Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  For a moment I feel her shroud tighten around my body. I know it’s not there. I know it’s been unwound, cut to the right size, rituals carried out as they should be. Yet it became part of my body, and I pray now that this same cloth will somehow protect Zuwida, help to nourish her lingering spirit as she lies in this distant grave.

  Please, God, I say in my mind, look upon the tiny, frail shell of Zuwida’s body with mercy. Take her to the next realm with no more suffering. I wish I knew the prayers that could help her now.

  A memory overwhelms me. We were on our journey south, trapped in the van with Ushi. We saw mountains up ahead, our precious Kunlun, and somehow knew that when we passed over them, our lives would forever change. I am far from my homeland, I said.

  A small voice joined me. I am a wanderer, the prince of wanderers. I cannot bear this wandering, my face is sallow, we finished together. It was Zuwida who knew the poetry of our people, and we have left her—​this child of our Uyghur land—​in a foreign grave.

  I don’t have prayers. I must leave her body to the will of God, but I can tell her story. If I don’t, it will be as if she didn’t exist at all.

  More and more people get on the bus. They look at me and choose another seat. My Uyghurness and my blue uniform are not inviting. I hope some woman will be bold enough to sit here. I don’t want to sit next to a man. Han men seem to like our looks and think it’s all right to touch.

  If I don’t look at them, they won’t see me, I tell myself.

  I stare out the window and think of weather. The monsoon rains finally stopped. Now the cold is a worry. We’re lucky that today is mild; our sweaters have kept us warm enough.

  Someone sits next to me. I don’t know if it’s a man or woman, and I will not look. My eyes are glued to the passing fields; I think only of Zuwida. Slowly, words come to me. I fit those I need into verse.

  Her body in a cold, wet grave

  Elfin small with big black eyes

  Made a slave for the cause of China.

  Was she fourteen years of age?

  The more I see outside the window, the more easily the right words come.

  Lie quiet now in this faraway land

  But sing your desert song, Zuwida,

  Daughter of the Taklamakan.

  I say my poem over and over to myself until I feel a hand creep up my leg, above my knee. I turn and swat with all my might. I leap over his legs to the aisle and slide onto the laps of Patime and Letipe. Only then do I look to see a young kid, snickering, laughing at his exploit. Those around him, the grownups, pat him on the back. They think it’s funny too.

  If I’d had a knife, would I have used it?

  The driver chuckles as we get off the bus at the city gate. He seems to have enjoyed the incident. It’s a relief to change buses.

  We finally come to our stop. We walk along the highway, making no attempt to hide on back streets. No one speaks, but our pace quickens as we near the factory. Is Hawa right, that they’ll let us back in?

  The door is ajar. I go first, hoping with all my heart that I might see Hawa sitting at the desk waiting for us, that we might tell her what happened. Thank her. I will share my poem.

  It’s Ushi.

  Once we’ve all filed in she gets up, shuts the door, locks it with a key that hangs from her belt, and returns to her chair. She looks at her watch, then at us. “It’s seven,” she says. “You are to go to work now and work through until your next shift, which of course starts at seven in the morning. For the inconvenience you’ve caused us . . .” She pauses. A half grin appears on her face. “You will receive points you’ll never recover from.” Her grin turns sour. “And you will not leave this factory again, unless a person in authority is accompanying you.”

  As if of one thought, we inch together until our bodies connect. We stand tall and strong and just look at her. We do not speak.

  “Go!” she screams.

  Thirty

  WINTER HAS TAKEN its toll on us. We’ve become listless automatons, doing our jobs, eating, sleeping, thinking spring will never come, much less July and the promise of home.

  Rumor spreads that the temperature today will be almost warm. I’ve been so numb with cold for the last four months that I believe it to be someone’s joke. They gave us coats. I wear mine when I work, when I eat, and when I sleep. I pull it more tightly around me now. I can’t imagine ever feeling warm again.

