What does he look like?
I’ll keep a lookout for him, too.
I respond beneath her short paragraph:
Thank you. I must know, either way.
He’s tall, slender, sharp facial features,
and striking hazel eyes.
It’s hard to describe him when we’re devoid of our identifying features—our hair, starved, and tortured into a quiet submission.
Again, I toss back the note, but it swoops beneath her desk this time. She doesn’t waste any time retrieving it, but then hits her head beneath the desk, causing a loud thud. Tatiana jumps up, her mouth hanging open as we both scan the room. Just then, an officer saunters by the open door, his hands clasped behind his back as he stops and glares inside, scoping out all the women working.
A woman two desks down from me fumbles with whatever she’s doing and spills the jar of ink on her desk. The officer pivots and steps into the room, making his way into the room with long, slow strides toward the woman who’s trying to move all the papers away from the ink spill.
The sound of whimpering and heavy breaths forces me to squeeze my eyes shut, predicting what’s to come. The clatter is loud, echoing and too easy to imagine. Her bones hit the desk, and she cries out in pain. “You…foolish imbecile,” the officer spits out. He’s thrashing her around on the desk. “This is what happens when you spill our ink.”
When the racket stops and the clicking of boots against the floor grows quieter, I peek out of the corner of my eyes, finding the woman pulling her dress together, holding it where it’s torn and covered in ink. Her face is red, and blood is dripping from the side of her mouth, falling against the smudged ink stainedacross her body. We aren’t allowed to console her. Acts of kindness are forbidden, punishable by beatings, or worse.
The officer lingers in the doorway, the long moment stalling, before finally walking away. I release a breath, and my shoulders fall. I’m afraid to turn around to face Tatiana so I continue entering names from the pile of papers beside me.
To think of how I used to complain about helping Tata and Miko with inventory for our store needles at me. I was young and didn’t know what life could look like.
“I don’t want to be here. It’s not fair. I was in school all day,” I complain to Tata as I stack jars of pickled vegetables on a shelf, one by one, ensuring the column is straight with each jar’s label facing me. Tata’s rules, not mine.
“Ella, this store is part of our family. If it was me or your mother who needed help, would you say that isn’t fair, too?”
“The store isn’t a person,” I argue.
“No, but it brings life to others. We keep people fed. It’s an important job, and this store has been in our family for generations. You should take pride in that.”
I will take pride, but when I’m older with nothing else better to do. The other kids in my class don’t even invite me to do anything with them because they know I’m never available. This store has become my only friend, and it’s still not a person.
I sigh in response, trying to hold my tongue rather than be disrespectful. Tata is the one who always tells me I’ll only be a child once and I should enjoy life without so many responsibilities. He must not understand that sitting in this store all day is stealing my youth. “All right.”
“Ella,” Tata says, taking me by the hand. “Place that jar down and come with me.”
I stand up from my knees, as he pulls me toward the back room of the store and taps on a milk crate.
“Sit.” He sits down across from me on another crate. “You’re sixteen. I understand your frustration. I do.”
“Then why not let me be a young adult like the others at school?” I argue.
Tata folds his hands together and rests them on the knees of his worn brown pants. “There are many people in this city who were born into families of wealth. There are people who barely get by on the money they have. Then, there are the people like us, who weren’t born into a family of wealth, but were fortunate enough to have a business passed down to us, which acts like a money tree of sorts. We have what we need so long as we continue to put in the effort to keep the tree growing. Many years ago, your mother and I decided that we were not going to raise you like many of the other young girls in this city.”
“Why not?” I ask, frustration bubbling through me. “Why do I need to be treated differently?”
A small smile curls into Tata’s lips as he reaches over to squeeze my knee. “Sweetheart, your mother and I don’t think you are a simple young lady who will someday be content serving as a housewife to any man you choose to spend your life with. We see the desire for adventure within your eyes and we want to make sure that whatever it is you want to do as a grown woman, you can do. Whether that is working in this store, exploring the world, or being an amazing mother and wife—we want the choice to be yours, but if we don’t teach you how to survive, how to earn a living, and take care of yourself, your options will be limited.”
“There’s more that you aren’t saying,” I whine. If he wants me to have freedom when I’m older, he will allow me some room to grow now.
“You’re correct, my darling. We have lived through the world’s worst economic crisis over the last eight years, and we are just now starting to rebuild, but there is no guarantee that our country and the world won’t fall again. Therefore, we need to put everything we have into this store to make sure we continue to live a stable life, and we need your help to do so.”
“Are we poor?” I ask, wondering if that’s what he means.
“We have spare change in our pockets, food on the table, and a roof over our heads. We are fortunate. Let’s always remember that and never take it for granted,” he says, pinching my cheek.
