Therese Park

My rooster Sunriser died the day the North Koreans launched a surprise attack on the South in June 1950. He was slaughtered early that morning for crowing in the middle of the night and turned into a pot of soup for breakfast. As I sat before my steaming bowl, I vaguely remembered hearing a frantic cluck and flutter of wings from my bedroom, but I had never imagined that he was in danger. Had I known about it, I'd have run outside and rescued him. Instead, all I could do was pick up his bloody feathers scattered in the well area and shed a few tears.
As if Sunriser had never existed, my brothers and sisters said nothing as they ate, slurping soup, lips smacking, spoons clattering. Only my mother seemed uneasy, watching me stare at my bowl. I could feel her glance penetrating the side of my face, which I ignored. Finally she said, "Your rooster must have gone mad, Jong-ah, blowing his horn in the middle of the night."
I didn't respond.
"There was nothing I could do," she said. "You know what the neighbors might have done if we didn't get rid of him. A mad rooster brings nothing but ill-fortunes."
I secretly wished that Sunriser had never come to us. Had he stayed at Uncle Hong's spacious farm surrounded by thick cornfields, he would be still alive, chasing hens or striding proudly in the yard, boasting his colorful feathers.
It was the previous summer when Sunriser had joined our family. My mother's cousin farmed in a nearby village that had neither a train station nor a post office, and all summer long, he made weekly trips to the local market on his three-wheel motorcycle that had a trailer attached to it. Once in a while, he stopped by to see us on the way to the market, his trailer loaded with baskets of yellow corn, tomatoes, cabbages, and huge watermelons glistening with morning dew. That morning Uncle Hong was a celebrity. As soon as his three-wheeler pulled in, we gathered around him, asking, "What's that noise, Uncle Hong?" Smiling, he parked his motorcycle, walked to the trailer, and lifted a bird the size of a football with colorful, fluffy feathers.
Everyone exclaimed, "A rooster!"
"I thought you kids might want to raise him," he said, untying the straw rope around the rooster’s feet.
"We do!"
"This kind is rare," he explained. "The Chinese use them mostly for cockfighting because they’re Mongolian and Siberian, the toughest you can find."
The next moment everyone gasped as the rooster liberated himself from Uncle Hong's hands and rose effortlessly toward the roof, cackling.
"Rascal," Uncle Hong muttered, his eyes following the bird, his chin tilted to the sky.
The rooster landed safely on the tile roof, flapped his wings, and crowed, "Cockodecockoooo..."
Uncle Hong grabbed the broom standing in the corner and swung at the roof, but the broom didn't reach the rooster.
He flew off again, his wings wide open, and came down on the brick fence, only a few feet from his assailant. As he flapped his wings, Uncle Hong swung the broom, and the rooster dropped to the ground like a duck shot out of the sky.
Uncle Hong snatched him up, smiling. "Keep him in a box today," he ordered Eldest Brother, handing him the bird. "By tomorrow morning, he'll calm down and behave as if he’s lived here all his life." Uncle Hong patted the rooster for the last time with his calloused hand and headed to the three-wheeler. "See you all soon, if it doesn't rain."
"Thank you, Uncle Hong," we chorused.
Shifting his glassy eyes, the rooster was eager to escape again, and I got nervous. "He'll get away," I warned Eldest Brother, but he didn't seem worried. He gently lowered him to the ground, and the rooster began walking toward the fence, his head lifted, inspecting his new home.
I followed him everywhere, the woodpile along the fence, the back of the house, passing the grain storage room and kitchen on the way, and the front again. I offered him food, too. When he paid no attention to a fistful of rice I had sprinkled in front of him, I chopped green lettuce and served him on a chipped ceramic plate. He still showed no interest, so I gave him sesame seed mixed with rice-cake crumbs. He only pecked at the plate briefly and walked away, clucking. Just as I was about to give up, the rooster stopped before the wooden tub collecting rainwater from the gutter above the kitchen, picked up a water bug, and swallowed it, without even blinking.
All that afternoon, I chased flies with a flyswatter.
Mother was happy. "Why don't you take care of the rooster?" she asked me. "You seem to know what to do with him."
Excited, I said, "I'll do my best."
"It's about time you have some responsibilities, Jong-ah. You'll soon be ten," she said.
