Chapter 4 -The Poor Irish Family of the Tenement House
From the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, to accommodate its explosively growing population, New York City began building communal housing known as Tenement Houses.
These were mainly concentrated in the Lower Manhattan area and, due to their crowded and poor conditions, were primarily inhabited by the impoverished.
And most of those residents were poor immigrants from other countries.
Lower East Side, Manhattan, New York.
At the corner of Hester and Forsyth Street stands a Tenement House.
On the far right side of the third floor lives the family of Ciaran Graves.
In other words, it's where I live now.
How Leo managed to bring me home, I don't really remember.
Even after coming home, I spent a full two days lying in bed, eating nothing but potato soup—and as humiliating as it was, I even had to rely on others to help me use the bathroom. To be precise, it wasn't just anyone, but the family of this body's original owner, Ciaran.
A mother younger than my previous self.
A rebellious fifteen-year-old younger brother.
And even a six-year-old little sister.
Suddenly, I'd become a member of this family and, wrapped up in a strange mix of emotions, I just lay in bed.
All sorts of thoughts are swirling through my head right now.
There's no doubt—I've possessed the body of a seventeen-year-old boy named Ciaran Graves.
The real kicker is the bloodline.
My father was Korean, and my mother is Irish.
Is that even a possible combination in this era?
Even apart from the bloodline, where we lived was a problem.
At this point in time, New York was the most densely populated city in the world, and the Lower East Side was overflowing with immigrants.
And for most of those immigrants, life was hard.
They had come to America seeking freedom and hope, only to find themselves endlessly tumbling down the pit of poverty.
They suffered from low wages and long hours, and even then, finding work was not easy.
Ciaran Graves' family was no exception.
Three years ago, after Ciaran's Korean father died, the family had fallen into dire poverty.
With only women and children—who were at the very bottom of the labor market—barely scraping by, life didn't get any better; in fact, they seemed more and more trapped in the quicksand of poverty.
…Damn it, I suddenly feel a surge of anger.
So the gods give you a second chance if your previous life was miserable and full of unfulfilled dreams?
How is this situation any less miserable?
Until the PTSD hit, my previous life wasn't so bad.
Except for losing my parents to a car accident when I was a child, I managed to do the work I wanted and saved a decent amount of money.
But now, the gods have pushed me into an even worse hell in my second life.
It's the worst possible situation, in more ways than one. If there's any silver lining at all, it's that, for the first time in five years, the PTSD symptoms that destroyed me day after day haven't reappeared.
The buzzing hallucinations are gone!
It's too soon to say for sure, but the fact that those symptoms, which used to appear at any time, had disappeared was incredibly encouraging.
Late at night.
The faint scent of candle wax woke me.
As I slowly opened my eyes, I looked at the woman facing away from me, her back silhouetted by candlelight at the small kitchen table.
Nora Graves.
An Irish immigrant who had fled to America, suffering from severe food shortages caused by the aftermath of the Great Irish Famine.
She is the mother of this body, Ciaran.
"Sigh."
With one hand pressed to her forehead, my mother let out a long sigh.
Through Ciaran's memories, I knew exactly what weighed on her mind right now.
Money. Money.
The monthly rent for the Tenement House.
Food expenses for a family of four for an entire month.
Fuel, clothing, and all sorts of miscellaneous expenses.
Added up, it all came to at least forty dollars.
Only if Mother worked as a seamstress and both sons polished shoes without pause could the family barely scrape by.
But now I'd spent two days bedridden.
There was no way for Mother's worries not to deepen.
She might have to go into debt.
And if they didn't want that, we'd just have to keep working—even if it meant collapsing while shining shoes.
We had to at least put some food on the table, but just being stuck in this damned time and place and worrying about it made me boil with anger.
In my previous life, I lived alone for over twenty years.
Once I got used to being alone, I could fully enjoy my freedom and do whatever I wanted.
I never felt loneliness or solitude at all.
To me, family is just a burdensome load.
The owner of this body, Ciaran Graves, treasured his family above all else.
But he's him, and I'm me.
I'm in nothing but my underwear anyway. Maybe I should just bolt...
Mother blew out the candle. Her dark silhouette turned toward me. I quickly shut my eyes.
Rustle, rustle.
Mother came close, stroked my hair, and whispered softly,
"My dear eldest son..."
Her voice trembled.
Then her lips gently brushed my forehead and pulled away.
"To have parents who can't provide—so you can't even go to school. I'm so sorry... I know how hard you've worked, so this time, you just rest."
"You haven't even had a chance to rest."
