Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  If you do not open your eyes and look about,

  You will die asleep one day, that is your fate.

  I have looked about, and I said nothing when robbed of a day off! I’ve let them abuse me, work me until I can’t stand up any longer, feed me rotten, bug-infested soup—​and I do nothing for myself. Doesn’t the poet know I have no choice if I want to see Ahmat again? My family? I can be taken away to one of the government’s hidden prisons for “reeducation” if I try to escape or fight for fair treatment. It doesn’t take much to be “disappeared,” and Ushi doesn’t like troublemakers.

  Besides, I tell myself, I’m only here for a year, and I’m not dying. Bad food, long hours, meanness, and bullying don’t end your life. If I keep out of trouble, I can go home. The words of another poet are meant for me now.

  I am the traveler . . .

  The newest Gypsy—​

  Wandering around the world,

  Finding my way home

  Whether in snow or rain.

  I’ll get home again and live the life I’ve planned. That’s what I choose to do. I’ll count cut sleeves and pockets and hammer loops by the hundreds to keep from going mad, to keep from thinking. And I’ll silence the voices of the poets who ask too much of me.

  I dream when I should do laundry. Sweat drips on the sheet I could be washing. Instead I stare out the window at the putrid smog that fills the air and my lungs. I long for the sand-filled air that sometimes blows across the desert and seeps through the cracks in the walls. That air would let me know I am home with Ahmat. But I’m not with Ahmat. I can only write more love poems and pretend.

  When all the rest have finished their cleaning frenzy, and drying clothes are draped over every available bed frame and doorknob, I clamber down the rails of my bunk, collect a few dirty garments, and hobble on my achy, swollen legs to the toilet room.

  There are just a few drops of soap left in the plastic bottle I stole from the garbage, so I launder only one peach-colored bucket’s worth. I’m on my knees kneading and squeezing, more fiercely than necessary because I’m angry at myself for not having packed soap, when Jemile drops down beside me. “Roshen, I need a favor,” she whispers. Her head is hung, her face flushed. And then she doesn’t speak. I wait. She squats there, miserable, and I’m angry because we’re all miserable and I don’t need to be more depressed.

  “Okay, Jemile. What?” I say, and she flinches. “Just tell me. Come on. Of course I’ll help.”

  Still nothing. I wring out the blue smock. Throw it on the pile beside me and grab a handful of dirty underwear. “I can’t help if I don’t know what you want.”

  Our eyes meet as she backs away. Pain twists her face.

  I reach out. Touch her. Her body freezes. I try to wrap my arms around her and hold her. She pushes me away.

  “He . . . touched . . . me,” she finally whispers.

  “Who, Jemile? Who touched you?”

  “A man . . . in the toilets. Please don’t let me be alone there again,” she pleads. “Please go with me.” The words begin to tumble out. “And . . . I can’t go home now. They won’t want me. He . . . he grabbed my breast. Put his hand under my panties. Then I bit him and he let go and hit me and I ran away. But he’ll try again, I know,” she says.

  She turns her beautiful, innocent, unguarded face to me. “Why would he do that?” she asks.

  My arms reach out to enfold her.

  At home we are protected by our families, by our Uyghur boys. Touching, all touching, is an intimacy reserved for marriage. The almost kiss I exchanged with Ahmat sealed our bond forever.

  “You’ll never have to be alone again, Jemile,” I say when her body calms. “When you need to go to the toilet, walk by and I’ll follow you. We’ll go together from now on. And Jemile . . .” I stroke her brow, smooth her hair, for she is now my little sister and I’ll protect her with any power I still possess. “His touch has not destroyed your purity. This awful man wanted to harm you, and you fought and got away, my little Jemile. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Remember only that he struck you. That he hurt you.” I pull her more tightly to me. “It will be our secret,” I say.

  I make her look at me. Let our eyes hold until I see her trust.

  “Now, do you have dirty clothes? Have you done your laundry?” She shakes her head.

  There is comfort in washing clothes together. I’ve acquired a shadow, one I welcome. One who will let me hold her and comfort her as I try to heal myself.

