The Interrogation

“The Interrogation”

By Jeffrey Van Dell

Sleeping on cold, hard, concrete is uncomfortable, especially if you’re eighty-nine and have arthritis. Am I eighty-nine or ninety-eight? The concrete certainly feels hard. Or am I lying on rough bamboo, warm and damp from the summer rains? I feel splinters in my forearms from where the PLA soldier threw me. I can smell flowers from…No, I’m lying on concrete, hard, dry, and cold.

I am in solitary confinement in Re-Education Camp Number One at the Moon’s South Pole. There are no windows in my cell but … No, I can see all the other bamboo cages strung up over the river. Every once in a while the PLA soldiers dip the cages under the water and place bets on how long the prisoner in it can hold her breath. Someone loses every time.

But…No, I cannot see any bamboo cages; only gray concrete. The moon is gray and cold. What is my name? I keep forgetting because the soldiers hit me on the head with the butts of their rifles when I was in Bangkok. I was looking for the cell group I was supposed to teach that day. The canvass bag full of instructional materials thumped against my back as I ran into an alley. A prostitute, at thirteen already a veteran, was on break smoking a cigarette. She looked tired.

No, I’m still on the moon in my cell, alone. It is cold.

Click

A door opens and Mr. Tong, my friend…No, he’s not my friend, my interrogator, comes in. A large PLA/Company guard carries in a concrete desk and two chairs. Mr. Tong sits and the guard lifts me up, quite delicately for someone so powerful, and places me into the other chair.

“Shall we begin?” Mr. Tong asks.

“Yes.” I say.

“Why are you here?” He asks, typing on a pad and glancing up at me every few seconds.

I wonder if he’s writing a novel.

“For crimes against humanity…no. For espionage…no, not that. For delivering forbidden literature…no. For all of the above…” I look up and wait for confirmation

“Go on.” He says.

I am in a bamboo cage, my arms are tied to the bars, outstretched, the cage is lowered into the water and I hold my breath, thinking ‘why are you doing this to me?’

“Doing what?” Asks Mr. Tong, stopping his typing and looking at me evenly.

“Doing what?” He asks again.

“Nothing.” I say and bow my head.

“Go on.” He says.

“Crimes against humanity and…” I pause.

“And…” He prompts.

Mr. Tong says, “You always forget this one. I wonder why?” He lights a cigarette. Smoke billows around him in the dim light.

“Fanning the flames of religious fervor?” I say, remembering at last.

“Yes! That is why you are here now, before you were detained for…”

“Preaching Christ crucified and risen again!” I scream as the bamboo cage is pulled out of the river by the thick wire. “I preach Christ crucified!” I yell for both guards and prisoners to hear, and the guard on the roof of my cage leans over and smashes my bound hands with a steel-tipped bamboo rod until I pass out.

Mr. Tong pours a glass of water and pushes it towards me.

“Drink.” He says.

I sip water from the glass until I realize how thirsty I am, then gulp the entire contents down.

“Do you feel better?” He asks.

“Thank you, a cup of water for a thirsty orphan.” I say.

“Ah, You haven’t quoted scripture to me in a long time. What brought that up?” He asks.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I was almost drowned once for preaching?” I say.

Mr. Tong shakes his head sadly and says, “Why do you insist on fermenting religious fervor? Is there something wrong with the world and your life that you need to put your loved ones through all this?” He asks, waving his hands toward the cell walls.

“Many of my family were all killed in the war.” I say.

I was running up a flight of stairs in a filthy Bangkok tenement, trying to evade the police. As much as the cell groups needed the books they were slowing me down. I tossed the bag into the first door I found unlocked. The people inside would probably use the books as fuel to cook their meals on so it wasn’t a total loss..

“Why do you do this? Do you have some kind of compulsion? We’ve tested you. There is nothing biological we can find that causes your kind to behave this way. I wish there were, then we could give you a treatment to make it stop. It’s quite expensive to keep you a prisoner you know.” He lights another cigarette.

At the top of the stairwell I crashed through the door and onto the roof of the building out of breath. I did not hear my pursuers coming up the stairs.

“If you sign the document you will be released to your family under house arrest but you will be much more comfortable than you are here, don’t you think so?” Mr. Tong says.

The heat radiating from the slate roof burned my feet right through my rubber sandals and I moved them continuously, doing a little dance, listening for the soldiers. Had I escaped and if I had, where should I go now that my identity was compromised?

“You could go to China, or Mars, or even to the Von Raven’s…oh, not there, but you have family on almost every continent and a few off world.” Says Mr. Tong.

