Free So Far from the Bamboo Grove by Yoko Kawashima Watkins

bundles and women carrying babies on their backs with a wide sash, Japanese-style.
    Mother called, “Excuse me.” They stopped and looked us over. “Are you going to Seoul?” Mother asked in elegant Japanese. They still stared at us. “We are Japanese,” said Mother.
    â€œYou’re wearing Korean Communist Army clothes,” a man said.
    â€œExcuse our appearance.” Mother bowed slightly. “We had to disguise ourselves.”
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œFar north. Nanam.”
    â€œThat’s almost in Manchuria!” the man said. “You’ve been walking all this time?”
    Mother explained about the train. Then the man told us that he had sold his barbershop in a nearby town to a Korean friend. He was returning to Japan with his relatives. “Since Koreans began attacking Japanese, we cannot sleep peacefully.”
    Mother asked where we were. The man pointed. “The brown roof you see in the distance is the Seoul station.”
    At last! I could not believe it. A bath house, Mother had said, a good place to sleep and maybe plenty to eat!
    Without warning we found ourselves at the end of a seemingly endless line of people . “What is this?” Ko asked the last man in line. He wore Korean clothes so she spoke Korean.
    â€œThis is the checkpoint for escapees. We must show what we bring.”
    These people had little to show, and we were almost there when two armed Japanese policemen, a stout one and a tall one, suddenly shouted and pointed their guns at us. I trembled and my ear and chest began throbbing.
    They questioned us. We were wearing Korean Communist Army uniforms—were we seeking political asylum? Ko told them we were Japanese. Where were we from? Could we prove this?
    Mother showed our insurance documents and school report cards. Finally the men put their guns down. We had reached the head of the line now.
    The interrogation went on. Did we carry a large amount of money? A little cash, Mother said, bringing a pouch from her shirt pocket. They checked and gave it back. Did we have a savings book?
    â€œYes,” Mother said and looked through her bundle. She pulled out everything but there was no savings book. “I must have left it,” Mother said in tears of distress.
    â€œWe will have to search you,” they said.
    They went through our clothes, all our pockets, and the rucksacks, but no savings book was found.
    They found the roasted corn. What was this? Our food supply, Ko told them.
    Finally the stout policeman asked where we were going, and Mother told him we would stay in Seoul until her son arrived. When the war was over we would return to Nanam.
    â€œThe war is over,” he said.
    We were stupefied. “When?” Ko asked.
    â€œYesterday. You cannot go back. That is why there are so many escapees from the north. The Japanese are in peril in Korea now.”
    â€œWhat is today?” Ko asked.
    August sixteenth. Hadn’t we heard about the atomic bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima? No.
    â€œJapan lost,” the tall policeman told us. “Those two cities have turned to hell.”
    Suddenly Mother dropped to the ground.
    Ko loosened Mother’s collar and, as usual, I cried. Some men standing about were told to carry Mother into the station. The stout policeman ran for a bottle, and I smelled whiskey. They poured some into Mother’s mouth, and Ko unbuttoned the uniform front and massaged her chest and arms. I was overjoyed when she opened her eyes.
    â€œI must have blacked out.” She tried to get up, but the police told her to stay where she was. They were friendlier now, but the interrogation continued. We were told we must be sprayed with chemicals to kill lice and bugs we might have carried from the north. We must take off our clothes.
    Mother got up and took off all but the thin chemise she wore under her shirt. They sprayed her from head to toe, also the uniform she had