The bushy-eyebrow man hesitated and looked at me for a while, his eyebrows undulating with thought. He gathered the pictures and put them back into my backpack. “Is there anything else in there?”
“No, just some clothes, nothing else,” the soldier said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Take her in the car. Let’s move. Get in the cars, men. Hurry, we’re late now!”
I got in the same car as Uncle Shin, and he told the others he’d take care of me. He held my hand without a word, but when the car started moving, he whispered, “Good girl. You did a good job. You’ll meet your grandparents soon,” and rubbed my back softly. I wanted to say how scared I was during the night and that I wanted to go back to the mountain, but sitting next to him, all I felt was relief, and I held his hand tightly. I rebuffed the soldiers’ questions until they grew tired of asking, and gave me whatever food they had in their pockets. Uncle Shin pulled a khaki cotton blanket over my legs and hugged me tightly.
I fell asleep, but awoke with a start several times. I kept having nightmares of my grandparents and sister being tied together by a thick metal chain and dragged into a deep cave. My sister stared at me and cursed, Everything is because of you. Because of you… I cried out, I’ll go with you. Don’t leave me! But my grandfather called down to me, Don’t come here. You’re not part of our family anymore. Then they left together and disappeared, leaving me in the middle of a terrific darkness.
I awoke, choked with tears, crying, “Grandmother! Grandfather! Don’t leave me!” The soldiers thought I was crying for the grandparents in the pictures, and Uncle Shin cradled me until I fell asleep.
I awoke the final time to his words, “Jia, get up! We’ve arrived in Pyongyang.”
I opened my eyes and looked toward the open back of the truck.
The car was still moving—not on the rugged mountain path, but on even asphalt. There were high buildings in all directions, and a big golden statue, stretching its arm up to the sky, came in sight. That was my first glimpse of Pyongyang.
PART 2
Second Life
“Is your name Jia?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“According to the document, she is sixteen.”
The director of the orphanage answered the questions for me. The strangers—three men and two women—looked through the document for several minutes. All the men wore gray jackets in the same style; their appearance gave them away as government officials. The women’s clothes contrasted sharply with the men’s. I’d never seen so many colors on one person. The older woman wore a light red silk blouse and a black skirt. Her glasses, with their small, thin lenses, looked as sharp as her eyes. She held a small black handbag on her right arm, and all her small accessories seemed to be made for her tiny physique. The other woman wore a simple, light-blue shirt and a gray skirt. Their outfits didn’t match their surroundings at all; I was curious how they got such clothes.
The eldest of the men peered at the document through black, thick-rimmed spectacles. The woman with the red blouse stood up briskly from her worn-out brown chair. It was like a small red coil springing from the ground. With her outfit, I guessed her to be around 40 (though I later learned she was over 50); her body was still perfectly balanced, still fit. Walking in my direction, she took a good look at me from top to bottom before grabbing my shoulder slightly and spinning me around clockwise. Extending my arms, she said to herself, “Such long arms and legs. Those will be big advantages.”
“She is too old to learn now. She has never had regular training in a professional school,” the oldest man said, raising his head from my identification papers.
The woman assessing my body threw her head back, exclaiming, “What do you know about this field? It’s not too late—she could catch up. We’re not looking for a lead dancer anyway, we just need more dancers. The director already said she’s the best one here, and we saw her performance. What else do we need?”
Ignoring the man’s pout, she turned back to me. She took several steps back. I was baffled, and felt suddenly naked; my face flushed. She really had sharp eyes: their apple shape and long slant made them even stronger. Not a strand of hair stuck out of her ponytail. Seeing her up close, I thought she looked much older than I had first assumed. She went back to her seat, and, on sitting down, sighed and said, “Sing whatever you want.”
I stood up, looking dully at the director of the orphanage and the others in turn. Why would they want to hear my song? The director had called me to stop by her office after lunch, only to bring me to the room where these people were waiting. I was bewildered; I stalled.
Losing patience, the director stalked over to me and whispered, “Jia. Sing the song you think is the best for your voice.” She grabbed my left hand and yanked me forward, in front of them. “She will sing. She’s just a little nervous.” She signaled me again, with an urging eye.
I sang the Third Aria from the opera Girl Selli, Flowers. As I sang, I remembered I had seen these same people the previous weekend, at the performance to welcome the government officials on their regular visit. Every year, the orphanage held a performance to entertain visiting officials. As I voiced the lyrics of the song, I tried to figure out why I was there. The woman studied me with her hands clasped, bobbing one of her crossed legs.
“Okay. That’s enough. Show us your dancing.” Waving at me, the sharp-eyed woman stopped me in mid-song. “You prepared the audio, right?” she said, turning to the director.
The director seemed more nervous than I was. Her stout body wasn’t meant for rushing; she nearly toppled to the floor in her haste to get to the tape recorder on her desk. “Which music do you want?” the director asked me softly.
Before I could ask what music she had, the sharp-eyed woman interrupted, “No. Don’t turn it on.” She crossed her arms. “Show us the dancing part of the song you just sang.”
Whenever we had performances in the orphanage, I took the girl’s part in Girl Selling Flowers. I was used to singing and dancing in front of audiences, but in that room, at that moment, with only six people’s eyes focused on me, I was more anxious than I had ever been. I glanced at the director, but her eyes were busy darting around, checking the reactions of the others and then looking tensely back at me. Something must have happened between them before I arrived.
“Okay. That’s enough. Go sit down over there.” The sharp-eyed woman pointed to a chair next to the window.
I immediately stopped dancing, crossed the room to sit down, and heaved a sigh of relief. They talked together intently, the tops of their heads forming a circle. I couldn’t make out what they were discussing; their faces were inexpressive. The director joined their conversation and occasionally threw me a glance, bobbing her head repeatedly.
The oldest man turned his head to me and asked abruptly, “Do you remember anything about your family or where you lived before you were seven?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, folding my hands on my knees.
“Stand up when you answer our questions,” the sharp-eyed woman ordered, and I sprang to my feet. Surely, she was the scariest person I had ever met. “When did you learn to dance?”
I stood at attention. “Three years after I came here.”
“She was really good,” the director said. “She had never been schooled in dance or singing. One day when she passed a classroom, she saw a group of students practicing dancing. She just copied the older students’ dancing in front of the door, but she was like a tiny flying butterfly.” The director lavished praise on me, gazing at me with a warm smile. It was true: if she hadn’t seen me in the hall that day, I never would have started dancing professionally.