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The first thing Simon noticed when she came to him that morning was her neck. As soon as the guard let her in the cell, Simon rushed up. “What happened?” With little regard for potential onlookers, he fingered the blaring streaks of blue and purple.
Her throat quivered. “I just came to see how you’re feeling.”
“Who did this to you?”
When she finally looked up at him, her eyes gleamed with such unspeakable sorrow, he hardly even recognized her. She felt his forehead and cheeks. “No fever. You haven’t been sweating much?”
He balled his hands into fists. “Who hurt you?”
“How has your appetite been?”
He hated this charade, this game. He envisioned taking her into his arms and holding her until the National Security agents came and tore them apart. He was willing to die for one last embrace, but he wouldn’t jeopardize her safety. “I’m hungry,” he admitted in defeat.
She nodded without smiling. “Your digestion must be improving.”
He ran one hand through her hair and studied her injuries. Dark bruises radiated outward, highlighted by purple splotches on the side of her throat. Her eye was dark and swollen. “Any other complications?” she asked him. “Chills? Pain?”
He didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or kiss her. “I’m fine.”
She bit her lip. “Good.” They tarried for a moment, and Simon remembered the warmth of her lips on his, the weight of her body pressed against his chest. “I’ll see you soon.” There was no emotion in her voice or in her expression. She nodded once to the guard and left the cell. Simon leaned against the wall and let his heavy body sink to the floor, wondering if he would ever hold her again. He thought about their time together in Yanji, the conversations they shared in Mrs. Stern’s flower garden. He was a fool for not telling her then how much he loved her. He was a fool for letting her cross the border alone. Could he ever forgive himself for all the mistakes he had made, all the pain he had caused her?
Half an hour or so after she left, a shrill whistle forced Simon and the rest of his cellmates to their feet. The assistant director flew by, barking orders. “Up, all of you. At attention. Now.” Lang accentuated each command with a piercing screech from his whistle.
“He’s at it early,” Simon mumbled.
“Must be an inspection day,” Mal-Chin remarked.
The men formed their lines and waited to count off. It was strange having the assistant director there. Usually shift guards oversaw roll-call, and then only when they happened to remember it. Simon couldn’t be certain, but he thought Lang glared directly at him. Simon swallowed once and straightened his back as much as he could.
The assistant director stopped and pointed his beaked nose right at Simon. “You. 39846.” He raised a finger, as if anyone could doubt whom he addressed. “Follow me.”
Simon didn’t return Mal-Chin’s gaze. If Simon was in trouble, he had to keep his friend out of it. As he followed the assistant director out the cell, he racked his brain, trying to think of any of the camp rules he might have broken. Was Hannah in trouble for visiting him? Did this have something to do with her? Why did they ever leave Yanji?
Once in his office, Lang made a slow show of scooting back his chair and lowering himself into it with a flourish. Simon remained standing and gazed at the metal desk between them.
“I’ve been watching you.” Lang scratched his gigantic nose. Simon tried to keep his face neutral. “Shift guards say you’re no trouble.”
“Yes, sir.” Simon wondered when the compliment would reveal its poisonous barb.
“A strong young man like you isn’t meant for life behind bars. You want to be out working, don’t you? Serving your nation.”
Simon shifted his feet. “Yes, sir.” Were they sending him back to the mines? He swallowed down his anxiety. Would he ever see her again?
The assistant director nodded, keeping his bug-eyed pupils fixed on Simon. “Good. I have an assignment for you.”
Simon waited, uncertain if this revelation warranted another Yes, sir or not.
“I got a pen and paper here. And you, you’re going to write down all the prisoners who complain. Nothing fancy. You just write me their names and what they’re whining about and pass it to the guards.” The assistant director raised an eyebrow. “That a problem, prisoner?” His voice dripped with concern, but hostility gleamed from his stare.
Simon straightened his back. His face throbbed where the shovel had smashed him months earlier. “No, sir.”
Lang slid his chair noisily back and circled him with slow, deliberate strides. “I’ve just given you one of the highest honors a prisoner in your position could hope for.”
Simon’s throat felt as dry as the parched countryside during the worst of the Great Famine. “Thank you, Officer.”
Lang harrumphed and took a step closer. “You’re still not happy.” He leaned in, and Simon was certain he saw a spark of malicious delight shimmer in Lang’s eye.
“I appreciate the honor, sir, and will carry out my duties as best I can.”
