend you," he muttered,

stirring in his chair. "What do you know about me?"

"Not very much and that only superficially."

His pale Ups formed a semblance of a smile. "Well?"

"You are forty-seven years old, and Mr. Hann,

twenty-eight. You were both arrested by the Com-

munist secret police on June eighteenth, seven days

before the war started; and on the same day, other

Christian ministers were also arrested." I told bim

what I had been briefed on by CIC. "You were about

to be shot when our Infantry arrived, and you were

set free from prison."

"Are you a professional inteUigence man?" he

asked. "If so, I don't mind telling you that I disdain

your profession."

I told him about my academic career, to which I

would return as soon as the war was over.

'*You interest me," he said. "But I suppose you

want to find out something from me, whatever it may

be?" He crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his

shoulders as he coughed.

"We are concerned about the other ministers," I

said. "I assume you know they were kidnapped by the

32

Communists." I paused and studied his face, which

remained expressionless. "1 can tell you that the Army

knows that much. There is no evidence about the

kidnapping, even about the fact—well, we established it as the fact—that they were arrested. We would like to know why they were arrested in the first place."

"Need there be any special reason for the Com-

munists to arrest Christians?"

"Were you with them?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When you were arrested you were all together,

weren't you?" I suggested boldly. "As a group?"

"Yes," came the unhesitant reply, to my surprise. "Then you must know what happened to the

others."

"No, I don't."

"But you were with them."

"Yes. You want to know why we were separated."

He looked up at the white, cracked ceiling, from which

dangled a naked hght bulb, then back at me again. •That I wouldn't know."

"We know that you and Mr. Hann were moved to the prison on June twenty-fifth, the day the Commu- nists invaded the South," I said. "Why did they move just the two of you?"

"You are interrogating me, aren't you?"

"No. I am merely interested to know what has hap- pened to the other ministers."

33

"Why through me?" he said wearily. "You know-

that we were separated. Then how do you expect me

to tell you anything about them?"

"I thought perhaps you might be able to tell us

something about their fate."

"Don't you know enough about it already?" he said,

looking at me sternly.

"Kidnapped?"

"That's right."

"Do you believe it?" I raised my voice. "That they

were really kidnapped and that they may be aUve

somewhere?"

"Do you?" he said.

"No," I confessed. "No, I don't."

"Neither do I."

"Then you beUeve they were executed?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"How many ministers?"

"There were fourteen of us."

"Then two survived?"

"And I suppose you want to know why we two were

not shot?"

I waited for his reply; but I was hardly prepared

for what he declared a moment later:

"It was through divine intervention."

I remained silent.

34

"You don't believe in God, do you?" he said, and

lowered his eyes.

"No."

'Then call it luck," he said resignedly.

Mr. Shin asked me if I had driven to the house, and

if so, would I mind giving him a ride into the city.

"Would you be kind enough to take me to the Cen-

tral Church? I don't want to impose on you, but I

would appreciate it."

He left me to get his coat, and came back wearing

a black overcoat and carrying a gray one on his arm.

We walked silently down the hill to my jeep, and drove into the city.

It was almost dusk when we reached the church.

The curfew was near and the streets were deserted

except for a few uniformed passers-by. A jeep prowled by, its loudspeaker reminding people of the curfew

and of the nightly blackout.

Mr. Shin did not want me to come with him inside

the church, and without a moment's hesitation he dis-

appeared through the dim, gaping mouth of the open

doorway into the dark interior.

In a Uttle while he came out with the man I had

seen that morning, who was now wearing the gray

overcoat. When they came down the steps, at the bot-

tom of which I was standing, the man saw me and

35

stopped. Mr. Shin said to him gently, "It is all right.

He is our friend. Would you like to meet him? Why,

of course," and he turned to me, his face serene.

"Captain Lee, I would like you to meet Mr. Hann."

The young minister looked at me blankly, with a

faint smile on his emaciated face.

