“You’re too important to us to waste energy on small things, Mikray,” I say. “We need your wisdom for what’s ahead. Be clever for us. Your power is in your cunning.”
Being last in line was not a good idea. Perhaps the cook wasn’t told there would be twelve more to feed. She ladles yellow rice into our bowls and covers it with a watery broth that has a few flecks of chicken in it. At least it has no smell of pork.
The cook, too, looks at us as if we smell. Her nose scrunches up into her face. We have, in fact, used the time we were waiting to sponge-bathe in our buckets and to wash our hair—using the spigot one by one as someone stood watch by the door—knowing it might be the only time we’ll ever be alone and able to do it. We have on clean clothes. We’re less sweaty and dirty than she is here in her steamy kitchen, at least until the heat in our room, in this factory, in this part of China, boils us alive. The temperature is already higher than on any day I can remember, and the summer’s just begun.
Zuwida stirs as we come back into the room to eat. “Please check her fever, Roshen,” Adile says. I cradle her head in my hands and touch my forehead to hers. Her face is flushed but calm, her body less tense.
“Has your headache gone, Zuwida?” I whisper. She nods. “We have food. Would you like something to eat?”
“Just water. Please.” Her words come slowly.
“I have something for you,” I say. Adile holds her hand while I go to my bed and retrieve my water bottle. The empty water bottle I hid in my bag during our journey is now filled. It will be Zuwida’s. Adile and I help her to drink. Her eyes flutter and she sinks again into a deep sleep—a peaceful sleep, as if some special potion is healing her mind and body. I guide her hand to the bottle. If she wakes and is thirsty, she will know it is there.
We eat, replace our bowls as ordered, and turn off the light.
I will sleep. What dream can my mind conjure that is more bleak and lonely than my life right now?
Twelve
USHI HAS JUDGED me sweet and harmless. She’s entrusted me with a lethal weapon. I’m assigned to the cutting section, along with Nadia and Jemile, and given long, sharp scissors with thin blades. Excellent for cutting through the reams of material piled on the table in front of me—and perhaps other things.
For a moment I blank out. I don’t hear the half Mandarin, half Sichuanese of my instructor assaulting my ear. I’m remembering the girl who said goodbye to her family and to Ahmat less than a week ago, someone who never would have thought of scissors as a deadly weapon, even in jest.
“Watch what you’re doing!” my trainer yells in my ear. “If you can’t cut a hammer loop without messing up, you don’t belong here. You should at least be able to do that.”
She’s right. I should. I can. And I’m beginning to know what my new life will be. This piece of cloth, these scissors are the only things I must think about. There is no time for other thoughts, no time for dreaming. Two hundred and fifty hammer loops. Now. Fast.
One of the floor walkers, a little boss of some kind, comes over. She’s heard the yelling above the roar of the machines. She says nothing. Just stands behind me. I’m lucky that anger steadies my hand. For a moment I do two things at once: I cut straight, precise lines, and I remember with pride that I was the honor student in my class.
Two hundred and fifty hammer loops done. Now I’m assigned left back pockets, which must have a slit for a button closure. The slit is to be three and one-half centimeters from the top of the pocket, allowing for the hem at the top; the slit itself is to be two and a quarter centimeters long. I am given a razor-sharp retractable blade to make the slit. Little Boss stands behind me while I cut and slice the first two pockets. The next 248 I am allowed to do on my own, apparently having passed her test.
My trainer stands next to me doing the same work, cutting pockets from the same coarse mud-colored material that I’ve been given. She’s fast and accurate as she guides the scissors through the cloth. She works with a steady rhythm that I find myself following, a rhythm grounded in the tremble of the wooden table beneath the cloth as we crunch the heavy scissors.
Place pattern. Crrrunch, release; crrrunch, release along the bottom. Crrrunch, release, crrrunch, release; crrrunch, release along the side. Turn scissors. Crrrunch, release; crrrunch, release along the top. Crrrunch, release, crrrunch, release; crrrunch release along the side. Scissors down. Take razor. Make slit. Razor down. Remove pocket. Place in pile. Place pattern. Crrrunch, release, crrrunch, release . . .