“Good.” Lang handed Simon a small cloth bag with long drawstrings. “Tie this around your waist. Guard on duty will collect your notes each morning.” Simon wondered why Lang even bothered to give him a secret bag. Prisoners could sniff out a traitor even more skillfully than they hunted rats. This “honor” was a death sentence of its own kind. Lang opened the office door and beckoned a guard. “Take him back to his cell.”
Simon’s legs were heavy as he turned to go.
“Wait. One more thing.” There was a hint of pleasure in Lang’s voice. “We can’t have your cellmates getting suspicious.” Lang gave a nod, and the guard at the door took a step closer. “You go back there unharmed, and they’ll know exactly what we talked about.”
Simon had just enough time to suck in his breath before the attack began.
***
Lang wiped his shoe with a rag and smiled smugly as 39846 limped out of his office. The National Security Agency had discovered long ago there was no simpler way to turn cellmates against one another than to send a mole into their ranks. With Officer Yeong breathing down his neck about productivity and morale, Lang could rest assured that 39846 was serving multiple purposes. The prisoners would be on better behavior, at least until they smelled out the traitor. And when they discovered who it was, the nurse’s boyfriend would bear the brunt of their anger. That should make her regret flitting away from him last night. Maybe once his cellmates were good and done with him, Lang would send 39846 back to the infirmary and let his little girlfriend try to sew him back together. What did the flirt see in him besides a bony figure in clothes twice too big? Lang shrugged and picked up his pen. She could have had a real man.
Now, she would only have a corpse.
***
Simon’s eye was so swollen he could scarcely see. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he guessed from the way his head wanted to tilt lopsided that his nose was broken. He coughed weakly, his ribs screeching in pain from the effort. The other prisoners took a few collective steps back as the guard opened the gate and dumped Simon onto the floor.
“What was that for?” There was no shock or anger in Mal-Chin’s voice, only a tender, tired sort of concern.
Simon tried to shrug and ended up groaning instead. He heard the sound of ripping cloth. “Here.” A young man with two fingers missing held out a strip of uniform-gray cloth from his uniform. “Use it to stop the bleeding.”
Simon groaned again as Mal-Chin wadded up the rag and shoved it against his nose. He needed to cough, but his body wouldn’t respond.
“You’ll be all right.” Mal-Chin spoke with a certain air of authority. “We’re all going to be all right.”
Several others came closer. Their voices floated in and out of Simon’s consciousness. His head ached. Sharp, icy splinters jabbed into his chest with each breath. Mal-Chin cradled his head and crooned meaningless pleasantries into his ear in a soothing, melodic tone. Someone held the cloth to his bleeding nose, while another prodded his legs and torso.
“I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Bleeding’s slowing down.” Simon recognized the voice of the boy with the missing fingers.
“Wonder what the assistant director wanted with him.”
“Doesn’t matter,” someone else answered. “Don’t need a reason if you’re National Security.”
A few men murmured their agreements. Simon wanted to warn them. Didn’t they know how dangerous it was to talk that way? Didn’t they know he’d have to report everything he heard?
“How’s he doing?” another cellmate asked.
“All right,” Mal-Chin answered. “Just roughed up a little.”
“Nothing serious?”
“No. He’ll be back on his feet by the end of the day. A little sore, I’d wager, but he’ll be all right.”
Simon wanted to tell the others to stop worrying about him. They wouldn’t be so caring if they knew of his assignment from Lang. And once they found him out, he’d be even worse off than now. Maybe that’s what the assistant director had in mind from the beginning. Simon’s head felt as though it was cloven in two, with pain radiating out into both hemispheres symmetrically.
“Try to get some rest now.” Mal-Chin tossed the drenched rag in the corner, and Simon was too exhausted to do anything but comply.
***
“Excuse me, sir.”
Lang turned away from the window overlooking the infirmary. He glared at the secretary who interrupted his vigil. “What do you want?”
“The Chief Officer of Productivity is here to see you.” The secretary bowed once and scurried backward out of the office. Officer Yeong came in a second later, his spine rigid, his face set.
Lang snapped to attention. “Good morning, Comrade Officer.”
Yeong grunted in response and sat down in Lang’s chair. “What headway has been made regarding prisoner morale?”
Lang glared at his seat, but he willed himself to smile. “Plenty. I got one of the inmates to keep me informed. I expect that in a week or less, we’ll have an end to all the complaints. I’m also in the process of developing a more regimented schedule so the men don’t get used to idleness.”
Yeong crossed his arms. “Is that all?” His tone was incredulous.
“I’ve only had a few hours since our discussion last night. Surely you don’t expect ...”