I do not know what it was about him that pierced

my heart, but suddenly I felt again the same rage I

had experienced earlier in the war. A few miles south of Pyongyang we had discovered a cave on a moun-

tainside. Several hundred political prisoners had been

forced into the cave by the retreating Communists,

who then machine-gunned the prisoners and sealed

the mouth of the cave by dynamiting it. I was in

charge of a detachment to dig open the cave. For

hours we dug; spectators were gathering—farmers from a nearby village—photographers, Korean and foreign—radio - announcers, clutching their micro- phones. At last we made an opening barely large

enough for me to squeeze through into the black mouth of the cave. Something gave way under my boots—I had stumbled on a corpse. With a shiver I stood dazed in the darkness, nauseated by the hellish

stench of decomposition and excrement, aware of faint

groans and a whimpering that seemed no longer hu-

man. Something touched my arm; in a frenzy, I seized it, a human hand almost skeletal, and edged toward

36

the opening and out into the world, pulling, carrying,

dragging a man. And there he was, out in the flooding

sunshine, lying on his back, his hollow eyes wide open,

his spent flesh shrouded in tattered, rotting clothes, ob-

livious of everything around him as though his soul had

not been dug out of the cave with his body. And I, too,

was oblivous of everything, everyone around me as I

squatted down beside him. Then I came to and saw

them, those photographers, and heard the sharp,

metallic clicking of the shutters of their cameras. A strange, terrible shame seized me, and I crouched

over the man, staring into the limbo of his leaden

eyes, as if trying to shield with my body the mute

dignity of his suffering from the nonchalant prying

eyes behind the cameras. "Captain, would you mind,"

someone shouted, "would you move away so I can get

a better shot of him?" Out of the bloated toothless

mouth oozed dark, yellowish liquid, and flies, those

flies, swarming, buzzing, buzzing, eerily mingled with

the hysterical voices of the announcers, and "Cap-

tain, let me get a good shot of him." Then I thought

someone pushed me away, and blind with rage I

snatched a shovel from the hands of a soldier and

began smashing the cameras, chasing those cold eyes

from my man, the flies, those terrible flies. . . .

In silent humiUty, I touched Mr. Hann's cold, cold

hand.

37

He turned his face to Mr. Shin, who nodded to him;

then, suddenly he staggered, and ahnost collapsed.

I drove them back to the foot of the hill, and walked

with them to the house. The nurse came running out

of the front door and led the young minister inside,

Mr. Shin cordially shook my hand before I left.

But I had scarcely taken ten or so steps away from

him when I stopped and turned around.

He was still there, standing in the bleak garden, a

shadowy figure in the blurring twilight.

"Mr. Shin?" I called out to him.

"Yes?"

"The other ministers—they were all murdered shortly before you were moved to the prison. Did you

know?"

He was silent.

"Mr. Shin?"

"Yes?"

I hesitated for a moment, but I knew I had to ask

him. I said, "Your god—is he aware of the suffering of his people?"

He turned around without a word, and withdrew

into the dark, solitary house.

^l^^^^^^i^^^^^;!^ 5

THE BLACK, COLD November night shrouded the city outside. It was singularly quiet. I did not hear the

sound of the usual troop movements or of the con-

voys of supply, only occasionally the faint whining

of a lone jeep, or the distant humming of a formation

of bombers. Alone in my office I sat on the edge of

the camp bed near the coal stove that glowed in the

shadowy halo of the candlehght. The night was get-

ting deep, but I was in no mood for sleep. The win-

dowpanes rattled, and the faint clanging of the bell

slipped into the room, permeating my consciousness.

I picked up the crude iron bar from the coal box and

poked the lava-like coal in the stove, sending up a

hissing blaze. The undulating Ught and the enveloping

darkness gnawed at each other spasmodically, and

gazing at the hypnotic, wavering blue core of the

candlelight I knew only that I was at a loss; and that

was a pity.

38

39

That certainly was a pity because the next morning

when Colonel Chang exclaimed, "Divine interven-

tion! What does he think he is, a saint!" I could not

help laughing with him, however momentarily, half

amused and half uncomfortable.

"Divine intervention, eh? Oh, well, let him have his

way," he said, good-naturedly.

I was surprised and even puzzled by his extraordi-

nary geniality, for I had expected him to fly into a

rage over my report on the visit to the ministers. How-

ever, he behaved extremely well, and even managed

to put me off my guard by indicating that he was not

at all annoyed with the outcome of my interview with

Mr. Shin. I had anticipated some sort of violent re-

action from him upon learning that the two ministers

had been with the other twelve shortly before the

execution. Yet all he said was: "Yes, yes." Then he

swiveled in his squeaking chair and laughed again:

"You really must have scared the devil out of him!

