Dr. Choi and Haruka 1931-1935
Haruka, whom Dr. Choi had hidden in his study to treat, recovered her health with each passing day. Although the inflammation following her difficult labor had been severe—causing significant bleeding and a high fever—her young body gradually began to mend.
It was decided that Dr. Choi would be transferred to the Chungcheongbuk-do Provincial Cheongju Hospital. Originally a man of few words who avoided social gatherings, Dr. Choi briefly greeted his acquaintances in Wonsan, saying only, "I must return to my hometown," before secretly taking Haruka with him onto a train.
They traveled to Cheongju by way of Gyeongseong (Seoul). Haruka had not yet fully recovered, but she dragged her aching body along with Dr. Choi, boarding the train toward an unknown future. Sitting demurely inside the carriage, Haruka looked at Dr. Choi with tearful eyes.
“What will happen to my daughter?”
“Do not worry. I have visited Great Master Ko; the baby is healthy and a wet nurse is raising her well.”
“I suppose I will never be able to meet her again.”
“In the house of Great Master Ko, they believe Haruka is dead. It is best for everyone to keep it that way.”
Tears began to pour uncontrollably from Haruka’s eyes.
“I won’t even have the chance to hold her once…”
Watching Haruka sob, Dr. Choi wondered to himself how one could miss a daughter so much despite never having even seen her face.
“Consider it a blessing that you formed no attachment at all, and live your life.”
“Did you see what the baby looks like, Dr. Choi?”
“She is as handsome as a boy. Her eyes are bright and clear… do not worry.”
Haruka could not tell if her pouring tears were out of longing for her own mother, who left this world before Haruka could ever see her face; or for the daughter she was separated from without ever meeting; or if she was weeping because the fate she was born with was so sorrowful. She merely lowered her head, struggling to swallow her endless tears. Dr. Choi pulled out a haenggeon (a traditional cloth towel) and handed it to Haruka. She pressed the cloth to her mouth, trying to stem the slow trickle of tears.
“Great Master Ko is a respectable man of vast knowledge and clear reason. He will raise Haruka’s daughter well.”
Haruka stopped her tears and stared out the train window at the distant mountains of Gangwon-do. The deep mountains of January, wrapped in white snow, felt like the layers of Han (a unique Korean concept of internalized, unresolved sorrow and collective resentment) accumulated in her life. She tried to conjure the face of the daughter she had never seen, but no clear image would come to mind.
Dr. Choi pulled out a Japanese book and began to read, while Haruka stared out the window like someone who had lost her soul. Without any conversation, the two arrived in Gyeongseong, stayed for the night, and then boarded the train to Cheongju. Like people who had known each other since before they were born, they understood everything even without words.
Inside the train to Cheongju, Dr. Choi gazed at Haruka’s face and recalled a passage he had read about Danjang-ji-ae (The Sorrow of Torn Intestines).
Note: 'Danjang' (broken intestines) refers to a pain so sharp it feels as if one’s bowels are snapping; it is a metaphor for unbearable grief. The legend says that a mother monkey once chased a boat that had stolen her baby for 40km, crying piteously until she leaped onto the deck and died. When soldiers cut her open, they found her intestines literally torn into pieces from the sheer agony of grief.
Haruka’s face showed no emotion, looking like an animal whose intestines had already snapped in death. She could barely even swallow food. Dr. Choi offered her a rice ball, saying, “You must eat to regain your strength,” but Haruka managed only a few grains in silence.
Upon arriving in Cheongju, Dr. Choi was bewildered. His hometown had transformed during his years away. He headed toward Namju-dong, where his renovated hanok (traditional Korean house) was located.
Due to the urban reconstruction plans of the Japanese colonial government, the ancient fortress walls of Cheongju had been demolished. The site where the walls once stood had become a new road called Seongan-gil, and the city was now a Japanese-style grid. Honmachi (the busiest street) was lined with Japanese shops, cafes, and watch stores, creating a modern night view with electric lights. Meanwhile, the Namju-dong market remained the heart of life for the Joseon (Korean) people.
Dr. Choi’s house was a prestigious residence near Namju-dong. Though his family had declined economically, they were a Yangban (noble class) lineage that maintained their dignity. The house kept its Sot-daemun (a tall, arched gate symbolizing high status), but the interior had been modified with Japanese-style sliding doors and glass windows to combat the cold.
Dr. Choi and his brother had both received modern "New Learning" educations. His parents were stubborn traditionalists who valued bloodline and family status above all else. Seeing Dr. Choi arrive with a young woman, they were shocked.