The soldiers appeared on the roof of the building next to mine. They leveled their guns at me and said, “Stop, or well shoot you.” One of them fired at me and his superior swore at him, slapped him in the head and took away his rifle.

“If I go back to China can I share the gospel while under house arrest?” I ask Mr. Tong.

“You mean like Saint Paul preaching to the Roman guards he was chained to? No, I don’t think so.” Says Mr. Tong.

Looking down I saw several clotheslines crisscrossing between the buildings. I heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. There was no lock on the door. Jumping backwards off the building I caught one of the clothe lines on the way down. I swung seven stories over an alley. Swinging back and forth to gain momentum I let go and flew, flipping in mid air, catching the next clothesline at the sixth floor.

“I was on the sixth floor.” I say, smiling at Mr. Tong.

“In China?” He asks.

I swung myself again and caught the clothesline at the fifth floor. It stretched. I swung my body once again then let go.

“No, in Bangkok, above an alley with many rats, before the war.” I say.

“There are no more rats in Bangkok.” He says, stubbing out his cigarette.

Catching the clothesline at the forth floor I waited and relaxed a little. A red t-shirt with a soft-drink logo on it blew against my face. It smelled like bleach. I swung once more and…

“Get her up.” Says Mr. Tong. He sounds far away. Has he moved?

I feel warm blood flow from my temple down the side of my face. The guard puts me in the chair and applies a bandage and some ointment to my face. He straps me in the chair with a thick rope. Mr. Tong holds a straw to my mouth and I drink some kind of fruit juice, lemon?

The third floor clothesline broke and I fell, but I was able to break my fall by grabbing the one on the first floor, it wasn’t enough though. As I landed my leg snapped and I screamed in agony. People surrounded me, one of them picking my pockets for valuables. The police, then soldiers arrived and isolated me.

One of the PLA soldiers said, “It was lucky you didn’t land on your head. You may really have been seriously injured. We have it all on tape!” He held up a camera, gleefully and let me watch my acrobatic performance filmed from above.

Another said, “I have a cousin in the Pan Asian Circus. You’re nothing compared to her.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. I vomited and someone held a water bottle to my lips. An argument over whether I should go to the security center or to the hospital ensued. In the end the soldiers won, of course. I screamed a lot more when they lifted me and threw me in the back of the police van without putting my leg in a splint. I passed out from the pain seconds later.

I awake in complete darkness, trying to remember what happened.

“Hello?” I say.

No one answers.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I yell.

In the distance I hear a faint sound, some machine turning on maybe? I am lying on concrete and in my right mind again. The episodes of confusion have been coming with greater frequency of late. They are the consequence of an experiment I’d taken part in long ago. My mind was producing images that happened to me in my past and I could not stop them from crowding out my present reality. They will only become more frequent until my conscious life becomes one unrelenting flashback. Emilio was working on a cure but he had other problems and I wasn’t holding out much hope. For now I can only…do what?

I feel my way around the concrete square that has been my world for the last sixteen weeks. Arrested for smuggling bibles and religious literature, I would likely die here. My interrogator does not know of my condition and probably thinks I am suffering from one of the new, exotic diseases unleashed upon the world during the last war. I push the pad that releases a stream of clean, nutrient laden water into my mouth, delicious and cold, too cold.

There is little heat provided for prisoners. My arthritis is painful, even with the medication and herbs I usually take. Now, it is agonizing. I must not let Tong know that. It will give him leverage.

The silly little man wants me to sign a document promising I will never preach the gospel again. They used to want me to sign a document saying I deny that Jesus is the Son of God. I nearly lost the use of my right arm over that. Perhaps they saw that my life was drawing to a close and the most they could hope for was to keep me quiet?

There is a hole in the floor for a toilet. It stinks. Food is sparse. I am allotted one liter of clean drinking water per day. Sometimes I get soy bread and dried fruit. Most days I receive only sour broth. They are starving me slowly. No one except Mr. Tong communicates with me. His daily interrogations seem to serve no purpose.  To keep my sanity I keep to my “prison schedule”. For an hour a day I pray, for my family, friends, the churches I helped start, and even Mr. Tong. For another hour I perform complex math problems in my head. I stumble over these of late and realize that my mind is beginning to betray me. Singing and speaking aloud is too difficult since my throat is always dry so I mouth poems I memorized as a child. Only my lips move. Every other day I mouth one of the gospels, using the hand gestures I used to use as a missionary to teach children the bible stories. If anyone was watching me when I did this, and I suppose someone was, they must think I am truly mad.