So—he had to hide behind his god, eh? Well, well, young fellow, that's good work, very good work, in-

deed."

His confident manner and indulgent laughter dis-

turbed me. "I don't think I did anything to scare him,

sir," I protested. "Besides, I don't think he was scared

of anything. He looked more tired than anything else."

"Ah, you don't understand. Of course, he was

40

scared. But remember, he is a preacher and he knows

how to put on a good act—theatrical, if you know what I mean. Of course, he was scared," he said, with

a wave of his hand. "I knew it, I knew it."

"Sir, I hope you are not suggesting that they col-

laborated with the Communists," I said.

"Well, what do you think?"

"It is very difficult for me to suspect that they could

have betrayed the other ministers."

"Why not?" he asked, with a peculiar, cold smile

on his face that for some reason at the moment made

me think of him as a gambler. He leaned back in his

chair. "Well, why not? Because they are Christians?

You are not a Christian."

"No, I am not, but that's beside the point, sir. I

don't think the Communists needed any collaboration,

because they wanted to murder the prisoners anyway.

There wasn't anything really against the ministers, as

you know yourself, sir. What I mean is that there

were no justifiable charges against them. So, why

should the Communists have needed informants or

collaborators?"

"Of course the Reds had no charges," he said, as

though he pitied my naivete. "But that's beside the

point, if I may borrow your expression. When you

don't have charges, you manufacture them. It's as

simple as that. So they manufactured charges against

41

the ministers, then they needed someone to confess

—

that's right—confess and bear witness to the charges. It's all very simple."

"You mean the two ministers were forced to con-

fess?"

"Possibly."

"We don't have any evidence for that."

**No, we don't."

"Then what do you suppose we ought to do?"

"Just wait."

I was quite tense by then, and I felt as though I

were struggling to disentangle myself from a web.

"Wait for what, sir?"

"Confession."

"I don't understand."

"I am waiting for them to confess."

"Confess what, sir?"

"That they gave their confessions to the Reds."

"Then you really think that's how they survived."

"Can you think of any better explanation," he said,

"apart from his nonsense about divine intervention?"

"Good luck, perhaps," I muttered.

"More nonsense."

I felt desperate, without knowing precisely why. I

said as calmly as I could, "Then you ought to arrest

them."

42

Colonel Chang chuckled. "My dear fellow, you

don't think I am as stupid as that, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Look here, I have no intention of downgrading

Christians. Why should I go out of my way to discredit

Christians, whose interests, after all, coincide with

ours in this war? On the contrary, I intend to do my

best to protect them, to boost their morale, and to

promote their interests."

"Then why do you have to have such a strong sus-

picion about the ministers?" I said. "After all, even

if they confessed to the manufactured charges, we can

reasonably assume that they were forced to do so, and

that it doesn't really constitute an act of treason. At

least, not in my opinion, sir."

Tilting his head, he gazed at me through his thick

glasses. "What about in the opinion of their god?" he

said.

I shook my head helplessly. "I wouldn't know about

that."

Suddenly dispelling the air he had been affecting

of harmless good nature, he snapped, "No, you don't.

But I do! I tell you, I do!" He paused, and pointed his

finger at me. "Put yourself in their place and think

about the martyrs—those twelve ministers who were murdered in cold blood. Can't you see what these two

must be going through? Well, we'll forget about the

43

crazy one. Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not

trying to hound this man, Shin. By no means. I want

to help him."

"Help him!"

"For the sake of justice, I want to hear his con-

fession. But I won't turn that against him. No, I won't.

I mean to protect him and I'll do all I can to keep it

secret. I am sure the Chief of Army InteUigence won't

have any objection to that. That's right. I'll protect

him, FU make him a hero, and I'll even cooperate with

him for the cause of Christianity in North Korea."

"But suppose, sir, suppose, he has nothing to say?"

Colonel Chang leaned forward, his eyes shining

darkly. "We shall then appeal to his conscience," he

said.

