Light’s
Escort Cho Hae-jin
Published in Koreana: Korean
Culture & Arts (The
Korea Foundation) Vol. 29 No. 1, Spring 2015, pages
86-99. In the crowded walkway leading to the
unfamiliar airport’s immigration gate, I suddenly
stopped and looked around. That
melody, which had gently enfolded the round, transparent
world where snow was
falling, was once again ringing in my ears. With flights
delayed on account of
the sudden bad weather, people whose schedules had been
messed up jostled past me
brusquely as I stood in their way. Through the windows
could be seen the dark
runways of New York’s international airport, where snow
was piling up, and
planes with lights glimmering faintly through every
window. “It’s snowing!” I
muttered quietly, as though realizing it for the first
time. Just then, the
melody that only my ears could hear seemed to rise one
level in volume. Ever
since I met Gwon Eun again, ever since I managed to
recall clearly the scene I
found behind the rusty, dented front door, that melody
had from time to time
made its way, through long intervals of time, to
wherever I happened to be
standing. When that happened, all I could do, with no
other choice, was to peer
silently into the world where the melody was resonating.
There were times when
that world was a tiny, cold room without a kitchen or
even a bathroom;
sometimes it was a snow-covered Sunday playground; and
occasionally it was a
sickroom redolent of chemicals. And always the only
inhabitant of that world
was Gwon Eun. When I was reunited with Gwon Eun one year
ago,
twenty years after our first encounter, in a book café
in Ilsan, I really could
not remember her. Gwon Eun was living in Paju, and I had
come to nearby Ilsan in
order to meet her for an interview, that was all. In
those days I was a
journalist for a magazine, responsible for a section
devoted to interviews with
young achievers who seemed destined to play a leading
cultural role in the
future, and Gwon Eun, a young photographer noted for
taking photos in the
world’s hot spots, was the subject of that week’s
interview. Most of what she
told me that day was impressive, even moving. Her
account of how she began to
take photographs while learning to use a camera a friend
had given her was
interesting, but all the episodes she recounted, poised
between life and death
in troubled areas clearly reflected the intensity of her
passion. As the interview came to an end, large
snowflakes could be seen falling beyond the window of
the book café. “It
doesn’t look like the snow will stop soon.” As I was
saving the text of the
interview, I murmured to myself, and Gwon Eun replied in
a low voice, “When the
clockwork runs down, the melody will end and the snow
will stop for sure.” Her statement
was not one that ordinary people would think of; it
struck me as funny and I
playfully asked if it was a riddle, but she merely
smiled and said nothing
more. Once the interview was over we left the book café
and parted at the crossing
light after a loose handshake. After taking a few steps
I happened to look back
and could see Gwon Eun in profile, as she stood with
head bowed silently
beneath the falling snow. The snowfall was increasing in
intensity yet still
she did not move. I briefly thought of going back to her
and offering to share
an umbrella but felt uncomfortable at the thought of the
silence that would
surround us while we were under the same umbrella. So I
turned and headed for
the subway without looking back at Gwon Eun again. In retrospect, the things she said to me
during that meeting, such as the reason why she took up
photography or the
mentions of clockwork and melody were all hints. Even
the way she stood
motionless in the cold snow might have been a sign to
me. But little did I
realize at that moment that what she had been trying to
give me on that day was
a kind of key that would open times gone by that I had
all but forgotten. Feelings vanished in the order they had
come.