Lately when Mr. Tong comes for his question sessions I am tired and out of sorts. It is probably something in the food or water designed to break me down. I have been imprisoned many times, but I am old now. Deprivations that I used to shrug off now hurt me. If they are trying to break down my will, it is working. That is not the worst part though.

Lately I have been wondering if my life spent in service to God and the church was really worth it. Blasphemous you say! But my thoughts return to that theme none the less. Can you imagine living your entire life believing you were one thing, assured to the point of giving even your children for your cause, then for an instant, seeing a reverse image of yourself, realizing that if had all been a waste? There was no Jesus, no heaven, no hell, nothing to die for. There was nothing to risk my life for. All of my beliefs were being shattered by a trick of my own mind.

 How is Mr. Tong able to do that to me? Or am I doing it to myself? The questions themselves add another layer of confusion and frustration.

I will tell you a secret. Pride made me bring those bibles to my niece on Mars. I didn’t really need to bring bibles. Although they are forbidden, they can be had if you really want one. My niece certainly doesn’t need them. It was an image I have of myself as a heroic martyr that drove me to pack them into my bag. I confess.

I want to go out in a blaze of glory, not befuddled old age. I thought I would be made a spectacle of in some kind of show trial like they had just after the war. Delusions of screaming the gospel message to millions of viewers across the solar system came into my mind. In the end I am just an old woman in a cold room with no one watching her but a bureaucrat. Mr. Tong must have angered someone high up the chain of command to be posted to the Siberia of the solar system.

I hear the food slot open and feel my way over to it. Smelling a familiar scent I say aloud, “Thank you God for the rice.”

I eat my food slowly, savoring each morsel. This was my first bowl of rice since coming here. Perhaps my crash landing had alerted Mr. Tong to the fact that I am not altogether healthy. At any rate it is a blessing and I lick the bowl in the dark when I am done. Soy sauce has never tasted so good. A cup of hot tea is pushed through later. I hold the little cup in my hands, savoring the sensation of warmth as I drink it.

Images from the past flash in and out of my mind, unbidden.

“Emilio, if you only knew what your experiment did to me.” I think. 

Perhaps it isn’t his experiment that is causing these episodes? Maybe it’s something organic that was misdiagnosed, or something in the food? No, the episodes began before I arrived here. As a matter of fact they began a year ago, while I was reading. I thought I was simply day dreaming but it wasn’t that at all, was it?

The day of my first episode I was reading ‘David Copperfield’ in English, thinking about sending a paper copy to my granddaughter who was almost at the age where she would appreciate such things. Then I was back in the prison kitchen, using the tapping language because were forbidden to speak aloud. As we prepared food for the prisoners and staff our spoons and knives.

Tap tap tap. “I think they’re going to release Nang.”

Tap tap tap    “No, it’s a rumor. He’s being sent to a different camp.”

Tap tap tap    “We should pray that he is released. He is old.”

Tap tap tap    “You are old and you never pray to be released.”

Tap tap tap    “I only look old because I refuse life extension. I choose to be here for God’s glory.”

Tap scrape, tap scrape. They laughed aloud and the kitchen guard swore at us, wondering what was so funny.

None of them came to faith, none that I knew of. Sometimes the seeds are scattered and we never see the fruit.

I put the book down on my little table and wondered what happened. Had I been dreaming?

“Peel your potato!” Yelled the guard.

I looked down at the book on the table and wondered where the voice came from and what potato the voice was talking about.

I looked down and saw I was holding not a book by Dicken’s, but a potato. Suddenly, I was in the basement of a Bangkok apartment block, holding not a potato and peeler but a pound and a half of plastic explosive attached to a timer and detonator.

“You will be executed if you are found with this!” I shouted, losing my composure and hoping my voice didn’t carry upstairs to where the church was meeting.

“But you said that what they’re doing in those labs is a crime against humanity. Do you not believe that any more?” He asked.

“Yes…I mean no, it is a crime but our kingdom won’t be won by blowing up buildings. Our kingdom will be won by changing hearts and minds, with God’s help, not the anarchists’ methods.” I said.

I wondered where he had obtained the explosive and why he was showing them to me now. Unfortunately I was too slow to comprehend the trap until I was inside it.

“No, you are wrong. They will only listen when their labs and devilish experiments are destroyed. How can you, of all people, not see the rightness of what we are doing?” He asked.