^;^;^;^;^^;^^^^^;^^ 6

CURIOUSLY ENOUGH Colonel Chang had not told me to see Mr. Shin again, nor had he intimated that

I should do so on my own initiative. In the next few

days, I saw the colonel several times but he gave me

no inkling as to the unresolved problem concern-

ing the ministers. His behavior puzzled me, finally

disturbed me. Meanwhile, I was busy with my routine

activities; I attended regular staff meetings, wrote

innumerable pamphlets for the Army's Troop Infor-

mation and Education Bureau, and prepared a few

speeches for the chief, one of whose jobs it was to

speak to groups of civic-minded people in the city.

As the month of November progressed, the Korean

Infantry and various U.N. troops on the western front

were busily engaged in the final stage of mopping-up

operations near the Yalu River, across which stretched

the endless expanse of the frozen plains of Man-

44

45

churia; on the eastern front, the U.N. Infantry and

the American Marines, encountering little opposition,

steadily made their way toward the Tumen River near

Siberia. The demoralization of the North Korean

Army was swift and complete; the war was virtually

coming to an end. Everyone was cheerful and hopeful,

and was convinced that it would be all over by Christ-

mas.

Then one cold and windy afternoon, I received the

following letter from Park:

I am still alive, in case you wondered. At least I

know I am alive right this minute. We are moving fast these days, too recklessly fast, perhaps. We hardly stop anywhere long enough to think about

where we are going. Well—I just survived my first hand-to-hand combat. But my CO was killed, so they made me a temporary captain and put me in

charge of the company. What happened is—we got into a bayonet fight with a company of North

Koreans in a valley. Both sides charged and it was

all right for a while—just a regular hand-to-hand combat. Then somehow everything got all mixed

up, and it was wild. The trouble was that it was

pitch-black night and that we all spoke Korean.

DevU only knew which side we were killing, Every-

one was shouting in the same language, "Who are you? Who are you?" For a while the bewilderment was simply staggering. Then, something—panic, ter- ror, you name it—snapped, and everyone was kill-

46

ing everyone else. All of a sudden, a hand grenade

exploded, and that did it We scattered in all direc- tions, throwing grenades behind us. But that was

nothing. Some idiot had called for artillery fire, and

shells started pouring down out of the black sky.

It was a deep, rocky valley, squeezed in by steep

cliffs, and I just wonder—if you had been up on top of one of those mountains and had been able to see

what was going on down there in the black bottom

of the valley—I just wonder how you would have felt? But why am I writing you all this? I don't

exactly know. Perhaps, I am frightened of myself.

It depresses me to suspect that I am the very source

of my horror. Will write again. Take care of your-

self

Park's letter had been written nearly two weeks

before, and it did not give me the faintest clue as to

the location of his unit. I wanted to write him, but I

knew my letter would take more time to reach him

than his letter had to find me. I thought I would take

advantage of my position and make use of the direct

telephone of the Intelligence Communication Service.

For this, I needed the assistance of the Marine Corps

liaison oflBcer assigned to our headquarters. I went

down to his office.

The officer, a husky, young lieutenant who limped

noticeably, made notes of Park's name, his serial

47

number and his unit's number, and assured me that

he would let me know as soon as he could how to

reach Park. He was usually cheerful and sociable,

with clear brown eyes and a quick boyish snule; but

while he attended to me that afternoon, he was quiet

and businesslike. I did not t^ him more than was

necessary, and he was scrupulous enough not to ask

me any questions.

When I thanked him for his help and turned to go,

he stood up from his chair and detained me. Then he

closed the door of his oflBce and came to where I was

standing. His behavior aroused my curiosity. He

looked at me for a moment, scratched the back of his

head and his cropped hair, and smiled sheepishly.

"Captain Lee," he said, "I really don't know if it's all

right to teU you this."

I returned his smile. "Well?"

"It's about this Captain Park," he said.

"Yes?"

"You are not the only one who wants to contact

him. Colonel Chang is also interested in him."

"Colonel Chang?"

"Yes. He was down here about four days ago and

asked me to locate Captain Park . . . well, he didn't know the oflBcer had been promoted then."

"What did he want?"

"That's the point. It was supposed to be very im-

48

portant. Of course, I don't have any idea what he was

up to. It wasn't that he wanted to call him, though."

The lieutenant frowned and went on to tell me that,

after he had located Park for Colonel Chang, the

colonel had communicated with the Chief of Naval

Intelligence. "It was, you know, sort of hush-hush,"

he concluded. "I really don't know if I should have

told you about this."