The melody grew faint, the conversation we had shared
faded from memory, the street
scene with Gwon Eun standing in falling snow gradually
grew remote. All that
remained were the white snowflakes that had been
settling on the asphalt, on Gwon
Eun’s collar, and on her shoes. When I came to my senses
and lifted my head,
those snowflakes quickly blended into the snow falling
beyond the airport windows. By the time I emerged from the terminal,
caught a bus and reached downtown Manhattan, it was past
eleven at night. The
snow fell against the evening neon signs, the garish
billboards followed one
another endlessly, but I frequently lost my sense of
direction in the center of
the big city, as though cast adrift in a maze with no
exit. While I was on my
way to the hotel where I had booked a room, the idea
that this gaudy city might
be part of someone’s dream grew ever stronger. The
dream, that is, of a lonely
girl sitting alone in a small, cold room winding up over
and over again a snow globe’s
clockwork, immersed in a snowbound world, who would fall
asleep as the melody
began, without time to shed a single tear. But why was
it so cold in her dream? *
After that interview in Ilsan, my next
meeting with Gwon Eun might have been because of a snow
globe. Before she phoned
to thank me for the article based on the interview, I
had visited the
children’s corner in a supermart to buy my niece a
Christmas present and there
discovered a snow globe, which contained all the clues
needed to solve Gwon Eun’s
riddle. Forgetting completely that I had to choose my
niece’s present, I stared
fascinated at that round, transparent world where a
melody played and snow fell
as the clockwork turned. Gwon Eun, who stood there
helplessly in the falling
snow as though she had nowhere to go, was inside that
world. It was only then that
I realized the image of her I had glimpsed that day on
the street had all the
while been occupying a corner of my mind. If I suggested
to Gwon Eun, when she
made her courtesy phone call, that we should have a
drink together, the only
explanation I can offer is that it was on account of the
snow globe. Never before
have I met again privately with anyone I had
interviewed, never felt the need
to. If I had not met Gwon Eun a second time, and so not
heard about Helge
Hansen’s documentary “Person, People,” I would almost
certainly have lived my
entire life without knowing who she was. As I stand now, I regret nothing. It must have been a few days after
Christmas.
Seoul’s end-of-the-year fever was at its height; there
were crowds everywhere.
We met at a subway station on Eulji-ro, where my
magazine’s office was located,
and headed for a nearby bar. As soon as we had been
served beer and something
to nibble, Gwon Eun told me some unexpected news. She
said that in one week’s
time she was off to take photos of a visit to a refugee
camp in Syria by a
group of volunteers, comprised of pastors and
missionaries. Now Syria was in
the middle of a civil war, notorious as a place where
foreigners were often taken
hostage or wounded. I was worried, but I felt unable to
tell her to think
again, or say she ought not to go. It was entirely her
affair, and I felt
reluctant to change the filmography of a young
photographer I scarcely knew
with my interference. Besides, I could hardly try to
diminish her enthusiasm
when she believed that, if she held a camera, she could
easily avoid every
danger. Moreover, she was a professional photographer
who had already been in
other troubled regions. “So what kind of photos do you intend to
take?” Finding nothing else to say, I asked absently as
I rapidly emptied my
glass of beer. “Why, photos of people, of course,” she
replied. “The tragedy of
war is something you have to find, not in metal weapons
or ruined buildings,
but in things like the tear-filled eyes of a young woman
recalling her dead
lover while she applies makeup before a mirror. War is
all about ordinary
people who, if there had been no war, would only have
cried as much as you or
I.” I stared at her in some confusion as she spoke with
fluid eloquence that made
her words seem to have been prepared in advance. Perhaps
I was looking too
serious, for she suddenly laughed and explained that she
had merely been
quoting another person’s words. “It’s something Helge
Hansen said.” “Helge
Hansen? Who’s she?” “She’s my favorite photographer. You
might say that it’s her
influence that started me going into areas of conflict.”
Therefore, on hearing
that this photographer had for the first time produced a
documentary and eager
at all costs to view it, she spent a lot of time
scanning the schedules of
various indie cinemas, visiting all kinds of
movie-related sites, inquiring
about DVDs and video files. But that documentary had
never been shown in Korea,
and was nowhere to be found, in DVD or other formats.
Finally she was able to
watch Helge Hansen’s only documentary, “Person, People,”
thanks to a friend who
was studying cinema in Japan as she managed to obtain a
file with difficulty
and sent it to her. From that documentary, discovered
because of her interest
in Helge Hansen, she came to know about the woman named
Alma Mayer. “It’s odd,”
Gwon Eun said. To adopt Gwon Eun’s expression, she and
Alma Mayer, totally
unconnected like passengers embarked on ships that had
left port in different
ages, with different histories, shared a similar
experience, as though the two
totally distinct ships carrying each of them had briefly
gone adrift near the
selfsame island, enduring the buffeting by the very same
winds and waves.
Therefore, she said, from that time on, whenever she had
time she used to write
letters to Alma Mayer. Gwon Eun laughed as she spoke,
seemingly embarrassed.