Was she talking to herself?
Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, I naturally shifted my body as if I were tossing and turning in my sleep.
Mother quietly patted my back for a moment before returning to her own room.
It was a strange thing. In this Irish mother, I saw a glimpse of my familiar Korean mother.
Maybe it was because I hadn't felt the presence of parents for such a long time.
Of course, these feelings alone didn't make me abandon my plan to bolt in my underwear.
It's just that my body hadn't recovered yet. It's not like just going outside would suddenly solve anything.
I needed to prepare.
The next morning at dawn. My whole body, which had tingled with every breath the night before, had miraculously recovered. I felt so refreshed that I almost wondered if it was really possible.
Considering the beating I'd taken, my recovery was astonishing. As I sprang up from bed, I felt like I could do anything.
But because my mother was already up and about at the crack of dawn, I couldn't get up yet.
She was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, which also served as the living room.
She lit a fire in the old stove, poured water into a pot, and, when the oatmeal started to boil, added sugar.
While waiting for it to thicken, she took a few potatoes from the cupboard, peeled them, and chopped them into small pieces.
Potatoes again, as expected.
Once the oatmeal was ready, she took the pot off the stove and then started boiling the potatoes. As they cooked, she pulled out some hard pieces of bread, sliced them thinly on a cutting board, and placed them on a plate.
Next, she filled a small kettle with water, brought it to a boil, and mixed in a bit of milk.
Only after all the preparations were finished did Mother finally wake up the younger children.
The first to wake was the youngest, Roa, who slept with Mother in her room.
Rubbing her eyes, clinging to her blanket, she toddled out into the main room.
Six years old and already so diligent.
But really, why does she always come straight to me the moment she wakes up?
I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Soon enough, Roa—still clutching her blanket—came over and poked me on the cheek.
"Big brother, does it still hurt?"
"...."
"Would it still hurt if I blew on it for you?"
As if that would fix anything.
"Sigh. I guess I can't play with big brother today, either."
My younger brother Liam, who's two years younger than me, was still fast asleep above me on the top bunk.
Roa climbed up the metal ladder to where he slept. Every step she took on the ladder made the metal squeak.
Creak, creak.
Thud.
"Wake up, little brother! It's morning!"
Thud.
"Ugh, seriously! Just wake me up with words, will you?"
"I did talk to you. Sleepyhead, hurry up and eat breakfast so we can go to work. You promised to buy Roa a treat."
"Do you think I work just to buy you candy?"
"If not? Roa would be so sad then..."
"Fine, fine! I said I get it! I'll come down, so move out of the way, will you?"
After coming down from the ladder, Roa scurried off to the kitchen where Mother was.
Liam soon climbed down from the bed too.
I sensed a shadow falling over me, even with my eyes still closed.
It felt like Liam was looking at me.
He didn't say anything to me.
After staring at me for a moment, Liam finally headed over to the dining table.
A little later, everyone except me gathered around the cramped table, and breakfast began with a prayer.
"Liam, can you take Roa to Aunt Mary's house like you did yesterday?"
"I have to head out early today."
"What urgent business do you have first thing in the morning?"
Liam chewed his food in silence for a while before finally answering.
"Calvin said he has a new job for me."
"What kind of job?"
"I'll find out when I get there. But do you know how much the day's pay is? A whole dollar."
Liam glanced over nervously as he continued.
"Mom, you know I scare easily. And if it seems dangerous, I don't have to do it, right?"
In truth, even shoeshining is dangerous.
You could get into fights over turf, end up in a brawl, maybe even get beaten to death. Like this body's previous owner, Ciaran.
In any case, Mother insisted that at fifteen, it was time for Liam to take responsibility. As long as it wasn't dangerous, she didn't feel the need to stop him.
After a brief conversation, breakfast came to an end.
There's no bathroom in our tenement house. For the toilet, we have to use the communal restroom out back.
Mother filled a bucket with water, washed Roa, and helped her get dressed.
Because she's a seamstress, our clothes don't have holes, but all the patchwork makes it clear how poor we are.
Maybe I'm the only one bothered by it—Roa doesn't seem to care at all about her clothes.
Her beaming smile says it all.
After we took turns washing, Mother was the first to leave the house.
She rushed off to work as if she was being chased.
A short while later, Liam took Roa by the hand and headed out the door.
Until Mother finishes work, Roa is left at the Community Child Care center.
Despite the fancy name, it's really just a group care arrangement, more of a mutual-aid childcare.
The facility is in the same tenement house, run by a woman named Mary, who looks after over a dozen kids for two dollars a month per child.
