breath. I sweated so much I wrung it from my ponytail at the end of the day. I also found secret ways to take in the factory around me, saw other women struggle to make the shirts, and noticed some who caught on as fast as I had. I noticed the patterns of the people around me, how much they resembled bees in a hive. All of us worked toward a singular goal.
Each day, I got angrier. I stitched frustration into every single shirt and kept one eye on the door at the end of the long row for any sign of Fostino. Each time the regular soldiers changed shifts with the Homeland Guard, I trained my eyes on the back door for some sort of clue about him. He never came to the basement. He never came anywhere near my section of the sweatshop. As the days passed, I worried more and more about Fostino.
Then, one night, I bit my nails down into their quick during my walk home. My eyes scanned every step of the walk for some indication Fostino had been there. A few steps from my door, I thought I saw something. I strained to make it out: a dusty “F” looked etched in the ground near the door. I stopped and gawked at it.
Had Fostino stopped here? When?
Once I got inside, I sat on the loveseat for hours and remembered the day of the massacre. I thought about how he smelled of sugar mixed with sweat, how I saw pain in his eyes, and how he held me when I broke down. I waited for him to knock at my door once again and prayed he would patrol near my house. I thought about a walk to the cornfield again on the off chance I would find him there.
He didn’t come. Ever.
A few weeks went by, and then one day I finished the first 15 shirts by 11:00 AM, much faster than normal. The precut spool of material and thread flowed through my hands like water.
Slow down, Charlotte.
Underneath the table, I pulled the fabric for the next shirt away from the other bolts of pre-cut material. It didn’t come easy, so I tugged a few times.
“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” repeated the woman in the center of the room as the clock on the far walls struck the time. I bit my lip as she said the grating words. I heard a small rip and panicked. I got closer to the spool so I didn’t tear the material beyond repair.
Then I saw it. A rolled up, thick, small, white piece of paper wedged itself between two sections of material on the spool.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I sucked in a breath and glanced around the legs of the table. I knew I had seconds until the pacing soldiers decided I took too long getting my next pieces of fabric.
I knew Fostino placed that paper there for a reason.
With the utmost care, I slid the paper out from under the fabric and then waited until the soldiers walked in between tables before hiding it in the side pocket of my government issued black dress uniform. Then I erased my expression and retook my seat. I kept my eyes on the table. I focused my eyes on my numb hands and the industrial sewing machine. I bit my lip so I would not say anything that might draw attention my way.
Then the wait came.
I waited two hours until the woman came around with the sandwiches and the tomato juice for lunch. After she thrust the wilted sandwich my way, I placed it in my lap and used that motion to pull the paper from my dress and slide it under the foil. The paper opened with one hand, and I pulled it until I saw the words.
Meet me in the alley behind the convenience store at 7:30.
My teeth bit my lip harder. My heart jumped and my ears throbbed. I peered from my left to my right and hoped my face didn’t give me away. The clock over the shoulder of the woman across from me said 12:30 PM.
Seven hours to go.
*
At 7:32 PM, my feet rounded the corner and scooted into the alley behind Centre Towne Market. The dim of twilight replaced the sun. My shoes crunched on the gravel and I heard Humvees rumble down the main street with Party Members and soldiers on the way to
Each day, I got angrier. I stitched frustration into every single shirt and kept one eye on the door at the end of the long row for any sign of Fostino. Each time the regular soldiers changed shifts with the Homeland Guard, I trained my eyes on the back door for some sort of clue about him. He never came to the basement. He never came anywhere near my section of the sweatshop. As the days passed, I worried more and more about Fostino.
Then, one night, I bit my nails down into their quick during my walk home. My eyes scanned every step of the walk for some indication Fostino had been there. A few steps from my door, I thought I saw something. I strained to make it out: a dusty “F” looked etched in the ground near the door. I stopped and gawked at it.
Had Fostino stopped here? When?
Once I got inside, I sat on the loveseat for hours and remembered the day of the massacre. I thought about how he smelled of sugar mixed with sweat, how I saw pain in his eyes, and how he held me when I broke down. I waited for him to knock at my door once again and prayed he would patrol near my house. I thought about a walk to the cornfield again on the off chance I would find him there.
He didn’t come. Ever.
A few weeks went by, and then one day I finished the first 15 shirts by 11:00 AM, much faster than normal. The precut spool of material and thread flowed through my hands like water.
Slow down, Charlotte.
Underneath the table, I pulled the fabric for the next shirt away from the other bolts of pre-cut material. It didn’t come easy, so I tugged a few times.
“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” repeated the woman in the center of the room as the clock on the far walls struck the time. I bit my lip as she said the grating words. I heard a small rip and panicked. I got closer to the spool so I didn’t tear the material beyond repair.
Then I saw it. A rolled up, thick, small, white piece of paper wedged itself between two sections of material on the spool.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I sucked in a breath and glanced around the legs of the table. I knew I had seconds until the pacing soldiers decided I took too long getting my next pieces of fabric.
I knew Fostino placed that paper there for a reason.
With the utmost care, I slid the paper out from under the fabric and then waited until the soldiers walked in between tables before hiding it in the side pocket of my government issued black dress uniform. Then I erased my expression and retook my seat. I kept my eyes on the table. I focused my eyes on my numb hands and the industrial sewing machine. I bit my lip so I would not say anything that might draw attention my way.
Then the wait came.
I waited two hours until the woman came around with the sandwiches and the tomato juice for lunch. After she thrust the wilted sandwich my way, I placed it in my lap and used that motion to pull the paper from my dress and slide it under the foil. The paper opened with one hand, and I pulled it until I saw the words.
Meet me in the alley behind the convenience store at 7:30.
My teeth bit my lip harder. My heart jumped and my ears throbbed. I peered from my left to my right and hoped my face didn’t give me away. The clock over the shoulder of the woman across from me said 12:30 PM.
Seven hours to go.
*
At 7:32 PM, my feet rounded the corner and scooted into the alley behind Centre Towne Market. The dim of twilight replaced the sun. My shoes crunched on the gravel and I heard Humvees rumble down the main street with Party Members and soldiers on the way to
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