The Beloved Daughter

by Alana Terry

  Soon, Mother stopped waiting in the food line for our mealtime rations. To keep us both from starving, I had to take over that responsibility in addition to my schoolwork and camp chores. It was in the queue for our meager daily meal when I first spoke with Mrs. Kan. She and I exchanged smiles or sympathetic glances on occasion, and I knew that she was one of the members of Mother’s fifty-worker unit in the furniture factory. I never learned why Mrs. Kan was imprisoned with us, or how it was that she lived in one of the family units when I never saw a husband or children with her.

  That night when I got to the food line, Mrs. Kan was already there, standing apart from the other prisoners and holding some small twigs that prisoners sometimes picked for firewood. As soon as I reached my place in line, she slipped in behind me. After clearing her throat, Mrs. Kan stumbled and dropped the pile of sticks. I knelt down and helped Mrs. Kan pick them up.

  “Your mother is sick,” Mrs. Kan whispered as we both crouched in the dirt. I looked around, wondering at first if these morbid words were indeed intended for me.

  Mrs. Kan grabbed the firewood from me, and while we continued to kneel by the other prisoners in the food line, she told me in a hushed voice what the guards had been doing to Mother for the past several weeks. It shames me, beloved daughter, to tell you that instead of pitying Mother, I felt embarrassed that she would endure such torment silently. I was ashamed and angry that she didn’t fight back.

  “She won’t live long like this,” Mrs. Kan concluded.

  “What should I do?” I pressed, but Mrs. Kan shook her head and stood up, wiping the dirt from her prison uniform. Perhaps Mrs. Kan already risked enough for me and my mother. If anyone saw us speaking together, Mrs. Kan would be reported at that evening’s self-criticism session. Secret conversations between prisoners were forbidden almost as vehemently as sexual relations between the men and women. It was the only way the National Security agents could protect themselves against us prisoners. We outnumbered our captors fifty to one, but where there is no opportunity to communicate, there is no chance to revolt.

  I returned from the food line that night, set Mother’s ration before her, and tried to make her eat. Mother didn’t even glance at her bowl of grains before she left for her self-criticism session. When her food remained untouched after she crawled back to our hut and went to bed, I snuck by her mat and ate her meal surreptitiously in the far corner of our cabin. The gruel made my stomach churn. I knew Mother needed the nourishment, but if she refused to eat it, should I let it go to waste when I was starving as well?

  In my heart, I knew that Mrs. Kan was right. Mother hadn’t touched her food in several days, and although she presented herself to her mandatory shift at the furniture factory and dragged herself to her nightly self-criticism sessions, she was already more dead than alive. The past six weeks had been so full of chaos and horror that I couldn’t articulate when the last flicker of light from Mother’s soul was finally snuffed out. Was it the night the soldiers burst in our cabin and carried me away, or just a few hours later when Mother denied her faith before the scar-faced interrogator? Or could it be when Mother learned about Father’s final undoing once I was released from the underground detainment center at Camp 22?

  The day after my conversation with Mrs. Kan, I woke up for school and couldn’t make Mother get off the floor. I probably would have left her there if I hadn’t been so terrified that I might also be punished for her tardiness at the factory. I pleaded with Mother and even tried to physically pull her up from her straw mat, but she wouldn’t move. She stared unblinking at the wall and refused to respond to my protests. I had to go to school, so I left Mother, certain that the guards would come after her and take her away. I was living in such a primitive state of survival by then that my biggest fear was being punished for Mother’s truancy. After class, I hurried home, holding my breath when I stepped into our hut. Mother was still there, in the exact position she was in when I left her. She hadn’t even gotten up to relieve herself but instead urinated on the straw mat where she was lying.

  I was so humiliated to see my mother in such a condition that I wanted to shake her until some spark of life or recognition lit up her void expression. I confess to you, beloved daughter, that I was more angry at Mother and scared that I might be punished for her laziness than I was hurt to see her so broken. There were no doctors I could take her to, or even a neighbor who might help. Mrs. Kan was probably the closest thing Mother had to a friend, and Mrs. Kan already took a great risk by speaking to me in the food line. I couldn’t expect any further help from her. Mother was completely alone. Even I couldn’t do anything for her.

