The Beloved Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

conversation with Mrs. Kan, I woke up for school and couldn’t make Mother get off the floor. I probably would have left her there if I hadn’t been so terrified that I might also be punished for her tardiness at the factory. I pleaded with Mother and even tried to physically pull her up from her straw mat, but she wouldn’t move. She stared unblinking at the wall and refused to respond to my protests. I had to go to school, so I left Mother, certain that the guards would come after her and take her away. I was living in such a primitive state of survival by then that my biggest fear was being punished for Mother’s truancy. After class, I hurried home, holding my breath when I stepped into our hut. Mother was still there, in the exact position she was in when I left her. She hadn’t even gotten up to relieve herself but instead urinated on the straw mat where she was lying.
    I was so humiliated to see my mother in such a condition that I wanted to shake her until some spark of life or recognition lit up her void expression. I confess to you, beloved daughter, that I was more angry at Mother and scared that I might be punished for her laziness than I was hurt to see her so broken. There were no doctors I could take her to, or even a neighbor who might help. Mrs. Kan was probably the closest thing Mother had to a friend, and Mrs. Kan already took a great risk by speaking to me in the food line. I couldn’t expect any further help from her. Mother was completely alone. Even I couldn’t do anything for her.
    The next morning I begged Mother to get up again. I screamed in frustration when she wouldn’t even open her lips to drink the water I tried to drip into her mouth. But then again, like the previous day, the time came for me to leave for school, and this morning I was certain the guards wouldn’t ignore Mother’s absence in the factory line.
    Just as I suspected, when I came home that afternoon, Mother was gone. I waited all evening in our dark hut, wondering what happened to children in the camp whose parents were too sick to work. I stayed awake most of the night, blaming myself for Mother’s condition. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her the full truth about Father. Wouldn’t a lie be more merciful than reality? I didn’t know where Mother was, but if she survived, she would probably remain unable to work. What could be expected from a woman who refuses to eat or drink or even roll off of her makeshift bed to relieve herself?
    The following morning, my teacher announced in front of my entire middle-school class, “Song Chung-Cha is the daughter of a stupid, slothful prisoner who was too lazy to get up and complete her duties for two days in a row.” I was made to stand exposed in front of the class while my teacher repeatedly struck my bare bottom with a wooden plank. After this humiliation to punish me for my mother’s grave misdeeds, my teacher announced, “Your mother is dead.” I never learned if Mother was taken to the camp hospital to die, or if the guards somehow sped up the inevitable process. I was not surprised, nor do I remember feeling a great sense of loss. Mother had given up living a lot earlier.
    From that day on, I stayed in the dorms, where girls ranging in age from eight to about nineteen all slept on the floor, head to toe, toe to head, shoulder to shoulder. Because we were only allowed to use the toilets twice a day, the dorm always smelled like urine and waste. Even though I was exhausted by the end of the day, it was hard to sleep on account of the stench. The older girls were not allowed the luxury of sanitary rags, and so their flow spilled onto the floor below us, dried on their legs, and added to the filth and squalor.
    Mee-Kyong, who had lived in the dorms for a while by then, readily shared with me all of her survival secrets accumulated during her years of camp life. Always careful to ensure that nobody else was looking, Mee-Kyong demonstrated how to hunt for frogs, how to