March 28, 1942
Soobin unfolded the newspaper. This time, the feeling was palpable. With a nervous expression, Soobin flipped through the pages one by one. Beside her, her classmates held their breath and stared at the paper. Finally, when she reached the "Novels and Poetry" section, Soobin handed it to the classmate sitting next to her.
“Can’t you read it again?”
Dong-gi sighed and carefully looked through the newspaper before glancing at Soobin.
“What are you all doing here?”
Namjoon asked. "Oh! Surprise!" his classmates shouted. Soobin also looked at Namjoon in surprise. "What's going on here?" Soobin came to see. "I heard you submitted a poem to the newspaper? Hurry up and open it!" Namjoon urged excitedly. The classmate who had received the newspaper earlier glanced at Soobin's expression, smiled awkwardly, and handed it back to Soobin.
“I guess the newspaper didn’t receive the letter.”
Soobin forced a smile and took the newspaper back. All of her classmates had been surrounding her, busy offering comfort. But now, even that comfort was starting to wear thin. Soobin crumpled the newspaper and carelessly tossed it aside. Then, a voice from behind her startled her and she turned around.
“Who throws away newspaper?”
"brother…?"
Namjoon picked up the crumpled newspaper and smoothed out the wrinkles. Soobin blankly stared at him. Embarrassment washed over Soobin. Namjoon smiled like a sun god worshipped in some hot country on the other side of the world and handed the newspaper to Soobin. Soobin took it back with a red face. Namjoon put his arm around Soobin's shoulder and walked with her. Soobin lowered her head and said nothing. Her brother's gentle face was so familiar that it was maddening.
“Subin.”
“……”
"You see, climbing the ladder doesn't come suddenly. Of course, you know best."
“……”
"So what I'm trying to say is, keep writing. Even if no one recognizes you, even if you don't make it to the top."
“……”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
Namjoon smiled brightly again. For a moment, Soobin felt as if he were embracing the sun with his bare body. There was nothing he could do. Soobin smiled faintly and nodded. Something no one would recognize, but something he had to do. Isn't that what they call the "independence movement?" Soobin smiled faintly. Namjoon stared at Soobin for a moment, thinking back to the young man's birth. To Namjoon, Soobin was a bolt from the blue. Even today, as an adult, Namjoon still remembers the words of the midwife who rushed in, gasping for breath, when he was a child, feeling lonely because he didn't have siblings like everyone else.
December 5, 1918
“It’s my son, my son!”
His aunt had given birth. Despite living close by, their lack of contact meant Namjoon hadn't even realized she was pregnant. He ran to her house faster than the adults. "Oh, Namjoon! I'm falling!" His mother's screams escaped his ears. Namjoon cautiously entered his aunt's house. Fortunately, his aunt, having regained her composure, smiled quietly and beckoned him in. Only then did Namjoon see the baby. Wrapped in a cotton swab, its large eyes filled with the world, it was truly tiny. Young Namjoon would visit his aunt's house every day, spending hours watching the baby. The adults would tease him, asking, "Did you give birth to him?" When the child finally grew up and could clearly pronounce Namjoon's name, Namjoon's family had to leave their hometown. His father's business had prospered, so they left Bukgando and settled in Gyeongseong. After that, Japan's occupation of the country made it difficult to visit Bukgando. By the time Namjun was madly missing Bukgando, time had already flown by, and he had grown into a respectable young man and entered Yonhui College (formerly Yonsei University).
December 31, 1937
“A New Year’s Literary Contest Club?”
“Yeah, Namjoon, you’re good at writing, so wouldn’t you be good at something like this?”
Some time after entering school, Namjoon finally saw a familiar face in the new year's literary club he'd just joined. Perhaps the only person who connected him to Bukgando. The person he'd longed for without even realizing she'd moved to Seoul. It was Soobin.
“Are you Choi Soo-bin?”
“Yes… that’s right…?”
“That’s right! I’m Kim Namjoon. We lived right next door, remember?”