“Who is this you have traveled with?”
“She is a nurse for my future clinic. A Korean who studied nursing in Japan,” Dr. Choi lied. “Her name is Jeong Han-ah. Her parents live in Japan. I was introduced to her through Great Master Ko.”
Dr. Choi’s father narrowed his eyes. “Which Jeong clan are you from?”
Haruka was paralyzed by the question. In Korea, one's "Bongwan" (ancestral home) is a critical marker of status. Dr. Choi answered quickly.
“She is of the Naju Jeong clan.”
The father frowned. “How impolite of you to interrupt. Are your parents from Jeolla Province then?”
“Yes…” Haruka answered weakly.
Dr. Choi’s mother, more worried about her son's exhaustion, led Haruka to the guest quarters. Later, the father confronted his son.
“I will never allow you to marry a Japanese woman!”
“It is not that kind of relationship.”
“So she is a Japanese woman.”
“She is talented and will help my clinic. She is an orphan the Master took in.”
“I will not ask more. But as long as I am alive, marriage with a Japanese woman is absolutely forbidden.”
This stiff, emotional-less dialogue was the hallmark of the Yangban class. Expressing emotion was considered vulgar; a true gentleman said only what was necessary and kept his heart hidden.
From that day, Dr. Choi taught Haruka medicine at the hospital. Intelligent and calm, she learned quickly. Over the years, Dr. Choi found he could have deeper conversations with Haruka than with any other doctor—not just about medicine, but about history, politics, and the future.
For Haruka, who had spent her childhood traveling with her father, Shobei, to sell books, these discussions brought a sense of peace. It felt like her early days before her world fell apart.
One day, Dr. Choi sighed. “We couldn't save young Sun-deok. A simple pneumonia... to be so helpless. Is this really the extent of our medicine?”
“The situation in Cheongju is so different from Europe,” Haruka replied quietly. “I read in a German magazine about antibiotics that can fundamentally stop infections. Here, we only have aspirin and iodine.”
“Antibiotics... a wonderful name,” Dr. Choi said bitterly. “But it will take ten years to reach us. Here, we fight dirty water and malnutrition, not fancy bacteria.”
As she organized tools, Haruka felt a sudden, gnawing pain in her pelvis. 'It hasn't even been 15 days since my last period...' she thought. Due to the severe infections from her difficult labor, she suffered from Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID). This caused chronic, irregular pain that made her live in constant fear of when the bleeding would start.
Dr. Choi continued, unaware. “The 'White Plague'—tuberculosis—is everywhere. We need clean air and isolation, but in this poor city? It's impossible. Childbirth here is a gamble with death because the hygiene is so filthy. If only we had Western sterilization and equipment...”
He stopped and looked at Haruka. He thought she had the saddest eyes in the world; even when she smiled, they looked as if they were brimming with tears.
“Is something wrong, Haruka?”
Haruka collapsed, clutching her stomach as the hemorrhaging began. “I am sorry... it is so irregular...”
Her face turned deathly pale. The chronic inflammation made her periods feel like the agony of labor. Red blood began to flow beneath her skirt. Dr. Choi rushed to her side and helped her onto the treatment table. He covered her with a blanket and brought a small jar of hot water to place on her abdomen.
“Since when has the bleeding been this severe?”
Haruka hid her face in shame, tears seeping through her fingers. “Nearly every month since the birth.”
Dr. Choi’s medical instinct told him her fallopian tubes were scarred and the infection had spread deep into her pelvis. In an era without antibiotics or hormone therapy, there was little he could do. He wrapped her tightly in blankets to maintain her warmth and gave her aspirin—the only painkiller available.
When the pain subsided, Haruka was overwhelmed by shame. Dr. Choi, however, felt only a deep protective instinct.
“Take this aspirin. Stay warm. Your body was damaged by the labor, and the scarring causes this chronic pain. When you feel this coming on, tell me. Stay home and lie down.”
He gently moved her hands from her face to check for a fever. Her forehead was burning. He looked at her intently. To him, she looked like a deer shivering after being hit by a bullet—bleeding out with no protection. He realized then that humans are the most vulnerable of animals, requiring the longest periods of love and protection.
The labor-like pain eased, but the bleeding continued. Dr. Choi handed her a bundle of cotton. “Can you make it to the restroom?”
“Yes... yes,” she whispered, trembling.
He left the room to give her privacy. As Haruka cleaned herself, she felt a warmth she hadn't felt in years—a mix of her father's love and the love of the mother she never knew. She realized she was falling in love with Dr. Choi.
And that emotion terrified her.