*Contains numerous depictions of torture.
April 26, 1942
When he opened his eyes, a musty smell filled him. He was covered with a cotton blanket and dressed in unfamiliar clothes—orange-colored Japanese clothes. "They're going to save me, at all costs," he muttered softly. They must have been saving him in vain; Yeonjun could clearly guess their intentions. He bit his tongue and debated whether to die. Yes, it would be better to sacrifice this short life than to sell out his comrades. Why waste a life that would die uselessly like a wildflower anyway? Chained to the black-walled room, his body had never felt so light. The tools lined the walls, the dim lightbulbs installed to induce fear in the torturer, were laughable. He was too young to realize it was mere arrogance.
“Young.”
The shaved military policeman spoke. Yeonjun grinned. He clenched his fists, which were pinned to the chair. The military policeman lifted his chin with the club he was holding.
“Did you do this on your own, or was it done at someone’s behest?”
“Well. Was he alone or did he have an accomplice? (글쎄. 혼자 했을까, 공범이 있었을까?)”
"Why don't you give me a straight answer?"
The military policeman shouted, grabbing Yeonjun by the hair. His long locks were held helplessly. It seemed like this was his first time being assigned to a prison, and he whimpered and suppressed his anger. His hair, which had been neatly tied back, became disheveled, marking his face. Tension filled the air. The military policeman gestured to two men who seemed to be younger than him. He instinctively closed his eyes. It wasn't going to be a nice death. Looking at the red-hot soldering iron, he'd long ago given up all hope. Or rather, had he even had any in the first place?
"Okay. Please give him a proper meal when you're done."
“I will.”
One man lifted his head without resistance, while another took out a soldering iron and pressed it without hesitation, burning his skin. The moment the red metal touched his skin, he came to his senses and ground his teeth. The military policeman just watched, laughing as if even the writhing in agony was a form of entertainment. The triumphant face, illuminated by the light, looked even more grotesque. Blood flowed, and smoke rose where the soldering iron had rested. Clothing burned and stuck to his skin. After removing the soldering iron, the military policeman asked again.
"Where do you belong?"
Taking a deep breath, Yeonjun raised his head with difficulty. "Caak, thud." Blood-tinged saliva dripped onto the military policeman's right cheek. He wiped it away, dumbfounded. Then he laughed, as if it were a joke. How dare a Joseon-jing…" he muttered. Yeonjun opened his mouth, trying not to be crushed by the remnants of his past pain.
“Yes. How dare someone like Joseonjing do that.”
“I ask for the last time.”
The military policeman saw the piece of clothing stuck to his skin and tore it off with force. Blood splattered throughout the room with a pained sound. Pieces of torn skin dangled from the torn piece of clothing. The blood-spattered face was indescribably horrifying. Where the skin had been torn,A bloodstain the size of a child's fist appeared. The hot, painful breath hung over the stale air, making breathing even more difficult.
“Whose orders did you receive?”
The military police asked.
"The gun's direction was free. Anyone could have shot, anyone could have killed. But they didn't. Why do you think that was?"
The military police were worried that the prisoner they were supposed to interrogate might have lost consciousness after just one iron stroke. He was clearly a man renowned for his mental fortitude in Gyeongseong. How could someone like him be so captivated by something so simple? Yeonjun, barely regaining his senses, tugged at the corners of his mouth, a sneer forming.
“Think carefully. The answer to this question is my answer.”
The military policeman swore and slapped him in the face. The chair tipped over with a loud crash. Oh my. Yeonjun laughed, as a madman always does, until the room was empty.
“It hurts.”
Is this how they treat people in the Empire of Japan? Someone who hasn't even been tried yet? "What are you doing? Don't let him stand. I know there's more to do." The chair was re-erected. The military policeman rose from his chair and scanned the walls of the room. He returned, holding the pliers. He placed the pliers splayed on his thumbs, which were fastened to the chair handles, and gazed at the prisoner once more.
“Who are the other members of the Korean Youth Association?(Who are the other members of the Korean Youth Association?)”
Yeonjun turned his head. The military policeman grabbed his index fingernail with pliers and pulled it back with all his might. A scream of agony echoed through the room, and the smell of blood filled the air. The small thing that had fallen must have been his fingernail. "How can you look down on the Japanese Empire like this?" the military policeman said. Something clogged his throat, making it difficult to speak. Even when all ten of his fingernails fell off and blood pooled under the armrests of his chair, he didn't open his mouth. Even when he was whipped with a whip with iron rings, a technique the ancient Romans used on Jesus, he remained silent. However, it was only because of the pain of the tight grip on his neck. The Japanese were truly ruthless. Losing consciousness would have been a relief, but every time he lost consciousness, they poured cold water on him without hesitation, making it impossible to close his eyes. They seemed determined to extract every confession they could from the "Rooftop Assassin," already renowned in Seoul, as they drove Yeonjun to the hazy boundary between life and death. Despite their hazy minds, they somehow managed to keep a towel in their mouths, preventing them from biting their tongues and committing suicide.
April 28, 1942
“How can it be like this, how can it be like this!”
Namjoon roared. Everyone's faces were etched with worry and fear, but only Yeonjun let out a deflating laugh. He reached out with his fingernailless hands, reaching beyond the bars to touch the faces of his comrades. "What pitiful faces," he said in a hoarse voice. Taehyun was speechless, looking at his comrades' bodies, where no part of them was hurt. When he served as the president of the Korean Youth Association, he had sworn not to distinguish between life and death, but the very boundary that confronted him was utterly cruel. His hand, which had touched Namjoon, Jimin, and Taehyun's faces in turn, retreated back into the bars.
“Is it really here?”
“……”
“Or am I truly crazy?”
