Chapter 11

The Prophet

In front of the station stood a crowd—easily several hundred people—packed together and buzzing with excitement.

And judging by those banners, as unbelievable as it sounded, they really had come just to catch a glimpse of me.

"Ha ha ha! Just look at how many patriotic Koreans we have here on the soil of the United States!!"

Syngman Rhee was grinning from ear to ear.

If this were American style, I'd have liked nothing more than to plant a one-two punch square on that infuriating face. But with hundreds of Korean elders watching—people who cherished hierarchy and propriety more than anything—I couldn't exactly perform live dental surgery on a middle-aged man.

"Uh… I'm a little overwhelmed."

"My apologies. There were various circumstances. First, you must greet the elders and your family. Make way, please."

He called out and the crowd parted at last.

And there they were—my family, whom I hadn't seen in a year.

"Yu-jin!!"

"Oh my, Yu-jin. The child's been cut in half! Oh dear."

Excuse me? Cut in half?

Your son has grown taller and bulked up—what do you mean cut in half?

"I should've packed more kimchi. Eating only white folks' bread made him waste away like this. Or maybe you should take some salted seafood from home?"

"Ah… dear. The boy doesn't know what to say."

Thankfully, Father intervened, giving me a lifeline.

I quickly embraced them one by one.

And just as I did, Syngman Rhee's voice rang out again.

"The son of Korea has returned to his family, everyone!!"

The crowd burst into synchronized applause like a colony of seals.

Then, at the precise moment a young girl stepped forward and presented me with a bouquet—

my sanity left orbit entirely.

It was an indescribably strange feeling.

Korean National Association Office.

"Ha ha ha, my apologies!"

Syngman Rhee sipped his coffee and offered an apology that did not look sincere in the slightest.

"So. Since you've had your grand marketing moment with me as the headline act, perhaps you could show me the revenue statement."

"Kuahaha! As expected of you, Yu-jin. Sharp with numbers."

"I spent my pitifully short leave playing the clown at Dr. Rhee's celebration. If the accounting doesn't satisfy me, I won't be in a very good mood."

To be honest, I was irritated.

As I said, from the moment I stepped off the train, I've been suppressing the urge to rearrange your face.

Maybe my expression gave too much away, because he wiped the grin from his face and turned serious.

"The Japanese."

"What about them?"

"The atmosphere hasn't been good lately. It seems it wounded their pride that, while no Japanese American has yet entered West Point, a Korean American did first—even though, in their eyes, Koreans are a subordinate people."

"What nonsense. Do they even send students from the mainland in the first place?"

"That's beside the point. Pride doesn't operate in the realm of reason. You know that as well as anyone."

That was true enough.

Still, what did their bruised pride have to do with me? It's not like those lunatics could just eliminate a United States Military Academy cadet—

"Perhaps they'd like to teach you a lesson."

"You certainly don't waste time. Sometimes let an older man speak at length, will you? But yes. You're right. Some of them would like to… embarrass you."

Whether he truly meant embarrass, or whether that was diplomatic understatement, was hard to tell.

But if we were talking about militant nationalists, I could easily imagine them sliding a blade into my gut while I stepped off a train unaware.

"Ha. Insane bastards."

"Which is why, ironically, we held that event. I didn't mention it publicly, but quite a few Chinese attended as well."

"Chinese?"

"Yes. Over this past year, you've become something of a shining star among Asian immigrants in San Francisco. Even the Japanese, while resenting you, have been saying things like 'Koreans and Japanese are one under imperial unity, so Kim Yu-jin might as well be considered Japanese.' That tells you everything."

Absurd.

Now they're meddling with other people's family registers.

Still, the way Dr. Rhee was explaining all this made it sound suspiciously like he wanted to boast, I orchestrated this. I raised your profile.

"So… that image didn't form naturally, I assume?"

"Of course. Naturally, I had to pull a few strings here and there."

Prince Rhee answered instantly, as if he'd been waiting for me to ask.

It was true that his maneuvering had helped.

…But it still annoyed me. The kind of man who would definitely add this little "favor" to the bill later.

I was taking a slow sip of tea, contemplating how I might settle accounts, when heavy footsteps began pounding up from downstairs.

Bang!!

"Haa—haa! Woonaam! Woo-naaam!!"

"Well, if it isn't you."

"You scoundrel! You told me tomorrow!"

A man with pomaded hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a formal suit stormed in—now covered in sweat and dust—furiously pointing at Syngman Rhee.

At first glance, I assumed he was some creditor.

But the more I looked at his face, the more familiar it seemed.

Then it clicked.

"Are you Kim Yu-jin?"

"Yes, sir."

"A pleasure. I'm Ahn Chang-ho. I work with that scoundrel over there in the Korean National Association."

Dosan Ahn Chang-ho.

Last year, I hadn't been able to meet him in person—only exchanged letters.

To encounter a figure who had carved such a mark in history like this… it was a strange feeling.

"It's an honor to meet you. I received your letter."

"You received a letter from Woonaam? That doesn't sound like him."

"Dosan! What do you take me for?"

"The man who deliberately told me the wrong arrival date—"

"I said it was a mistake!"

That didn't feel like a mistake at all.

The outline was obvious. He must have wanted the spotlight to himself and conveniently misinformed Dosan.

"Hmm. In any case, your father has given considerable support to our Association. And now his son has grown into such a fine young man. For us, that is truly fortunate."

"Indeed. I'm not joking—at least in the San Francisco area, you've become a symbol of hope and perseverance. Do you know how many young men have come to the Association lately, saying they want to study?"

Ahn Chang-ho beamed.