Anyway. At last, I was alone.
I got up from the dreadful bed and stood in the living room.
It's been three days since I found myself in this body, but I still haven't seen my own face.
I walked over to the wall in the living room, where the mirror hangs.
And finally. I came face-to-face with the boy called Ciaran.
There were bruises and swelling from having been beaten nearly to death, but I could still make out my features.
My first impression was that it was rather… 'unusual.'
I looked Asian, yet there was an inexplicable, exotic air about me.
Black hair.
Thick, straight eyebrows.
Eyes with a slight sharpness and clear double eyelids.
My lips were full with a distinct outline, and the shape of my face was neither round nor angular.
My arms and legs were long and straight, giving me a tall height.
Ciaran believed himself to be 178 centimeters tall, and if that was true, there was still room to grow.
As for the most important part of being a man—that I had already checked plenty of times while lying in bed.
To be honest, I was not only satisfied but even found it more impressive than in my previous life.
That alone made this life worth it.
If this was the opportunity God had promised, not only would I finally escape my single life, but my passion and drive to start anew were burning fiercely…
Well, anyway.
The house was about seven pyeong (roughly 23 square meters).
Just one room and a living room combined with the kitchen.
It was so cramped that just turning my head in the living room was enough to check out all the belongings.
"Ugh, I feel stifled just looking at this place."
I wandered around the house like a burglar. Then, in a corner of the kitchen, I found some potatoes wrapped in newspaper. I brushed off the dirt and smoothed out the crumpled paper.
It was the New York Times, published fifteen days ago, on April 6, 1917.
[WAR DECLARED!]
The headline blazed in bold, striking letters. Beneath the chilling headline, the article read as follows:
[Special Report from Washington:
Late last night, the United States Congress overwhelmingly passed a resolution to declare war on Germany.
The House approved the war resolution by a vote of 373 to 50, and the Senate by 82 to 6.
President Wilson signed the resolution immediately, officially declaring America's entry into the European Great War.
With this, America joins the Allied Powers to fight against the German Empire and its allies.
In a statement, President Wilson said, 'We must take part in this war to defend democracy and preserve world peace.'
Meanwhile, to support the war effort, the federal government is preparing a conscription law for large-scale drafting, noting the limitations of relying solely on volunteers.
Additionally, to minimize negative public opinion about the draft, the government plans to seek cooperation from various organizations.]
The result of all this was the massive event just two days ago: the Boy Scouts parade held in Manhattan, New York.
Their rallying cry, "Wake up, America!" was meant to encourage enlistment.
This was a time before the second war had broken out, so it wasn't yet called World War I, but simply the European War, or the Great War.
Perhaps, this might just be the perfect era for someone like me Half my life had been spent in war—as a member of special forces and as a mercenary—and even at the moment of my death, that was still true.
But if God really wanted me to play an active part in war, if my "grand and meaningful mission" was truly part of some divine plan, then couldn't I have been sent somewhere with better prospects?
The Battle of the Bulge, with its eighty-nine thousand casualties.
The Battle of Normandy, where four thousand soldiers died just on the first day of the landings.
If I was supposed to make some difference in those battles, the very least I would have needed was a shot at becoming an officer.
Was I supposed to wait and shoot for the next war, World War II, which would come twenty years later, since I wasn't old enough for the first one anyway?
As if war was some sort of certification exam you take as you become eligible.
The long gap between the wars was already a problem, but realistically, with my lineage, education, and finances, becoming an officer would have been nearly impossible.
Growl.
My stomach was clamoring for food. This was reality.
When you're sick, you're supposed to eat well, but for the past two days, all I'd had was potato soup.
On top of that, all the labor and chronic malnutrition had left my body weak and frail.
"Let's see if there's anything to eat."
I rummaged through the kitchen, looking for anything edible. I started peeling and chopping an onion, but the knife was so dull it barely worked.
"How is anyone supposed to cook with a knife like this?"
There wasn't even a Y-shaped peeler for the potatoes. Didn't they invent those yet?
If I patented one, it'd be a goldmine.
I grabbed the small notebook Ciaran usually carried and sketched out a rough design of a Y-shaped peeler.
"I'd better write things down whenever they come to mind"
My head was a gold mine of ideas, a treasure trove any prospector would envy. Even if becoming an officer was nearly impossible, if I played my cards right, becoming richer than Rockefeller was more than just a dream.
"Why not try living life to the fullest for once?"
But first things first: I was hungry. I chopped vegetables with the blunt kitchen knife as best I could, then cracked in five eggs and mixed everything together.