In his monotonous college life, Soobin's presence was a source of great energy. Perhaps reminiscent of his childhood, Soobin followed Namjoon closely. Namjoon was a senior, and Soobin was a freshman. Soobin loved poetry and enjoyed writing poetry herself. This gave them something to connect with, beyond Bukgando. Occasionally, Soobin would shyly show Namjoon a poem she'd written herself, which Namjoon found quite admirable.
[It's the sunlight that I was chasing
The top of the church now
He was crucified.
The spire is so tall
How can I get up there?
I can't even hear the bell ringing
While wandering around whistling,
A man in pain
Like the happy Jesus Christ
If the cross is permitted
Putting on a hat
Blood that blooms like a flower
Under the darkening sky
I'll let it go quietly]
“Aren’t you thinking of making a comeback?”
Despite Namjoon's earnest encouragement, Soobin continued to fail, and with her growing increasingly discouraged, Namjoon stopped encouraging her to debut. His true concern wasn't Soobin failing to debut, but rather her losing her love for poetry.
February 27, 1937
“You don’t write poetry these days? Why don’t you?”
Namjoon asked Soobin, who was studying at the boarding house, without thinking.
“I need to write poetry and present it.”
“How can I present if I can’t even get on stage?”
Namjoon fell silent at Soobin's hoarse voice, strained by the cold. Around that time, Namjoon, who had been steadily working with Soobin to debut in the poetry world, received the news. However, Soobin looked quite sad, and Namjoon couldn't fully rejoice. While the entire club celebrated Namjoon's debut with a party, Namjoon and Soobin filled pages with poems in the cold boarding house.
“The darkness that has settled quietly
It's so heavy that I can almost touch it
The night is deeper than the sea
This heart that counts alone
Walking on a rough mountain path
My dream is deeper than the night
The sound of water flowing behind the lake
“Looking at the distant stars, the wind blows.”
“What time is that?”
When Soobin asked, Namjoon grinned. His round glasses were filled with starlight. The suit he'd gotten when he entered college fit him perfectly. Namjoon embodied the very person Soobin admired most: the audacity to write poetry in Korean, the energy to run anywhere, calling for independence.
“The poem I just wrote.”
The title was 'Night'. There was a brief silence.
“Hey, Subin.”
"yes?"
“Don’t you have any plans to join the independence movement?”
It was a passing remark. Twenty-seven years had passed since the country was swallowed. Namjoon's friends had already made up their minds and joined the independence movement. Even as the entire nation struggled, the Japanese oppression was even more intense, and the people who had lost their country were living in silence, swallowing their resentment. Namjoon himself, after all, had been born and raised under Japanese rule. He was trying his best. He secretly gathered people to give speeches, and even wrote "Long Live Korean Independence" on pro-Japanese buildings before fleeing. But there was little hope in sight. Women were dragged off as "comfort women" and taken away, and men were dragged off to Japanese mines and battlefields. We never knew when our conscription notices might arrive. Perhaps that's why we were all the more anxious.
“Independence movement…is that it?”
Soobin asked with wide eyes.
“I know, it’s dangerous. I was just saying.”
“……Can we become independent?”
What? Namjoon turned his head towards Soobin.
“It’s embarrassing… I’m truly ashamed of myself… but I’m afraid because I can’t see any hope.”
“…….”
Instead of answering, Namjoon patted Soobin's shoulder. His small shoulder was touched.
"It's too early to give up. Other countries have been colonies for hundreds of years."
Namjoon stood up first to hide his bitter feelings.
“I’ll go first.”
Oh, and think about what I said. And on September 23, 1941, Namjoon and Soobin joined the Korean Youth Association.
March 31, 1942
The printer labored. It was pitch-black, so Taehyun turned on a small light in the newspaper office. He had shed his outerwear, wearing only a shirt and trousers. His once spotless white shirt grew more ink-stained with every click of the printer. The air in the basement office, never exposed to the outside world, was stale. The lights flickered frantically. Taehyun stared blankly up at the light. The bulb would have to be replaced soon. Taehyun smiled faintly as he looked at the newspaper printed from the printer. He felt as if he could put it in his eye, as if it were his own child. Taehyun picked up the paper and read the front page for a moment.