“Who is ‘we’? If you take any action it is without my consent I will disavow you. You had better not sully the name of our Lord with your violence.” I was looking around and listening. Were those footsteps on the stairs?

“Human’s are being used as lab animals against their will in those buildings! For too long people have stood by and kept silent because the medicine and knowledge has reduced suffering and brought wealth to our country. But My Chen, we cannot trade the blood of innocents for cancer cures. Our Lord would not sit by and allow innocents to be used like that. I will not.” He said.

Upstairs, the singing stopped. My little flock must be praying now. As I looked him in the eye I realized how dangerous the situation was. If I went to the authorities and warned them of the danger and he were arrested, he would probably give away the names of all the cell leaders, myself included. In a matter of days, the leaders of all our little church groups would be discovered, arrested and tortured until we named the members of our individual cell groups.

Before I could speak another word I heard shouts and gunshots from above. The basement door broke open and there I was, staring down the barrel of a pulse rifle, holding an explosive device just like the one used in countless terrorist plots. It was a miracle I wasn’t shot dead where I stood.

That was my first episode.

I lick my lips and realize how hungry I am. Water fills my belly but it isn’t the same as eating a good meal.

Time passes.

The door opens and Mr. Tong enters behind the Company guard. The concrete table and chairs are brought in. I don’t need the guard’s help getting in the chair this time.

“The document is in front of you. At any time you may sign it and leave here on the next available transport. Until that time, if you sign, you will be given all the food you can eat in a heated room at the Equator Hotel. If you don’t sign you can sit in your cell until you die of pneumonia or old age, whichever comes first.” Mr. Tong smiled at me. “I’m sorry, I was only joking. I have some wonderful news. I’m being reassigned! You should be happy for me. In two weeks I’m going back to China to take over my brother’s farm. Green fields and all the bots I need to harvest the sweetest no-tar tobacco on the planet.” He lights a cigarette and waves the smoke in my direction. “This is it now, smell?”

It smells like mushrooms and ginger.

“I’m happy for you Mr. Tong. God has blessed you.” I say.

“Ah, why must you ruin it by bringing up God? It’s not a blessing but the result of our own ingenuity and hard work. Don’t you know we have the skeleton of Jesus Christ in one of the Company warehouses? They found it in Palestine before the war. You must have seen it when it went around the world on our exhibition.” He says.

“You found a man who had been crucified around the same time as our Lord…” I say.

“No, it was him. The writings we found prove that he died and stayed dead. Don’t you understand that your belief is based on lies told by ignorant or deluded peasants in the first century?” He says.

My hands were aching. It was six ours since my beating in the cage and all of my fingers were broken by the steel tipped bamboo rod. One of the other prisoners tried to feed me by throwing rice balls from her cage to mine. I caught six in my mouth, four landed safely on the floor of the cage, one slipped through the bars. I wept when it hit the water below.

“Why are you crying? If you sign you can go home to China too.” Says Mr. Tong.

The soldiers removed me from my bamboo cage by tipping it over into the water. I wasn’t a good swimmer even when my hands were working and I almost drowned. When I did make it to the river’s edge, one of the soldiers kicked me in the chest because he bet that I would drown. I couldn’t breath.

“Just take a breath. Relax. You’re going to be fine.” Says Mr. Tong. He pushes a glass of water over to me.

“Traitor to the Chinese people and to the glorious martyrs of Hong Kong. How dare you live while they all perished. It was you and your devilish foreign religion that brought shame and disaster to our province.” The soldiers took turns shaking my hands as if we were long lost friends. I screamed with every jolt of my broken fingers.

“I am not a traitor to China!” I yell.

“That’s not one of the charges against you. If it were you would have been sent to Hong-Kong as a test subject.” Says Mr. Tong.

In the kitchen I was tapping the gospel message to one of the women. She was chopping carrots and I was pulling chicken off the bone for the soup.

Tap, tap, tap. “I don’t believe it. It’s just a myth.”

Tap, tap, tap. “It’s true, he’s changed my life. He can change yours.”

Tap, tap, tap. “You’re a prisoner. Is this how your God treats his followers?”

Tap, tap, tap. “I’m freer now than I ever have been before.

“You are a prisoner in a small cell on the moon and you are probably going to die here.” Says Mr. Tong.

Tap, tap, tap. “But we are all prisoners of the fear of death, aren’t you?”

Tap, tap, tap. “I fear death because I don’t want my ancestors to reject me.”

Tap, tap, tap. “I understand your fears.”

“You do? What fear have I ever expressed to you?” Asks Mr. Tong

Tap, tap, tap. “My own family disowned me because I believed the gospel.”

