I hope Ushi will never know their meaning.
I check Mikray’s space for her pad and pencil. They’re both there, hidden alongside her orange and blue flowered scarf, which is neatly folded. I smile. Chen would know it was hers. We wore our scarves on our day off, when she was with him. I gain respect and trust for him, some of my faith in human kindness restored.
But there is an enemy among us. Someone who knew that Zuwida had a mattress and pillow. Someone who could gain favor by reporting this special treatment. Would Hawa so quickly betray Zuwida? She knew everything about the mattress and the teas. Hawa could easily have reported that someone was helping her. Is that why they raided the room? To punish us for this act of kindness shown to an undesirable?
Hawa has seen me write in my notebook many times. Did she tell them they might get good information by taking that, too? They wouldn’t be able to read the Uyghur, but Hawa can. Will she decide how many points I get for all those Uyghur words? Then read Ushi the words of treason I’ve written down so they can send me away for reeducation?
Is Hawa the traitor? Would she do that?
I can’t forget the look on her face as she left our room.
Twenty-One
I HAVE LITTLE MEMORY of working from noon until six o’clock. I did see Zuwida. She came to the exit door to sign out for the toilet. She was calm. She obviously knew nothing of what had happened upstairs earlier. Nadia and I were the only Uyghur girls who knew, and neither of us made a move to follow her and tell her. It was not a message to be recorded. The Chinese girls in cutting who knew about the raid would have no idea it was Zuwida’s mattress and pillow that were removed. Even if they did, they wouldn’t waste a toilet break to tell her.
I’m glum when I walk into our room after my shift. I hate the way they’ve separated us with different times for working and sleeping and eating. Today seems worse than ever. We need one another. We need to be together.
It isn’t a good night. Cook doesn’t have the food ready. Those going to work at seven holler at her. For the first time ever, Chen is in the kitchen helping—looking unhappy and out of place there, too. I stand-sleep in line, finally get food, eat as much as I can of the garbage, and curl up on Mikray’s bunk to wait. Zuwida will be told what happened as she passes the girls going down to work the night shift. A few of us will be waiting for her in the room.
The wisp that is our Zuwida stands in the doorway, looking stronger than when we met her, but still fragile. Her lips, which have learned to laugh, hang limp and trembling. Her big black eyes—no longer sunk into her face—are open and alive, and filled with confusion. She goes to her bunk, falls to her knees, and crawls under the bed, her arms, hands, sweeping the floor.
She crawls back out. Her hands still. “It’s gone,” she whispers.
Adile’s arms enfold her. “The thermos?”
Zuwida nods.
“Who does this for you? Who’s helping you? Please tell me,” Adile pleads. “I’ll find them. We’ll work out a new, secret way.”
Zuwida pinches her lips together as she violently shakes her head no.
“Okay,” Adile says. “If you won’t tell, we’ll go for food while they’re still serving. You will eat and stay healthy.”
It seems unlikely Zuwida will even make it off the floor, much less to the food line, but I go to her other side, and together Adile and I lift her up. Someone hands her a bowl and off we go. A hush surrounds us as we stand in line, maybe something like pity flowing from our Chinese coworkers.
“Don’t make me do this,” Zuwida pleads. “Let me go back. Please. I can’t be here.” She struggles to pull away with more strength than I expect, but Nurse Adile insists she eat, and the rules won’t allow us to fill a bowl and take it to her.
I force Zuwida’s arm toward the cook who is ladling the slops.
Cook thrusts the ladle toward her. Then halts. “You,” she sneers. “You’re the helpless urchin who disrupted my kitchen. I hope you choke on this.” She splashes the food into Zuwida’s bowl, which I’m holding in one hand while the other holds Zuwida up—until she slips away and runs to our room.
She’s squeezed into a little ball of flesh in the corner of her plywood bunk by the time any of us catch up with her. “Was she there? Was she?” she moans.
“Who, Zuwida? Was who there?” Adile lays a firm hand on her shoulder.