I told him it was all right, he was not violating any

security regulations.

"So, you see, when you asked me about the same

officer, I just couldn't help wondering about him,"

he said. "Who is he? Is he involved in something? Oh,

I talk too much. Never mind. Captain. I won't ask

you any more questions."

I assured him that it was all right with me, that

Park was a friend of mine, and that I wanted to call

him only for personal reasons.

He was relieved and said, beaming, "Oh, that's fine.

Tell you the truth, I do it myself sometimes, I try to

contact fellows I know all over the country. You

know, just to keep in touch." He told me how, out of

two hundred or so who had been trained and com-

missioned with him, only forty-seven were still alive;

they were, most of them, college students who had

volunteered. There was a feeling of kinship between

us; we both had been in an academic environment

49

before the war; we chatted, oblivious to our present

status, about our universities, and our future plans.

Then we talked about our experiences in the war; and

he was telling me how he had been wounded by "a

God-damned Russian mine," and how those "quacks" ,

—those medical students in uniform—had been scared to death at the first aid station and had almost

"chopped his knee off" and so on, when we heard a

knock on the door.

It was my orderly. I was wanted by Colonel Chang.

I thanked the Marine lieutenant for his help, and

headed for the colonel's office.

On my way upstairs, I could not help feeling that

I was like a helpless spectator, vainly conjecturing

about the elusive performance of a magician. At the

same time I was indignant, for I felt the colonel had

encroached upon my private life by deUberately by- passing me in undertaking affairs that had something

to do with Park.

Colonel Chang, upon seeing me enter his office,

gestured that I should take a chair and wait until he

was ready for me. I could not but think that he had

already guessed what was in my mind. For a few min- utes he engaged himself in a mute examination of

papers on his desk. Then, shoving the papers aside, he

raised his smooth bald head and said, as though speak-

ing to himself. "Well, well, how do you Uke that?"

50

"Sir?"

"This man. Shin," he said, shaking his head as if

he was overwhelmed by a sense of helpless resignation.

"I simply don't understand him."

"What's the trouble, sir?"

"I've had CIC do a quiet opinion poU, so to speak.

You know, just asking some Christians about the two

ministers. Well, they all say the same thing—that the two were separated from the others by the Reds, so

they had no knowledge of what became of the twelve

ministers. How do you like that, eh?"

"Perhaps it's the truth."

With a grin, he said, "It's not as simple as that. The

point is that this man, Shin, has told his congregation

in plain words that he and the other one. Harm, hadn't

seen the other ministers again after they had been

separately interrogated by the Reds. What do you

think of that?"

"I suppose his congregation, or for that matter, all

the Christians in the country, would like to know what

happened to the ministers and they would ask him

about it. It seems to me only natural under the cir-

cumstances."

"Natural indeed," he snapped. "And they would

believe whatever he tells them, wouldn't they? If they

are all good Christians, that is."

"I suppose, sir," I answered helplessly. "I don't ex-

51

pect they would seriously think their minister was

telling them a lie from his pulpit."

"Well said, Captain. Very well said."

I was not ready to leave. I stood up but lingered

for a moment, groping for the right word with which

to begin my own cross-examination, as it were, about

Park. Colonel Chang looked up from his desk at me,

as though he were genuinely surprised to see me still

there, and said good-naturedly, "That is all. Captain.

Thank you for coming."

I gave in and made to go, when he said casually,

"Tomorrow is Sunday, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good. I thought you and I might attend the

service at Minister Shin's church tomorrow."

^l^i^^^i^i^^^^^^^}!^ 7

"BUT WHY ARE you telling me about it?" said Mr. Shin, slowly raising his head.

I had decided, after my supper at headquarters, to

go to see him. I had no clear idea why I wanted to see

him, except for a vague feeling of restlessness. I still

did not have the slightest notion, even when we were

sitting face to face, as to what had convinced me of

the necessity to drive all that way to the hill. So I sat

quietly, for some time, merely looking at Mr. Shin,

who maintaiued, to my great relief, an air of immeas-

urable serenity.