The kitchen guard walked over and took chicken from the pot I was putting it into. He was thin and had perfect teeth. I wondered how he could afford dental re-growth on a guard’s salary.

“Yes, your own family did disown you. You have a daughter and son who no longer acknowledge you as their mother. They even signed documents to that effect. How does that make you feel?” Asks Mr. Tong.

Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve felt like an orphan but there are no orphans in God’s family.”

Tap, tap, tap. “I want to believe you but…maybe if God gets me out of here. I’ll believe then.”

Tap, tap, tap. “He doesn’t do miracles on command. Faith is required.”

“How does that make you feel?” Asks Mr. Tong.

“How does what make me feel?” I ask.

“Having your own children disown you.” He says.

Tap, tap, tap. “But you said he did miracles, doesn’t he do them now?”

Tap, tap, tap. “Of course he does…let’s ask him to show you something or give you a sign. It might be something in your mind or heart that he shows you.”

“That who shows me?” Asks Mr. Tong.

Tap, tap, tap. “If he’s really there I want to see my brother.”

 Tap, tap, tap. “Your brother, where is he?”

“My brother is in China. I’m taking over the farm for him. Says Mr. Tong.

Tap tap tap. “In re-education camp number twelve. He thinks China should be a democracy.”

Mr. Tong laughs so hard his eyes water.

“My brother wants China to be a democracy? He was in the intelligence field for thirty years making sure democracy never reared its ugly head. He’s eliminated more pro-democracy agitators than any other operative in history.” Says Mr. Tong.

Tap, tap, tap. “You will see him next week, on a Tuesday I think. He will be carrying someone’s golf clubs.”

Tap, tap, tap. “Are you having a prophecy?”

Tap tap tap. “I don’t know. It seems like that.”

Mr. Tong stops laughing and takes a deep breath. “You are delusional. Are you hearing voices by any chance?”

Tap, tap, tap. “Golf clubs?”

Tap, tap, tap. “Yes, he will be carrying golf clubs, not his own though.”

Mr. Tong leans back in his chair and types on his pad.

Tap, tap, tap. “I believe you. If Jesus is God, I will see my brother carrying someone else’s golf clubs on Tuesday of next week.

The kitchen guard rinsed his hands off and told me to work faster and stop tapping my spoon so much. It was distracting him.

“No, you are wrong. My brother gets sick on space flights and doesn’t golf. How did that thought get into your head? I’ve never mentioned my brother until we spoke of him just now?” He says.

“God told me in my mind.” I say. It’s hard to breathe.

Mr. Tong laughs and says, “Well if I do see my brother carrying borrowed golf clubs next Tuesday, I’ll convert to your religion. I wonder, does your faith allow cigarettes?” He asks.

“I think it’s up to each believer if they wish to smoke or not. The same goes for alcohol. When I was a little girl grandpa let me sip his plum wine on New Years.” I say.

As I speak the last word the concrete table in front of me flies into the air sideways taking Mr. Tong along with it.

“Are you alright? Mr. Tong what did you do?” I ask. Maybe the artificial gravity went haywire?

My head is throbbing. I black out momentarily and when I awake my perspective shifts and I realize that it wasn’t the table that flew, it was me. The guard lifts me onto the table and examines my head as Mr. Tong opens a first aid kit and applies a medicollar to my neck. I feel a vibration then I sleep.

“Are you awake?” Asks Mr. Tong. His face is so close to mine that I can count the pores on his nose. His front tooth is cracked.

“Yes.” I say as I sit up. “How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough to have a medic check you over. You’re not sick. You are a little malnourished, but that’s part of your punishment. There are strange things going on in your brain. I wonder about them.” Says Mr. Tong.

“I am able to continue with the interrogation.” I say. I am fully awake now. They must have given me something to boost my energy because I feel like going for a walk.

“No more for today. We will start again tomorrow.” Mr. Tong and the guard leave.

The lights go out and once again I am in complete darkness. For months I have not known what time of day it is. My circadian rhythms are askew and this, combined with the malnourishment, makes me prone to tears. I want Mr. Tong to come back and talk to me. I want the silent guard to stand by his side, mute. They are the only people I am allowed to see and I miss them.

Stockholm syndrome?

Humans were meant to live in community. Solitary confinement is a cruel and unusual punishment. Men and women I knew, intelligent, articulate, and well grounded in their faith were reduced to shells of their former selves when confined to a pitch black cell with no human contact for twenty four hours a day. Some existed this way for years, with serious consequences.

