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this useful tradition in order to sell more Seikosha timepieces, and after the family was late for church twice, she had indeed purchased a small windup clock. A high wind swept through the pines and bamboo, sounding like waves on a distant shore, and a draft refreshed the room and made the lamp flicker.
    “Yuhbo,” said her husband. “I saw Magistrate Watanabe,” meaning he had officially registered Najin for private school.
    Her eyes, raised from her sewing, showed her thanks.
    He said irritably, “Yah, much more than I expected—almost as much as the tuition! That bastard will undoubtedly keep it himself.”
    She questioned him with a look.
    “He said private school is for the privileged, that obviously this family had enough privilege to take advantage of it, and with my background it would be a simple matter to revoke this privilege and any such privileges in the future. Greedy son of a pig.”
    Fearing that their daughter’s registration might have exposed her husband to the Thought Police, she asked, “Is this trouble?”
    “Perhaps not. I believe this may ultimately benefit us. Now I know he’s willing to be paid—a weakness that may prove useful one day.”
    She nodded and, remembering the nanny, worried that it could also prove to be their downfall. She would trust God. This thought reassured her, and with that reassurance she felt his living presence within her. “Amen,” she said aloud.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of that, I also visited the mission director.” He harrumphed and drank his wine. “He said to me, ‘Praise the Lord for your progressive example, Brother Han, and may others see the same light!’ Yah, all that church talk and what else could I say but ‘Amen!’”
    Her eyes crinkled, and as she stood and bowed goodnight, she said with a heavy American accent, “Amen!” leaving him with an uncharacteristic mirthful grin.
    Over the next few days she made two new hanbok —dark skirts and white blouses with fresh paper collars—and her daughter hemmed and embroidered a large muslin square to carry lunches and homework to and from school. Haejung was gratified when Najin asked to serve the evening pipe and wine the night before school began, and even more pleased when her daughter took the initiative to comb her hair anew, scrub her face and hands, and after seeing how much she’d splashed herself, change into her best blouse, tying the bow with perfection.
    In her husband’s sitting room, Haejung looked on approvingly as her daughter used both hands with closed fingers to carefully offer his cup. Holding one hand within the other, Najin decorously lit a strand of straw at the flame of the oil lamp to fire his pipe. She stood before her father, hands at her sides, her head bent and turned slightly, and with her back straight, folded her legs gracefully to the floor, bowing formally andsaying thanks in the flowery language of the high court that he loved. Haejung saw a glimmer of satisfaction on his sharp but even features.
    Long after Najin fell asleep, the servants retired in their quarters and the house secured for nighttime, Haejung prepared for bed. As she unraveled and combed her hair, her jade hairpin slipped from her fingers and bounced on the lacquer table, leaving two small scratches just so—the Chinese character for human. She smiled, reminded of evenings sewing with Najin, and how she’d scratched a needle on stiff fabric to teach her daughter Chinese characters. She snuffed the lamp, slid between her quilts and breathed deeply, happily, for behind her closed eyes she envisioned the blackboard of her daughter’s new classroom written with the joyous code of learning.

Autumn Walk

    MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1918
    ALTHOUGH I KNEW THE ROUTE, MOTHER INSISTED ON ACCOMPANYING me to school the first day. I was, after all, the first girl from either side of the family to attend a real school. Cook had made breakfast special by drizzling honey on my rice porridge, and Kira