Tears welled up in Jimin's eyes at the hoarse voice. He grabbed the bloody hand behind the bars. "It's not an illusion, seeing as it hurts," Yeonjun muttered. Taehyun turned his back to Yeonjun, unable to bear to see the traces of torture. A low, trembling voice leaked out from between his trembling lips.
“I will apply for bail.”
“…”
"just a little“Please wait.”
Hey, said the Fed.
“Are you okay?”
“…It’s okay. It’s okay. Take care.”
Taehyun, speaking as if he were running away, walked out of the visiting room. The prison atmosphere was incredibly oppressive.
“What is this?”
Manuscripts lay in disarray on the boarding house desk. Soobin studied them, writing, thinking, rewriting, erasing, crumpling, and throwing them away. At Namjoon's words, Soobin raised her head and stared at him.
“I was writing a poem.”
“No, what I mean is……”
Namjoon brushed his hair back. His eyes gleamed behind his round glasses. But Soobin, unconcerned, scribbled a few sentences on the manuscript. This provoked Namjoon, who was already on edge.
“Is it time to write poetry now?”
Soobin raised his head again at Namjoon's voice. His eyes seemed to disbelieve what he'd heard. But Namjoon felt the same way. His comrade was arrested, and yet he sat there, writing poetry so calmly. Were all his words of shame a lie? Was this child finally leaving to find his own way? Namjoon tried to suppress the anger seething with betrayal. The independence of the country Soobin had been writing about would probably only be seen later.
“What did you just say……”
"Right now, not just Comrade Choi, but countless others are dying while calling for independence. Comrade Hoeseon, Comrade Wolsong, and Jeongguk, even though they're not adults, are holding guns and fighting. You... What are you doing right now? You're just sitting there, doing nothing..."
Soobin threw the manuscript to the floor. His face paled, perhaps impulsively. Namjoon could guess that's how he looked in Soobin's eyes. The image of Yeonjun he'd seen in prison flashed before his eyes like a hallucination.
“Pick it up.”
"no, I do not want."
“Pick it up!”
"This isn't the time for us to be like this. This isn't the time for us to be fighting amongst ourselves." Namjoon's throat clogged with frustration. Even though he screamed, the feeling of being choked didn't go away.
"brother."
Subin opened his mouth.
“What on earth is poetry to you, hyung?”
“…”
"You told me to keep writing. Even if no one reads my poetry, you told me to keep writing. That's the same principle as the independence movement. I don't want anything, like debuting or anything. No, there was a time when I longed for that. But not anymore. This is how I love Joseon, hyung! This is how I miss Joseon, through literature!"
“……The problem is…the problem is, Soobin.”
Namjoon let his arms drop limply. He had just seen Soobin's eyes bloodshot, and he, too, felt as if his body was being torn apart.
“Literature. Has no power.”
Maybe that's why I said that.
“…Are you done talking?”
“……”
"Brother, how did we get here, and how can you say something like that? Why did we start the independence movement in the first place…?"
“…Joseon will not become independent with just a few weak words. It’s time to take up arms.”
"Brother, how can you do that? It was literature that gave me the dream of independence! How could you turn your back on literature? And you, too!"
"The path to independence is different! Why on earth can't I just write a poem about it?"
“Then just tell me now, everything I’ve told you so far was nonsense!”
"…okay."
Namjoon looked straight at Soobin.
“It was sophistry.”
“…!”
"I hoped you wouldn't give up. I wish you had lived in literature! I wish you had just lived that way, blaming this world you were born into! Through literature, you could defeat the Japanese, kill tens of thousands at a time, and bring independence to Joseon! But!"
Namjoon's emotions were running high. His words were rambling out incoherently. "This shouldn't be happening. This isn't what I meant." His mind was in turmoil, and his words became even sharper, eventually becoming daggers and knives.
“I can’t do it here.”
“…”
“The way to take back our country is to take up arms.”
All the remaining blood drained from Soobin's face. She bit her lip tightly.
"brother."
“…”
“Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“…”
“Killing people is not independence.”
The independence we long for can't be achieved only by shedding someone else's blood. Namjoon simply watched Soobin leave the boarding house. He lacked the strength to hold her back. What kind of country is this? Why is it so helpless? What kind of country can it be that can't even protect its own people? If it was going to collapse so easily, why was it called Korea? If it was going to be so powerless and weak, why was it called an empire? How can we erase that shameful name, the Korean Empire, from history? Did our ancestors build a nation for such a future? It's so heartbreaking, you people of a ruined nation, you wild flowers of a stolen field. Namjoon opened his drawer. He tore up all the manuscripts inside and burned them with a match. Smoke rose high into the sky. Then Namjoon picked up the gun his father had given him long ago. And he muttered.
“Was this right in the end…?”
Subin was walking aimlessly when he sat down on the terrace of a teahouse and picked up a pencil. A poem he had not yet finished was lying on the manuscript paper.
The night rain is whispering outside the window
The six-story room is a foreign country,
Even though I know that being a poet is a sad destiny
Let me write a line of poetry,
Sweat and love, warmly embraced
I received the tuition envelope you sent me.
With a college notebook
Go to listen to the old professor's lecture.
If you think about it, my childhood friends
One, two, I lost them all
What do I want
Am I just settling down alone?
Soobin hesitated, unable to move her pencil easily. She thought of Namjoon. Did her love of poetry ultimately seem useless to him, too? Did the quiet battle she fought alone seem like nothing? She also thought about her own calling as a poet. Ah, youth of the blue and green. Live a joyful life singing of the beauty of nature. That is the broad and easy path, the path that will not worry your parents. Soobin heard an unknown voice speak so eloquently. But then Yeonjun came to mind. Soobin picked up her pencil again. She wrote as if repeating to herself, and eventually, as if declaring it.
They say life is hard to live
It is so easy to write poetry
It's a shame.