THE MARTYRED by Richard E. Kim. 316 pages. Braziller. $4.50.
The saints of modern fiction are not the God-drunk but the nonbelievers— men racked with doubt but cursed with the will to survive. They find their strength not in faith but in despair, their heroism in acknowledging the prospect of their own extinction.
Such a man is the hero of this somber and remorseless first novel. As an examination of the theme, it can stand with the works of Camus, by whom it was inspired and to whom it is dedicated.
Twelve Who Died. Novelist Kim, 31, lays his scene in the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. The advancing United Nations forces have just occupied the city. The narrator is a South Korean political intelligence officer, who is entrusted with the job of investigating the deaths of twelve Christian ministers executed by the retreating Communists. Before they can be used for propaganda purposes as a symbol of spiritual triumph, however, the captain must discover why 14 ministers were arrested and only twelve died.
One of the survivors proves to be insane. The other, Mr. Shin, insists at first that he was separated from the others. If there is a reason for his survival, he tells his inquisitor, it is "divine intervention." But Mr. Shin, it soon becomes apparent, is a tormented man. He intimates that he knows how the martyred ministers died—"like dogs, whimpering, whining, wailing," begging for mercy, denouncing their God and one another.
He acknowledges at last that he was present at the execution, and he is denounced by the Christians of the city for renouncing his faith in order to survive. He adopts the role of public penitent and stands at the altar of his church glorifying the twelve martyrs, whom, he says, he has failed. "I let myself be paralyzed by the withering breath of despair!" he cries. "Blessed be the names of your martyrs! For they forgave me." Chill Wind. The truth is, of course, quite different. Mr. Shin, refusing to issue a public statement supporting the Communists, had acted the role of a hero, as a captured North Korean officer privately reveals. He had been spared on a whim of the officers: "He was the only one who had enough guts to spit in my face. I admire anyone who can spit in my face. That's why I didn't shoot him." Mr. Shin's confession is thus shown to be a deliberate and calculated effort to take upon himself the doubts and failings of his congregation. "I am you, you are me, and we are one!" he cries, and the Christians of Pyongyang —having despaired of their faith in the horrors of war—take comfort both from Mr. Shin's admission of guilt and his assertion of new strength.