That laugh struck me as somehow familiar, and I stared
at her across the table,
until momentarily our gazes met awkwardly. “So did you
receive any replies from
Alma Mayer?” I blurted out, hastily averting my gaze and
pouring beer into her
empty glass. “I write them in my private blog, like a
diary. In Korean, of
course. Anyway, Alma Mayer can’t receive my letters. She
died in 2009.” I stopped
pouring and looked at her. Then what does she expect to
get, writing letters to
a woman she had never met and who was already dead? I
was naturally curious about
what the experience she shared with Alma Mayer might be,
but I did not want to
share another person’s drama rashly. Casually, I changed
the subject. Our
conversation meandered into how incredibly the cost of
housing was rising and other
nothings such as our ages ― in the vague mid-thirties ―
but in my heart, Gwon
Eun’s words did not vanish but remained, congealed. At about ten in the evening we emerged from
the bar and before we went in our separate directions I
spoke up once more. “By
the way, I’ve solved your riddle. What you said about a
place where the melody stops
and the snow ends when the clockwork runs down.” Instead
of asking what I
meant, she simply looked at me in silence, as though
waiting for me to go on
talking. “But do you still like toys at your age?” I
joked, but she did not
laugh. Just then an empty taxi stopped in front of us.
She got in while I stood
by the taxi bidding her a conventional “Have a safe ride
home.” “Thanks,” she
said, “The camera . . .” “What?” Just then the taxi
moved off so that I could
not hear anything more of the additional clue she was
giving me about a camera. A small cold room, and in that room when
the
light comes on a snow globe with the clockwork run down,
then every time I
leave the room the orange light of shabby alleys that
used to fill my eyes,
then hurrying to that room one late autumn day,
clutching a camera . . . it was
only after a little more time had passed that these
clues slowly came to me,
step by step, like footprints on a snow-covered
playground. *
The next morning, New York was covered in
thick fog. Seen from the ninth-floor room of the hotel,
the streets of New York
looked unreal, like some ancient city submerged
underwater; they felt remote
like an illusion perched at the tip of the see-saw known
as eternity. Like a
city in the childhood dreams of Gwon Eun, who had been
obliged to wander about
lost, on the verge of tears, with the secrets I had yet
to fathom completely
hidden inside. I left the hotel and as I reached
Manhattan’s
Anthology Film Archives I could see the sign announcing
the special screening
of “Person, People.” I had come to the right place. On a
table set up in the
lobby there was a display of photos of an attack by
Israel on the Palestinians
five years before and leaflets about “Person, People.”
Picking up a leaflet, I
walked to a seat in a corner of the lobby. The leaflet
introduced Helge Hansen,
the director of the documentary, as one of the survivors
when a relief truck
heading for Palestine was attacked in Egypt in January
2009. It described the
reason why Helge Hansen made the documentary: “. . .
because in Norman Mayer,
who lost his life in the attack on the relief truck, and
his mother Alma Mayer,
who thus lost her only son, I see the value of the
courage displayed by
individuals who fall victim to the violence of history.