I slept little that night, occupied with my responsibility and the rooster's well-being. As I lay awake at dawn, looking at the dark ceiling, I wondered what name would be appropriate for him: Feathered Prince? Conqueror? Plumed Warrior? I couldn't think of a good name because I had never owned a rooster before. Then I heard him crowing loudly. Minutes later the rice-papered screen door became lit with grayish sunlight, and a name popped in my head. "You're Sunriser!"
"Why aren't you eating?" Mother asked.
"I'm not hungry."
"Not hungry? Are you upset because... "
"Yes!" I cut her off.
She laughed. "It's just a chicken, Jong-ah."
"He's not just a chicken," I blurted out. "He is my..."
"When's the funeral?” Eldest Brother teased. “Can I come?"
I stewed in silence.
Second Brother moaned in delight, "Mmmm," and licked his lips as my two older sisters laughed in unison.
Bolting from the table, I ran to the room I shared with my older sisters.
"Jong-ah," I heard Mother saying, but I didn't turn around. It was more than I could take in one day.
I don't remember how long I had been lying on my mat, an hour or two perhaps, when I heard voices in our courtyard. I listened. "Is it true? Are we at war with North Korea?" a man said.
My father replied, "The radio said that it's a border attack at the 38th parallel. Come in, come in! The twelve o'clock news will be on at any moment."
Another man said, "I hope you're right, Mr. Suh. My sons are in Seoul and I'm worried sick!"
I figured our neighbors came to listen to our Zenith radio again. None of them owned a radio. Whenever they heard rumors, they filed into our courtyard to confirm what they had heard. Five years earlier, they learned of Korea's liberation from Japan through the radio, and some time after that, the division of our peninsula was also announced on the air—-with the news that the Russians were occupying the northern half and the Americans the southern half.
Pressing my ear against the thin wall facing the front room, I could hear a faint voice murmuring.
"Raise the volume," someone said, and the announcer's voice came across loudly: "...this morning, the North Korean army launched a surprise attack on the South and is now advancing on Seoul. South Korean soldiers are no match for modern Russian tanks and weapons...." The announcer paused a moment to control his emotion, then continued, speaking faster. "Our soldiers don't have helmets or army boots to wear, and their only weapons are the German rifles abandoned by the Japanese at the end of World War II. Some soldiers are fighting with farm tools--axes, shovels, hoes--and even bamboo poles." He went on to say that many South Korean army officials had been away from their posts during the weekend and that even those on duty could do nothing before ninety thousand communists mowing down everything with Russian tanks and well-equipped infantry.
The room became quiet as someone turned the radio off. Then I heard Father say, "Tea, anyone?" but no one replied. I heard them putting their shoes on and then stepping onto the porch. They didn't even say Thank you or Good-bye to my parents as they hurried away.
I grew frightened as the radio announcer's words repeated in fragments in my ears again: North Koreans...Russian tanks...38th parallel...the South Korean infantry without helmets or boots.... And then my mother's voice similarly repeated in bits and pieces too: "Your rooster... a mad rooster ...brings ill-fortunes."
I had a dream that night. Sunriser was alive! He was flying again, his wings spread wide. He didn't land on the roof this time but flew over it and soared into the blue expanse above, higher and higher. Then, to my amazement, he turned into an airplane, a huge American airplane, the one that had dropped leaflets about Korea's liberation from Japan five years earlier. But this one didn't drop anything. It's wings reflecting sunlight and roaring powerfully, it disappeared into a patch of white cloud.
"Time for school," Mother's voice awakened me, and I sprang up. Are we really at war? I wondered. Why did Sunriser turn into an airplane?
At eight that morning, our fourth-grade teacher walked into the classroom, as usual, a black folder under her arm and her heels making noises on the hardwood floor. Yet, something was different about her. She looked as though she had been crying.
"Children, I have bad news," she said in a congested voice, dabbing a corner of her eye with her white handkerchief. "Yesterday morning, the North Korean communists invaded the South, and they're advancing to Seoul at this very moment. The Department of Defense announced today that all schools in Pusan must vacate their buildings immediately, because the South Korean military needs space to accommodate their injured personnel. Those of you who take trains home may leave now, but don't come to school tomorrow. We'll notify you when school resumes. The rest of you please stay and help the teachers and parents vacate the building. We don't have much time. Clear the walls immediately and empty your drawers."
