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“You’re called Simon, right?”
Simon ignored the old man and kept working. He had already learned after just three days in the mines nothing positive ever came from conversing with another prisoner. He wasn’t Simon anymore. He was 39846. His only purpose in life was to keep from falling behind. There was nothing more important than keeping up. If the overseer didn’t beat you for failing to meet quota, your fellow slaves took matters into their own hands. Simon’s physical build seemed suited for mining, but he still hadn’t fallen into rhythm with the others. He ignored his comrade’s question and continued to dig as the shouts of the overseer reverberated just around a dark corner.
“My name’s Mal-Chin.” The man’s voice sounded stronger than his white hair and leathery skin suggested. Simon glanced at the stranger’s nearly-full wheelbarrow and wondered how anybody could work that fast. “You just arrived.”
It wasn’t a question. Simon was already infamous in his unit, since his work resulted in reduced rations for them all. He had already endured all the vengeance he could swallow from his hungry comrades and ignored the introduction. A bead of sweat dropped off his forehead. He had learned within his first hour working here that stopping to wipe your brow was an unpardonable offense.
“Do you bear the cross?” Mal-Chin’s whisper was so soft Simon wondered if he just imagined the words. The old man was focused on his labor, and for several minutes the only sound to be heard was the chink of the shovels and the thudding of the overseer’s boots behind them.
“Do you bear the cross?” Mal-Chin repeated the question after the overseer turned down the next winding passage, taking most of the light with him. The words were soft but articulate. Simon didn’t respond. Was Mal-Chin some sort of National Security Agency plant, an informer paid to tip his superiors off about subversives? That might explain how strong he was in spite of his age. Or was he speaking in some kind of secret code, known only to Christian prisoners? Simon kept his mouth shut, the stranger’s questions ceased, and he met quota for the first time since he arrived at Camp 22.
***
When he crossed the border back into North Korea, Simon knew he might one day die for preaching the gospel. He never expected to be murdered for working too slow.
The overseer angled his boot so the kick landed on the underside of Simon’s ribs. Simon raised his hand before the blunt side of a shovel smashed down into his cheek. His vision deserted him, and blood spurted out of his nose. He tried to turn his head, but his fellow prisoners now joined the attack, either emboldened by the overseer’s example or too frightened to show any mercy.
Hannah’s name was on the tip of his lips, but he refused to utter it before such vicious brutes, men stripped of all dignity until only animalistic instincts remained. He was the weakling. His lags over the past two weeks meant reduced rations for everyone. There was no forgiveness here in Camp 22, only death, death without Hannah, death without purpose, death at the hands of creatures who could hardly be held accountable for their actions. Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they do. He curled up into himself, protecting his organs as best as he could. He gagged on pools of blood. Air. He needed more air.
“Enough.” The voice carried over the deafening ringing in Simon’s ear. The assault abated long enough for him to throw up. His vision came back in blotchy patches, and he saw the white-haired prisoner bend over him. Mal-Chin placed one hand under his neck, another under his knees, and then scooped him up as easily as if Simon had been a baby.
“Enough.”
Fog darkened Simon’s mind, a heaviness seeped through his body, and his consciousness slipped away like a dream that fades into mist at sunrise.
When he woke up, it took Simon several minutes to remember what happened. “Take a sip, Brother,” a voice prompted. The cool liquid dribbled down Simon’s chin. The light burned his retinas. He blinked.
Simon directed all his energy to his sense of vision, forcing his eyes to focus on the face leaning over him. “Hannah?”
A soft laugh. “No, my friend, although I imagine she’s a prettier sight than I.” Simon blinked again. The man let out his breath. “You’ve been calling out for her, you know. I’m sorry she’s not here.”
It hurt Simon to speak his name. “Mal-Chin.” He squeezed his eyes to shut out the agonizing white light. He remembered the shouts and the shovels of his angry comrades and groaned once.
“Drink a little more.” Mal-Chin brought another spoonful to his lips, but Simon couldn’t taste anything but blood. Mal-Chin wiped drool off Simon’s chin. “Do you remember where you are?”
Simon winced before croaking his answer. “Camp.”
“I wish I could tell you otherwise.”
“How ... How long?” The side of Simon’s head hurt so much he feared if he touched it, he’d find it as squishy as an over-ripe melon.
“Day and a half,” Mal-Chin answered. “We made quota yesterday, so we’re back to full rations.” There was a smile in his voice that reminded Simon of something.
“You helped me.”
Mal-Chin patted his shoulder. “You should sleep now. Tomorrow you’re back in the mines.”
***
He worked in spite of his broken body because he knew he wouldn’t survive another beating. One eye was still swollen halfway shut. Pain seared through his bruised ribs with each heave of the shovel. Mal-Chin worked beside him, dropping one scoop of coal in Simon’s barrel for every two he hoisted into his own. “Thank you,” Simon whispered.
“For what?” Mal-Chin shrugged, and Simon didn’t say anything else for the rest of his shift.
That evening, Mal-Chin laid a strong hand on Simon’s shoulder as the men returned to their dorm. “You did well today.”
Simon glanced behind to see how far they were from the overseer and other prying ears. “You didn’t have to help me.”