One of my friends, a poet who was arrested for leading a church, smashed her head against the concrete floor of her darkened cell so hard that she suffered permanent brain damage. After her release she wrote nothing more complex than her name.

            Another friend became catatonic and to this day lay in a long-term care facility. I was subjected to darkened solitary for eighteen hours a day and I felt myself slipping, thirsting for visual stimulation. The mind that ached for stimulation and in its absence it created images, some real and some imaginary.

            Regrets come to me in the silent dark. My daughter and son, who want nothing to do with me, come into my mind most often. My fears revolve around their eternal damnation for forsaking Christ. They were brought up to love God and had ample opportunity to accept Jesus as their messiah. For a long time I simply prayed and trusted. As my life draws near to a close part of me aches to hold them again, and my grandchildren, estranged from me as well. Would it really be so bad to sign the form and go home to China? I could see them all again and perhaps get to know my children and grandchildren before…

            No, I must stay the course, no matter what. My children have made their own decisions, fully informed and understanding the consequences.

            What about my grandchildren? Are my daughter and son giving them a chance to know Christ as their savior? Did anything I taught my wayward children remain with them? Am I eighty-nine or ninety-eight years old? I have some great- grand children I’ve never seen. Regrets cloud my thoughts. Has my life spent in service to the church, to Jesus, really made a difference? People who came to faith because of me often wound up in jail. I have lived my life on the edge of the law, often running afoul of it. What kind of an example am I giving to my children and grandchildren?

            No, I must not show weakness in this way. It’s only the devil trying to discourage me.

            The Devil.

            Maybe I am going insane. I have never seen the devil. No being with a  forked tongue, barbed tail, cloven hooves, and horns has ever crossed my path. But the devil wouldn’t appear that way would he? Why advertise his presence when he can manipulate the world with appealing ideas. It doesn’t matter what the ideas are so long as they put man at the center of the universe.

Even so I want to hold my great grandchildren, read to them from my beautiful Von Raven bible, and take them to Sunday dinner at my favorite restaurant. Would God be disappointed with me if I signed the document? Would is be so bad for me to live out my remaining years in the presence of my family, perhaps witnessing to my children and grandchildren?

            My tears fall in earnest. They always come when my thoughts move in this direction. Sobbing and sobbing, I don’t even hear the food slot open and close. After going through my usual list of self-pitying grievances I feel my way along the wall to the food slot and quickly eat my bowl of sour gruel.

            I fall asleep then awake just as the door to my cell opens.

            “Hello! Are you feeling ready to sign the form and go home to China? I am packing my bags. There is a little noodle house near my family’s estate. They still make noodles by hand there! If you sign the form I’ll take you there myself.” He says.

            I was inside my bamboo cage again .My hands had been bandaged and splinted by someone and I could not stop coughing. Each breath burnt my lungs. How long was I suspended over the river? Had it been months or years? Why was it so hard to breathe, did I have pneumonia?

            “No, you don’t have pneumonia. Why do you think that?” Asks Mr. Tong. He lights another cigarette, looks at it, looks at me, then puts it out.

            A soldier in a uniform I’d never seen before pulled me out of my bamboo cage. He had a hospital mask and latex gloves on. He shoved a tongue depressor into my mouth, making me gag and cough at the same time. An old fashioned needle was pushed under my skin to take a blood sample. I realized it was the first time they had taken blood from me for a reason other than causing me pain or extracting information. The soldier put the vial of my blood into a modern looking portable analyzer and stared at me while he waited for the analysis to finish.

            “I know you. You are My Chen! I can’t believe it’s you.” He read the tattoo on my arm. “They said you’d been executed. How long have you been here?” He asked.

            “I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” I said.

            “Of course you do! You’ve been here for five months. Don’t you remember?” Asks Mr. Tong.

            I heard gunshots in the distance, they came at ten second intervals. It could only mean one thing.

            “Who are they executing?” I asked.

            “No one is being executed.” Says Mr. Tong.

            The soldier took my pulse, the old fashioned way with his hand on my wrist. I had not been touched gently by a man in…how long? The gunshots were louder now. I coughed and coughed.

            “Are they executing the prisoners because they are sick?” I asked.

            “They don’t execute prisoners here My Chen. You should know that by now.” Says Mr. Tong.

            The soldier spoke into his communication device and whispered something. I heard a gunshot from behind me and winced. A beep from the medical analyzer announced my diagnosis.

            “You have pneumonia. I’m going to give you antibiotics. Don’t look!” He said, too late.