  The next morning I begged Mother to get up again. I screamed in frustration when she wouldn’t even open her lips to drink the water I tried to drip into her mouth. But then again, like the previous day, the time came for me to leave for school, and this morning I was certain the guards wouldn’t ignore Mother’s absence in the factory line.

  Just as I suspected, when I came home that afternoon, Mother was gone. I waited all evening in our dark hut, wondering what happened to children in the camp whose parents were too sick to work. I stayed awake most of the night, blaming myself for Mother’s condition. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her the full truth about Father. Wouldn’t a lie be more merciful than reality? I didn’t know where Mother was, but if she survived, she would probably remain unable to work. What could be expected from a woman who refuses to eat or drink or even roll off of her makeshift bed to relieve herself?

  The following morning, my teacher announced in front of my entire middle-school class, “Song Chung-Cha is the daughter of a stupid, slothful prisoner who was too lazy to get up and complete her duties for two days in a row.” I was made to stand exposed in front of the class while my teacher repeatedly struck my bare bottom with a wooden plank. After this humiliation to punish me for my mother’s grave misdeeds, my teacher announced, “Your mother is dead.” I never learned if Mother was taken to the camp hospital to die, or if the guards somehow sped up the inevitable process. I was not surprised, nor do I remember feeling a great sense of loss. Mother had given up living a lot earlier.

  From that day on, I stayed in the dorms, where girls ranging in age from eight to about nineteen all slept on the floor, head to toe, toe to head, shoulder to shoulder. Because we were only allowed to use the toilets twice a day, the dorm always smelled like urine and waste. Even though I was exhausted by the end of the day, it was hard to sleep on account of the stench. The older girls were not allowed the luxury of sanitary rags, and so their flow spilled onto the floor below us, dried on their legs, and added to the filth and squalor.

  Mee-Kyong, who had lived in the dorms for a while by then, readily shared with me all of her survival secrets accumulated during her years of camp life. Always careful to ensure that nobody else was looking, Mee-Kyong demonstrated how to hunt for frogs, how to swallow a live cricket, and how to eat the meat from a raw rat. Prisoners were brutally beaten or even killed for consuming anything other than the allotted camp rations, but we would die if we didn’t somehow supplement our daily handful of gruel. Many a fight broke out, even amongst us young girls, over who was the first to spot one of the scarce insects or rodents that were hunted illegally in the camp.

  During my survival education as a prisoner at Camp 22, I also learned about some other ways to get by as a female prisoner. In the camp, there were favors girls could offer the guards that would ensure relative peace and comfort, including some extra food. By the time I graduated from the Camp 22 middle school, I was acutely aware of the forbidden liaisons that existed between the young female prisoners and our male captors. This overly sensual atmosphere, in spite of our squalid and primitive lifestyle, was especially noticeable in the garment factory where the prettiest girls and the most vigorous guards were sent by some unspoken rule of the camp. I was not all that surprised to find that it was the girls who were often the aggressors, practically forcing the guards to sleep with t
hem and then demanding an extra ration of food or a blanket to cover with on the cold winter nights.

  I managed until now to get through my torture under Agent Lee in the detainment center and my first two years working in the garment factory with my purity intact. But that didn’t blind me to the illicit activities that went on in the guards’ offices in back of the factory. I had known for a while about my friend Mee-Kyong’s association with a fiery-tempered Agent Pang. I once tried warning Mee-Kyong about him, but my unsolicited advice only made her angry. She refused to talk to me for a week. And now, as we worked side by side in the fabric-cutting line, Mee-Kyong whispered in my ear about the comrade who shared an office in the back corridor with her lover.

  “Officer Yeong told Agent Pang that he wanted to find a nice young prisoner to take his old office maid’s place.” The role of office maid in the garment factory was a legitimate title for a few select female prisoners, but in reality the job description was hardly any different than that of a prostitute.