No song or poem I know has this rhythm, so I can give it no melody, but I find comfort in the repeat of the task. I beat the sequence with my toes to help relieve my tired legs. I’m not used to standing for so many hours.
Will I so quickly forget the rhythms of my own land, my own people, and give the new poems I write the rhythm of scissors? For a moment I stop cutting. I squeeze my eyes shut until I can see images of the farm, my family together, planting seeds, then harvesting our crops of carrots and beans and melons. At the end of these days, sitting together under a tree while Father plays his dutar and we share songs and stories before falling into a peaceful night’s rest. Our rhythms. My memories. I must keep them alive.
Thwack! A metal rod hits my calves. Little Boss has been watching. I struggle to keep upright. I will not let her see my pain. My hand still holds the scissors. Crrrunch, release, crrrunch, release . . . Make button slit. Place pocket in pile. Begin again. Again. And again.
Next, the right back pocket, which is exactly the same as the left back pocket.
At right back pocket number 136, an earsplitting bell vibrates off the walls and through my body. There is a rush of people, yet no one in the cutting section moves. Then I understand why. Little Boss comes around with a basket, collecting scissors and razors. We are not to move until every dangerous weapon is picked up and accounted for. Perhaps I’m not the only one whose thoughts turn to transgression with a pair of scissors in my hands.
I pretend I’m not in pain as I climb the steps and wait in line for the toilet and food. That takes fifteen minutes. It takes less than three minutes to eat watery cabbage soup. Now Mikray and I sit on her bed, holding empty bowls. We seem to have formed little groups. Hawa, Rayida, and Nadia huddle together by the window. Patime, Letipe, and Nurbiya sit on a bunk, saying little. Adile and Jemile attend to Zuwida. Only Gulnar sits alone on her upper bunk, working her needle and thread.
Mikray and I have a bit of privacy, sitting close to the door. “What happened?” I ask in Uyghur, pointing to her red, swollen hand. My hand is swollen too, only not as badly as Mikray’s. I don’t mention the welt on my leg.
“The rivet machine. I have to put rivets on the sides of every pocket and on loops, straps, any stress points.” She looks down. “The handle is hard to press. It takes a lot of force.” Then she laughs and moves closer. “It may be the best thing that’s happened,” she says. “The person training me is one of the young Chinese men we saw loading boxes on the elevator. When he’s not doing that, he helps with the rivets. He likes to talk, so he pretends he’s giving me instructions. And he gets away with it.” She stops. Leans even closer. “Roshen, he lives nearby and goes home every night. I think he’s the one who’ll help me. If my hand and shoulder hurt, that’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”
“No. If you’re thinking about sneaking out, you can’t do that. It’s too dangerous. They’ll punish you. You can’t trust him—or anybody.”
Mikray’s face tightens. “We’ll see,” she says. “I have unfinished business to take care of at home. I can’t do it from inside this prison.”
There can be no more talk. The other girls pass us now on their way to wash their bowls. Our half hour is almost up. I see that Zuwida is alone, curled like a little nestling bird, fast asleep. Gulnar stands beside her.
“Can’t we let her sleep?” I whisper.
“She insists we wake her,” Gulnar says. “She doesn’t want to lose pay. She volunteered to come,
Roshen, so she could earn money to send home.”
We both look at the clock on the sill. It’s almost one o’clock. Gulnar puts her hand on Zuwida’s shoulder and gives her a gentle shake. “She works in finishing with Hawa and me. We help her. I think she’ll be all right.”
The clanging bell sends me on a dash to the sink and down the stairs to my place at the cutting table. After I receive scissors and a cutting razor, I finish 114 more right back pockets. They are taken away, and I am given a pattern for the left front swing pocket. Two hundred and fifty of these, and I am given the pattern for the right swing pocket. Then the right chest pocket with flap. Then the left chest pocket with pencil slot.