The next step was to cook it all in a frying pan. I cleaned out the ashes from the stove that had been used in the morning, then restocked it with wood and coal.
Using paper to start a flame, I tucked it inside and opened the stove vent to let in some air.
"This whole process is a real pain."
Once the fire was going strong, I set the grease-stained frying pan on top. I drizzled in some oil, poured in the egg and vegetable mixture, and sprinkled a pinch of salt.
Sizzle.
Once it was golden brown, the cooking was done. I moved it to a plate and devoured it with a fork in no time.
As the feeling of fullness washed over me, my mind filled once again with hope for the future.
"You really do need to eat well to think straight."
But now, what should I do with my life? Still pondering that, I set the dull kitchen knife down on the small dining table.
Then I found the whetstone and began sharpening the knife in earnest. It was a reflexive action.
After all, nothing clears the mind quite like sharpening a blade.
Schrrrk, schrrrk.
Just then, it started to rain outside. Raindrops gathered on the dust-caked window and then slid down in rivulets.
Inside, the only sound was my sharpening the knife, and my mind was filling up with plans for the future.
As I was sharpening the last kitchen knife—
Clunk.
The front door opened, and my mother stepped in, eyes wide as she looked at me.
"Ciaran!"
"Ciaran!"
From behind my mother's skirt, a girl with big eyes and pale skin peeked out—my little sister, Roa.
So it was already lunchtime.
"Big brother! Are you all better already!?"
"As you can see."
"Wow!"
"That's great! Let's eat lunch together!"
Roa ran over to me, and I quickly hid the knife behind my back to keep her from getting hurt.
"But, big brother, you totally ruined the knives the last time you tried sharpening them. Are you still not back to your old self?"
"..."
Now I understood why my mother's eyebrow had gone up.
She strode over to me and, without warning, pulled me into a tight embrace. Caught off guard, I stood there awkwardly, still holding the knife, not knowing what to do.
"Are you really all right?"
"...I can move around now."
My mother was thirty-eight this year—eight years younger than I was when I died in my previous life.
Honestly, she'd be more suitable as someone's new wife than my mother, but right now, I really was her son. Besides, maybe it was Ciaran's emotions influencing me, but any awkwardness quickly faded away.
"Do you know how scared I was? When Leo carried you back, I thought I was going to faint."
"Yes..."
"Anyway, I'm just so glad you're up, my son."
Just as I thought she was releasing me from her embrace, she scrunched up her nose and squeezed both my cheeks.
"Those bastards. They must have beaten you so badly—how did my handsome son's face end up looking like this?"
My face isn't the problem, Mother Ciaran. Ciaran already got beaten to death and went up to heaven.
If she knew that, she'd be devastated. The thought alone makes my chest ache.
At that moment, my little sister Roa poked my thigh.
Her big, bright eyes had grown teary too.
So this is what family feels like. It's been so long since I felt this...
"Big brother... did you eat the egg?"
"Huh?"
"...The egg that was supposed to be mine is gone."
Tears welled up in Roa's eyes.
Her lips and nose wriggled, and then suddenly, she burst into loud sobs.
"Waaah!"
I've never really liked kids.
Especially crying ones—they're the hardest to deal with.
So comforting her didn't come naturally to me.
"Hey, did you lose your country or something? Why make such a fuss over an egg? Just go eat some potatoes or something—"
Smack!
Suddenly, a stinging slap landed square on my back.
Mother's hand was a lot heavier than I expected.
The shock started at my back and shot through my whole body.
"That's a fine way to treat your little sister! How could you eat all the egg by yourself?"
All this fuss over a stupid egg.
My sister was crying, and now even my mother was smacking me on the back.
Reality set in.
I could feel exactly where I was, and what kind of era I was living in.
"Ciaran, didn't I tell you never to touch the knife again? Last time you ruined everything, and now here you are, again, like this—huh?"
A look of alarm quickly flashed across my mother's face as she spotted the knife.
I just grinned faintly and sliced the newspaper with the kitchen knife.
"Slice."
"Oh my goodness!"
My mother and Roa gasped in shock as they watched the newspaper get cleanly sliced.
This was the start of my troubles.
Since I had eaten the egg, I needed to find a way to replace it—and that meant I had to work.
Because of the rain, shoe-shining was out of the question.
So I looked for work inside the Tenement House where I lived. That's how it began.
"Knife sharpening! Three cents each. Get your knives sharpened…"
Thud.
I'd ended up in a damn miserable place.