            Glancing over I saw one of the soldiers shoot the prisoner from the cage next to mine in the head, douse his body in fluid and set it aflame. I tried to scream and that sent me into another fit of coughing.

            “Your hands were broken. We’ll have to re-break and re-set them if you want to use them again with any dexterity before your release.” He said.

            “I’m being released?” I asked.

            “If you sign the form we will certainly release you.” Says Mr. Tong.

            “Why?” I asked.

            “The internment camp is being taken over by a Company/PLA management team. Your sentence was open ended and it was determined that you had nothing to do with terrorist activities in the distance past.” He said.

            “How long have I been here?” I asked as he injected me with medicine.

            “You really don’t know?” He asked. The prisoner to my right was shot then set on fire. The warmth from the flames felt good.

            “I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Thank you for the medicine.” I said.

            “You’ve already asked that question My Chen. You only had a bump on your head, you required no medicine.” Says Mr. Tong.

            “You’ve been here for twenty-two years.” He said.

            “Twenty two years!” I said in disbelief.

            “Well, you won’t be here that long.” Says Mr. Tong.

            The soldier whispered in my ear. “My sister was on drugs and you spoke to her on the street. She didn’t do drugs after that and she has a husband and kids now. We’re not openly believers but I pray. Thank you.” He kissed me on the cheek.

            “Do you know if my family is still alive?” I asked.

            “Of course they’re alive. They await your confession and release.” Says Mr. Tong. “Are you ready to sign now?”

            I look down at the pad with the space for my signature. I have done enough for the kingdom of God. It is time for me to retire from the ministry and become re-acquainted with my family.

            Tap, tap, tap. “I saw him! I saw my brother!”

            I S couldn’t believe it. My expectation was that the Lord would speak to her heart and she would accept the reality of his existence.

            Tap, tap, tap. “That’s wonderful. Where did you see your brother?”

            Tap, tap, tap. “He was carrying a set of golf clubs for one of the officers. He did not see me but I saw him.”

            Tap, tap, tap. “So you believe that God loves you and is real?”

            “I don’t believe in God. You know that My Chen.” Mr. Tong pushes a glass of water in front of me.

            Tap, tap, tap.”I want to be baptized.”

            The guard with the perfect teeth came and told her to go help weed the garden. I never saw her again.

            “Who didn’t you see? Are you paying attention? You seem distracted.” Mr. Tong types on his pad.

            The smell of orange blossoms is intense. My vision is filled with blue light. Am I having a stroke?

            “My family…” I say.

            “What about your family?” Says Mr. Tong.

            “I have two sons and three daughters.” I say.

            “But you are estranged from two of them and one died shortly after birth.”

            “No Mr. Tong, she was murdered before the one child policy was repealed.” I say.

            “So, you did your duty for China, a patriot after all!” He says.

            “My husband have me a drug. When I awoke she was gone.” I say.

            “Ah well, you know how it was.” He says.

            “Murderous.”

            “Difficult choices.” He takes a drag from his cigarette.

            “Barbaric.”

            “Realistic.”
            “Ungodly.”

            “For the greater good.”

            “At the expense of my beloved daughter.”

            “I thought you once said that children were a gift you had to give back to God on a daily basis?” Asks Mr. Tong.

            “Give to them in prayer, yes, not to Baal in death.”

            “Who is Baal?” He asks.

            “A minor Mesopotamien deity.” I say.

            “Like Yaweh!” He says.

            “Yaweh created everything.” I say.

            “You mean the big bang plus evolution.” He says.

            “I mean the big banger.” I say.

“You’re anthropomorphizing a celestial event.” He says.

            “You’re discounting the supernatural.” I say.

            “You’re propagating a fantasy to ease your fear of death.” He says.

            “No, I’m accepting eternity into my mortality.” I say.

            “But you have no proof My Chen.” He says..

            “I have evidence.” I say.

            “Circumstantial.” He says.

            “And what is your evidence that I’m wrong.” I ask.

            “I don’t need any, the greater claims are yours. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof.” He says.

            “Faith is a gift.” I say, quietly.

            “I thought you said children were a gift?” He asks.

            “Both are gifts.” I say.

            “But the state took away your child. Don’t you think we can also take your faith?” He says.

            “I’ve been tortured.” I say.

            “Yes, you have, not effective in your case. There are drugs that will alter your perceptions. We’ve yet to try those on you.”

            “I’ll trust in Christ to know my heart.” I say.

            “Pointless since he’s not there.” He says.

