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“It’s you.” The prisoner beside her reached up a shaking hand. Hannah clasped it warmly. With her free arm, she adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. Someone cleared his throat behind her.
She recognized the assistant director’s voice instantly and willed her hands not to tremble. She bent down over the patient. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.” She didn’t know if it was a lie or not. For a second, she thought about hurrying to another bedside, but retreat was pointless. He grabbed her wrist before she even turned around. Her entire being cringed inward, as if she could collapse inside herself and disappear.
“I hear you made a little visit today.”
“Yes, sir.” Fear wrapped its tendrils around Hannah’s throat.
He chuckled mirthlessly. “See anybody special while you were there?” He drew his words out slowly.
“I was just checking on a patient.” She tidied up a stash of medical supplies and tried to step toward the next bed.
“I’m not done talking to you.” He whipped her around, digging his fingernails into her arm. “You need to learn a little respect.” He dragged her past rows of beds, forcing her to run at times to keep up.
Clumps of hair flopped down her forehead, but she didn’t sweep them out of her eyes. He’s not going to let you go this time, you know. Sweat dripped down from her armpits by the time he threw her into the office and slammed the door shut behind them. Everything was chaotic and choppy, like one of Mrs. Stern’s movies when the disc got dirty. Screaming was pointless. The prisoners who could hear her were powerless to respond, and the guards nearby had no reason to intervene.
She leapt away as the assistant director lumbered toward her. “Get over here.”
She tried to lunge past him, but he punched her hard across the cheek. Her head snapped back, and she lost her balance. She fell and thrashed her arms behind her, searching for some way to ward him off. Her fingers grasped a meter stick. She slashed it through the air but couldn’t even see clearly to aim.
He growled and flung the useless weapon out of her hands. She crouched down into a ball, trying to cover as much of herself as she could. He yanked her up by the hair, and then he slammed her against the wall. Vice-like fingers pinched her neck.
His thumb pressed against her throat, just enough to keep her from squealing. “That’s enough.” He squeezed a little harder until she let out a tiny nod. “No more fighting. Got that?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, certain she wouldn’t be able to keep down the great swells of nausea crashing around inside her. Her heart beat against her chest like a trapped bird, frantic for freedom, and she shut her eyes. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. After everything she had already endured, God wouldn’t allow this. It was a nightmare and nothing more, a nightmare she would tell Simon about when they woke up in the morning at the Sterns’ house. He would comfort her, assure her it was only a bad dream. Simon loved her. He would never let anybody hurt her.
“Look at me.” The pressure of the assistant director’s thumb on her throat induced a gag, and her eyelids flung open. His lip curled upward. “That’s better.” He leaned even closer, and she had to swallow down the first rush of vomit. He shoved her against the desk, and she threw her hands behind her to catch her fall. He was against her in an instant, sneering, pressing with every part of his sharp, knobby body. “Did your boyfriend have anything to say to you? Did you give him a kiss good-bye?” His breath reeked of rot and onions.
She shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. How would she face Simon after this? She put her hands up to push the assistant director away, but he gripped both her wrists and wrenched her hands back again. She kicked her legs wildly. If she could only get her feet back on the floor ... She tossed her head back and forth, desperate for enough momentum to throw him off.
“It’s no use.” Tiny drops of his spit sprayed onto her cheeks. “I saw the way you acted. I know you want this as much as I do.”
Without any plan, she thrust out her arm and clenched a handful of his hair. He roared and clawed at her cheek, trying to gouge her eye. A second later, his hand encircled her throat. She clawed to free herself. White specks floated in her field of vision. She had already lost the battle.
He tightened his grip for a moment and shook her. “I said no more fighting.” He spoke the words with an icy calm that chilled her all the way down to the inside of her bones.
She strained for air, certain she could endure whatever humiliation was to come as long as he let her breathe again.