I am a survivor and it
is my belief that survivors must remember the victims.” After folding the leaflet flat, taking care
not to crumple it, and placing it in my bag, I went into
the theater. It was
early on a weekday, yet more than half the seats were
taken. I had only just
found an empty seat and put down my bag when the lights
dimmed and I found
myself filled with unanticipated tension. As the screen
grew bright and the
title appeared, the tension did not subside; I was
trembling to the very tips
of my fingers. The documentary began without any subtitles
or narration, showing photos of many people fixed to the
wall of a mosque in
Ramallah, the Palestinian capital. The wall of the
mosque was like a gigantic
album and from each tattered photo a man, a woman, an
old man, a child, silently
looked out at the world, each with a different
expression. The camera lingered
at length over a scene in which a young woman in a hijab
walked falteringly up
to the photo of a young man and kissed it devoutly, her
eyes still moist,
bidding us to imagine her weeping for her dead lover as
she applied makeup before
she came out to the mosque. The opening shots were short but powerful,
then we were inside the relief truck. The six
passengers, including the driver,
were laughing occasionally as they talked, then when the
truck stopped they unfolded
a map and consulted together earnestly. Perhaps because
shots of the other
passengers had been edited out, the main focus was on
Norman. According to one article I found, Norman’s
death has become a major issue in American society and
has given rise to a
long-running debate. The facts of the matter are
compelling: a relief vehicle
was attacked, in breach of international law and
practice ― relief vehicles
were not attacked even in wartime; an American, a
retired doctor, died in the
attack; and most of the relief goods the truck was
carrying had been bought by
that Jewish doctor, who had used his entire savings for
the purpose. The
poignancy of it all sharpened the shock and outrage and
many people followed
the story avidly. Once interest in Norman had built up,
his mother Alma Mayer
became the focus of attention. All the media tried to
interview her, day after
day, and messages of sympathy came pouring in from all
parts of society except
the Jewish community. She refused every request for an
interview and ignored
all the expressions of sympathy. She did not go out,
invited no visitors, took
no phone calls. Helge Hansen was the only outsider she
met with in connection
with Norman’s death. And that was after she had seen the
images of Norman’s
last fifteen hours that Helge Hansen sent her, images
that would later form the
core of her documentary “Person, People.” *
Three months after that second meeting,
when
I learned of her misfortune from newspapers and the
evening news, I was not
particularly troubled. I was surprised, certainly, but
it was not quite a
shock; I felt a mixture of emotions but they were not
painful enough to make me
forget ordinary life. Even if I had tried to dissuade
her in that bar, she
would surely still have set off. Besides, what right did
I have to challenge
her decision? It was easier on one’s mind to think like
that. At that time I
had recently moved to a new job at a movie magazine, so
I had little time to
keep thinking about Gwon Eun. In the new workplace there
were new relationships
and new kinds of writing and I was obliged to adapt to
all that as quickly as
possible. I gradually forgot Gwon Eun. Indeed, I
unconsciously tried to forget
her and I almost succeeded. Gwon Eun’s name, which had remained faintly
at the back of my memory, once again came so close I
felt I was touching it
when suddenly an older colleague quit the magazine and
all the tasks he was in
charge of were turned over to me. Among my new
responsibilities was reporting
on a documentary film festival to be held in New York,
and among the materials
about the festival he had prepared I found a mention of
Helge Hansen’s “Person,
People.” I learned that the documentary had been
favorably received by the
critics when it was first released in 2010 and was
invited to several
international film festivals that year. There was also
an announcement from the
organizers of the festival that there will be special
screenings of “Person,
People” to mark the fifth anniversary of the
unprecedented attack on a relief truck. From that day on, I often thought about the
things that Gwon Eun told me when we met at the Ilsan
book café and the bar in Eulji-ro.
Late in the evening, when all the reporters had left the
office, I would sit
there searching the Internet, determined to find out
everything about Gwon Eun.
Memories did not come hitting my head in a sudden flash;
instead they trickled
into my awareness bit by bit from somewhere very far
away. Her confession that
she had come to photography thanks to a camera a friend
had given her was the
first clue; that moment at the streetside in Eulji-ro
when, after getting into
the taxi and saying thank you, she mentioned the camera,
bobbed up as another clue.
In any case, whenever I looked into her world in my
memory, snow was always
falling. That world was round and transparent, and so
long as the snow was
falling a familiar melody was ceaselessly ringing in my
ears. And there was that
unrealistic talk we had about a snow-covered school
playground on a Sunday
afternoon. “When you press the shutter, light flashes
past inside the camera.”
“Really? Where does the light come from?” “It must be
hidden somewhere
inconspicuous.” “Where?” “Behind a wardrobe, or in a
desk drawer, or somewhere
like an empty bottle . . .” Before setting off for New York, I enquired
about the hospital where Gwon Eun was and paid a visit.
