Read Jia: A Novel of North Korea for Free Online Page B

orphanage, I took
the girl's part in Girl Selling Flowers. I was used to singing and
dancing in front of audiences, but in that room, at that moment, with only six people's eyes focused on me, I was more anxious than I had ever been. I glanced at the director, but
her eyes were busy darting around, checking the reactions of
the others and then looking tensely back at me. Something
must have happened between them before I arrived.

    "Okay. That's enough. Go sit down over there." The
sharp-eyed woman pointed to a chair next to the window.
    I immediately stopped dancing, crossed the room to
sit down, and heaved a sigh of relief. They talked together intently, the tops of their heads forming a circle. I
couldn't make out what they were discussing; their faces
were inexpressive. The director joined their conversation
and occasionally threw me a glance, bobbing her head
repeatedly.
    The oldest man turned his head to me and asked abruptly, "Do you remember anything about your family or where
you lived before you were seven?"
    "No," I said, shaking my head, folding my hands on my
knees.
    "Stand up when you answer our questions," the sharpeyed woman ordered, and I sprang to my feet. Surely, she
was the scariest person I had ever met. "When did you
learn to dance?"
    I stood at attention. "Three years after I came here."
    "She was really good," the director said. "She had never been schooled in dance or singing. One day when she
passed a classroom, she saw a group of students practicing
dancing. She just copied the older students' dancing in front
of the door, but she was like a tiny flying butterfly." The
director lavished praise on me, gazing at me with a warm
smile. It was true: if she hadn't seen me in the hall that day,
I never would have started dancing professionally.
    They didn't respond, or even look at the director.

    "So...she might be from the reactionary class," the
oldest man muttered to himself, without taking his eyes
from my document.
    The sharp-eyed woman nervously tapped the handbag
on her knees. "What are you talking about? I told you I've
already made a decision. I'm the one who trains students;
I'll decide whether we'll take her or not."
    The man looked unsatisfied. "Whatever you want....
But bear this in mind: you may be wasting your time. I'll
report her to the department as a possible risk, and if she
isn't approved, you'll have to handle it on your own."
    She stood up and said, "I'm not going to use her for the
main part. I just need more extras and stand-ins. We don't
have time to be so picky." The others stood up as well, and
the sharp-eyed woman turned to me and said, "We'll take
you tomorrow. Pack your things. You're not going to come
back here for a while, or forever. So take everything that
belongs to you."
    As soon as she finished, she left the room, holding her
bag on her forearm. The oldest man accompanied her, shaking his head, his hands folded behind his back. The others
snickered into their sleeves and followed. The director hurried behind them. Their departure finally left me with some
space to breathe, and I felt all my muscles loosening. I tried
to stand up, but sunk down wearily into a chair. They had
demanded I do several things with no explanation; truly,
they were typical representatives of their government.
    "What's going on here?" I muttered to myself.
    We had made so many preparations for the annual visit of
the government officials. Two months earlier we had begun to put the building in order. For the performance, I danced a fan dance, sang in an opera, and then played the
accordion. The performers were divided into three groups:
traditional dancers, revolutionary dancers, and musicians.
Sixty orphans had been chosen for the performance.

    For the finale, all the performers appeared on stage and
played the "Song of General Kim 11 Sung" (kimilsuug jaug-
guu ui norae) on accordions, and then the whole audience
sang together as the accordion