  For the Chinese girls, standing in line here with us, warmer weather is great news. Today is a day off, and unlike those who are caged, they’re free to leave and do whatever they want—​which in most cases means looking for a better job. But what they’re talking about are cherry blossoms. “There are five thousand cherry trees in the garden at Donghu Lake. That’s where I’m going,” someone says, and with her words the bars of the cage tighten around me till I have trouble breathing. How dare Ushi keep us locked in here when we can finally go out without worrying about frostbite? Crossing the highway and walking through the streets, penniless, while being whipped with ice-cold winds was not a pleasure we sought, but today . . .

  I hold my bowl out for my ladle of breakfast mush, then trudge back to the room, choosing to sit alone on the bottom bunk. Mikray’s.

  I asked Jemile to be our emissary. Her sweetness prevails while the rest of us, especially me, have let anger creep into permanent position on our faces. We wanted to go to Donghu Lake in the Hubei Work Wear van with one of the little bosses. A small thank-you for surviving the winter and for carrying much of the workload while the Chinese girls dwindled in number, not willing to sacrifice their health, their lives, for a few yuan.

  A day off? That’s a real joke. Little bosses must have their day off, and Ushi is busy. Instead, perhaps as punishment for having had the audacity to ask, we’re left at the factory to help the workmen. We push heavy carts, bring in bolts of blue denim and line them up against the wall. We oil the moving parts of the sewing machines. Bring in fresh shipping supplies. By some miracle we’re not asked to clean the toilets.

  And then we have a treat. Spy Girl shows up. The treat is the fact that she has to be here too and doesn’t get the day off. Punishment for bad spying? She doesn’t say. With two of the workmen at our side, probably brought along to ensure we don’t run away, the door is opened and we’re taken outside.

  We’re lined up two deep in front of the warehouse. Spy Girl holds a radio out in front of her. “You are to do eight minutes of calisthenics. Follow what it says,” she tells us. There’s a blast of pulsing music and then a female voice begins. “Arms above your head—​two . . . three . . . four. Bring arms down—​two . . . three . . . four. Right arm up and left arm down and stretch and two and three and four. Reverse arms. Left arm up and right arm down and stretch and two and three and . . .” The radio stops.

  “Are you all so dumb you can’t do what she says?” Spy Girl hollers.

  Apparently. We have our Uyghur way of raising our arms, and it feels so good that perhaps we were carried away—​remembering a dance, our own music. In fact, so good that I rip off my cheap, dirty, stinking coat and fling it to the ground, hoping to never, ever wear it again.

  “Start again from the beginning,” Spy Girl says through clenched teeth.

  “Arms above your head—​two, three, four . . .”

  I try a little harder to pay attention. I stretch my arms to the sky, glide them up and down and around. I feel more alive than I have for some time.

  “Arms to the side. Lunnnggge right and hold two, three, four. Lunnnggge left and hold two, three, four. Now squat and chant. Squat and chant with a ho-ha, ho-ha. Straight from the belly with a ho-ha, ho-ha.”

  We’re ho-ha-ing with all our might and giggling and laughing and crying. Quin Fong is screaming at us and we can’t stop. It feels so good—​ho-ha-ing, releasing our pent-up emotions into the fresh air.

  “Get inside!” she shouts, but we don’t move, and the workmen are laughing, not shoving us around. It’s almost spri
ng.

  “Jemile,” I say, pulling her next to me, “please ask if she’ll let us try one more time—​in your nicest, sweetest voice.”

  There’s a twinkle in Jemile’s eyes that I haven’t seen before. She nods and goes with all her innocence and purity to stand in front of the ranting pale‑purple‑haired one.

  “Please,” Jemile says, reaching out but not touching. No one welcomes our touch. “Let us try one more time.” When Quin Fong draws back, huffs in disdain, Jemile bows her head respectfully. “Perhaps,” she continues, “if you were to lead us, to show us how to do the calisthenics, we would do much better.” And I am so proud of her for thinking of this, because Spy Girl actually shrugs as if she’ll consider it.