"No matter how much I spoke about learning, about succeeding in American society, it didn't move those who had already been crushed by reality. But you—through your own path—you've inspired them. If that isn't love of nation and people, what is?"

My head swam.

My hands trembled as I barely managed to steady my teacup.

For someone like Dosan Ahn Chang-ho to praise me like that… it was more than a little overwhelming.

I had never set some grand goal like national liberation or awakening the race.

I had simply chosen West Point as the most efficient way to secure my own future—and squeeze every drop of advantage from the knowledge I carried.

When Dr. Rhee flattered me, it felt like a salesman buttering up a client. No real emotion there. Mostly, I just wondered what he wanted.

But this—

Ahn's eyes burned with conviction, his words unmistakably sincere.

It stung my conscience.

"I've only done my best for my own path. You're giving me far too much credit."

"It's fine! If each Korean here grows into a great tree in this foreign land, then one day a forest of Korea will flourish. You simply walk your road. Woonaam and I will handle the unpleasant tasks. Isn't that right?"

"Ha ha. Yes, that's so. It's for those of us who are older to lay the stepping stones for the youth."

They spoke beautifully.

Listening to them, I almost felt as if I had already become some revolutionary prepared to fight with guns and bombs for independence.

"Then I have a favor to ask of you."

"What is it? Just say the word."

"I want to try developing and producing firearms. Could you help me find engineers and a factory?"

They both tilted their heads.

It wasn't as though Park Yong-man were here, and neither of them could claim expertise in weapons beyond mine.

But right now, that was exactly what I needed.

"As you know, this is the United States. A free country. Firearms are legal to own and handle."

"That's true."

"So I'd like to design a weapon—one that could serve both military and civilian purposes. If it succeeds, wouldn't it create jobs and build up Korean capital?"

They exchanged thoughtful glances, murmuring.

"Yu-jin, you may be a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy, but even so, it's difficult for us to believe you possess expertise in something as specialized as firearm development."

"That's fair. Even so, I'm prepared to commit my family's private funds if necessary."

I didn't add the rest aloud.

That what I truly possessed wasn't money.

It was a century of hindsight.

And that was worth more than any factory.

The firearms burned into my mind as if branded there were the K2, the K5, the M16, and the M1 Carbine.

Of course, that alone wasn't enough to magically conjure something into existence. At best, I could present conceptual designs and rough explanations of components.

To produce a proper working weapon would take time—quite a lot of it.

And if I wanted to have at least a prototype ready before America entered the First World War, then I didn't have the luxury of delay.

"I'll see what I can find."

"Hmph. I'll look into it separately. Dosan, your network is mostly among Koreans, isn't it?"

"Oh? Didn't Yu-jin just speak of fostering national capital? Then naturally—"

These men.

More childish than I'd expected.

Watching Dr. Rhee—who always seemed to harbor five or six snakes in his head—bicker like a neighborhood real estate broker drained my energy a little.

"I'll provide the detailed plan later. For now, I'd like to spend some time with my family."

"Of course. We've detained you long enough."

"Give my regards to your father!"

I offered perfunctory bows and stepped out of the office.

I needed rest.

After Kim Yu-jin left, Ahn Chang-ho remained silent for a moment, then quietly took a tobacco pipe from his pocket.

"Put that away."

Rhee, a committed non-smoker, frowned.

Ahn ignored him and lit it anyway.

"They say a pipe after a meal grants long life. Why give up something so beneficial?"

"Beneficial, my foot. Just the smell rots your insides. You'll die before your time."

"Ha. When I attend your funeral, I'll bring a whole pack. Doctors prescribe a good puff even to hospital patients. Are you wiser than physicians?"

"Those fellows are quacks."

"Words…"

Setting aside the age-old war between smoker and non-smoker, Syngman Rhee flung open the window to clear the smoke, then returned to his seat.

"What do you think of Kim Yu-jin?"

"What is there to think? Once we've crossed the River of Three Crossings, he'll be the kind of timber fit to lead the Korean community."

"Yes… that sounds right."

Rhee had been born in 1875.
Ahn Chang-ho in 1878.
Kim Yu-jin in 1893.

With a gap of fifteen to nearly twenty years between them, the younger man could hardly be a rival—at least not yet.

"He said even before entering the Academy that 'in about thirty years, the Japanese will sink their teeth into the Western powers.' By then I'll have long passed sixty."

"All the more reason to lay a foundation so Koreans can strengthen themselves."

True enough.

The idea that the mighty Japanese Empire would collapse in thirty years sounded like wishful thinking. Yet within Rhee's mind, two forces wrestled as they always had: the burning desire to live long enough to witness Japan's fall and Korea's independence, and the cold recognition of present realities.

Surely this was a calling bestowed upon him by God.

Moses had led the Israelites out of Egypt, yet never entered Canaan himself, entrusting the people to Joshua before closing his eyes.

So too, Rhee believed, was his role.

Only he—Woonaam Syngman Rhee—could serve as the prophet to guide Koreans, fallen into bondage under Japan.

And those Koreans, shaped under his leadership, could one day be entrusted to a leader of the next generation—perhaps Kim Yu-jin.

Just as Joshua brought down the walls of Jericho, perhaps Kim, grown into a soldier, would one day topple the walls of the cunning Japanese.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

First, the Korean community in America must be consolidated.

Not for a moment did Rhee consider Kim Yu-jin a competitor.

'Unless he becomes some kind of war hero.'

The thought was dismissed almost as soon as it surfaced.

Shaking off such idle speculation, Rhee turned back to resume his discussion with Ahn Chang-ho.