“The other cook,” she whispers. “She’s the one who helps me. Her teas . . . they strengthen my lungs . . . help me breathe. She gave me extra food.” Zuwida hides her face with her hands as she seems to sink further into her plywood bed. “She was afraid she’d get caught . . . with so many around.” Her big eyes, no longer confused but frightened, peep through her fingers. “Was she there?”
The answer, of course, is no. Now I know why Mikray’s friend was called in. Why our food was late, the kitchen in disarray. One of the cooks cared for Zuwida when we first came and she was ill and alone in the room. The teas in the thermos under the bed were the medicines that saved her life.
That will be no more. There’s little doubt that the other cook has been fired.
“Who is the traitor?” I ask Mikray when I go back to our bunk. She sits quietly, stroking her scarf, which she has discovered carefully hidden under the sheet.
“Hawa, I suppose. That seems almost too obvious.” She pauses, glances around the room. “It’s getting dangerous here,” she says in a voice I can hardly hear.
I look at her. I’m not sure of her meaning, of what she knows.
Meet me at the top of the stairs in a few minutes, she writes. She picks up her empty food bowl and heads toward the toilet. After a while I leave too. When the hallway is empty, I go through the stairway door and find her standing against the wall, in a shadow.
“I’m going to be leaving,” Mikray says. “I don’t know when, but I will be. Soon, I think.”
I want to shout no. I can’t think of being here without her. I force myself to stay calm.
“My father was a merchant and part of the resistance against communist rule. He wanted Uyghurs to have a voice in their own governance.” Our heads are so close, I feel her spit on my face when she speaks. “He wouldn’t let the police into our house without a permit . . . and now he’s gone. Everything’s gone. Forever. My brother escaped. My mother went into hiding. I tried to keep our business going, but the government forced me to come here.”
Mikray’s hand squeezes my arm. The quieter her voice, the more urgently she grasps my arm. “The man who sells dates is Uyghur, from Hotan.” Mikray pulls her face away. Her eyes meet mine. “You must meet him. Know who he is. He’s a good man.”
Our eyes hold for a moment as I nod. If any softness comes over her face, it’s quickly replaced by her fierceness as she leans in again. “His suppliers in Hotan have found my mother. She has news from my brother. He escaped to Uzbekistan and wants us to join him. My mother has safe passage. I don’t. And I’m being watched. I know it. There’s a traitor here—more dangerous than Hawa, only I don’t know who it is.”
“But if you escape and are caught—you’ve heard the stories, Mikray. We all have. They’ll kill you. Cut your organs out while you’re still alive so they can sell them. They do horrible things.”
“Wake up, Roshen. Wake up! I won’t sit here and let them spill my blood. They’ve taken my father. It’s my turn to spill their blood, somehow, from somewhere. Not from inside this factory.”
Mikray’s voice is too loud. I press my hand over hers. Still her for a moment.
“Just know this,” she says more calmly. “You will find my bed empty. Do nothing. I may return. But then—someday—I’ll be gone. You are to have no knowledge of this, of me, of my family, of my plans. They may try to force you, but stay innocent of anything to do with me, no matter what they do.”
Now our hands pile up, one on top of the other as we cling together.
“I love you, Roshen. I wish we might have been friends in a diff
erent world.”
She tries to pull her hands away, but I can’t release her.
“You must let me go. I’m not good for our people here. It’s you they need. And maybe, someday . . .” She pauses. Her forehead tightens as her eyes bore into mine. “Maybe you’ll turn our stories into poems for the world to know.”
And then she’s gone. I wait a few minutes and peek into the hallway. When it’s clear, I go to our room, crawl to my bunk, and hope for sleep.
Twenty-Two
“STRAIGHTEN YOUR PILES,” Little Boss scolds, her probe stick tapping the floor, the worktables, us. Anything in her path. “At least try to look alive,” she says as she stops in front of one of the Chinese girls and holds out her hand. The girl removes the clothespins that hold her eyes open and hands them over. Little Boss goes around collecting clothespins. Something important must be happening today. Usually she tolerates things that help us work.
