“That’s not how we hang people here,” said Becka.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
55
I quickly realized that the two young Aunts in Doorway C didn’t approve of me; but they were all I had because I wasn’t on talking terms with anyone else. Aunt Beatrice had been kind when she’d been converting me, back in Toronto, but now that I was here I was no longer any concern of hers. She smiled at me in a distant way when I passed her, but that was all.
When I paused to think about it I was afraid, but I tried not to let fear control me. I was also feeling very lonely. I didn’t have any friends here, and I couldn’t contact anyone back there. Ada and Elijah were far away. There was no one I could ask for guidance; I was on my own, with no instruction book. I really missed Garth. I daydreamed about the things we’d done together: sleeping in the cemetery, panhandling on the street. I even missed the junk food we’d eaten. Would I ever get back there, and if I did, what would happen then? Garth probably had a girlfriend. How could he not have one? I’d never asked him because I didn’t want to hear the answer.
But one of my biggest anxieties was about the person Ada and Elijah called the source—their contact inside Gilead. When would this person show up in my life? What if they didn’t exist? If there was no “source,” I’d be stuck here in Gilead because there wouldn’t be anyone to get me out.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369A
56
Jade was very untidy. She left her items in our common room—her stockings, the belt of her new Supplicants probationer uniform, sometimes even her shoes. She didn’t always flush the toilet. We’d find her hair combings blowing around on the bathroom floor, her toothpaste in the sink. She took showers at unauthorized hours until firmly told not to, several times. I know these are trivial things, but they can add up in close quarters.
There was also the matter of the tattoo on her left arm. It said GOD and LOVE, made into a cross. She claimed it was a token of her conversion to the true belief, but I doubted that, as she’d let slip on one occasion that she thought God was “an imaginary friend.”
“God is a real friend, not an imaginary one,” said Becka. There was as much anger in her voice as she was capable of revealing.
“Sorry if I disrespected your cultural belief,” Jade said, which did not improve things in the eyes of Becka: saying God was a cultural belief was even worse than saying he was an imaginary friend. We realized that Jade thought we were stupid; certainly she thought we were superstitious.
“You should have that tattoo removed,” Becka said. “It’s blasphemous.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” said Jade. “I mean, Yes, Aunt Immortelle, thank you for telling me. Anyway, it’s itchy as hell.”
“Hell is more than itchy,” said Becka. “I will pray for your redemption.”
* * *
—
When Jade was upstairs in her room, we would often hear thumping noises and muffled shouts. Was it a barbarian form of prayer? I finally had to ask her what she was doing in there.
“Working out,” she said. “It’s like exercising. You have to keep strong.”
“Men are strong in body,” said Becka. “And in mind. Women are strong in spirit. Though moderate exercise is allowed, such as walking, if a woman is of child-bearing age.”
“Why do you think you need to be strong in body?” I asked her. I was becoming more and more curious about her pagan beliefs.
“In case some guy aggresses you. You need to know how to stick your thumbs in their eyes, knee them in the balls, throw a heartstopper punch. I can show you. Here’s how to make a fist—curl your fingers, wrap your thumb across your knuckles, keep your arm straight. Aim for the heart.” She slammed her fist into the sofa.
Becka was so astonished that she had to sit down. “Women don’t hit men,” she said. “Or anyone, except when it’s required by law, such as in Particicutions.”
“Well, that’s convenient!” said Jade. “So you should just let them do whatever?”
“You shouldn’t entice men,” said Becka. “What happens if you do is partly your fault.”
Jade looked from one to the other of us. “Victim-blaming?” she said. “Really?”
“Pardon?” said Becka.
“Never mind. So you’re telling me it’s a lose-lose,” Jade said. “We’re screwed whatever we do.” The two of us gazed at her in silence; no answer is an answer, as Aunt Lise used to say.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m doing my workouts anyway.”
* * *
—
Four days after Jade’s arrival, Aunt Lydia called Becka and me to her office. “How is the new Pearl getting along?” she asked. When I hesitated, she said, “Speak up!”
“She doesn’t know how to behave,” I said.
Aunt Lydia smiled her wrinkly old-turnip smile. “Remember, she is freshly come from Canada,” she said, “so she doesn’t know any better. Foreign converts are often like that when they arrive. It is your duty, for the moment, to teach her safer ways.”
“We’ve been trying, Aunt Lydia,” said Becka. “But she’s very—”
“Stubborn,” said Aunt Lydia. “I am not surprised. Time will cure it. Do the best you can. You may go.” We went out of the office in the sideways manner we all used when leaving Aunt Lydia’s office: it was impolite to turn your back on her.
* * *
—
The crime files continued to appear on my desk at the Hildegard Library. I could not decide what to think: one day I felt it would be a blessed state to be a full Aunt—knowing all the Aunts’ carefully hoarded secrets, wielding hidden powers, doling out retributions. The next day I would consider my soul—because I did believe I had one—and how twisted and corrupted it would become if I were to act in that way. Was my soft, muddy brain hardening? Was I becoming stony, steely, pitiless? Was I exchanging my caring and pliable woman’s nature for an imperfect copy of a sharp-edged and ruthless man’s nature? I didn’t want that, but how to avoid it if I aspired to be an Aunt?