  After lunch I half sleep, half entertain myself by watching the action around me, which helps to keep my mind off the words of the poet who expects me to “wake up” and the oppressively hot, steamy, unbearable weather. Gulnar’s needle moving in and out of her embroidery lulls me, as it must in some way calm whatever thoughts are in her head. Jemile and Adile talk quietly to Zuwida, who rests on her slab of plywood. It seems to have acquired a thin mattress over the last few days. Her mysterious guardian has done well for her. In fact, I see a hint of color on Zuwida’s face, a sign of health that wasn’t there before. She’s returned to work; there are stories of Hawa helping by ironing some of Zuwida’s allotment as well as her own.

  Hawa. She amuses me. Oblivious, it seems, to the squalid surroundings we live in. She huddles now with Rayida and Nadia as they take turns looking in a mirror, painting their eyes in different colors and shapes as if they’re movie stars.

  It’s not long before the pile of still-unwashed clothes at the foot of my bunk invades my consciousness. I climb down the bunk frame, wondering about the usefulness of a soapless wash. And wondering where Mikray is. I thought she was sleeping. I gather my clothes, go to the toilet room. Mikray’s not there. I stuff my clothes into a bucket and go looking.

  She’s not in the hallway. I check the gate at the bottom of the stairs by the kitchen. It’s locked. I go to the stairs at the other end of the hallway. No one is around. I sneak to the second floor, try the factory door. It’s locked. The toilet room is empty. There are other doors and rooms, but why would Mikray be hiding? From what? Maybe she snuck out when the guard wasn’t looking. It will be harder to sneak back in.

  Will she come back?

  And why am I sneaking around looking for her? She got me into trouble and I’m the one who got caught!

  I hang my second batch of laundry so that it covers part of Mikray’s bunk and then sit there myself with my notebook and pen. Maybe it won’t look quite so empty when people pass by—​Mikray might be sleeping in the shadow of the hanging laundry. I don’t want anyone to ask me where she is.

  Around suppertime the Chinese girls begin to come back. There are questioning looks when we line up for food. Hawa keeps looking at me; I’m usually with Mikray. I meet her eyes, give my head a quick shake. She turns away, and somehow I’m sure she knows Mikray is gone. Others begin to notice.

  I eat the disgusting food that’s ladled into my bowl, wash the bowl, and return to Mikray’s bunk. We’ve been speaking Uyghur all day, which has put everyone in a more hopeful mood. No one talks about Mikray. A worried glance now and then. A shrug.

  The chatter and excitement in the hallway grows to a high level as the rest of the Chinese girls return with tales of their day. After the nine o’clock deadline, Ushi patrols the hallway. It quiets down.

  Gulnar puts away her embroidery. We fold our clean clothes. We’re settling in for the night when Ushi shows up for a rare visit. Until tonight she’s taken little interest in what we do on the third floor. She starts counting and ends up with her eyes on Mikray’s empty bunk. “Where’s that one?” she barks.

  “In the toilet,” I answer.

  She humphs. Leaves.

  “Is it all right if I turn out the light?” I ask. There are nods of agreement.

  A few minutes later I climb down. Pull my suitcase out from under the bunk. Remove most of my clothes, arrange them on the top bunk, and cover them with a sheet, so it looks as if a person is lying there asleep. I curl up on the lower bunk, facing th
e wall, and pull the sheet around my head.

  After it’s totally dark in the hallway, I hear a shuffle of feet. A beam of light passes over my body. Holds for a few seconds. Moves on. The feet shuffle away.

  Fourteen

  THERE ARE NOISES in the hallway. My eyes pop open. It’s daylight and I’m still in Mikray’s bed! I slide out and climb to the top bunk. I don’t know what Mikray’s done, where she is, but I know that if she’s caught, the authorities will take her away and she might never be heard from again.

  I won’t be taken down with her!

  But there’s someone in my bed. Mikray is sound asleep, smelling like kitchens and naan. I squeeze her arm hard. “Get in your own bed. Quickly,” I hiss.

  She springs up. “Okay, okay,” she whispers. “I’m going.” She avoids looking at me as she scrambles over the rail and settles on the lower bunk.

