Evening star., 1953-07-19

chicken house where the family
lives today.
But the chickens are dead
and gone. the great earthen
jars Of rice and peppers and
soy sauce and hot sauce and
pickles and corn are smashed
and scattered. The fields are
rank with weeds and untended
rice. eve work." Han says.
1--WE have little to eat but we
get some rice from the fields
and we save some for winter.
Then it is soon cold and we
have little to eat"
Bitter Winter
He says the winter Of 1850
and 1951-Korea's winter Of
despair-was one Of the bit
terest in his long memory.
It was so cold there was 8
inches Of ice on the Han
Rivera blessed thing when
the Communists came again on
New Years eve and the little
tribe packed it's rice and fed
south across the frozen river.
This time they stayed to-
gether. seeking refuge in a
village. near SuWon, avoiding
the rival armies. always suf-
fering, but always lucky.
I'VE were beggars," says
Han. 1--WE had nothing. Peo-
pie took us in. They fed us.
They were kind. They saved
U.s." .....
Then the armies moved
north again. There were saw
age battles north Of Seoul,
and in May Han and his brood
returned once again to the
farmstead. just in time to
plant the new rice.
Six times the armies had
passed over the Han farm.
All that was left was the land
itself and the mud walls Of
the old chicken house.
With q new thatch roof,
that Is where they live today.
slowly picking up the pieces Of
their old life.
I'VE were beggarS on our
own land" Han said, and he
shook his head sadly. THE
U. N. people. they gave us o
little rice and o little cloth.
We lived, but we were very
hungry"
Two years passed. and it is
now.
"It is getting better" Han
says. IF we all work. we can
eat. But nothing more. Some
day we must make the big
house again. I have saved
the tiles. But I know now
will never see it. My body is
growing paralyzed and I can
only do a little work in the
fields. But maybe my sons
can build again"
Then Han stopped for q mo-
ment, slowly shaking his head.
1t was a strong old head.
burned brown by the sun, with
Sunken eyes and stiff, short cut
hair that was more white than
black. Beneath q big nose was
a staggly but enormous gray
moustache, its outer hairs an
inch and a half long, sloping
down. On his chin was a short
and bristling white goatee.
Han wore the age old dress
Of his fathers, simplifled by
poverty. His trousers were
baggy, slightly soiled muslin,
tied at the ankles, and his
jacket was loosely cut from
the same material. He was
barefoot, with callouSeS from
the rice paddles and old, brown
nails.
No Hope
Then he spoke again in the
cultural. musical language Of
his people.
For myself I have no hope.
I am just an old man now. I
wait to die. If I were 40 or SO,
maybe I could hope. But not
now. I am too old. It is all
finished"
Han smoked slowly for a
moment, and the village
youngsters hung on his words,
round-eyed, respectful of his
great age and awed by the
gravity of what he said.
For my sons and daughters,
maybe I have a little hope. But
not much. There is too much
trouble. Too much ruin. But
maybe they can get food and
eat"
The youngsters , gathered
closer. There we're 13 Of them
in all. Some were the usual
harum-scarum village urchins
-grinning little jackanapes of
boys with close-cropped heads,
shy and giggling little girls in
square haircutS and baggy
cutdown GI. overallS. Two