  “You can’t get involved with Officer Yeong. Agent Pang would kill you both,” I added, with more seriousness than jest. I knew that if another man even walked by Mee-Kyong in the cutting line, she had to spend her entire lunch break appeasing Agent Pang’s jealous wrath with every ounce of feminine charm she could muster. Even so, Mee-Kyong usually ended up with a new bruise or two after the encounter was over.

  Mee-Kyong pretended to smile, but her eyes wandered to the back hallway where her lover worked. “Actually,” Mee-Kyong admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, “I was thinking about recommending you.”

  I pretended to act surprised. “Me?” As a matter of fact, I kept trying to work up the nerve to ask Mee-Kyong to show me how to get the attention of a young guard. I was nearly seventeen years old, with no hope of ever leaving Camp 22. In the dorms I could easily point out the girls who were sleeping with the guards because their ribs didn’t protrude quite as much from their sides, and their cheekbones were not quite as hollow as the rest of ours. Often they had blankets, and some wore new underclothes. One brazen prisoner even boasted of the bath she took with her lover. For those of us who were only allowed to shower twice a year, her lifestyle seemed luxurious indeed. Unfortunately, a few weeks later she disappeared, two days after she confided in a fellow prisoner that she was pregnant.

  When I thought about Mee-Kyong’s proposal, however, the risks of sleeping with an officer paled next to the promise of a few extra calories. Starving to death on the meager camp rations, I didn’t bother to question my conscience. I didn’t wonder what Father might have said either. Father was no longer a part of my life, nor was the powerless deity he so faithfully served. It was years since I called on God’s name, asked for his help, or submitted to his will.

  Standing next to Mee-Kyong in the cutting line in this state of spiritual hardness, I made up my mind. My famished belly didn’t allow me a hint of remorse. At sixteen, I had survived four years in Camp 22 with no one to thank other than Mee-Kyong and myself. In ten more years, if I was still alive, I would look as haggard and as ancient as the majority of the other prisoners. If I wanted to buy myself some comfort and extra privileges, now was the opportune time.

  “That’s a good idea, Mee-Kyong,” I whispered back when I was certain the prison matron wasn’t watching. “Please ask Agent Pang to recommend me to Officer Yeong as his office maid. I would be honored.”

  Daughter of Purity

  “Among all her lovers there is none to comfort her.”

  Lamentations 1:2

  “Wake up!” Mee-Kyong hissed in my ear.

  Disoriented and exhausted, I turned toward my friend. She held her finger over her lips and nodded toward the prisoner on night duty. As my blurry vision began to focus, I saw that the young girl who was assigned to keep watch was asleep in her chair. Prisoners in the dorm were required to serve one night shift each month. They had to stay awake and report everything that happened: which prisoners slept, which prisoners stayed awake, which prisoners complained before going to bed. They even reported sleep-talking, so every night I begged myself not to utter something incriminating while I slept.

  The fact that the prisoner on night duty was asleep meant two things: that she would get a beating if another prisoner reported her, and that I could talk to Mee-Kyong about her sudden change of mood. A month ago, as if overnight, Mee-Kyong’s effervescent smile gave way to a constant moody pout. I suspected Agent Pang was somehow responsible for Mee-Kyong’s sullenness, but our twelve-hour shifts in the cutting line and nightly self-criticism sessions that could last for hours left little time for conversation.

  “What is it?” I asked Mee-Kyong in a hush, trying not to wake up any of the other girls nearby.

  Mee-Kyong rubbed her hand in a circle over her abdomen and widened her eyes.

  “Pregnant?” I mouthed, trying to conceal my surprise. I never thought that Mee-Kyong might one day conceive, probably because I didn’t want to admit that I might find myself in the same situation one day. How could a starving teenager possibly bear a child in the squalor of our prison camp? Mee-Kyong nodded and bit her lip.

  “Does he know?” I inquired, wondering what fate might befall Mee-Kyong if Agent Pang found out about her condition.

  Mee-Kyong shook her head. “What should I do?” Her question surprised me. Mee-Kyong was my teacher and guide in the camp. She never asked me for advice about anything. I wanted to repay my friend for her years of kindness toward me, so I forced my foggy mind to think through Mee-Kyong’s options.