  “Get back in line,” she barks. “I didn’t know how stupid you all were. Okay, if you can’t follow the words, do what I do.” She turns the radio back on and puts it on the ground. The music plays and we begin. I listen to the rhythm of the woman’s voice and try hard not to watch Quin Fong, for she is far from graceful and I don’t trust myself not to explode in laughter. This is the only fun we’ve had since we’ve been here; laughing would feel so good.

  “That’s better,” Spy Girl says when the session ends. “We’ll do it once again so you dummies can understand the importance of exercise to the well-being of our great nation.”

  My hands fly to my face to keep from smiling—​from laughing out loud. It must be hard, being a spy for Ushi. Trying to be an Ushi or even a little boss. Quin Fong will never be promoted. I can only imagine that she’s the daughter of some official Big Boss needs to have on his side. I’m delighted she’s so inept and enjoys today’s outdoor exercises as much as we do.

  Thirty-One

  TWO MORE WEEKS have passed, and I’m still cutting denim bib overalls with multiple reinforced tool and utility pockets, double knees that can accommodate kneepads, hammer loops and brush loops, and leg openings that fit over boots. Our time outside is a distant memory, but I complain less about the work now that we’re finally getting paid. So many Chinese girls left the factory over the winter that Big Boss apparently decided that paying us would make us work harder and we’d happily do all the extra work. We were taken into Ushi’s room to meet with the paymaster and each given two hundred and fifty yuan. It’s a pathetic amount when you add up the hours we’ve worked, but it seems like a good sign. He didn’t even mention points.

  Big Boss has come around twice to give speeches about the importance of this work. Some company in Australia, a rush order. There will be a bonus if we finish before time. He doesn’t say that his offer is only for the Chinese, so it might be for us too. We long ago decided that Big Boss and Ushi will have no interest in sending us back home when our time is up. We must be prepared to pay our own way. Every yuan they give us will go into pouches we sewed from stolen factory-floor material and carry tied around our waists—​escape money for the journey home.

  It’s not Big Boss who visits today, it’s Ushi who comes during our dinner break. When we finally removed our coats, they saw how skinny we’d all become and decided we might work better if given more time to eat and recover. We now have a half-hour break before returning to work.

  “Line up,” Ushi says, pointing to the hallway outside our room where she’s standing. “Eat, and listen. The Australian company managers are coming tomorrow. You’ll be let off an hour early tonight so you can wash your uniforms—​and yourselves. If one of the managers asks you a question or tries to talk to you, you are not to answer. One person in each section has been chosen to be the contact. Only they will speak. Do you understand?” She looks at us, the Uyghur girls. Why would we break her rules? Not one of us wants points.

  I spend the rest of the day and the next conjugating verbs and practicing sentences, having little conversations with myself in English. I know that’s the language Australians speak, and focusing on English is a good distraction from the boredom of pockets and sleeves and hammer loops. I’m ashamed that I’ve let myself forget some important words. I want to be a master of at least three languages. I hope our visitors will say a few words in English so I can test my skills.

  By midafternoon no visitors have come. Little Boss is exhausted from straightening our piles, from making us look efficient, wide‑awake, and happy. We are happy workers, even if it takes a rod at our calves to make us so. The cutters are the first workers the visitors will see when they come onto the factory floor. We are to make a good impression.

  It’s hard to smile when they finally walk in. There are two men. The tough-looking one wears denim, not unlike what we’re cutting, only his takes the form of tight-fitting blue jeans. His long-sleeved shirt is blue too, unbuttoned from the top so that it shows off his chest hair. His close-shaved head makes him look mean, as do his steely eyes, which sweep the room. The other man is fat and double-chinned. He wears an open-collared striped shirt that barely buttons over his big belly. The tough-looking one talks to Big Boss, who does his usual head nodding, half bowing.