* * *
—
Then something happened that changed my view of my position in the universe and caused me to give thanks anew for the workings of benign Providence.
Although I’d been granted access to the Bible and had been shown a number of dangerous crime files, I hadn’t yet been given permission to access the Bloodlines Genealogical Archives, which were kept in a locked room. Those who’d been in there said this room contained aisles and aisles of folders. They were arranged on the shelves according to rank, men only: Economen, Guardians, Angels, Eyes, Commanders. Within those categories, the Bloodlines were filed by location, then by last name. The women were inside the folders of the men. The Aunts didn’t have folders; their Bloodlines weren’t recorded because they wouldn’t be having any children. That was a secret sadness for me: I liked children, I’d always wanted children, I just hadn’t wanted what came with them.
All Supplicants were given a briefing about the Archives’ existence and purposes. They contained the knowledge of who the Handmaids had been before they were Handmaids, and who their children were, and who the fathers were: not only the declared fathers, but the illegal fathers also, since there were many women—both Wives and Handmaids—who were desperate to have babies in any way they could. But in all cases the Aunts recorded the Bloodlines: with so many older men marrying such young girls, Gilead could not risk the dangerous and sinful father-daughter inbreeding that might result if no one was keeping track.
But it was only after I’d done my Pearl Girls missionary work that I would have access to the Archives. I’d longed for the moment when I’d be able to trace my own mother—not Tabitha, but the mother who’d been a Handmaid. In those secret files, I’d be able to find out who she was, or had been—was she even still alive? I knew it was a risk—I might not
like what I discovered—but I needed to try anyway. I might even be able to trace my real father, though that was less likely since he had not been a Commander. If I could find my mother, I would have a story instead of a zero. I would have a past beyond my own past, though I would not necessarily have a future with this unknown mother inside it.
One morning I found a file from the Archives on my desk. There was a small handwritten note paper-clipped to the front: Agnes Jemima’s Bloodline. I held my breath as I opened the file. Inside was the Bloodlines record for Commander Kyle. Paula was in the folder, and their son, Mark. I wasn’t part of that Bloodline, so I wasn’t listed as Mark’s sister. But through Commander Kyle’s line I was able to discover the true name of poor Crystal—of Ofkyle, who’d died in childbirth—since little Mark was part of her Bloodline too. I wondered whether he would ever be told about her. Not if they could help it, was my guess.
At last I found the Bloodline on myself. It was not where it should have been—inside Commander Kyle’s folder, in the time period relating to his first Wife, Tabitha. Instead it was at the back of the file in a sub-file of its own.
There was my mother’s picture. It was a double picture, like the kind we’d see on Wanted posters for runaway Handmaids: the full face, the profile. She had light hair, pulled back; she was young. She was staring right into my own eyes: what was she trying to tell me? She wasn’t smiling, but why would she smile? Her picture must have been taken by the Aunts, or else by the Eyes.
The name underneath had been blanked out, using heavy blue ink. There was an updated notation, however: Mother of Agnes Jemima, now Aunt Victoria. Escaped to Canada. Currently working for Mayday terrorist intelligence. Two elimination attempts made (failed). Location currently unknown.
Underneath that, it said Biological Father, but his name, too, had been redacted. There was no picture. The notation said: Currently in Canada. Said to be a Mayday operative. Location unknown.
Did I look like my mother? I wished to think so.
Did I remember her? I tried to. I knew I should be able to, but the past was too dark.
Such a cruel thing, memory. We can’t remember what it is that we’ve forgotten. That we have been made to forget. That we’ve had to forget, in order to pretend to live here in any normal way.
I’m sorry, I whispered. I can’t bring you back. Not yet.
I placed my hand on top of my mother’s picture. Did it feel warm? I wanted that. I wanted to think that love and warmth were radiating out of this picture—not a flattering picture, but that didn’t matter. I wanted to think that this love was flowing into my hand. Childish make-believe, I know that. But it was comforting nonetheless.
* * *
—
I turned the page: there was another document. My mother had had a second child. That child had been smuggled into Canada as an infant. Her name was Nicole. There was a baby picture.
Baby Nicole.
Baby Nicole, whom we prayed for on every solemn occasion at Ardua Hall. Baby Nicole, whose sunny cherubic face appeared on Gilead television so often as a symbol of the unfairness being shown to Gilead on the international stage. Baby Nicole, who was practically a saint and martyr, and was certainly an icon—that Baby Nicole was my sister.
Underneath the last paragraph of text there was a line of wavery handwriting in blue ink: Top Secret. Baby Nicole is here in Gilead.
It seemed impossible.
I felt a rush of gratitude—I had a younger sister! But I also felt frightened: if Baby Nicole was here in Gilead, why hadn’t everyone been told? There would have been widespread rejoicing and a huge celebration. Why had I myself been told? I felt entangled, though the nets around me were invisible. Was my sister in danger? Who else knew she was here, and what would they do to her?
