The Calligrapher's Daughter by Eugenia Kim Page B

into the ditch.“Cook said to bring them drinking water and take the soiled rags and wash them right away. This time the master was in his sitting room. I waited a little before I went in, so I heard him telling more.” She looked sideways at me. “Except I don’t think your mother would want you to hear.”
    “You must!” I stood to shift the baby higher on my back. “I promise I won’t say anything.”
    “Come closer.” Kira lowered her voice. “Somebody named Kim was shot, and your father tried to help another man who got stabbed in the shoulder clean through. Then he said something about a soldier and a spear. The master stopped talking then—maybe they heard me. When I went in, he was sitting calmly in clean trousers. Madam had tied a towel around his head and was washing his back. She pointed to the bloodied towels I should take, and as I left, the doctor came.
    “So you see, the master is perfectly alive and talking as usual. And now the doctor is taking care of him, and soon I’m sure he’ll be wanting to see you and the little master too.” Kira laid her heavy hand on my shoulder. Icy from the wash, her palm delivered a chill through my light cotton jacket that cooled my rapid heartbeats.
    “Oh, Kira.”
    The baby fussed. Kira said to take him to Cook and perhaps Madam would feed him soon.
    “I forgot to tell you that Mother said to dry the clothes in Joong’s room. Are they his now? It’s still a good shirt.”
    Kira shrugged.
    “She wants to hide them?”
    “Some things I don’t want to know. Never mind. Now you know how to take out bloodstains, and next time I’ll show you how to make soap.” The gold edging on her front tooth flashed, and I thought I’d never seen such a generous smile.
    I found Mother saying goodbye to Dr. Mun. The doctor’s dark Western suit passed like a night spirit through the gate. The baby started to cry, fully awake and hungry. Back in our rooms, Mother breastfed him, her brow deeply creased.
    I folded the binding cloth and sat quietly in front of her, waiting until the questions stopped spinning in my head and I could speak calmly. “Umma-nim, may I ask if Abbuh-nim is badly hurt?”
    The baby’s soft feeding noises, his miniature chubby hand resting on Mother’s breast, the creamy smell of milk and the twilit room worked to smooth her lines of worry, her cheeks blushed pink from breastfeeding. Her voice, a low singsong, kept rhythm with the baby’s sucking. “Your father’s doing fine. Resting now. No need to worry.”
    “May I ask what happened?”
    Mother nodded, her eyes half shut and bright from lactation. “After we saw them on the road, your father and the crowd marched all the way to the police station. Everyone had sworn a pledge of nonviolence and understood it was to be a peaceful demonstration.” She stroked the baby’s head, gazing at him, and said, “‘Be not afraid!’ was the motto for nonviolence that everyone swore to.”
    I hugged my knees and waited while she shifted the baby. “But what happened at the police station?”
    “There was confusion. Some said they should return to the church to wait for news from Seoul. Others said they should wait there and hear the Declaration read once more. But armed policemen came out with a firehose, and a truck drove up behind the marchers. Your father thinks it was a traitor’s work since they were organized and well prepared. An officer said to disperse or be arrested, and they turned the hose on with such force that people were thrown against each other. Those who tried to run were met with blows from the soldiers. This made some of the young men angry and they threw stones and dirt. Just dirt and pebbles from the road!”
    Mother straightened her back and the baby made little noises, waving his hands to find a nipple. I squeezed his foot. “But still, it was wrong, and dangerous,” she continued. “Your father said someone fired a shot then. The soldiers drew sabers and people