  She’s put my clothes into two neat piles. Hidden in one pile is a small round of naan in a paper wrapping. I can’t believe she did this and I didn’t wake up. Our bed squeaks when we move.

  I lie down and try to pretend nothing has happened, but it’s hard to pretend that ten pairs of eyes have not witnessed what just went on. I see some shaking of heads. It’s hard for anyone to understand what goes on in Mikray’s mind—​and in mine, too, since I was willing to risk my life covering for her. If Ahmat’s warning proves to be right, if there’s an informer among us, will she report Mikray or both of us?

  The noise in the hallway grows, and there’s a collective surge out of bed so that we can claim our space in the toilet room before the others take over. Mikray is sound asleep again, so I leave her on her own.

  It’s time to line up for breakfast. Mikray is still sleeping, and I want to leave her there—​let her get points for being late for work—​but I don’t. I shake her. “Time for breakfast. We have work today, you know,” I say, and leave.

  I ate the naan, every crumb of it, yet here I am. It seemed to make me hungrier than ever. I crave food, any food.

  Mikray’s at the back of the line when I pass with my scoop of watery porridge and go to our room to eat. I sit on her bunk because it would be odd if I didn’t. No one climbs to an upper bunk with food. When she comes to sit next to me, I take a good look at her. She pulls her forehead so tight that her brows almost meet and her eyes are scary, way beyond anger.

  I’m sorry I’ve been mean. I reach out, lay my hand on her shoulder. “Mikray, we must talk. I don’t know how we’ll do that, but we must find a time.” I whisper this in Uyghur. “Thank you for the naan. Will you be all right today?”

  She doesn’t answer, or look at me, but tears well in her eyes. Her hand goes up to cover mine, and I’m ashamed. My troubles are missing Ahmat and my family. I’m loved, pampered. Naïve. What has Mikray’s life been like?

  I’m waiting for the tap on my shoulder. Little Boss will come behind me. Tap. I’ll lay down my scissors and quietly follow her. Mikray might already be in Ushi’s office. If she’s not, it probably means they want to get my side of the story first so they can catch her in double lies, then give her double prison time—​or disappear her forever. I wonder how long they’ll disappear me for? Is my crime as bad as Mikray’s?

  At 250 blue pockets I’m still at the cutting table. To distract myself, I go through the list of Uyghur girls again, one by one, trying to decide who might be the traitor. I’m always left with Gulnar, but only because she stays aloof, always embroidering, pensive. I sense, though, that she suffers a deep sorrow and has no interest in betrayal. Perhaps it’s enough that forty-eight Chinese girls and little and big bosses are free to report our disloyalties and misdeeds any time they like, and Mikray was clever enough to escape unnoticed.

  My thoughts change when it’s announced that the “blue” job we just began will require overtime. That’s how Big Boss manages business, we’ve heard the Chinese girls say. He gets new customers by promising fast delivery and has no problem making people work until they get sick or find another job and leave. That must be why Ushi brought us here. Big Boss can count on us. We’re indentured for a year.

  When our year is up, will Ushi take us back home or say goodbye, good luck, and lock us out? Maybe they think the pretty, happy Uyghur girls love to cut and sew and iron so much they’ll stay and help make Big Boss wealthy.

  At my 267th front swing pocket, Jemile passes by. I nod, give her time to sign out, then write my name in Little Boss’s book and follow her. There’s no way to be sneaky about it; sooner or later Little Boss will pay attention. For now Jemile and I enjoy our allotted six minutes. We do our business, then stretch our fingers, massage each other’s hands.

  For some reason I look up—​and see something I’m sure wasn’t there before. There’s a little box high on the wall above the sink. It rotates slowly back and forth. It’s a surveillance camera. They’re recording everything we say and do in the toilet room.

  I shift so my back is to it and put my finger on my lips while I jabber away, saying any nonsense that comes into my mind. Between the jabber I whisper what I’ve seen. “Don’t look,” I warn her. “Don’t let them know we’ve seen it—​and there may be more all over. Okay,” I say in my normal voice, “one more stretch, then . . .” I stop, realizing I’m speaking Uyghur. “Back to work,” I say as cheerfully as I can in Mandarin. “More blue pockets.”

  We’ve been recorded speaking Uyghur. We’ve just lost a lot of points.