I’ve been in dreamland, which is seldom a pleasant place to be. Mikray is always leaving—speeding away on a motorcycle. I run to catch up with her, but I can’t. I keep trying, trudging through floodwaters that get deeper and deeper, trying to follow, trying to reach her, but I never make it.
Stay awake, Roshen, I tell myself. At least I’m conscious enough to know that I’m still here, and so is Mikray. We still work in our shifts around the clock. Three weeks have passed and she hasn’t snuck out. I’m grateful for that, even though I know her being here is not necessarily a good sign for her. We don’t speak about it.
A rod hits my shoulder. “You’re working slower than a snail,” Little Boss says. “We’re not paying you to sleep on the job.”
A strangled sound escapes my lips. It could be a laugh. Doesn’t she know what a fool she is? If you’re being paid, you actually get money.
She hits me again. She knows it was a laugh.
“I’m awake,” I say. “Thank you for hitting me to remind me of my duty.”
She humphs and walks away, apparently not caring that I delivered these words in the most disrespectful voice I could find.
I watch Zuwida go up to the toilet sign-out. She’s apparently told she can’t leave. She heads back, a distressed but brave look on her face. Zuwida seems to be doing all right. I wonder if she might be the one person who is better off at the factory than she was at home. Here she’s surrounded and cared for by so many. Hopefully the healing teas she was given have restored her body and will help carry her through. Cook treats her badly, but I have more than once seen Adile switch bowls with her when they get back to the room. Zuwida sleeps away most of her twelve-hour break, which I’m sure is good for her. Her sleep seems almost peaceful.
I know no such sleep. When I can finally steal a few hours, heavy brown fire-resistant cotton duck coveralls invade my dreams, dancing around me in a fiery hell that seems only too real. There has to be an end to this order! I begin to wonder if I’ll ever be able to hold a pen again in my crippled, spasmed hand.
And then we find out why we’re getting special attention from Little Boss. Big Boss struts in with two slick-looking Chinese men dressed in suits and ties, their hair oiled back from their faces. Ushi is not with them. Hawa is. We’ve wondered what happened to her. Now we know. She’s still “Kitten.” She follows behind them in a new outfit, as short and skimpy as before.
The group is near enough that I hear Big Boss trying to explain how difficult it is to work with the material, why it’s taking more time than he promised.
“We paid you for a rush order. You charged us. We paid in advance. Now you don’t deliver,” one man says, gesturing with his arm in disgust.
The other man points to the bolts of material lined against the wall. “All that. Yet to be cut and processed. Why didn’t you at least warn us if you couldn’t deliver? It’s pretty late to be telling us that now.”
Big Boss looks stricken as the men move aside for a private conversation. I see him look at Hawa with annoyance. Apparently she was brought along to distract them, and it’s obviously not working. I’m sure he wishes he’d brought Ushi instead. She has her ways of making things happen.
I’m watching Hawa, wondering if I can find any compassion or sympathy for her, standing there in her cute little outfit, looking out of place and rather miserable. It’s then that I see a miraculous transformation—a performance that would win accolades on any stage or screen. She becomes taller, older. No longer seventeen, but twenty-seven. And imperious. Cold, calculating, and invincible.
She picks up a leg piece from one of the cut piles and walks to the men. “Honorable sirs,” she says in a voice strong enough to command the whole factory, “you chose remarkable material. It will protect your workers well, but it is difficult to work with.” She holds the piece out in front of her. Pulls on it, demonstrating its firmness. She encourages them to touch it, to test it. “It is difficult to cut. We have had to limit the time of our excellent cutters so they can rest their hands. To rush them would have resulted in second-rate work, and we will not compromise the quality of our product.”
Hawa has their attention. They are now holding the leg between them. Pulling on it. Seeing that it is firm. Impossible to cut! I want to holler out, but don’t. They nod, purse their lips as if in agreement, and return the leg to her—and perhaps for the first time actually look at her. She is quite untouchable. Right now she owns the factory. I look over at Big Boss, who stands there sweating. His hands are hovering, as if he should do something but has no idea what.