As I expected, she was
extremely surprised to see me. As she told me the
depressing news that after
three operations to remove the shell fragments embedded
in her legs, it was
doubtful whether she would ever be able to walk again
for the rest of her life,
her eyes flashed oddly dark. “Do you still have that
Fuji camera?” I asked after
a long silence; she looked at me piercingly for a
moment, then, still facing
one another, we both broke into awkward laughter. In the
end I was not able to
say that I would come again. Before I left the hospital
room, she gave me the
address of her private blog on a piece of paper. She
added that there was a
letter she had written to me on the blog, but she too
did not say anything
suggesting we should meet again. When I reached home I turned on my notebook
and went into her blog. I found a letterbox that
contained twelve letters
written to Alma Mayer together with one for me. I sat at
my desk and read straight
through all the letters, after which I went to the
bathroom and took a long
shower. As I dried myself with a towel, I stood in front
of the steamed-up
mirror over the washbasin and had the illusion I was
looking out through a
window at a blurry world where there were no such things
as right or wrong
choices. It was not a bad illusion but the steam soon
vanished. In a whisper I
questioned the mirror, where my reflection was growing
clear again: “So are you
happy now?” No reply came from the blurry world but from
behind my back came
the grating sound of a door handle turning. I felt that
I knew what it was
without turning around. That door would be a rusty,
dented front door and the
thirteen-year-old boy who had opened the door
impulsively would be blinking his
eyes, unaccustomed to the dark, as he asked: “Uh, this
is Gwon Eun’s home,
isn’t it?” *
On the screen, Alma Mayer is explaining her
lengthy seclusion: “I simply could not tolerate the way people
were dressing Norman up in terms like ‘conscience of the
age’ or ‘last hope of
the Jews.’ Believing that if someone is hidden behind
inflated terms like those,
they can become witnesses to justice without ever
actually doing anything,
somehow, seemed to me like pure hypocrisy. It’s like
pretending not to know
things that you could have known if you had only tried
to know, then later claiming
you can’t be blamed since you did not know. I remember
all those non-Jews who
were appalled at the horrors of the Holocaust only after
the war was over. I
was not angry. Then or now, I just feel numb. A kind of
lethargic
disillusionment, that’s all.” The scene changed as the documentary
summarized Alma Mayer’s past. Born in Belgium in 1916,
Alma Mayer overcame
discrimination against her, both as a Jew and as a
woman, to join the Brussels
Philharmonic Orchestra as a violinist in 1938. But when
the order for Jews in
Belgium to register was issued in 1940, she was
dismissed from the orchestra
and seemed doomed either to be confined in the Ghetto or
deported to a
concentration camp. At that point her sweetheart Jean,
who played the horn in
the same orchestra, prepared a hideout for her in the
cellar storeroom of his
cousin’s grocery store on the outskirts of Brussels. Windowless, that cellar was dark unless the
lamp was lit, whether it was early morning or midday. At
times, even with open
eyes, vague images seemed to hang in the air as if in a
dream. Then, if she
blinked once, without fail an unfamiliar street would
appear, and in that
street the only lights burning would be those of musical
instrument shops. If
she cautiously pushed open the doors of those shops and
went in, members of the
orchestra she had not seen for a long time would welcome
her joyfully. Each one
would sit down before their instrument, then they would
strike up a lively
dance or march, and whenever their eyes met hers they
would smile warmly, as if
they were whispering: “Nothing hurts; so long as we’re
alive we exist so that
every pain is comforted and healed.” Warmed at heart,
she would remain absorbed
in their performance for a while, then if she blinked
again the melody, the
players and their smiles all vanished. Every time the
sweet illusion vanished,
she would feel even more lonely, more dejected. As she
dreamed she was eating
her fill of food prepared by her mother, her lips would
move unconsciously,
then if she suddenly woke she would feel unbearably
cold, as if she were out on
some windswept plain, all alone. Once every two weeks,
Jean would come to the
cellar bringing a basket with water and bread but in
those days, he was poor like
everyone else, and so it was never enough to last for
two weeks. The basket
might be light and shabby, still Jean never forgot to
spread at the bottom a
sheet of music he had composed. On days when she saw the
brightly lit shops, she
would take out her violin and perform those pieces,
keeping the bow some
distance away so it did not touch the strings, on an
unlit stage, devoid of any
audience’s applause, in silence. “Those pieces composed by Jean were a light
that enabled me to dream of the future in that grocery
store cellar, where I
had every day been thinking only of death. So I can
truly say those musical
scores saved my life.” After speaking at some length, Alma Mayer
slowly raised her head and smiled slightly, for the
first and last time during
the interview. In my darkened seat, I unexpectedly found
myself smiling with
her. *
“Uh, this is Gwon Eun’s home, isn’t it?” Although the door was open, I did not
immediately go inside but instead repeated my question
several times. The
rusty, dented front door led straight into a dark room,
where the only source
of light was a round, transparent snow globe. What
brought me to that small,
cold room where almost no sunlight entered was not
something I had chosen.