  And so much more.

  We’re already in prison! We’re locked in and they spy on us.

  Hey, poor Uyghur, wake up, that is enough sleep. . . .

  Stand up! I tell you. Raise your head, wake up from your dream.

  I’m haunted by this poem. Father knows the danger in passing on the songs and poems of our people. To be caught with this poem in your home is a crime. Why did he teach it to me?

  I’ve given up counting pockets. Now I watch people go to and come back from the toilet room. I can tell which ones have discovered the little black box. It’s not easy to cut perfect pockets and keep up with this distraction, but hopefully the challenge will help to keep me sane and awake. A toilet break is a big deal for us. Twice a day, if no one else is in the stalls, we’ve been speaking Uyghur. We’ve said things we shouldn’t. That’s all over now.

  It’s late afternoon when I see Mikray going to the sign-out desk. Please, Mikray, be careful, I say silently. I can’t follow her. I must save my second sign-out for Jemile.

  Finally, in the late-night supper line, I stand next to Mikray. We’re surrounded by our own kind. After checking for little black boxes rotating back and forth on the walls of the hallway and finding none, I tell Mikray about the surveillance device. Her upper lip tightens. She lowers her head, curls her hands into fists. After a moment she nods and looks up. “I didn’t know,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “Mikray, why did you sneak out? If I hadn’t helped you, you would have been caught.” I’m becoming expert at talking—​hissing—​with my teeth clenched so no one can tell I’m saying anything. My expression, too, is one of sweetness, like wasn’t it fun today, cutting a zillion pockets?

  She looks right at me now. Her question shows in her eyes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Ushi checked on us after curfew. You weren’t there. She came back after the lights were out. I thought she might. That’s why I was in your bed.” Every word brings me closer to explosion. “You could have gotten all of us into trouble. Especially me!”

  Mikray closes her eyes. She won’t let me look in. She turns and goes down the hall. I let her go. Let her go hungry if she wants to. I’m not willing to do that.

  It’s a long wait for food. By the time I get back to our room with my bowl, Mikray is curled up on her bed. Asleep? Maybe. I sit with Zuwida and Adile and Jemile.

  I get ready for bed and climb to my bunk. There is a note for me, in Uyghur.

  Roshen,

  Thank you for helping me. I had intended to return before curfew, but so
mething went wrong. I’ll have to leave again. I’ll know how to plan better next time. I have to get in touch with my mother, but I couldn’t contact her. That’s all I can say.

  Please tear this note up and flush it away. I don’t want anyone here to get in trouble for my sake.

  I hope I won’t need your help again.

  Mikray

  Fifteen

  THERE IS A HUGE BLACK CLOUD passing by our window that will soon deluge the earth with more rain and saturate our steam box of a room with more sogginess. “Unleash your winds, your thunder and lightning, almighty gods of black clouds!” I cry out—​in Mandarin. A few of the girls who aren’t too busy sweating and falling asleep over their bowls look at me and grin. And may your lightning strike dead the workmen in the toilet room, I mouth in Uyghur as I point across the hallway.

  Surveillance devices are being installed in the upstairs toilet room. We were given the privilege of observing the workmen with their wires and drills as we rushed into the room to relieve ourselves at the start of lunch break. There is still no sign of a device in our room, but we’ve decided there must be hidden microphones somewhere. We mostly speak Mandarin and only whisper or mouth Uyghur.

  Suddenly Ushi sweeps into our room and shuts the door, which we have been commanded to keep open always. I’m sure she heard what I just said and is about to exact punishment. All eyes swivel back and forth between Ushi and me.

  “We are being inspected by the company that is pur-chasing the coveralls we’re currently making,” Ushi says, her head stuck high in the air, her big mouth working. “They’re touring the factory floor and will be asking questions. You, however, are not to answer them.” She pauses and levels her eyes at us. “They’ve been told that you belong to a tribe that does not speak Mandarin. If any one of you answers or shows the slightest indication that you understand them, there will be consequences . . . you can’t begin to imagine.” She smiles. I’m certain it will be something more than points. “Do you understand?” She pauses again. No one says anything. She turns and leaves.