Mal-Chin shrugged once more. “Did if I didn’t want them to cut back on rations again.”
“It was good of you.” Simon swallowed once, unsure if uttering the next word was reckless or brave. “Brother.”
Mal-Chin drew closer. He flicked some dirt off the sleeve of his uniform. After a small group of men sauntered past, he cleared his throat. “We’re meeting tonight. Should I wake you?”
Simon’s hands went clammy, and he raised a finger to the soft spot on the side of his head. “Tonight?”
Mal-Chin nodded.
Simon remembered the way Hannah’s throat quivered when the junior guillotine’s blade pressed against her finger. “Where?”
Mal-Chin rubbed his chin and frowned. “Will you join us?”
Simon shut his eyes for a moment. His body ached, and his only real desire was for sleep. He let his breath out slowly. “Yeah, go ahead and wake me up.” His head throbbed, and he hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.
A few hours later, Simon’s subconscious had just reached that dark place without dreams, without pain, that merciful no man’s land where neither hope nor fear exist, when a strong hand shook him awake. There were no lights in the dorm, but he recognized Mal-Chin’s voice. “It’s time.”
There was no way to tell the hour. Simon’s body was heavy. When he tried to rise, exhaustion created its own kind of gravity that tugged him back toward the floor. Mal-Chin clasped his hand and pulled him up, reminding Simon he was still alive, he still had work to carry on. He stood with his bare feet on the concrete floor and shuffled past the piles of sleeping bodies, the prisoners whose only purpose was to serve the Party. Simon was new enough to Camp 22 he still dreamed of escape, he still hoped for that impossible freedom which beckoned to him even in the belly of the earth where he mined for the National Security Agency. Less than a month ago, he had eaten pork and steak at the Sterns’, with rice smothered in sweet sauce and crispy vegetables fresh from the market. During the Great Hardship, before he joined the Secret Seminary, his stomach had distended and cramped up just as much as anyone else’s. But experiencing hunger was harder now after spending an entire year well-fed and nourished. He thought about the meal packs Hannah gave away to the street children in Yanji, and he wondered what food she had to eat wherever she was now.
“Stop for a minute.” Mal-Chin let go of Simon’s hand and crouched down in a back corner. No one slept this far away from the central heater, but the men’s voices would still carry if they tried to talk. No one would dare meet out here in the open. Simon heard a click coming from ground level. A faint light jutted from a crack in the floor. “Down here.” Mal-Chin gestured with his hand. Simon squatted and saw the ladder leading down to a sort of cellar, and he made his descent as quickly as possible. Mal-Chin followed and shut the trap door after them.
Below ground, Simon held onto the ladder for support and looked around. About a dozen prisoners crouched near a small lantern, the kind used down in the mines. Simon examined the men more closely and noted one with the small red stripe on his uniform that set him apart as an overseer. Most of the prisoners returned his scrutiny with a mix of mistrustful frowns or curious gazes. Someone from his own unit kept his eyes on his boots. Simon reached to the area by his temple where the shovel had smashed him. Mal-Chin gestured to an empty spot on the floor, and he sat, quivering slightly from the cold.
“You’re Simon,” the overseer stated flatly.
“We always pray and vote before inviting in new members,” Mal-Chin explained and sat down beside him.
“The votes aren’t always unanimous.” The overseer creased his brow.
Mal-Chin met his scowl with a serene gaze. “No, but we trust the Holy Spirit to guide our every decision.” He confided in Simon in a lower tone, “We have to take every precaution, as you can ...”
The overseer cleared his throat. “Since we’re all here, I suggest we start.” He frowned at Simon. “What news do you have for us from outside?”
News? Simon had only been in North Korea for two weeks before his arrest. Most of that time he spent following Hannah and tracking the Christians she was supposed to meet, the same believers he himself betrayed. He wasn’t about to share his failures with this panel of strangers, but they stared at him so intensely he felt he had to come up with something. Should he tell them about the Secret Seminary? He was already sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor in the Camp 22 mines. Would the officials increase his punishment if he confessed to associating with Christian foreigners? His stomach churned. He had never considered himself a coward until he sneaked back home.
“What charges brought you here?” Mal-Chin’s inquiry opened a floodgate of other questions from the curious men huddled around.
“Did you cross the border?”
“Have you ever met any missionaries?”
“Did you own a Bible before your arrest?”
“What can you tell us about Moses?”
This last question put an end to all others, and the men bent forward to hear Simon’s answer. “Moses?” Simon turned questioningly to Mal-Chin, and several faces around the huddle fell.
“Moses,” Mal-Chin repeated. “Miracle worker, champion of the underground church. Never heard of him?”
Simon shook his head. The overseer coughed. “Then it’s time we got to praying, don’t you think?” Murmurs of agreement rumbled around the circle. “That is, unless our new brother has any more information to impart.” The overseer’s tone seemed to carry both a question and an ultimatum.
Simon studied the prisoners around him. Had the Lord provided him with the fellowship his spirit needed to survive? Or was this another test of sorts? Were these men trustworthy? He couldn’t even imagine what risks he had assumed simply by walking down that ladder. He wondered if Hannah would be proud of him if she knew where he was. The side of his head still throbbed.