“Have you ever cried Mansei?” a petty officer among the soldiers demanded.
His face was red and his eyes glittered. His short black hair stood erect on his head and he lifted his gun as though he were about to strike her with the butt. Induk was desperate and frightened, the screams of the child wracking her ears, and she did not know what to do. She remained silent, looking from one face to the other until her eyes caught the sight of the wineshop keeper.
“You,” she faltered. “I beg you — we are Korean, you and I—”
He laughed loud coarse laughter. “Now you beg me,” he chortled. “Now you are a beggar—”
“Take her to the police station,” the officer ordered. “Question her and get the truth from her. Did she or did she not shout Mansei?”
Induk’s heart all but stopped its beat. If she were in the police station where none could see what might happen, then she would be lost. She made haste to confess whatever would help her.
“It may be,” she faltered, her mouth so dry she could scarcely speak the words, “it may be that at some time, long ago, before I understood — it may be that I did cry Mansei, but I promise you—”
It was enough. The soldiers yelled and clapped their hands and the police seized her and hustled her down the street to the police station. Now Induk was all mother and she fought and kicked at the men and tore their faces with her nails.
“My child,” she gasped. “I cannot leave my child here alone—”
The child had run after her, screaming and sobbing, but a soldier seized her and thrust her down to the ground and threatened her with his bayonet. At this Induk was beside herself when suddenly a door opened and a woman ran out and took up the child and ran back with her into the house. Then Induk was quiet. She wiped her face with the hem of her skirt, but before she could speak the police seized her again. They bound her hands behind her back with a strip of cloth and forced her on. In a few minutes she was at the police station, surrounded by men. Terror filled her mind and her body. Her blood ran slow and cold in her veins, her eyes blurred, and her breath stopped in her breast.
As she entered the door of the low brick building a man who stood behind her, whether soldier or police she did not know, stretched out his leg and gave her a strong kick and she fell forward into the room. She struggled to get up but her bound wrists held her down and before she could do more than lift her head a policeman put his foot on her neck and began to beat her with his club. Then he hauled her to her feet and unbound her hands. No sooner had she drawn her breath and smoothed back her hair than the Chief of Police, who had entered the room meanwhile, ordered her to undress. She stared at him, unbelieving. She knew that many times women had been seized thus and made to strip themselves naked, but now that it was herself, she could not move. She only stood staring at him, as though she had not heard.
“Take off your clothes!” he bellowed.
She found her voice somehow. “Sir,” she stammered, “sir, I am the wife of — of — a respected man — I am a mother — For the sake of decency — do not — do not—”
With a strange howl the men rushed forward and tore off her garments. She clung to her undergarments but they were torn out of her hands. She tried to sit down to hide herself but they forced her up. She turned to the wall, trying to conceal herself from the many men in the room but they forced her to turn around again. She tried to shelter herself with her arms, but one man twisted her arms and held her hands behind her back and the others beat and kicked her. Bruised and bleeding, she would have fallen to the floor but they held her up to continue the beating until her head fell forward on her breast and she knew no more.
In the village word of what was happening flew from house to house. Among the villagers some stayed in their houses from dire fear, but others gathered in the street in a fury and outrage, and the hotbloods among them were for attacking the police station and rescuing Induk. Others declared that this would only mean that they and their families would next be attacked. After such argument two among them who were Christians were chosen to go to the police station and protest against the stripping of women.
Some hours had passed before this decision was come to, and when the two went to the police station, both old men and near the end of their days anyway, they found no women there. Wherever Induk was, they did not see her. Instead the Chief of Police received them courteously, sitting behind his desk in his office. When they spoke against the stripping of women, declaring it unlawful, the Chief of Police was only cold.
“You are mistaken,” he said shortly. “It is not against our law. We must strip prisoners to see that they carry no illegal papers.”
The older of the two men spoke up bravely. “Then why do you strip only young women? And why do you not also strip men?”
To this the Chief of Police made no reply. For a long moment he glared at the two old men in their white robes and tall black hats, staves in their hands to support them, and they looked steadily back at him and showed no fear. He turned then to a soldier who stood in the room with his bayonet fixed.
“Show these men out,” he ordered.
The soldier put down his gun and seized each old man by a shoulder and led them out. As soon as he opened the door, however, he saw that a crowd stood there, angry and defiant.
“Where is the woman?” one shouted.
“Let the woman come out free!” another yelled.
“Put us in prison, too, or release the woman!” others cried.
Such shouts went up that the Chief of Police rose from his seat and went to the door and made himself stiff and straight and hoped thereby to frighten them into silence. Far from this, they shouted more loudly than ever. He hesitated a moment and then shouted back at them, whereupon they shouted still more so that he could not be heard. He hesitated and then turned back into the room.
“Let the woman go free,” he muttered. “One woman is not worth so much time and trouble.”
The crowd waited, the two old men standing in front, side by side. In a few minutes two soldiers came out with Induk hanging between them. She was conscious, but she could not speak. Blood had dried on her face and half-clothed body, but under the dried crust fresh blood, bright red, flowed out slowly. A great moan rose from the crowd. A strong young man came forward and took her on his back and carried her away. The crowd followed, the men groaning and the women wailing. Last of all the woman came who had sheltered Induk’s child, and so they took Induk and the child home again.
… When Yul-han came home at the end of the day as usual, his son with him, Ippun met him at the door, her hand on her mouth for silence.
“Where is my son’s mother?” Yul-han asked, for Induk was always at the door to meet him and take off his shoes.
Ippun led him aside into the kitchen. “My mistress was beaten,” she said in a loud whisper, her garlic breath at his nostrils.
He stepped back. “Beaten?”
She began the story and he listened, unbelieving and yet knowing that what he heard was true. He did not wait for Ippun to finish.
“What can we do when a decent woman is not safe outside her husband’s house,” he muttered and he hastened to the room where Induk lay on her bed. Ippun had bound her head and washed her many wounds, and she lay there stiffly, her lips puffed and her eyes swollen shut. He knelt down beside her.
“My wife, my heart, what have they done to you?”
Tears came from under Induk’s purpled eyelids, thick tears like pus.
“Tell no one,” she whispered.
“Let me fetch my mother,” Yul-han urged.
“No one — especially no woman — not even my own mother,” Induk whispered.