By this time I knew that the person leaving these files for me must be Aunt Lydia. But why was she doing it? And how did she want me to react? My mother was alive, but she was also under sentence of death. She’d been deemed a criminal; worse, a terrorist. How much of her was in me? Was I tainted in some way? Was that the message? Gilead had tried to kill my renegade mother and had failed. Should I be glad about this, or sorry? Where should my loyalties lie?
Then, on impulse, I did a very dangerous thing. Making sure no one was watching, I slipped the two pages with their glued-on pictures out of the Bloodlines file, then folded them several times and hid them in my sleeve. Somehow I could not bear to be parted with them. It was foolish and headstrong, but it was not the only foolish and headstrong thing I have ever done.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
57
It was a Wednesday, the woe day. After the usual putrid breakfast, I received a message to go immediately to Aunt Lydia’s office. “What does it mean?” I asked Aunt Victoria.
“Nobody ever knows what Aunt Lydia might have in mind,” she said.
“Have I done something bad?” There was a big choice of bad things, that was for sure.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “You might have done something good.”
Aunt Lydia was waiting for me in her office. The door was ajar, and she told me to come in even before I’d knocked. “Close the door behind you and sit down,” she said.
I sat down. She looked at me. I looked at her. It’s strange, because I knew she was supposed to be the powerful, mean old queen bee of Ardua Hall, but right then I didn’t find her scary. She had a big mole on her chin: I tried not to stare at it. I wondered why she hadn’t had it taken off.
“How are you enjoying it here, Jade?” she said. “Are you adjusting?”
I should have said yes, or fine, or something, the way I’d been trained. Instead I blurted, “Not well.”
She smiled, showing her yellowy teeth. “Many have regrets at first,” she said. “Would you like to go back?”
“Like, how?” I said. “Flying monkeys?”
“I suggest you refrain from making that kind of flippant remark in public. It could have painful repercussions for you. Do you have something to show me?”
I was puzzled. “Like what?” I asked. “No, I didn’t bring—”
“On your arm, for instance. Under your sleeve.”
“Oh,” I said. “My arm.” I rolled up the sleeve: there was GOD/LOVE, not looking very pretty.
She peered at it. “Thank you for doing as I requested,” she said.
She was the one who’d requested it? “Are you the source?” I asked.
“The what?”
Was I in trouble? “You know, the one—I mean—”
She cut me off. “You must learn to edit your thoughts,” she said. “Unthink them. Now, next steps. You are Baby Nicole, as you must have been told in Canada.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather not be,” I said. “I’m not happy about it.”
“I’m sure that is true,” she said. “But many of us would rather not be who we are. We don’t have unlimited choices in that department. Now, are you ready to help your friends back in Canada?”
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
“Come over here and place your arm on the desk,” she said. “This won’t hurt.”
She took a thin blade and made a nick in my tattoo, at the base of the O. Then, using a magnifying glass and a minute pair of tweezers, she slid something very small into my arm. She was wrong about it not hurting.
“No one would think of looking inside GOD. Now you’re a carrier pigeon, and all we have to do is transport you. It’s harder than it would have been once, but we’ll manage it. Oh, and don’t tell anyone about this until granted permission. Loose lips sink ships, and sinking ships kill people. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said. Now I had a lethal weapon in my arm.
“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Don’t slip up on manners here, ever. You could trigger a denunciation, even for something so minor. Aunt Vidala loves her
Corrections.”
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369A
58
Two mornings after I’d read my Bloodlines file I received a summons to Aunt Lydia’s office. Becka had also been ordered to attend; we walked over together. We thought we were going to be asked again how Jade was getting along, whether she was happy with us, whether she was ready for her literacy test, whether she was firm in her faith. Becka said she was going to request that Jade be moved elsewhere because we’d been unable to teach her anything. She simply didn’t listen.
But Jade was already in Aunt Lydia’s office when we got there, sitting on a chair. She smiled at us, an apprehensive smile.
Aunt Lydia let us in, then looked up and down the corridor before closing the door. “Thank you for coming,” she said to us. “You may sit down.” We sat in the two chairs provided, one on either side of Jade. Aunt Lydia herself sat down, placing her hands on her desk to lower herself. Her hands were slightly tremulous. I found myself thinking, She’s getting old. But that did not seem possible: surely Aunt Lydia was ageless.
“I have some information to share with you that will materially affect the future of Gilead,” Aunt Lydia said. “You yourselves will have a crucial part to play. Are you brave enough? Do you stand ready?”
“Yes, Aunt Lydia,” I said, and Becka repeated the same words. The younger Supplicants were always being told they had a crucial part to play, and that bravery was required of them. Usually it meant giving up something, like time or food.
“Good. I will be brief. First, I must inform you, Aunt Immortelle, of something that the other two already know. Baby Nicole is here in Gilead.”
I was confused: why would the girl Jade have been told such an important piece of news? She could have no idea of what an impact the appearance of such an iconic figure would have among us.
The Testaments Page 28