“What I expect,” Yeong snapped, “is compliance. Your new procedures will be approved and implemented before the Day of the Sun. Am I clear?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
The Chief Officer of Productivity stood and swept out the office without a parting bow. Lang watched him leave. He’d have killed for a cigarette. He picked up the phone and radioed his secretary.
“Get in here.”
The underling hurried in just seconds later, fidgeting with his fingers. “What is it, sir?”
“We got work to discuss.” Lang scratched his chin and scowled. “I’ve got Yeong breathing down my neck at every step. Says he wants more order. More control. More productivity.” Lang spat out the last word and threw up his hands. What did Yeong expect? This was a prison ward, not a factory. The men were hardened, idle criminals, good for interrogating and spying on each other and nothing else. Productivity? How could you even measure that here?
The secretary kept his eyes on Lang’s desk. “We can augment the schedule we drafted last night.”
Lang flung down his pen. It wasn’t a cigarette, but until he found favor with one of his superiors and caught them in a generous mood, he’d be stuck waving writing utensils around like an imbecile. “We’re not going to impress Yeong by scribbling nonsense on calendars.”
The secretary at least knew enough to keep his mouth shut. Lang paced back and forth by the window, staring out at the infirmary. Where was that little nurse? If Yeong hadn’t started acting like such a feudal tyrant lord last night, Lang might still have some of his appetite left. Oh, well. He had other plans for her now anyway.
“What do you have in mind?” The secretary poised his pencil above his notebook. Lang ignored the urge to hurl a chair at him. The kid was an idiot without a single creative thought to his credit. What Lang needed was something huge. Something unforgettable. Something he could stamp his name all over and shove under the noses of all those Pyongyang aristocrats. What he needed was big. Grand.
“A demonstration.” The word erupted from Lang’s mouth before his brain finished registering the idea.
“Sir?” The secretary stood there, looking stupid and confused as always, but at least he was respectful. He knew what it was to fear his superiors.
Lang grabbed another pen from his desk and jabbed at an imaginary speck in the air. “A demonstration.” The faster he spoke, the more the idea appealed to him. “We find the worst offenders here. Shouldn’t be tricky. And we make examples of them for everyone else, including our new Chief Officer.” He glanced at the calendar on his desk. “How long before the Day of the Sun?”
“Two days, sir.” At least the fool knew how to count.
Lang pressed his forehead against the window. “Then we have work to do.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip when he spotted the little nurse spoon-feeding the victim of a mining accident. Pretty soon she and everyone else at Camp 22 would learn to fear him. He would have the respect he deserved.
***
Simon slept for most of the afternoon, rousing himself only when the guard came by tooting on his whistle for an extra roll call. Mal-Chin stayed by his side, propping him up when his injuries left him too exhausted to stand on his own.
Why had the assistant director singled him out? Was it pure and simple bad luck? Or was there more to it? Had Lang read through the records and discovered Simon and Mal-Chin were both Christians? Did he want Simon to betray his friend?
Simon’s sentence was already certain. The only thing he didn’t know was if his doom would come from the National Security Agency or his own cellmates. If he defied the assistant director’s orders, he had no doubt Lang would have him killed. But when his cellmates caught him spying, his fate would prove just as brutal.
That evening, the shrill whistle sounded for yet another roll call. Mal-Chin took him by the elbow, and the three-fingered prisoner stood on his other side to hoist him up. Simon didn’t even know the boy’s name. He glanced over, and the kid smiled at him. The gesture was simple, and it vanished less than a second after it appeared. Simon tried to guess how old he was. And was he in prison for his own crimes, or those of a distant relative? Simon tried to smile back and knew he couldn’t turn his cellmates in.
When night came, he waited until everyone had been asleep for several hours before he slipped the pen and paper out of his waistband. Even though nobody had made any noise, his heart raced. He willed his hands to steady themselves as he carefully unfolded the page. With each rustle of the paper against itself, he held his breath and strained his ears to detect any movement in his cell. The electricity had been turned off, but Simon wouldn’t need a light.
The sound of his pen scratching the paper grated against Simon’s ears. He grimaced and froze. Nothing stirred. He waited for his pulse to decelerate before he began again. His note to Hannah was longer than he intended, but there was so much he had to tell her. He hoped she could decipher his scribbles. Once he filled the front page, he made the first fold to close it and then stopped. How long had it been since Hannah read the Bible? He thought about her ministering in the infirmary day after day, pouring out her healing and grace to so many. Was she thirsty for the Word of God to fill her back up again? He jotted down a few verses from the Sermon on the Mount, folded the paper up the rest of the way, and hid it inside his waistband.
His only prayer was to get the note to Hannah before the National Security Agency learned of his treason. She had to know how much he loved her.