After Gwon Eun had been absent from school for four
days, the homeroom teacher
summoned me as class president and another student, a
girl serving as
vice-president, and asked us to go and see what was
wrong. The moment we left
the teachers’ room, the vice-president said she had a
piano lesson and refused
to accompany me, so I set off alone for the address
written on a scrap of paper
and found my way to that front door. As my eyes slowly
grew accustomed to the
darkness, Gwon Eun came into view, wearing a shabby
overcoat and covered with a
blanket. Just as Gwon Eun rose and switched on the
light, the clockwork of the snow
globe ran down and stopped. It was a room without any adjoining kitchen
or bathroom. A portable gas stove and a kettle, together
with a plastic
washbowl holding toiletries revealed the room’s multiple
functions. I could not
even begin to imagine what that thirteen-year-old girl
ate or how she lived in
that poor, unheated room. I learned that Gwon Eun’s only
family, her father,
used to leave home for a minimum of one or two months up
to a maximum of six
months at a time. “Keep that a secret.” As she spoke she
held out a glass of
water. “I’m not an orphan. I’m never going to go into
any kind of home.” I
could think of nothing to say and the water I was
gulping down had the distinct
metallic taste of disinfectant. Grimacing, I put down
the glass, said “Okay,”
and quickly left the room. The next day I reported to
the homeroom teacher that
Gwon Eun was sick. All said and done, there was nothing
much wrong with saying
that. The young homeroom teacher, who had only recently
been appointed, did not
seem to pay much attention to my words. After that, I
often found myself
imagining that Gwon Eun might die. Even just imagining
that Gwon Eun died was
enough to fill me with panic. There were days when I had
the illusion I could
hear the other children in my class whispering it was my
fault that Gwon Eun
died. After that, I visited Gwon Eun’s room
several
times without being told to do so by anyone. It was
simply that I disliked the
panic and the imagined blame falling on me; I had no
other plan. The only
things I could take to her room were comic books I had
finished reading or
trifles like new batteries for the snow globe. “Off you
go, now. I’m okay.”
Being alone with a girl in the same room felt awkward,
yet I could not leave so
easily and while I stayed hovering she used to push me
in the back as she
spoke. Once I left Gwon Eun’s room and walked down
the narrow sloping alley that led to the road, the
orange streetlights, the
kids vanishing hurriedly down the alleys, the broken
doors of the communal
toilet and the dirty toilet bowls glimpsed through them,
and worst of all the
bulldozers crouched like furious wild animals on vacant
lots ― all these
ghostly sights used to loom vaguely like something not
of this world. More than
half the houses on the hillside, built roughly of cement
and planks, were derelict.
Like Gwon Eun, I was only thirteen. There was nothing I
could do about the
hunger and cold Gwon Eun had to endure in that isolated
room in a ruined neighborhood.
When I happened to come across a Fuji camera in the
wardrobe of my parents’
bedroom, without a moment’s hesitation I went running
blindly to Gwon Eun’s
room clutching the camera to my chest, because it looked
to me like something
that could be sold second-hand for a bundle of
banknotes. Contrary to my
expectation, Gwon Eun did not sell the camera. That was
only natural. To her,
the camera was not simply a device for taking photos, it
was a path leading to
another world. She must have loved the magic moment when
she pressed the
shutter and masses of light came pouring from every
corner of the world to enfold
the subject. But then, once she had pressed the shutter
and that light vanished
from the viewfinder, surely she must have felt more
lonely and depressed, like
Alma Mayer? Like the landscape not included in the frame
of a photograph, all of
that lies now in the domain of things I cannot verify.
