Before he was arrested, my father had been a brilliant, funny, irreverent man. But even as a thirteen-year-old girl, I could tell that his time in the prison camp had broken his spirit. He couldn’t look a policeman in the face, not even the ones who used to joke and drink with him at his table. My father used to love South Korean music; now he refused to listen to it. He was afraid someone might hear it and report him.