  She could tell Agent Pang about the pregnancy and trust that he would keep her out of trouble. Yet Agent Pang was so volatile there was no way to guess how he might react. The camp administrators generally ignored what went on at lunch breaks between the factory guards and their office maids, but Mee-Kyong explained to me that an officer who became too indiscreet in his relationship with one of the prisoners risked a shameful demotion. Agent Pang might assess the situation calmly and bribe a comrade in exchange for a pill Mee-Kyong could take, no questions asked. Or he might explode and take out his wrath on Mee-Kyong herself. I’m sure Mee-Kyong keenly remembered our fellow prisoner who vanished a year ago when she was discovered to be pregnant by a camp guard.

  With Agent Pang’s assistance, Mee-Kyong might receive permission from the National Security Agency to marry another prisoner. Then at least her pregnancy would appear legitimate. After a one-month maternity leave from the garment factory, Mee-Kyong could continue working with Agent Pang’s baby strapped to her back. But there was no way to arrange a wedding for Mee-Kyong soon enough since prisoners were only allowed to marry on major holidays. We just celebrated the birthday of the Dear Leader’s father in April, and the next possible wedding day wouldn’t come until New Year’s, which would be much too late into the pregnancy to protect Mee-Kyong at all. Besides, I doubted that Agent Pang would agree to let Mee-Kyong marry someone else. It was more likely that any prisoner who wed Mee-Kyong would find himself at the other end of Agent Pang’s revolver before the bridal days were over.

  I thought about Officer Yeong who hired me as his office maid last winter. Our relationship, though mutually beneficial, didn’t involve anything of the intimacy and passion that Mee-Kyong shared with Agent Pang. I didn’t dare broach the subject with him. In the four months I served as Officer Yeong’s office maid, he didn’t even take the time to learn my name.

  Another prisoner in Mee-Kyong’s situation once tried to sneak into the medical clinic to find an abortive pill but was caught and publically executed as a warning to all of the young women. I was still in middle school at the time. It had been one of my first lessons about the origins of pregnancy.

  Every option I thought through seemed equally impossible. Mee-Kyong never shied away from any trial or hardship, especially if it involved the dramatic. I watched her hugging her knees and realized I couldn’t help my friend. I shrugged and offered a weak smile. “I’m sorry.” I hated myself for not having any adv
ice to offer.

  Instead of deflating like I expected, Mee-Kyong raised her chin. She shook her long hair and opened her mouth in a melodramatic yawn. “It’ll be all right.”

  “What are you going to do?” I wondered.

  “Do?” Mee-Kyong pretended to laugh under her breath, but ended up coughing instead. We held our breaths for several minutes to make sure none of our neighbors woke up. The prisoner on night duty remained slouched in her chair. Finally Mee-Kyong scooted closer to me. “I have time. It’s not like I’ll be gaining any weight the way they feed us here,” she joked. “I’ll make sure Agent Pang doesn’t get suspicious. It’ll work out.”

  I wanted to believe that Mee-Kyong was so resourceful she could find a way out of this dilemma, but I had seen too much in the past four years at Camp 22 to have any hope left for my friend. Even if Mee-Kyong managed to conceal her pregnancy for the entire gestation, that still didn’t solve the more difficult problem.

  “What will you do when the baby’s born?”

  Mee-Kyong shrugged her shoulders again. “I’ll let you know next winter,” she promised.

  Playing off of Mee-Kyong’s forced confidence, I smiled. Then for the first time in several years, I prayed.

  As I asked God to watch over Mee-Kyong, it never occurred to me that I should be begging the Divine to protect me as well.

  Daughter of Truth

  “If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it … But it is you … my companion, my close friend, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship …” Psalm 55:12-14

  Through the rest of the spring and into the summer, Mee-Kyong never mentioned her pregnancy. Apparently, Agent Pang didn’t suspect that Mee-Kyong carried his bastard child in her womb even as the leaves changed color and an early autumn chill settled in the camp. I didn’t know how Mee-Kyong managed to keep her secret from him for so many months, but I never asked for detailed accounts of her lunch breaks in the back office.