Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  When I finally stop gorging, I look around to see Mikray spitting out pits, licking her lips. She must have been as hungry as we were. Gulnar still has uneaten dates in her hand. She is eating them politely, one at a time. Our eyes meet; we all burst into laughter. A giddy, silly sound, and I marvel that we can still find such joy in a mouthful of dates.

  We ignore the time and the weather and celebrate with a small ceremony. The rain pelts down on us as we shove the pits over to the barren park and bury them in soft mud. “May the good people of this town someday—​a few years from now—​enjoy the dates they pick from the trees that will grow from the seeds we plant here today,” I say.

  “There’s more,” Mikray announces when we’re back huddled against the building. She opens a second bag and hands each of us a few walnuts. Hotan dates, and now Hotan walnuts! How has she made this happen?

  For a moment a vision of home flashes before me. I’m shuffling through fallen leaves on the lane beside the farm, picking up walnuts, sitting under the tree to eat them.

  “For our pockets,” Mikray says. “Let’s get out of here. Now. Run.”

  My vision disappears, and under the cover of one flimsy umbrella we dash through monsoon winds and rain into a maze of winding, narrow streets that lead back to our prison.

  Nineteen

  FOR TWO WEEKS we’ve been cutting through bolts of heavy brown cotton duck—​“fire resistant, for welding,” we’ve been told. It’s hard to cut. Production has slowed. Only half the sewing machines still work. Big Boss bought cheap machines that can’t handle the job, but he has ordered new ones. Until the new machines are brought in, sewing will be done in two twelve-hour shifts. No lunch or dinner break, but the next twelve hours to eat and sleep and recover. Cutting hours are divided into four six-hour shifts. We alternate shifts so our paralyzed hands have a chance to uncramp. Girls in finishing do twelve-hour shifts. Their ironing and packing job is easiest, so they’re expected to fill in when people keel over from exhaustion.

  There’s one good side to this order. September has become unseasonably warm. If it becomes so hot that the factory spontaneously bursts into flame, I can cover myself with fire-resistant material and try to escape. Also, by simple math, working twelve hours a day is better than working fifteen or sixteen or more, especially when you have no idea if you’ll ever be paid.

  It’s midafternoon when Ushi walks through, for once not paying much attention to us or lashing out at our laziness. She returns quickly, followed by Hawa. Hawa doesn’t seem distressed. In fact, she has a haughty look on her face as she walks down the aisle in her tall, elegant way. Finishing obviously doesn’t exact the same toll as cutting or sewing. She and Ushi disappear through the door, and I presume it’s not the toilet they’re going to. Hawa must be going on a special visit to the executive quarters.

  A while later Ushi returns—​alone—​and goes to the pink-haired girl, whose hair today is back to its normal pale purple. The girl works in cutting, but she stands too far away for me to overhear what is said. They leave too.

  I keep watching the door. None of them return.

  Nadia, the other Uyghur member of my cutting-crew shift, keeps looking at the door and then at me. I think she knows something about what’s happening and is bursting to tell. As the third member of the Hawa-Rayida trio, her role seems to be offering constant flattery and admiration to the other two. She’s the student of their self-importance.

  My shift ends at six o’clock, and because they no long­er bother to collect scissors, I drop mine midcut and rush to the bottom of the stairs, where Jemile will be waiting for me. It’s become our habit to meet for a quick hug and a few words as I leave my six-hour scissor shift and she begins hers. That means she has to wait for one of the Uyghur sewers or finishers to sign out for the toilet before she dares to go, but it has worked out.

  The stairs are clear now that the shifts have changed, except for Nadia, waiting for me. The stairs are a good place to talk. We haven’t found any electronic devices there, and with the different schedules, there are fewer people on the stairs at any one time.

  “Do you know what’s happening with Hawa?” I ask in Uyghur, keeping my voice low.

  “No. Not really,” Nadia says, and lets her face collapse. What I thought was eagerness to tell was apparently anxiety. “She said she had some kind of special arrangement, but I don’t know what it is. Do you think she’s all right?”

  “I hope so, Nadia. She appears quite able to take care of herself.”

