Good Things

Short Story

Ri Chol-su’s birthday was only one day after Kim Il Sung’s, which had always been a source of great pride. There was no pride now, here in detention—but Ri still found comfort in the proximity to the Eternal President. He felt blessed. How could he not?

The frostbite on his hands had almost healed by now. The shrapnel scar on his right cheek didn’t bother him in the least. It was a badge of honor. He was probably a hero. Someone would soon be writing a song about his unit—maybe even mention his name.

Ri’s only regret was that he hadn’t fired his Baek-Du-San pistol into his mouth before capture. Was he still a hero, then?

“Why are you crying, man?” asked Dmytrenko.

Ri understood the question. After the interrogations had ended, there was no need for a Korean translator. At first, Major Dmytrenko had spoken to him in Russian, but for the last month he had been using only Ukrainian. A lot of words were the same or similar enough. Back in Kangwon, before their deployment to Kursk, Ri’s unit had received a short course in Russian. Some of it he even retained. But most words—like crying, sorry, and fuck—he had picked up at the hospital in Kiev and in the Security Services detention.

“Sorry,” said Ri. He wiped his tears with the heel of his hand. He tried a smile.

“It’s Easter today, you should rejoice,” Dmytrenko said sarcastically. The sarcasm wasn’t directed at Ri—he knew that. It was about the ceasefire that didn’t cease any fire.

“Easter?”

“Holiday. Special holiday. For Christ.”

“For what?”

“For Iisus Khrystos. For our Lord.”

“Who lord?”

“God.”

Major Oleksyi Dmytrenko of the SBU had continued visiting Ri regularly in his holding cell. They talked about everything—all kinds of stuff—and the more they talked, the more Ri thought he was just an infant. A nineteen-year-old infant. A child mercenary who had been duped to fight for Russia against Ukraine. A man-child capable of disassembling most weapons blindfolded, reassembling them in seconds, and taking anybody down from behind with improvised weapons or without. Russians were the first Caucasian faces he’d ever seen. He had never browsed the Internet or read a book outside of the texts sanctioned by the party. Never played a video game or used a smartphone. Major Dmytrenko had told him once that Ri was a time traveler. Perhaps from the Middle Ages.

“God,” repeated Dmytrenko. “You know, the big boss in the sky.”

Ri’s red eyes were still staring at him questioningly.

“You a Buddhist?” The major made a bulbous shape with his hands.

Ri wasn’t sure what the gesture meant. Maybe the shape of a region. “I’m from Pyongan, from Kusong,” he replied, just in case.

“I know, you said it a million times,” replied Dmytrenko with a patient sigh. “Do you pray?”

“Pray?”

“You know, ask somebody or something for good things?”

“I pray I go home.”

“To whom do you pray?”

“Juche.”

Ri’s army uniform had been gone for a long time, but they let him keep the red star and the Worker’s Party emblem—the hammer-sickle-brush combo. He had those symbols of Juche ideology pinned to his shirt. Near the collar, there was also a small lapel badge featuring the head of Kim Il Sung. Dmytrenko pointed to it.

“No god.”

“No god?”

“No. Atheist.”

The major unbuttoned the top of his uniform and pulled out a crucifix.

“God. Jesus Christ.”

“God.”

“Yes. Our Lord and Savior.”

“Savior?”

“Protector. For all time. For eternity.”

Ri looked down on his lapel badge and pointed to Kim Il Sung.

“Eternal President. Same lord. Christ.”

“Yes,” Dmytrenko sounded defeated. “Yes, and it’s Easter now. A special holiday for my Eternal President. Come. It’s starting soon.”

Dmytrenko got up and extended his hand.

“Come on, Ri.”

They’d been on first name basis for a long time.

***

The chapel was hazy with incense. That sweet, herby smell instantly reminded Ri of roasted daikon. Of his hometown. He began to feel a little dizzy.

An older man with a long beard and a tall white hat spoke in a deep and melodious voice. Ri didn’t understand a word, but the man’s robe was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Then came a choir of four men with no hats. Their low harmonies vibrated through Ri’s body all the way to his feet.

His eyes drifted to the large painting of a nearly naked man hanging on a wooden beam, his hands nailed to the top crossbar and his feet to the base. Same as on the major’s necklace. The Eternal, Ri thought.

The singing ended and the man with the amazing robe began tearing a loaf of bread into small pieces. A golden bowl was filled with dark red wine. The man soaked each piece in the wine and fed them to some other people. Then it all blurred together.

***

“You liked it?” Dmytrenko asked back in the cell. “I can tell you liked it.”

Ri plopped on his bunk. His eyes were glazed over.

“Not understand,” he finally uttered. “I like, but not understand.”

“The language doesn’t matter. Not important. The feeling is important.”

“No, feeling is good. But what they do I don’t know.”

“Which part?”

“Food. Why eating? Why wine?”

“The bread is the body of Christ.”

“The body?”

“Symbolic. Like your Worker’s Party symbol.”

“We don’t eat hammer, sickle, and brush.”

“Yeah, but they are symbols. Industry, farming, and, uhh, writing, right? I mean—intellect. Intelligence.”

“Yes.”

“So, bread is a symbol, too. It’s not real flesh.”

“But you eat flesh symbol of your God? I saw.”

“Christ is the son of God. He’s not really a god himself. Well, just a little. He’s human, really. That’s why he died on the cross.” Dmytrenko thought for a second, then added, “Today, he came back alive.”

“Men die. When die, not alive.”

Dmytrenko let out a long sigh.

“And wine. Why alcohol?” continued Ri.

“That’s the blood of the Christ.”

“You drink the blood of Christ? Why? Also symbol?”

“Yes. Same as bread.”

Ri could sense the annoyance in Dmytrenko’s voice.

“Sorry, Olek,” he said to the major. “Sorry. I want to know.”

There was a knock at the door. It was the food service officer with a lunch tray.

“We will continue this discussion, Ri,” said Dmytrenko and got up. He extended his hand. Ri took it and squeezed a bit harder than his aching fingers would have liked. Dmytrenko smiled warmly and turned to the officer with the tray.

“The usual?”

“The usual.”

The major’s eyes returned to Ri one more time.

“Enjoy your lunch.”

The door closed with a creak. Ri waited for the bolt to lock, then sat at his table. Lunch consisted of two bowls—one with steamed rice, the other with a generous portion of Ukrainian sauerkraut. As usual, there was a packet of chili powder on the side.

The cabbage was a bit juicier today, and Ri had to be careful not to make a big, splashy mess. He ripped the spice packet open and began to slowly stir the chili into the bowl of sauerkraut. He managed the mixing without incident, but when a chunk of rice slipped off his chopsticks, a few drops of the sauce flew right onto his chest.

Ri looked down. There was a pink smudge on his Worker’s Party emblem, right over the brush icon. He took a napkin and cleaned it off, careful not to soil his shirt.

His lunch somehow tasted better today. Satiated, he put the chopsticks down and leaned back in his chair. He wondered if he could convince his family to make kimchi this way when he finally traveled back in time to Kusong.

***