            “We’re back to faith again.” I say.

            “I’m tired of this conundrum. It is like a snake biting its own tail. I’m glad to be going home. I’ve tried to reason with you My Chen. Your next interrogator may not be a patient as I have been.” He says, sighing.

            Mr. Tong leaves and I am alone in the dark, my thoughts are coming in jumbled fragments. Am I eighty-nine or ninety-eight years old? It doesn’t really matter. I’m old and without treatment I’ll die in a few years, an old forgotten woman with bibles and a death wish.

            Ah, the truth at last.

I want to die.

I’m tired of living and worrying about all the churches, people, and the world, which seems to be going to Hell despite my efforts to counter its slide. I don’t want to pray or sing hymns, think Christian thoughts or meditate on the Psalms. I only want to be warm and well fed. I want to know my age and see my granddaughter, and my great granddaughter. As soon as Mr. Tong gets back I will certainly end this charade and sign the…

            Except for one thing, the girl in the labor camp did see her brother carrying golf clubs. I cannot discount the supernatural things I have experienced. Voices in my head told me to speak to a certain person at a certain time which turned out to be just the person who needed speaking to. I prayed for people to get well, and they did, was it coincidence or miracle?

Jesus didn’t reject suffering when it presented itself to him but I am not Jesus and he never told us to chase after suffering.

            Mr. Tong opens the door and the guard puts down the desk and one chair. I stand in front of the desk. Mr. Tong motions with his hand for me to sit.

            “I’m sorry to say that before I leave loose ends must to be tied. You are a loose end My Chen. You must sign this form or you will spend the rest of your life in this cell in complete darkness until you die. I predict you will be dead within a month.” Mr. Tong looks at something on the desk.

            I say nothing. The pad in front of me is waiting to be signed.

            “So, here you are facing death if you remain, your life spent away from anyone who loves you. Is this what you want, to die a prisoner?” He asks.

            I say, “Here you are, speaking to an old woman who tried to distribute bibles and religious literature to people she doesn’t know. Your job is to convince me to sign a document because the Company tells you that there is no afterlife, no God, no risen Savior. You believe them because if you don’t, you will spend the rest of your life in a cell, so tell me, who’s the prisoner?”

            The beating comes as a surprise. Chinese soldiers are engineered and trained for quick, brutal action. Both of my hands are shattered and my nose is broken, again. To his credit the soldier prevented my head from hitting the concrete floor. He broke three of my ribs though.        

I lay on the floor praying for a quick death. A medic eventually comes and repairs my wounded body. After this, food comes at regular intervals and the lights come on inside my cell for sixteen hours each day. A desk and chair are brought into my cell as well as a comfortable pad to sleep on. It is warm in my cell. No new interrogator comes to see me and I wonder what happened to Mr. Tong.

            More time passes.

I am given a bible. It was one of the Von Raven bibles I had tried to smuggle! I must have earned a death sentence. Perhaps I’ll get my show trial and execution after all? One day the cell door opens and an officer appears. I steel myself against another beating or a shot to the face. I’ve heard they do it that way sometimes.

            “My Chen, your period of incarceration is over. You are remanded to the custody of your family on Earth in China. If you continue with your forbidden religious activities you will go back to prison. Gather your things. A guard will wait and escort you to the transport.” The cell door remains open and a guard with an empty box stands just inside the entry. I hear the officer’s footsteps recede, stop, and then become louder as he returns.

            “My Chen, I almost forgot something.” He reaches into his jacket. I hold my breath expecting a gun but he takes out a piece of paper. “Mr. Tong left this for you upon your release.” He reads it, shrugs his shoulders, then hands it to me. “He said you would understand.”

            His footsteps recede and the silent guard holds the empty box for me as I gather up my few belongings.

On the transport home I read the note. It was a personal e-mail from G. Tong to A. Tong. I read it three times then look at the monitor as we approach Earth.

“Surprise Ahn! I’m coming to visit and accompany you home. I hate space flight but I have a meeting I can’t afford to miss. I’ll meet you at the driving range in Colony One’s recreation dome, Tuesday afternoon. I don’t golf but I wanted to brag to old Nana that I hit a golf ball one thousand yards! You’ll have to take my picture to prove it to him so bring a camera. Do you think Xang will mind that I borrowed his clubs? I don’t have any of my own. See you there.”

As Earth grows larger in the view-port I am reminded that we do not choose how God’s grace comes to us and that I, My Chen, am not the center of the universe.

The man sitting next to me points to our planet and says, “From up here you can see everything.”