  We’re totally alone on the stairs. I risk another few minutes, although we’ve become paranoid about being discovered; little bosses sometimes monitor shift changes. I whisper another question. “The Chinese girl who was with you on your day off—​why did Ushi take her from the room too? What do you know about her?”

  “Her name is Quin Fong. She’s from a city near here. Knows a lot of places to go, like the right shops for clothes and the kind of shoes we all like. She’s nice,” Nadia says, flipping her hair around in that awkward way she has when she tries to imitate Rayida.

  “Yeah. Good,” I say as I turn and make my way up the stairs.

  “Ushi arranged for her to go with us. We had a fun day,” Nadia says, trailing my steps.

  “Oh?” I stop. “Ushi arranged it?” I look at Nadia, who still has a had a fun day expression on her face. She nods, still happy. Oblivious. Ushi arranged for their “fun day,” gave them umbrellas so they wouldn’t get wet. She does nothing out of kindness. What does she want from them? From Hawa?

  “Let’s go eat,” I say. “I’m hungry and tired.” I don’t tell her there’s a hollow feeling inside me. Something more than fun is happening. I’m certain it’s Big Boss, not Ushi, who has a special interest in Hawa.

  There’s a lot of activity on the sleeping floor as girls get ready for the seven o’clock night shift and those just released line up for the toilet and then for food.

  I get my food and sit on Mikray’s bunk to eat, wishing she were here. With different working shifts we have little awake time together.

  In our room it’s quieter than usual. The mystery of Hawa’s exit has been talked out; there are now only stolen glances at Nadia sitting alone on Hawa’s bunk. Many shrugged shoulders.

  When we have finished eating, Nadia and I go together to wash our bowls, fill them with hot water, and bring them back to the room. We’ve learned that it helps to soak our hands for a few minutes and then massage them. Our fingers will be less stiff when we go down at midnight for our next shift.

  I’m methodically rubbing my palm when there’s an eruption of squeals and Mandarin jabber in the hallway. This kind of outburst is usually caused by something trivial, such as a change of hair color. I pay little attention until the noise travels to our door and Hawa walks in. Actually, I think her intent was to sweep in, but her entrance doesn’t quite have that kind of flair. Nor does she make eye contact with anyone.

  Shopping bags dangle from her arms. She’s wearing an outfit I’ve never seen before. A filmy loose top with a wide, low neck and puffy short sleeves falls nearly to the bottom of her short black skirt, which barely covers her. It definitely shows off her beautiful long legs and the strappy black shoes with ridiculous high heels she’s teetering on.

  She goes to her bunk and deposits her packages next to Nadia, who sits there holding her bowl of hot water, gaping.

  “What’s happening, Hawa?” Nadia whines. “I was so worried.”

  “No reason to be,” Hawa says, reaching under her bunk and pulling out her bag. She begins gathering her few belongings and throwing them in. “It’s what was agreed upon when my father signed me up. He wouldn’t have let me come without the prospect of a job that would help build my career.” She doesn’t look at Nadia when she says this, busily untying the mirror she had attached to a rail. “I’m finally getting what was promised. I’m to help Boss Lee.” She unwinds the scarf she used to decorate the bunk post and throws it into her bag.

>   “Come on, Kitten,” a voice says from the door. It’s the Chinese girl with the pale purple hair. “They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

  My eyes follow every move of “Kitten” as she turns to leave our room, weighed down with her packages and traveling bag. The pale purple–haired Chinese girl, Quin Fong, does not move to help her, and perhaps the rest of us in the room are too stunned to think to offer—​or there is something in her bearing that tells us to leave her alone. Not arrogance exactly. More like determination. Fierce determination.

  For an instant she lets our eyes meet, and I see a look that stings my heart. “Hawa!” I cry. I reach out to her.

  She throws her head back with a shake that means stay away and passes into the hallway.

  Twenty

  I LEAN AGAINST the rails of my bed, bewildered by what just happened. I know now that Hawa is scared to death. It might have been easy for her to change from Hawargul to Hawa, but the change from Hawa to Kitten might not be her choice. Uyghur girls are not called Kitten; Chinese girls are.