“Then, honorable sirs,” Hawa goes on, “unfortunately the sewing machines that we had—that have turned out such satisfactory work in the past—were not able to handle the density of this material.” Again she holds the leg out in front of them. “Production was slowed until Mr. Lee installed his new, top-of-the-line machines, which now easily accommodate the task.” Hawa backs away slightly. Her quick glance at Boss Lee somehow gets him trotting over to join the group.
“Yes, yes,” he says as he holds a low bow, which I’m sure he feels shows his great humility. When he bobs up he has that hideous look of controlled geniality on his face. “In one week,” he continues, “we will absolutely have this order finished and on its way to you. I apologize deeply for any inconvenience this has caused. I know you will be very pleased with the product we deliver to you.” He bows again, deeply.
The two men more or less shrug. What else can they do? Big Boss already has their money, and they need the coveralls. They don’t bow back, which I think is not a good sign.
“Perhaps, Mr. Lee, since the honorable sirs now understand the situation, it would be best to get away from the heat of the factory floor.” Hawa is still imperious. Still in charge. “I will see that samples of the finished coveralls are brought to the office for them to examine.”
“A fine idea,” Big Boss says, bowing and bobbing. “Yes, and we can talk further about this at my club. I believe you will find that an enjoyable place to discuss the matter.”
The two men are now looking at Hawa, not Big Boss. “Will your charming assistant be joining us?” one of the men asks.
“Oh yes,” Big Boss answers quickly.
And I look on in astonishment as Hawa transforms herself again from the haughty, untouchable princess into a cute little kitten.
Twenty-Three
I SEE HER FIRST. “Don’t look now, but the dyed-haired shopper friend of Hawa’s is lurking around the corner. I’m sure she’s spying on us.” Mikray and Gulnar walk beside me in the warren of streets across from the factory. We don’t change pace, but Mikray leads us in another direction—away from the black café.
“Let’s take Quin Fong on a shopping tour. What shall we buy today?” Mikray asks.
Neither Gulnar nor I answer. We came with only one thing on our minds—to get to the café. The little money we have will buy precious time on a computer. Even if we were paid, that’s the only thing we would be interested in.
“We could look at food,” I say. �
�I’d consider buying some if I had money.”
We pass the video shop and racks of cheap blouses and plastic shoes. We can’t even make ourselves stop and pretend to buy.
“Tea would be nice,” Gulnar says, and I can almost hear the tears in her voice. Finally, after endless weeks of grueling work with fire-resistant duck, Big Boss has given us time off. Our day will be ruined if we’re followed.
“If I remember right, we’re near the park. Just a couple more turns,” Mikray says in a loud voice. She pulls at the sleeves of our blouses. Draws us nearer to her. “Don’t say anything you don’t want her to hear,” she whispers. “She’s following more closely, more openly. I don’t think she knows we’ve seen her.”
We stroll casually as if we’re enjoying the sun, which we are. It’s a lovely October day.
There are men in the park, clustered around two players who sit on foldout stools, bent over an old wooden game board. An unused board sits on top of a crate under the tree.
“How about a game of xiangqi?” Mikray says as she leads us to the tree.
“I don’t know how to play,” I say.
“I don’t either,” Gulnar echoes.
“I’ll teach you, only it’s best we don’t move the pieces. Someone may be in the middle of a game, and interfering is a serious offense.” We squat around the deserted board, Mikray positioning herself so she’s facing the direction we just came from. “Our follower is trying to hide among the women shopping for rice and wilted vegetables, only she’s far too pale‑purple colored and frilly to blend in.” Mikray frowns as her eyes focus back on the board. “You may have a long lesson. Our spy can’t seem to decide what rice to buy.
“So, getting back to the game of xiangqi, what we want to do here is to get rid of our enemy’s general and then the game is over. But, as you can see, the red army is already winning, having captured most of the black army’s cannons and chariots and horses. Here we are, lowly black soldiers, and at the moment I don’t have a plan for the next move. Do you?” Mikray’s lips are drawn tight against her teeth as she says this.
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