This year marks the second anniversary of the great tragedy our Korean compatriots in the Maritime Province suffered. To honor their souls, I offer a glass of wine and a line of writing here for them. Twenty million of our compatriots, let us remember them again and again, so that their deaths will not be in vain. Long live Korean independence.
What made his newspaper special was the Korean alphabet. Korean. That was all. If a Korean didn't read a newspaper in Korean, what else could he read? After dividing the printed newspapers into large boxes, Taehyun ascended from the basement. The door to the first floor, disguised as a bookstore, was still open. Gyeongseong was just past the fourth hour (1:00-3:00 AM, the Joseon Dynasty time unit). The early morning air was bitterly cold. Carrying the divided boxes, Taehyun climbed to the rooftop. Gyeongseong, awash in electric lights, was breathtakingly beautiful. Taehyun opened the box and tossed the newspapers outside. His newspapers, his Korean letters, danced and fell to the star of Gyeongseong, the whale. A few people walking down the street, all amazed by the sudden appearance of the papers, picked them up.
[Daehan Maeil Shinbo]
The neatly printed letters from the printer creaked, ushering in the dawn. Taehyun returned to the ground, carrying the boxes containing the newspapers. Just as he was about to burn them, someone knocked on the newspaper office's door. Anyone visiting at this hour would likely be a member of the group, or perhaps the complete opposite. Taehyun pulled his rifle from a drawer and aimed it. The pale assassin raised his hands with difficulty.
“Comrade Choi…?”
“I didn’t want to… be indebted to you. The place I remember the most is… here.”
Yeonjun said. Blood was trickling from his side. Taehyun tried to remain calm and took out the bandage he always kept and wrapped it. While he was treating Yeonjun, he leaned against the wall and sighed. Taehyun just stared at Yeonjun as he wrapped the bandage.
“…I know who that man named Kim Taehyung is.”
Taehyun tied the bandage tightly. Yeonjun groaned softly. The treatment is complete. Going to the hospital might be a bit difficult, though. There has to be a hospital without a Japanese doctor. Since when have I ever gone to the hospital?
"I said I was familiar with him, but he said he was a member of some assassination group. He's gone missing now."
"You're a proponent of enlightenment, so why are you so broad-minded? You even know everything about the Assassins."
Yeonjun took a cigarette from his blood-stained coat pocket and lit it. He took a heavy drag.
"Because I'm a newspaper company. There's nothing I don't know about Gyeongseong."
"How reckless. Where does that confidence come from?"
“How about we stop shooting like this now?”
He spoke as he passed. Then Yeonjun exhaled sharply, barely able to raise the corners of his mouth. The sight was truly pitiful. It was as if a wounded beast was more pitiful than a normal animal.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not suited to making newspapers by getting ink on my precious shirts.”
“If a newspaper created in this way could bring about Korea’s independence, I would be willing to throw away that little shirt.”
“Even if the shirt is like that, what good is a man who can’t even shoot a gun?”
He staggered to his feet. “There’s more…” He ignored Taehyun’s words and approached him, tapping his shoulder twice before speaking.
“That’s not how you hold a gun.”
I'm going.
Taehyun chuckled. He must have noticed my awkward posture. How many hours had passed since then?
“There seem to be a lot of unexpected guests today.”
"Search immediately!"
Two or three military policemen overturned the bookshelves and flung them carelessly. The old mahogany bookshelf made a loud noise as it fell. Taehyun pretended not to move and pushed the boxes containing the newspapers into the dark hallway. Meanwhile, the military policemen, having completed their search, went back outside. The one who seemed to be the highest ranking among them walked up to Taehyun.
"Great."
"It's an over-reward."
“If you are a divine citizen of the Empire of Japan, then act like a divine citizen. (대일본제국의 신민이라면, 신민답게 굴어.)”
"What does that mean?"
Taehyun looked up at the military policeman and asked. The vibration of his hand reached his lips, which were smiling leisurely to conceal it.
“Daehan Maeil Shinbo.”
“……”
“One is coincidence, two is luck. And three is doubt.”
You just committed a crime. The military police threw a copy of the Daily Newspaper at Taehyun's chest and were the last to leave the newspaper office. Taehyun stared at the spot they left for a long time.
“Should I move……”