  I crawl to my upper bunk, trying to get as far away from Nadia’s wails as possible. I have no comfort to offer her. I tell myself I must sleep to be ready for the midnight shift, but sleep won’t come. Maybe Hawa is right, and very brave, and really will be trained and learn skills that will help her to run a business when she gets back home. I’m resigned to letting a year of my life go unlived while my brain becomes soft, my skills rusty.

  I’m the coward. Letting them win. I write my poet’s poems in my notebook and ignore what they say. Hey, poor Uyghur, wake up, you have slept long enough. You have nothing. What is now at stake is your very life. The message is clear. Nothing can be gained by wallowing in self-pity.

  And when I wake up—​when I’m alive again—​what will I do? I don’t want to be called Kitten.

  I have no time to think about my question. The seven o’clock shift bursts into the room. They learned about Hawa on the stairway as the shifts changed places.

  “Are you sleeping?” Mikray asks, even though she’s looking right at me sitting on my bunk with my eyes open.

  “Probably not,” I say, and can’t help but smile at the absurdity of everything.

  “I didn’t like her, but I don’t think it’s a good thing that just happened. I’m going for food. Come down when I get back,” she says, and leaves.

  I’m an observer now. Nadia and Rayida weep and flail around like lost lambs. I notice that Rayida has already claimed Hawa’s bunk, which is closer to the window, and tied her scarf around the post.

  I’m on Mikray’s bunk when she returns. I’ve brought my pen and notebook and keep writing while she eats and washes her bowl. When she’s beside me again, I pass my notebook to her. “Do you know who wrote this line?”

  “Yes, I do,” she says. “I know the next line too.” She grabs the pen and writes, Cut off the head of your enemy, spill his blood! She uses my pen as if it’s the handle of the rivet machine, pounding big black letters into the paper.

  I take back my notebook and the pen—​which I’m lucky she hasn’t broken—​and rip the page out. “You have to eat this one,” I say, handing it to her.

  Mikray crumples the paper and stuffs it into her mouth, chewing as if she were savoring the sweetness of a Hotan date.

  She reaches under her sheet for her pad and pencil, but I write another note and pass it to her before she can write anything. You can’t sneak out again. It’s too dangerous. With the factory going day and night there’s no good time. I write in tiny letters. I’ll eat this one.

  She reads it. I pull my notebook back, rip off the corner where I’ve written, and stuff the paper into my mouth. Mikray holds her pencil, but she doesn’t write. I think I’ve guessed right about what she was going to say.

  Mikray curls her feet under her, leans back. “When do you think we might get back to our old schedule?” she asks.

  “There are bolts and bolts of the heavy stuff stacked against the wall for us to cut. Maybe another two weeks, unless Big Boss gets the new machines. Even then, I don’t think we can cut any faster, but I’m sure he’ll make us try.”

  I lean closer. “There’s talk on the stairs about finding new jobs. The girls don’t think any money is going to be made on this order. Many are ready to leave. What have you heard?”

  Mikray drops her head for a moment, then picks up her pad. Chen is ready to quit. They’re working him around the clock, she writes. Big Boss is a madman. She rips off her note and stuffs it in her pocket. A treat for later.

  Be wise, Mikray. Be cautious. Someone is always in the hallways. I show her what I’ve written. She arches her eyebrows. “Wise.” “Cautious.” These are words she does not know. Will I forget them too if I ever “wake up”?

  I’ve been sleepless for at least nineteen hours. No way could anyone in our room sleep. Now it’s midnight and here I am, cutting, cutting, cutting until there’s no connection left between my body and my hand. I’m muttering—​sleep-deprived grousing with every curse word I know in Uyghur and was never allowed to use.

  Hey, Big Boss. Tell Hawa to bring me some energy tea. I’d like to shout the words, but I don’t. Where’s my drug? I’d drink it this morning—​at least I think it’s almost morning. It has to be.

