Lim Chul-Woo’s account of the conflict, ‘With Her Oil Lamp On, That Night’, hones in on a single hillside overlooking a tiny village not far from Meudeung Mountain. A group of communist guerillas, stranded during their comrades’ hasty retreat north, have taken to the woods and caves where they hope to weather out the remainder of the fighting. Far from maintaining blind loyalty to the communist cause, most simply wish to return to the simple existence they’d known before the outbreak of hostilities. None cherish this wish more earnestly than a young man whose home lies at the foot of the very hill where the group has been hiding for the past several months.

During his watch one cold winter’s evening, the young man spots the unmistakable glow of an oil lamp burning in the window of his childhood home. Though he’s certain it’s his mother, he’s forbidden to break cover for fear that it’s a trap set by the republicans. It is, in fact, his mother who’s returned to the village to honor the anniversary of her husband’s passing. As the old woman sets out a humble meal of broth and millet, her thoughts turn to her absent son. She wonders where the war has taken him, little suspecting how near he is.

The theme of exile is front and centre throughout the story, as is arbitrary way in which the lines of allegiance are drawn in conflict. We get the impression that it was happenstance rather than ardent belief that led the young man to join the Youth Defense Force. Whatever the impetus, he longs to lay down his arms and run to the embrace of his beloved mother.  Sadly for both of them, it is the nature of warfare that a combatant can never be truly free.

The other story contained in this book, ‘Sapyon Station’, takes place long after the fog of war has lifted. On a dark, snowy night, a stationmaster and nine would-be passengers stand huddled around an old stove, waiting for the arrival of a long overdue commuter train. Although they represent different generations and social strata (from criminals and prostitutes to intellectuals and wealthy urbanites), they are united by a feeling of hopeless resignation. As the story progresses, the act of waiting becomes symbolic, and though the train eventually arrives, there is no sense of delight (or even relief) among the passengers.  Perhaps they realize, as we do, that their destinations are all but irrelevant. Wherever they go they will still be waiting, endlessly waiting.

            Elton LaClare

‘The Wounded’ is told from the perspective of the doctor’s younger brother, an artist who ekes out a living running a small studio in a shabby suburban neighborhood. Rather suddenly the artist becomes permeated by a desire to draw a human face – an undertaking he’s never previously attempted. Although he manages to sketch an outline, the canvas remains unfinished. Strangely, the artist’s block that prevents him from completing the picture coincides with his brother’s struggle to realize a pivotal scene is his novel. The congruency is anything but incidental. Rather it is Yi’s way of indicating that the experiences of one determine the outcomes of another – a theme that recurs on a larger scale later in the story.

An interesting discourse develops around the narrator’s unfinished painting. The absence of features leads the doctor to comment that it is the face of an innocent, and that every feature added (an ear, a nose, an eye) will carry the subject further away from a state of grace. It’s an unusual observation to say the least but one that seems to address the tension that resides at the heart of the narrative. Plainly stated, the very things that make us human alienate us from God.

The second story included in this volume, ‘An Assailant’s Face’, hones in on the guilt of a young boy, Kim Sa-Il, who fails to provide sanctuary to a wartime fugitive. Though Kim survives the conflict and goes on to prosper in the new Korea, he never fully forgives himself for what likely transpired. Even as an old man, he finds himself grappling with his dual identity as victim and assailant.

The resulting dissonance has disastrous effects on his relationship with his daughter, who becomes an enthusiastic advocate of unconditional reunification. A generation gap, forged not only by the disparity of their ages but also that of their experiences, proves impossible to bridge. In the end, disputes within the family turn out to be as difficult to resolve as those that sustain a divided Korea.

In The Wounded, Yi Chong-Jun has given us a thorough and deliberate repudiation of the dominant historical narrative that portrays Koreans as the victims of foreign imperial powers. His writing seeks to absolve the older generation while giving voice to the fierce optimism of those unscathed by the brutality of war. While it seems to be Yi’s position that the future of the nation lies with its youth, he rarely misses an opportunity to keep young ideologues in check with a dose of reality.   

            Elton LaClare 

It is, no doubt, on account of this that so much of modern Korean literature touches upon the theme of separation. Indeed, the mere mention of South Korea cannot help but turn one’s thoughts to its ideological foil to the north. That said, few works of fiction have dealt with the wounds of separation as poignantly as Yun Heung-Gil’s short novel, The Rainy Spell.

Set in a small village in South Jolla Province, the story recounts the tolls of war on a family whose members have aligned themselves on opposing sides of the conflict. Although the front lines are far removed from the household in question, a battle still rages. A pair of aging matriarchs stands in unrelenting opposition with grave consequences for the rest of the family. Each of these women possesses an unshakable faith in the correctness of her son’s decision concerning which side to support. For a time they are able to co-exist, but when one of the women loses her child to the fighting, the tension in the household becomes almost unbearable.

The grieving mother is unable to contain her anti-Communist outbursts, and while at first her adversary is willing to forbear, her patience soon fails. However, a visit to the fortune-teller restores her good spirits, for there she is assured that her son will soon return from the fighting. The prophecy is ultimately fulfilled, though in a way that no one expects.

The house is tidied and a large meal is made in preparation of the homecoming. However, when the appointed hour arrives, there is no sign of the missing son. Instead a large serpent appears at the gate of the family compound – an unmistakable sign that the war has claimed yet another victim.

What happens next is truly moving. Of all of those gathered in the house, it is the woman’s sworn enemy who offers the only meaningful consolation. After months of silence between the aging matriarchs, there comes a detente that has been long-awaited by the rest of the family. Divided by war, the women are now united by the pain of losing a beloved son. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly what it is that makes The Rainy Spell stand out among similar books that deal with family conflicts brought on by the outbreak of the War. Perhaps it’s Yun’s decision to relate the story from the perspective of a naive seven-year-old rather than relying on the omniscience of a more mature, historical consciousness. Whatever it is, the result is a narrative of reconciliation that resonates beyond the context of a single family to encompass the whole of the Korean race.

            Elton LaClare