I act as though I have to use the toilet, which isn’t true. We’re allowed two six-minute breaks each day, and I see no reason not to take them. While Little Boss adds my name to the sign-out sheet on her desk, I sneak a glance at the production report she’s working on. Each of us seems to be listed individually with a log of the work we’ve done. That’s why she herself collects the piles of pockets we cut. Are we paid by the numbers? A quarter of a yuan for each twenty pockets? That has not been mentioned and they only told Father that we would be paid. They wouldn’t tell him how much. If I must be here, I want to make at least enough to help with my tuition and books for college. I head for the toilet.
Six minutes is a very short time. Even so, when I return, something has changed. Little Boss stands alongside her desk with rigid posture, her eyes looking straight ahead, unnatural and unblinking. I follow her gaze and see Big Boss walking down the aisle toward the sewing section. He stops at the desk of the sewing supervisor and picks up a paper. Nods. Moves on toward finishing. I wonder if he knows that Hawa is there ironing? Maybe he won’t pay much attention to her after he sees her in her blue smock.
I go to my workstation before Little Boss can find me staring. She might recover from her ordeal—Big Boss obviously looked at her numbers too—and realize I’ve taken an extra minute, watching what’s happening.
If the girls around me had their eyes half-closed from fatigue and boredom when I left, those eyes are now wide open, those fingers flying. I quicken my pace as much as I can. My hand is numb; I can no longer get a good grip on the scissors. Concentrate. Think of nothing else, I tell myself as I cut yet one more left chest pocket. Put the scissors down. Pick up the razor. Make the pencil slot. Put the razor down. Move the pocket to the pile. Place the pattern on the cloth. Crrrunch, release; crrrunch, release along the bottom . . .
Then it’s as if a wave sweeps over the room. The machines are still making noise, but somehow I know that all the Chinese girls are holding their breath. Their heads are bent over their work, but their eyes watch Big Boss stride down the aisle and leave. My trainer reveals nothing to me, but I can tell from her tight lips and firm jaw that what just happened is not good.
It’s not too long before Ushi comes into the room. She talks to Little Boss, who keeps bowing her head up and down. I wondered why we hadn’t seen Ushi today, and guessed that she was given some time off. Now my wondering turns to fear that she might be Big Boss Number Two.
Ushi moves on toward sewing. Little Boss comes to the cutting tables to deliver the news that production is behind. “There will be no break for supper,” she tells us. “You are to work until ten o’clock. Then you’ll be fed. You’ll have a short break for tea. Soon,” she says.
Impulsively, I thrust my right hand toward her. By now it’s puffed up and ugly, and obviously I can no longer hold a pair of scissors.
“You girls from the north are supposed to be good workers,” she says. “That’s what we were told.” She jerks her head at me. “Don’t look here for sympathy. I know how many pieces you’ve cut. It’s because of people like you that we have to work overtime tonight.” She turns and goes back to her desk where she . . . what? Sits and counts pieces and puts numbers on a sheet of paper?
I am now the most unpopular person in the cutting section—probably actively despised. Jemile and Nadia, my Uyghur cutting companions, may still be supportive, especially if their scissors hands are as sore as mine.
I become left-handed. I’m awkward and slower than a snail, but I’m trying. I keep a determined look on my face.
Tea break is a tiny paper cup filled with tepid tea, delivered on a cart by one of the boys. We’re supposed to drink fast and return the cup to the cart as he whizzes by. I think it might be an unusual kindness until I taste it. It’s more than tea. A stimulant of some kind must have been put into it to keep us awake and make us more productive, and I’ve already swallowed it. I don’t like being tricked, but it wasn’t just me, it was everyone on the floor. Didn’t they know? Or maybe they like taking drugs.
I force myself to think of left chest pockets with pencil slots. When 250 are done, Little Boss throws me the pattern for patches that are to be sewn onto the inside of a pant leg to hold a kneepad.
The slight raise of a shoulder sends an alert around the cutting tables as Ushi walks rapidly down the aisle, followed by the boy who brought us tea. Minutes later she comes back. The boy is carrying Zuwida’s limp body in his arms. Her eyes are closed.