  I give myself little goals. Five more pockets. I can still count, I just can’t keep my eyelids open long enough to see what I’m counting. My Chinese fellow cutters have solved this. They pinch their eyelids with clothespins to keep them open. Maybe I could borrow some cute little blue plastic clothespins from the seven-to-seven shifters. They’re getting so much sleep now, they don’t need them. Only the cutters are still sleep-deprived.

  I’m drifting, but somehow the clip-clop of shoes getting closer and closer breaks through to my consciousness. Little Boss has spotted me and is on her way. She’s a different little boss than usual—​very large and very mean. She pokes us with a rod when she catches us slipping into dreamland. It’s effective. I wake up enough to get my hand moving just by hearing her coming. No quick crrrunch, release to my scissors, more like grrrrrunt, pry the scissor blades apart and push down again, but I’m working. Counting. She stands behind me for a while, then spots someone else and moves on.

  At six o’clock I crawl up the stairs, climb to my bunk, and collapse. Clothes still on. No breakfast. Only sleep is of interest. A few hours of oblivion.

  “Have a good sleep, Roshen,” I hear Mikray say with a gentleness in her voice that soothes my way into nothingness.

  “Okay, everyone. Out! Off your beds. Into the hallway. I’ve been told you have things here I might be interested in knowing about. So I’m doing a little inspection.” It’s Ushi’s voice. I turn over, see her standing in the middle of our room, shouting. Have I missed my shift? I blink to clear my eyes, look at the clock. It’s only ten.

  “Come on. Out. Don’t bring anything with you.” Ushi’s not alone. One of the kitchen help is with her, also Chen, who stands there holding a cardboard box. His slumped body suggests he’d rather not be here, and I think better of him for that. He does us the favor of looking at the floor.

  Except for me, who fell asleep with my clothes on, the girls who aren’t downstairs working are scantily dressed. They pick up whatever they can find to cover themselves. “Oh no,” Ushi says, grabbing a towel from Nadia and throwing it back on her bunk. “Do you think your bodies are so special we can’t look at them? You’re no different from the rest of us. Get going.”

  We follow Ushi’s orders and file out the door. I stand as wide and protective as I can with the girls huddled behind me. The Chinese girls gather in the hallway to see what Ushi’s hollering about, either giggling or sneering. They all but shout, Disrobed Uyghurs on display.

  “Have we done something bad?” someone whispers. “Ushi never checks our room.”

  No one answers. I have no answer.

  We hear Ushi barking orders through the closed door. “Open the bags,” she says, and then we
hear thuds, things being thrown around.

  Ushi laughs. “Let’s take their scarves. They’re not going to need them for a long time. Punishment for thinking they deserve special treatment.” She laughs some more, but she laughs alone.

  After what seems an eternity, Ushi leads the procession out of our room. Passes us as if we didn’t exist. The kitchen woman follows, carrying the box, which is heaped high with our belongings. Mikray’s friend has Zuwida’s mattress slung over his shoulder, her pillow clutched in his hand.

  We move back into our room. I want to sit on Mikray’s bed and cry, but I don’t. Our bags have been turned upside down, the contents spilled onto the floor. I quickly grab Mikray’s and my things and stuff them back into the bags before they’re trampled on. I don’t take inventory, but my scarf is gone. Ushi was careful to see to that.

  I sit, watching the others collect their things, some taking time to be neat. Rayida is fingering the empty post where she had wrapped her scarf.

  I try not to think about my notebook. I don’t keep it in my bag, but it was barely hidden. There’s a chance they might have overlooked it. As I stand to check, a horrible thought comes to me. My necklace. I don’t feel it. I don’t remember taking it off, but I’ve been so sleepy. Slowly I let my hand creep up my body until my fingers touch it. I gasp as I clutch the jade. It’s sacred to me. My only connection to Ahmat.

  When my heart stops pounding, I pull back the sheet that covers my plywood bed. My notebook is gone, and my pen. My notebook, which I was slowly filling with the poems of my poets and my own attempts to turn my feelings of loneliness for Ahmat and my family into poetry, taken from me. Gone, except for the poems I keep in my head and heart. How long will I remember the words I’ve written—​the words I’ve cut, stitched, and ironed into my memory?