"I suppose I should be grateful to you for letting

me know where I stand," he continued slowly, "but,

frankly, I don't quite understand why you should go

out of your way to do me this favor." He looked at me

calmly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. He

was coughing with much difficulty, with his lean

52

53

shoulders hunched and twitching; he looked weary

and his eyes were deeply sunken. The coughing

stopped and he said, "To be sure, I don't mean to say

that I am not grateful. It is just that I don't under-

stand you."

"Neither do I understand myself," I confessed,

"I expected to see you again, of course," he said,

"but not under these circumstances." He looked at me

as though he doubted the sincerity of my motive for

coming to see him.

I felt uncomfortable, and I said awkwardly, "I hope

you don't still consider me an interrogator."

"It makes little difference to me. I don't mind if

you question me." His manner was cool and deliberate

—at least it seemed so to me. "Is there anything more I can learn from you?" I

said, slightly vexed with myself, for I wished I had

not come. "Haven't you told me all you know about

the murdered ministers?"

He did not respond.

"I can understand your feeling toward those whose

business it is to interrogate, prosecute, and execute

people," I went on. "Perhaps you judge them all alike,

regardless of whether they are North Koreans or South

Koreans or what not. But I assure you that within our

organization, as far as I know, there are many decent

people who would like to be of help to others, well.

54

to others like you." I stopped and felt I was blushing

a little.

"Are you trying to help me?" he asked. "Why?"

"I don't know." I said. "Perhaps, I need your help

more than you need mine. Who knows?"

'To tell you frankly, I don't blame your colonel,"

he said, pausing for his coughing to stop. "On the con-

trary, I consider it his duty to form such opinions

about me. I should have done the same had I been in

his place."

"Are you suggesting that he has justifiable reasons

for suspecting you?" I said, frowning.

"But of course," he said. There was no indication of

sarcasm in his placid, matter-of-fact air.

"You don't really mean that, do you?"

"Why not? After all, do not forget that a Christian,

a clergyman, is also a human being. He should be

examined in the same light of human passion, and on

the same scale of human frailty as any other man

would be. I don't consider myself or any other clergy-

man necessarily capable of not succumbing to physical

and spiritual torture."

It was the first time I heard him speak so forcefully,

though his voice was subdued and his manner un-

ruffled; he spoke without looking at me, only staring

into the empty, cold space before him as though he

were addressing someone invisible, hovering over me.

55

"As you know," he continued, "Mr. Hann and I

were about to be shot when the prison was captured.

But that makes Uttle difference. We survived, and the survival of any poHtical prisoner in a Communist

prison is an extraordinary thing in itself. Particularly,

in our case, it was a near-miracle. But miracle is a

diflBcult word to understand these days, and when we

survived while twelve ministers were executed, the

meaning of the word becomes ambiguous. Therefore,

it is natural that a suspicion should arise."

"But you are innocent of the suspicion, aren't you?"

I blurted out. "I assume you have told me the truth."

He stirred in his chair. "I have told you all that I

can tell you."

*'You are innocent, aren't you?" I repeated.

"Yes."

"Then you told me the truth."

"I speak the truth of my conscience, Captain."

"Am I not capable of judging the truth?" "Don't you realize," he said gravely, "that you are

speaking of the fact of man, and I of the truth of my

faith?"

*Then you beUeve you are innocent in the eyes of

your god."

He seemed startled by my words, and he gazed at me intensely for some time; then he lowered his eyes

and said quietly, "It is for Him to judge me."

56

Mr. Shin came to the door with me. I asked him

about the young minister and was told that he was

well taken care of by a doctor and the nurse; beyond

that, he would say nothing. I wanted to do something

for him, and I was on the point of telling him that he

should not hesitate to ask me for help, when he said,

"Do you know, by any chance, a young man of your

age, Indoe Park?"

"Do I know him!" I exclaimed. "He is my best

friend."

For a moment, he stared at me as though he re-

gretted that he had asked me about Park. Then he

said quietly, "The last thing I heard of him was that

he was teaching in Seoul at the university where you

taught before the war. I thought you might have

known him."

"We were always together," I said. "We taught the

same subject. But how do you know him?"

"I suppose you must know about his father," he

said.

"Yes, I do."

"I knew both of them. You may say, I was a family

friend. How is he now?"

I told him about Park, adding that I had just re-

ceived a letter from him that afternoon.