Possibly forever. Once she had used that camera to photograph
everything inside her room, Gwon Eun gradually began to
venture outside in
quest of more and more scenes to capture, and she came
back to school, too. Yet
I did not approach her and start a conversation as soon
as she came back to
school. It was probably because I did not want to give
anyone the impression
that I was close to Gwon Eun, who always wore the same
clothes. Gwon Eun
likewise often acted as though she could not see me. So
in the end we never
became friends but each kept the other’s secret. I never
revealed to anyone
that Gwon Eun was pretty much an orphan, and she
pretended to the very end not
to know that I had stolen the camera from my father. One
day a couple of weeks
before the winter vacation I heard the news that Gwon
Eun had gone with her
family to live in some remote region. A rumor spread
that her father had been
found dead on a rubbish dump near a gambling den, but
none of these was
certain. Very many hours have passed since then, and
now Gwon Eun writes this letter to an Alma Mayer who no
longer has an earthly
address: In that room, to which Father rarely came home,
I dreamed the same
dream nearly every night, and since I did not want to
dream that dream, until
sleep came I would wind up the clockwork of the snow
globe and immerse myself
in a world where snow fell for one minute and thirty
seconds, then just before
the melody ended I would pull the bedding up over my
head and shut my eyes
quickly. In the dream I wandered through an unfamiliar
town, one that I was visiting
for the first time, calling my Mom until I awoke. The
routine never varied.
After reaching that point, Gwon Eun is silent for a
moment. I likewise keep silent
with her. Only a few days later does Gwon Eun open the
blog again and slowly
write: Sometimes I would lay my brow against the cold
wall and pray fervently,
asking that the clockwork driving the room stop, that I
might stop breathing.
Until the camera came into my hands, that was my only
prayer. So . . . .” The
sentence following that “So” was repeated in the single
letter that Gwon Eun
wrote to me. In that letter she called me “Class
President.” Of course, twenty
or so years had passed, she felt hurt that I had not
recognized her, but on the
other hand she also thought it was fortunate, she wrote
in that letter. She
asks me: “Class President, do you know the greatest
thing a person can do?” I
shake my head. “Someone once said that saving the life
of another is the greatest
thing, one [gift] that is given to few. So . . . . No
matter what happens to
me, President, you need to remember that the camera you
gave me saved my life.
Eun.” That letter was saved to the blog on the day she
and I drank beer together
at Eulji-ro. After saying thank-you, she got into the
taxi and left, and inside
the taxi as it made its way through the streets of
Seoul, she thought that for
once she must write a letter that a living person could
read, a really useful
letter. *
It was only in 1943 that Alma Mayer was
able
to leave that cellar storeroom. Jean heard that someone
had reported her to the
German police and once again helped her to escape. She
went with him to
Switzerland and they parted in a Swiss border town. By
that time she and Norman
were already connected heart-to-heart but since she had
not yet realized it,
she said nothing to Jean. She first became aware of
Norman’s existence after a
severe bout of seasickness in a third-class cabin on a
steamer bound for
America. Arriving at Ellis Island, the gateway to
America, in November 1943,
the first thing that Alma Mayer did was sell the violin
that had been like an
organ in her body. With that money, she was able to get
a place to live and she
did not have to work until Norman was born. Five years
had passed since the end
of the war before she heard that, incredibly, Jean was
alive. But Jean was now
married and had a family, and she did not inform him of
her survival or her
whereabouts. To her mind, Jean had already done too much
for her, risked too
much for her. She did not want to give him any more
trouble. Rather than a
lover’s pride, it was more a matter of human courtesy. Until Helge Hansen sent her the film,
however, she had no idea that Norman had long been
following the course of
Jean’s life. For almost a full thirty years, Norman had
frequented an
unlicensed office on the outskirts of New York that
secretly collected and
provided personal information about individuals. Once
every month or so, Norman
would visit and learn about Jean’s current doings,
sometimes even receive a
photo. But he only took the information, he never let
Jean know of his
existence, never wrote a letter or phoned. He did not
agree with his mother’s
idea of human courtesy but he wished to respect her
choice, thinking that in
this world there are sometimes untruths that are close
to truth. In 2007,
Norman received the last information about Jean, a kind
of pamphlet with a
photo of Jean’s funeral and the location of his grave.
