going well for the Japaneseâwhich makes life better for Koreans too. If the Japanese win the war, will things be better still?
Planes fly over town a lot now, on their way from Japan to Manchuria. Every week a plane or two or even a whole formation.
I hate it when they come while I'm in school. Then I hear them but can't see them. It nearly drives me crazy.
I think about planes all the time, trying to imagine what it would be like to fly in one. I can feel the hum of the plane beneath me as I start the engine. Like my bicycle, only much noisier, grander.
But I can't imagine actually taking off. It wouldn't be like jumping off the groundâyou'd be sitting up in the cockpit.
And then, in the air, looking down on everything. I've gone mountain climbing a few times. Hard work, but fun to reach the top. The whole world spread out below you, everything so small. That must be what things look like from a plane.
But on the mountain you're standing still. In a plane you'd be moving. Sitting, but moving. Flying! It has to be the most amazing feeling in the world.
11. Sun-hee
After the attack on Pearl Harbor, things seemed to change very quickly. More Japanese soldiers appeared in the streets, and the government immediately made dozens of new laws.
One of them was the law about neighborhood associations.
The Japanese wanted us to gather quickly in case there was ever a war emergency. They organized the associations to teach us how to do this. In each neighborhood one person was named the block leader. The Japanese officials would give information to the block leader, who used a megaphone to call everyone from their homes. We had to drop whatever we were doing and hurry out into the street.
Everyone stood in line. The block leader pointed to the first family, and the head of the householdâusually the fatherâcalled out, "One!" at the top of his lungs. Then, "Two!" from the next family, and so on down the line until the leader had heard the number "Ten." There were ten households in every association. Then the leader would make whatever announcements the Japanese wanted him to make over the megaphone.
One of our neighbors was an old woman named Mrs. Ahn. She had had a very unfortunate life. Her husband had divorced her, and she'd returned home to live with her parents. They had died within a few years of each other. Now she was all alone in the world.
She was the only divorced person I'd ever met. People in the neighborhood avoided her; they said she was bad luck. I didn't think that was trueâshe seemed pretty much like everybody else. All the same, I didn't like visiting her house; it always seemed empty and forlorn, as if the air inside were never warmed by laughter.
Omoni felt sorry for Mrs. Ahn, and we usually stopped by her house on our way to the market to ask if she needed anything. And whenever there was a call over the megaphone for a neighborhood association meeting, Omoni rushed out the door to help her.
At the very first accounting, we didn't know what to do. The leader had to shout over and over to get us to form a line by household. It was only Omoni and me at home that day; the men were all somewhere else.
Soldiers walked up and down the street pounding on doors and making sure that everyone was out of their houses. Then they watched sternly as we tried to obey the leader's instructions. Sometimes they shouted orders or prodded people with their sticks to make them stand in a straighter line.
The leader told us to count off by household. The count began and progressed quickly down the line.
"Ichi!"
"Ni!"
"San!"
"Shi!"
"Go!"
It was Mrs. Ann's turn; she was sixth in line, and as the only member of her household, she had to shout the number herself. We were standing right next to her, and she looked at us in a terrible panic.
All at once I realized what was wrong.
Mrs. Attn couldn't speak Japanese. She didn't know how to say "six" in Japanese.
The rhythm of the count was broken.
Planes fly over town a lot now, on their way from Japan to Manchuria. Every week a plane or two or even a whole formation.
I hate it when they come while I'm in school. Then I hear them but can't see them. It nearly drives me crazy.
I think about planes all the time, trying to imagine what it would be like to fly in one. I can feel the hum of the plane beneath me as I start the engine. Like my bicycle, only much noisier, grander.
But I can't imagine actually taking off. It wouldn't be like jumping off the groundâyou'd be sitting up in the cockpit.
And then, in the air, looking down on everything. I've gone mountain climbing a few times. Hard work, but fun to reach the top. The whole world spread out below you, everything so small. That must be what things look like from a plane.
But on the mountain you're standing still. In a plane you'd be moving. Sitting, but moving. Flying! It has to be the most amazing feeling in the world.
11. Sun-hee
After the attack on Pearl Harbor, things seemed to change very quickly. More Japanese soldiers appeared in the streets, and the government immediately made dozens of new laws.
One of them was the law about neighborhood associations.
The Japanese wanted us to gather quickly in case there was ever a war emergency. They organized the associations to teach us how to do this. In each neighborhood one person was named the block leader. The Japanese officials would give information to the block leader, who used a megaphone to call everyone from their homes. We had to drop whatever we were doing and hurry out into the street.
Everyone stood in line. The block leader pointed to the first family, and the head of the householdâusually the fatherâcalled out, "One!" at the top of his lungs. Then, "Two!" from the next family, and so on down the line until the leader had heard the number "Ten." There were ten households in every association. Then the leader would make whatever announcements the Japanese wanted him to make over the megaphone.
One of our neighbors was an old woman named Mrs. Ahn. She had had a very unfortunate life. Her husband had divorced her, and she'd returned home to live with her parents. They had died within a few years of each other. Now she was all alone in the world.
She was the only divorced person I'd ever met. People in the neighborhood avoided her; they said she was bad luck. I didn't think that was trueâshe seemed pretty much like everybody else. All the same, I didn't like visiting her house; it always seemed empty and forlorn, as if the air inside were never warmed by laughter.
Omoni felt sorry for Mrs. Ahn, and we usually stopped by her house on our way to the market to ask if she needed anything. And whenever there was a call over the megaphone for a neighborhood association meeting, Omoni rushed out the door to help her.
At the very first accounting, we didn't know what to do. The leader had to shout over and over to get us to form a line by household. It was only Omoni and me at home that day; the men were all somewhere else.
Soldiers walked up and down the street pounding on doors and making sure that everyone was out of their houses. Then they watched sternly as we tried to obey the leader's instructions. Sometimes they shouted orders or prodded people with their sticks to make them stand in a straighter line.
The leader told us to count off by household. The count began and progressed quickly down the line.
"Ichi!"
"Ni!"
"San!"
"Shi!"
"Go!"
It was Mrs. Ann's turn; she was sixth in line, and as the only member of her household, she had to shout the number herself. We were standing right next to her, and she looked at us in a terrible panic.
All at once I realized what was wrong.
Mrs. Attn couldn't speak Japanese. She didn't know how to say "six" in Japanese.
The rhythm of the count was broken.
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