The door latch rattled in its lock, and someone pounded outside. The assistant director swore and released his hold. She collapsed and dropped to the floor, coughing until her ribs ached. When he stepped away, she scrambled under the desk and shivered while he conversed with her unsuspecting savior. Once the meeting ended, the assistant director stormed out, slamming the door behind him. She remained hidden, expecting his boots to materialize in front of her at any moment. It was a long time before she realized she was free, and still longer before she found enough courage and strength to creep back to the infirmary.
How had she ever felt at home in Camp 22? How had she ever felt safe walking its dark hallways? She licked her bottom lip and tucked her hair behind her ears. She wouldn’t think about the assistant director and his hooked nose. She wouldn’t think about what he had almost done to her in his back office. Her body still quivered, but she had work to do. Important work. Work that no degree of terror could snatch away from her.
She sucked in her lower lip. Her whole face stung, and she wondered if the assistant director had smashed in some of her bones. It didn’t matter. There were people here who needed her. Earlier the guards brought in a teenager with multiple wounds from her interrogations. The humiliation Hannah suffered tonight was nothing in comparison. She should just be grateful for whoever was at the door. It could have gotten much worse.
She went to the teenager’s bedside, her legs still shaky. Something about the girl tugged on Hannah’s spirit, and she felt certain the child was covered by the Holy Spirit. Hannah could almost feel the intercession like a protective shield and knew someone had prayed for her. She stopped long enough to glance around at the patients in the infirmary. Had any of the other inmates been bathed in prayer like this? As she applied an antibacterial salve to some infected cuts, she wondered if it really mattered in the end. The girl’s wounds were quite extensive. The National Security Agency hadn’t held back on account of her youth.
“Is the pain very bad?” Hannah asked.
The girl didn’t respond but stared at the ceiling with a glazed expression. Sometimes Hannah dreamed of putting herself into such a psychological cocoon until her body gave out and released her soul to heaven. “It’s going to get better.” She tucked one hand behind the girl’s head and slowly propped her up to drink a little water. “I don’t know if you’re able to believe me right now, but I want you to know it’s true.” Conviction swelled and infused her words. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Hannah felt the words minister to her own soul. She stayed by the girl’s side for a full hour, breathing Scripture that filled her aching spirit and soothed over so many wounds.
***
Officer Lang glowered out his office window. The infirmary nurse leaned over a haggard, skeletal girl. She stroked the patient’s hair and wore an imbecilic, benign look on her face. He clenched his teeth until his jaw muscle throbbed in time with his pulse. He had almost had her. Nervous excitement raced up and down his legs as he thought about how close he had come. If only Officer Yeong hadn’t intruded. But Yeong was one of Camp 22’s powerful elite. If Lang wanted to advance anywhere in his career, he had to kowtow to idiots like that, even if it lost him his evening’s amusement.
He scratched the hollow of his cheek with the back of a pen. She was weak. He could go over now and take her, but the interruption had spoiled his appetite. “More order,” Yeong had demanded. The newly-appointed Chief Officer of Productivity was just itching to show the leaders in Pyongyang the full prowess of the Camp 22 labor machine. Higher quotas, longer hours, more structure, even for the prisoners in the detainment center. “Demonstrate our authority,” Yeong had admonished. “These types only respond to fear.” Yeong droned on for so long it drained Lang of all desire and only left him irritable. Now he was stuck working impossibly late hours without even the chance of a diversion.
He stared at her in disgust. Who did she think she was, parading around the infirmary like some angel on a pathetic mission of mercy? The beasts on those cots didn’t deserve her compassion. They were slaves. Slaves, traitors, and criminals. Why should she waste her sweet words and loving touches on scum like them? Lang had flipped through her file several times. Arrested for selling state secrets, consorting with known national traitors. He saw through their lies. She was no spy. She had probably been caught at the border and refused to give the lusty guard whatever bribe he demanded, so he trumped up the charges to get back at her.
Lang scratched his scalp and thought about how she had fought him off. She didn’t realize what kind of power she was toying with. She preferred to keep company with prisoners, then. He would show her what kind of mistake she had made. One corner of his lip curled into a half-snarl. He would get back at her. And when he was done, she’d be begging him to take her, dying for the chance to make things right.
But by then, it would be too late.