  The fat one interrupts them with a jerk of his head, and the entourage moves on, into sewing. Ushi looks nervous as she follows along. Handling important clients is definitely a job for Hawa, not Ushi. Again, I wonder where Hawa is. It’s been months since anyone saw her, and we will not ask Ushi or Spy Girl about her. Chen disappeared soon after Zuwida’s funeral. Our one Chinese friend. Gone. We don’t know why.

  When the group returns to cutting, I know there’s trouble. The fat one’s mouth is working to get out the few Mandarin words he seems to know. His hands are flying, pointing here and there, as he tries to put words to his displeasure. The mean one takes him by the arm and pulls him aside. With the back of his hand he lets Big Boss and Ushi know they’re to stay where they are.

  What they’ve come to look at are the stacks of material yet to be processed. The stacks are very close to where my cutting table is.

  I bite my lips to keep from smiling, because they’re speaking English.

  “He never told us his factory was this small.” The fat one’s head is shaking, his jowls swinging back and forth. “His workers are already exhausted. Look at them. And he says he’ll have them work overtime from now on. I bet they’ve been working overtime for weeks.” He swivels around, startling me. “Have you?” he asks.

  My mouth opens to say yes before I can swallow the word. Before I realize what I’m doing. What I’ve done! I’ve been standing here watching, listening. The scissors aren’t even in my hand.

  “I think we have our answer,” he says, laughing. “I’m glad someone here speaks English and is willing to tell the truth.”

  If he’s still looking at me, I’ll never know. I’m pretending to cut a pocket—​if only I could hold the scissors without shaking.

  They keep talking—​and I keep listening. Big Boss has too much of their money for them to back out now. “We made a big mistake, but we can’t take it out on these poor girls. He’ll work them until they die at their machines if we put more pressure on.” I glance up. It’s the mean-looking one who says this. Perhaps he’s not so mean after all.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” the fat one says. “But I’m not happy he’s ruining our reputation. Let’s go see what we can work out.” They keep talking as they walk away. “After our shipment is delivered, we can make sure no one in Australia does business with this guy again.”

  I can’t help but watch as they go back to where Big Boss and Ushi are standing. I have to see how they react to what the men say to them.

  Ushi isn’t watching the men walking toward her. She’s watching me.

  Thirty-Two

  A LOUD WHIMPER ESCAPES from me as Little Boss thwacks my calves with her rod. It hurts, but I’ve learned not to cry out.

  “What’s going on with you? You’re way behind,” she says. “You think it’s some kind of holiday because we have visitors?”

  I don’t bother to answer or even to look at her. Let Little Boss think what she will. It’s Ushi I’m worried a
bout. Maybe I’m imagining things, I tell myself. Ushi would have watched the men, not me.

  Denim, bibs, pockets. Denim, bibs, pockets, I say over and over to myself, hoping to distract my mind. That doesn’t work, so every few times I say it, I add another piece. I’m up to denim, legs, bibs, pockets, loops. Denim, legs, bibs, pockets, loops when a hand taps my shoulder.

  “Ushi wants to see you.” It’s Quin Fong, whispering—​spitting—​into my ear. It’s almost as if I expected this. I stop midcut. Follow.

  I’m taken to Ushi’s “interrogation room.” As before, Ushi sits behind the table in her barren office.

  She studies me. I study her. Her face shows no particular expression. My face is as expressionless as I can make it.

  “So,” she says after a long minute of staring, “you speak English.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. The metal frame of her chair scrapes against the concrete floor as she pushes it back. Stands. Tries to be taller than I am.

  “You are going to dinner with Mr. Lee and the gentlemen from Australia. Quin Fong has clothes for you to wear. She’ll try to make you attractive. You are to tell us every word of what they say in English.” She glares at me for a few seconds. Then sits down. “Do you understand?”

  I understand from stories I’ve heard that being chosen by the boss is the worst thing that can happen. Boss Lee can do anything he wants with me, and I’m being dressed in fancy clothes and going out with him. A bile mass churns in my stomach and explodes from my mouth and nose. I bend over. Gagging. Coughing.