We ripped off our artwork--drawings, poems, posters-- from the walls, feeling sad. We then cleared out desks and moved desks and chairs out of the room and lined them up in the hallway. The teachers ran in all directions, moving boxes and giving orders at the same time. Some grownups we had never seen before shuttled back and forth in the hallway, carrying furniture or large boxes.
Early the next morning, the work continued. While some of my classmates labeled boxes, swept the floor with bristle brooms, and wiped the windows with newspapers, a few of us sat on the floor, waxing the floorboards with broken candlesticks.
Around nine, a short, round soldier wearing a white armband walked in and planted himself in the middle of the classroom. “Well!" he said, shaking his head in disappointment. "You should have finished it yesterday."
We all looked at him, not knowing what authority he had over us.
"Hey, you over there, why are you sitting on the floor?” he asked, pointing in our direction.
Teacher Kim replied nervously, "They're waxing the floor, sir."
"Waxing the floor? What for? Who told you to wax the floor?"
"We always wax the floor, sir." our teacher said.
"Miss, do you know men are dying out there at this moment?" the soldier said, pointing his finger to the window. "They're dying because the military hospitals have no rooms for them. Tell the kids to move this podium to the hallway and get out! That's all you need to do. We have no time!”
"Children, you heard him!" Teacher Kim clapped.
Our group rose and moved toward the podium.
"I said, we have no time!" the soldier yelled, without lifting a finger to help. How bold he is, I thought. As if he’d read my mind, he yelled at me. “You! What are you staring at? Didn't you hear what I said? Quick! Move that damn podium and get out of here!" He stamped the floor with his dirty boots, dropping tiny dirt clods around him.
A loud siren erupted outside, and the soldier left the room in a hurry. The drumming footsteps in the corridor intensified my fear and I looked at Teacher Kim. She moved to the window, and everyone followed her, like chicks following a hen.
A long parade of dust-covered army trucks and ambulances was crawling into our playground, sirens wailing, and within minutes, the whole place was filled with men and army vehicles. Soldiers with armbands and men and women in white gowns emerged from the ambulances and began unloading men on stretchers and wheelchairs. Voices shouted, "Doctor, this man needs help!" "Nurse, over here! He needs a transfusion!" "Water! Water..." Whistles blew. Booted feet ran. Bells buzzed.
Some men on stretchers seemed to be crying, covering their faces with their arms; some raised their feeble hands into the air in an effort to signal something to someone; and some lay lifelessly, too weak to even cry or call for help.
It was like watching a movie. Or is this a dream? I wasn't sure.
"Children," Teacher Kim awakened me. "This is the face of war. The men you are looking at could be your father or brother or uncle. What happened to them can happen to anyone, even to you. This is what the communists did to us."
The same soldier who had yelled at us earlier walked in again. "Miss," he said in a raspy voice, "we need some kids to give water to the soldiers."
"Follow me, children!"
Behind the building shaded by a spreading gingko tree, a sixth-grade teacher with graying hair was pumping water from the well, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Around his feet, many wooden buckets brimming with clear water stood in line. Teacher Kim handed each of us a bucket and a gourd dipper. "Follow the soldier. Do as he tells you to!"
The soldier led us to a corner of the playground where a large group of soldiers sat under the old oak--some smoking, some resting their heads on their raised knees, and others staring faraway.
"These men are very thirsty," the soldier informed. He didn't seem rude any more. "Give each of them a dipperful, and if you run out of water, go back to the well and get more."
He assigned me to a row of men sitting on the ground, and I nervously handed water to the first soldier. He emptied the dipper instantly and said, "More, please!" As I poured more water into the dipper, some men in the back yelled to hurry up, but I couldn't move to the next one because Mother had told me again and again that I should never be impolite to older people. I waited patiently until he had three dipperfuls before moving to the next soldier. How much they each drank, and how exhausted they looked! The water ran out after five or six soldiers, and I raced back to the well for another bucketful.
On the way back, I heard some men singing. I couldn't see them, but I heard them over a loud speaker.

March, Korean boys, blowing bugles!
Lift your heads and fear no one.
Glory is your aim, descendants of Tangun.
Fight courageously, Korean boys!

March, Korean boys, singing our anthem!
Jump over rivers and climb hills.
Unity is our aim, sons of warriors.
Fight courageously, Korean Boys!