“Sorry, Norman.” The
office manager who had dealt with Norman’s business for
so long and had grown
old with him, offered him a cigarette. On finishing the
cigarette, Norman left
the office, went on past his parked car and walked
aimlessly. Jean Berne, from
French-speaking Belgium, had dreamed his whole life long
of being a composer
yet had never published a composition, a nameless horn
player who once past
forty was excluded from even a small provincial
orchestra and was never invited
to perform solo anywhere . . . . On that day, as he
recalled the information he
had been receiving for nearly thirty years, Norman made
a resolution: “I resolved that in my own life I would
repeat the one great thing he did in his life, in saving
the life of a
worthless woman about to die in war. I believe that
saving the life of another
is the greatest thing, one [gift] that is given to few.
As you can see, I am
already old. Before I get any older, I want to
commemorate his history by
acting as he did.” Once Norman had finished speaking, a somber
silence
filled the relief truck. The camera focused in close-up
on each passenger in
turn, then gradually zoomed away. The screen was slowly
fading out. Just before
it turned completely black, like a sudden slap on the
back of the spectators’
heads, the sound of a powerful explosion filled the
cinema. The lights overhead
came up, the final credits were rolling on the screen,
but my ears were burning
as if they too had been blown apart in that blinding
moment behind the sound of
the explosion. At the very end of the credits came two
names together with
their dates of birth and death ― Norman Mayer and Alma
Mayer, who died at home
two months after her interview with the director. The
clockwork that had made both
their worlds turn had run down and stopped in 2009. Even after the final credits had come to an
end, I remained sitting there, unable to take my eyes
from the screen, until
someone lightly tapped my shoulder. Turning, I found a
middle-aged black woman
carrying cleaning materials standing behind me. Looking
around, I saw all the
seats were empty. Shouldering my bag, I quickly left the
building. The morning
fog had lifted, and unexpectedly dazzling winter
sunshine was shining down,
filling the street with light. *
I slowly merged with the Manhattan streets
that were billowing with light. After a few blocks and a
corner, the place
loomed into view. A place that absorbed all the street’s
sunlight, unable to
close its gaping mouth; I walked step by step toward the
show-window of the
musical instrument store. Inside, all kinds of
instruments were on display,
including violins and horns. If Gwon Eun had been with
me, she would surely
have begun to imagine Alma Mayer and Jean Berne, each
holding their instrument
and playing. Perhaps with an escort of light, after
tightly shutting her eyes once
then opening them. No wonder. What melody continues to
resound in that world
even after the clockwork runs down and the snow stops,
and sometimes passes
into other worlds and breathes life into vanished
memories, too, were things I now
could understand. I looked toward my feet. As the snow began to melt, the footprints
inscribed in it were gradually fading away. A few steps
in front of me I could
see Gwon Eun’s little form from the back, crouching
hunched. A Sunday
afternoon, with nobody except us in the snow-covered
school playground. Little
by little, as I approached Gwon Eun, her posture grew
clearer, she was pointing
her camera at footprints someone had left in passing.
“What are you doing?”
Those were the first words I addressed to Gwon Eun after
she came back to
school. Tearing her eyes from the camera, Gwon Eun
looked at me with a
surprised expression, as I repeated my question in a
gruffer voice. “Why are
you at school?” “There are visitors at home, I’ve
nowhere to go . . . .” “But
what are you doing here?” Gwon Eun made no reply but
instead gestured to me to
squat down beside her. Bewildered, I squatted down at
her side, then she
pointed at footprints whose outlines were becoming
blurred, and said, “There’s
light inside those footprints. Don’t they look like
little boats loaded full
with light?” “Oh, really . . . ?” “And hidden in here,
too.” “What?” “When I
press the shutter, there’s light flashing past inside
the camera.” “Is there?
Where does the light come from?” As soon as I showed
interest, Gwon Eun, who
had never once looked at me, gazed at me with an excited
face. She had still
not begun to speak, but already I knew. I knew about the
brief moment when the
masses of light that at ordinary times lie folded thin
behind a wardrobe, or in
a desk drawer, or somewhere inconspicuous like an empty
bottle, the moment the
shutter is pressed, all come streaming out and enfold
the subject, and about
the rapture of visiting another world every time you
take a photo; I already
remembered all those things. Gwon Eun begins the tale
that I already know. The
sunlight reflected off the instrument store’s
show-window was shining on her
alone.
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