“No!” I cry. Now the stares are directed at me, and I go back to work and pretend I didn’t say anything. But I can think only of Zuwida and wonder what is happening.
It seems forever before it’s ten o’clock. Jemile, Nadia, and I are closest to the door and the first to bolt up the stairs, ignoring Little Boss’s shouts about waiting for scissor collection. We run to our room, and there is Zuwida in sleeping clothes, curled up on her bed. I touch her. Her face is flushed and hot, but she’s alive. Sleeping. Sleeping peacefully. I find a note half-hidden under her pillow.
Adile reads the note with me. It’s written in Mandarin. It says that Zuwida has been given broth and a special tea that should help her sleep and bring down her fever. There is a thermos of hot water hidden under the bed and a packet of tea for her when she wakes. Please do not let her work tomorrow. I will see that she is taken care of. The note isn’t signed.
I go to the hallway to see if anyone is waiting there, watching—someone who might have helped. The girls have returned. I see no one who could have been filled with such kindness.
Thirteen
AFTER DAYS AND days of mud-colored cloth and working overtime, I arrive in the morning to find bolts of blue material. We spend the day cutting short sleeves, hundreds and hundreds of short sleeves. The cloth is not as coarse and heavy as the mud-colored one; it’s easier to cut through. By now my hand has become stronger, although calluses have not yet formed over the most tender spots.
Instead of our suppertime delivery of energy tea, Big Boss shows up. I know without looking that he’s in the doorway. We all know. He has a power that stills us in his presence. We put our scissors down. The din from the sewing machines decrescendos to complete silence, followed by a loud thud that has to be Mikray slamming down the handle to implant one last rivet.
In the awed silence that comes over us, Big Boss makes his way to the freight elevator, where Ushi and the three little bosses rush to his side. The handymen and kitchen workers stand in the doorway. Ushi is all smile and teeth, which can mean anything, but generally not good news. Big Boss’s face is covered with smile and teeth too, not nearly as impressive as Ushi’s. Everyone else looks nervous.
“Hubei Work Wear has once again proven its high standards in producing customized, quality work wear. My reputation for excellence is preserved, and the order will be delivered on time. A satisfied customer is my greatest achievement.” Big Boss preens. His hand sweeps the air. He goes on and on about his company’s greatness and his own greatness. His ambitions for even more greatness. My legs ache from having to stand and hear more and more about his greatness.
At last we get some news. We are to be paid the wages we earned and to have a day off. Ushi will fill in the details. Big Boss leaves, and Ushi, still smiling, steps into his place. Ushi is Big Boss Number
Two.
“There will be no work assignments tomorrow. It’s a vacation day for which you will not be paid,” she announces. A sign-out sheet will be monitored at the main door from six o’clock in the morning on. The curfew for return is nine o’clock at night. Triple points for each minute late.
There is no bell this morning. Even so, we wake early and stand in line for watery porridge. The line is shorter than usual. Girls who live nearby left earlier to catch buses, all they’d talked about since the announcement. Many of the Chinese girls live too far away for a day trip, so they chat about shopping, going to a park. They whisper about a factory that may be hiring, a job that pays more. They’ll try for an interview, or at least leave their names.
We, the Uyghur girls, got a special talk from Ushi right after Big Boss’s speech. Don’t bother to stand in line for the paymaster, she said. We still owe the company money for our transportation to get here, for food, for uniforms, and on and on. Then she told us we were too naïve to roam about, and no one was available to go with us, and we were probably too tired to want to go anyway. Was I too dazed to protest? Mikray’s rivet-machine friend has given her the name of an illicit—“black”—café that would allow us to get on the internet without special ID. Finally I’d be able to get a message to Ahmat. And I stood there—mute. I didn’t say a word. Nor did anyone else, not even Mikray. Ushi had disappeared by the time I woke to reality.
It’s bad to have a day of rest. Good for the body, bad for the mind. Words of a Uyghur poem creep into my head. Father taught me these words, and we talked about how brave the poet was to write something that landed him in jail. I say the poem to myself over and over. Wake up! the poet tells me.
Factory Girl Page 6
