Free Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story by William Andrews

handful of what looks like black tea. She takes two cups from the cupboard and brings them to the table. She moves gracefully in her hanbok . “I like my bori cha strong,” she says. “That is the way we used to drink it when I was a girl. It has become fashionable for our young people to drink coffee like the Americans. I don’t like coffee. It isn’t Korean and I am afraid I’m a traditionalist. I think Korea needs to hold on to its traditions, don’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “What do you know about our traditions, Ja-young?”
    “Not much, I guess,” I confess.
    “You should know more about Korea. Yes, you were raised in America. But an important part of you is here,” she says, tapping a finger on the table. “You cannot escape it.”
    I can’t escape it? I’m not sure I want it. I’d rather be just an American, like my friends and family. But when I’m alone in my room and look in the mirror, I see someone different. The woman in the mirror is Korean. It’s in her face, her eyes, and her hair. Maybe it’s in her blood, too.
    The teapot starts whistling and she gets it from the stove. She pours the tea through a strainer into our cups. The aroma fills the room. I take a sip and it’s really strong and bitter. It isn’t anything like the weak tea served on our tour. As I drink it, I feel cooler and more relaxed.
    “Tell me, what do you think of my story so far?” Mrs. Hong asks over the top of her cup.
    “It’s… horrible,” I say. Outside, the wind is blowing sending a breeze through the window. It gives some relief from the heat—or maybe it’s the bori cha.
    She stares at me. I sense that she’s sizing me up to see if she’s made the right decision to give me the comb. I don’t want to disappoint her so I say, “Go on, please. Tell me the rest of your story.”
    She smiles but her eyes turn hard. “I have only just begun!” she says. She puts her cup on the table and her hands in her lap.
    She continues. “The day after the Colonel raped me, the troops came, and I quickly learned what to do. I had become an ianfu —a comfort woman. I learned a trick, too. I examined the men’s boots before they raped me. As I said, the Colonel had his boots tied tight. It was a warning sign. His type of cruelty was the worst. It was psychological as well as physical. After that, whenever I saw someone with boots tied tight, I knew I would be humiliated.
    “But there were many others. A soldier with dirty, untied boots would be careless and quick. A soldier who kept his boots on would often hurt me. If his boots were clean and polished, it would be someone who wanted me to pretend I was enjoying him.
    “Examining their boots was just something I did. But knowing what was going to happen to me did not help. In fact, it made it worse. It was like a torturer telling you what he was going to do to you next. By looking at their boots, I knew how they would rape me.
    “And,” she says, “I was raped thousands of times.”
     

 
    E LEVEN
     
    August 1945. Dongfeng, Manchuria
     
    W hen the soldier with the dirty, untied boots left my room, there was only one more waiting at my step. There was always a long line at my door before the soldiers went off to their maneuvers. Kempei told us the soldiers needed to purge themselves so if they died in battle, they could enter the afterlife pure. “You’re doing a great service for these men,” he said. “And for Japan and for the Emperor.”
    I had been serving Japan and the Emperor nonstop since midday and it was now early evening. Even with the six new Korean girls Lieutenant Tanaka had brought in, my line was always the longest. At ten minutes apiece—the soldiers’ allotted time—I had serviced over thirty men that day. I was sore and exhausted and had to force myself to serve one more soldier.
    That man was Corporal Kaori. He was a big man and he liked to hurt me. He always said he wanted to be the last in line so no one would rush him. But I