"Does he know?" he asked.

"No. I haven't told him."

57

"I understand both of them," he said. "I understand

your friend as I understood his father. Very proud,

so passionately proud. Yes, I understand them." Then

he was silent; and I knew he did not wish to detain

me any longer. I was bidding him good night when

we heard a knock on the door. I looked at Mr. Shin;

he nodded, and I opened the door.

A man in uniform walked into the dimly lit hall- way and glanced at me in surprise, as though he had

not expected to find another man in uniform there.

His outward appearance was nearly identical to mine:

combat boots, a parka, a steel helmet, though he did

not wear a pistol nor any insignia. He did not seem

to have recognized my host, who was standing quietly

behind me. "I would like to see Mr. Shin," he said

gruffly. "I am Chaplain Koh of the Third Brigade.

I am an old friend."

I stepped aside so that he could speak directly to

Mr. Shin. The chaplain came forward and looked

closely at the minister. He was a tall, thickset man,

and his steel helmet, pressed down to his eyebrows,

blurred his profile with an uneven shadow, save for

his dented chin. He seemed only now to recognize

Mr. Shin and exclaimed, "Why, it's you! I could

hardly tell it was you! My Lord, what suffering you must have gone through!" He thrust out his hand,

but Mr. Shin did not respond, and the big, stubby

58

hand remained suspended in the air as if it were sud-

denly frozen. Then he grabbed the minister's arm,

and said, "Good Lord, you need a doctor to take care

of you!"

Mr. Shin violently brushed his hand aside. He

stepped back and said sternly, "Do not touch me."

He coughed violently. The nurse appeared in the

background.

"What's the matter? Are you ill?" cried the chap-

lain; and turning to me, "Is he all right? Is he ill?"

"I do not wish to see you," said Mr. Shin, agitated.

"I bid you leave my house. You know as well as I do

why I do not wish to see you."

I looked at Chaplain Koh with vague feelings of

hostiUty, but he did not seem to be shocked or angry.

Rather, he appeared to have anticipated Mr. Shin's

behavior. He was silent for a while, then said politely,

"Yes, I know. I understand how you feel about me.

But I have something very important to tell you and

as soon as I finish telling you about it, I'll leave."

"Then speak," commanded Mr. Shin.

The chaplain glanced at me as though begging me

to leave them alone.

I turned to Mr. Shin. "Is there anything I can do

for you?"

"No, thank you," he muttered. "Good night."

;i^^^^^^^^^^^li^fi^ 8

LATE SUNDAY MORNING, Colonel Chang and

I drove to Mr. Shin's church, which was not too far

from our headquarters. We parked the jeep in a deserted alley off the main street, and started to walk.

About thirty paces from where we left the jeep, there

was a narrow, gradually ascending path barely wide

enough for us to walk shoulder to shoulder. Along

both sides there were rows of shabby, flat houses of

gray stone and dirty plaster. Beneath the soft new

snow under our feet lurked the old snow as hard and

slippery as ice. Colonel Chang had much diflBculty

walking up the winding path.

When we looked back we could see first the snow-

covered roofs of the houses we had passed, then those

of the other houses farther away, and then the streets

down below. Soon we found ourselves in a clearing,

face to face with a small wooden gate, beyond which

59

60

a footpath led us to two flights of stone steps cleared

of snow. There, above the steps, on a massive expanse

of flat rock, stood the towering church of red brick,

with four ponderous marble pillars and large stained-

glass windows aglow in the sun. The cross-topped

belfry perched high above the blinding snow on the

roof, its many bells ringing, vibrating in the sunny

air. To the left of the church, near the edge of the

rocky clearing, ran an iron fence, and a steep precipice

swept downward. The bells stopped ringing.

We were late for the service. It was very quiet; not a sound from within the church, nor from the traffic

down below reached our ears. Perhaps the congrega-

You are expected to come up with six questions that are most relevant to understanding assigned reading in relation to the issue of sacrifice and demonstrate that you have read the readings.

For each question, you are also required to provide an explanation. The attached file is the assigned reading.

2 Questions from “The Martyred” Chapter 1- 14. (1-2pages)

2 Questions from “The Martyred” Chapter 15-27. (1-2pages)

2 Questions from “The Martyred” Chapter 28-41. (1-2pages)