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Helen Mei told her mother and father about the hair-cutting incident. Soon after her arrival at the Good Shepherd, she had

developed the habit of “telling” her parents everything that happened here. There were a few writing and art supplies around,

because the nuns had to pretend they were giving the girls an education.

Helen always noted the date and time, because those details seemed important. They were important. There were no clocks or calendars in the gloomy institute, but the days were circumscribed by the rattle of the

alarms, the clatter of the chapel bell, and the sharp shake of the nuns’ handbells.

There was nowhere for Helen to mail her letters, but one day, she would show her notes to her parents so they would know what

really went on at the Good Shepherd. She had to believe her parents would come back for her. The day would come that she would

be free from this place. Then her notes would be a tangible reminder of the trials she had endured and the stories she had

witnessed.

She had found a way to protect her writings from the nuns’ prying eyes.

She didn’t even have to keep to the shadows the way some girls did, scribbling desperate notes during stolen moments.

Helen openly wrote down her observations.

So far, no one realized what she was doing, because she wrote in her parents’ native language.

They had raised her here in Buffalo, but they also taught her to read and write in Han characters.

Ever since she was a little girl, her father had worked with her on her writing.

It was that important. Everyone thought the small markings were random chicken scratch as she whiled away the time.

They had no idea that she was writing down everything she observed about this place—the unpaid labor, the punishments, the deprivation, the cruelty, the lies—so there would be a record of exactly what went on at the Good Shepherd.

She was building an eyewitness chronicle of the girls around her and the bleak world they shared. In the dim light of the

refectory, she would capture moments of hope, despair, and quiet rebellion. It was her small act of defiance, a way to preserve

her own identity in a place that seemed determined to strip it away.

Helen’s father was a professor of Chinese history and culture from antiquity to modernity. He always emphasized the importance

of detail in his work and the key role of primary sources in documenting any event, big or small, especially the deeply human

stories of the forgotten. She shared her father’s love for history, and she emulated his precision and curiosity about the

world, past and present.

In her mind’s eye, Helen recalled her visits to his office on campus when she was younger. His secretary, Miss Rudolph, always

offered her a pink mint from the jar on her desk, and Helen was allowed to use his thick, lined notepads and special stylus

pens and ink. Sometimes, she would sit in the top row of a big lecture hall, listening as his animated storytelling brought

history to life for a roomful of students. She admired his passion for teaching and the countless hours he spent poring over

his students’ work or the dusty books in his private office. As she wrote about the hair-shearing incident, Helen found solace

in the knowledge that her father’s spirit lived on within her.

She had begged to visit China with her parents.

Their travel permits had been officially approved, and it was supposed to be a short trip to see her mom’s mother, who was ill.

They hadn’t allowed Helen to come along, saying that travel was too expensive, and they’d only be away for two weeks.

Now she understood that the real reason was that a dangerous movement was sweeping through China—the Cultural Revolution.

This movement was not kind to people like her parents.

She’d overheard her mother worrying that her father would be deemed a member of the chòu l ǎ o ji ǔ — intellectuals who were persecuted by the new regime.

When her parents had sent her here, they had no idea that this place would turn out to be a cold labor camp. They had no idea

her temporary stay would turn into an indefinite sentence.

Helen had arrived with her bright mind alert and a heart full of dreams. She had expected what her parents had been promised—a

safe, temporary residence that would shelter, educate, and nurture her until her mother and father returned from China.

Instead, she found herself in a world that seemed as distant from her aspirations as the moon itself.

While the other girls were lost in their own thoughts or whispered conversations, Helen would keep to herself, taking notes

when they had “rec time” in the refectory, which was usually just a pause between laundry and kitchen duties. She chronicled

the daily routines, the interactions with the nuns, and the stories of her fellow residents. She captured the anger and tears,

the moments of camaraderie, and the silent battles fought, hidden from the world behind the walls.

Today she included every detail she could remember about the night of the hair cutting, from the flash of excitement in Mairin

O’Hara’s eyes when she’d explained her plan, to the gulp of dread Helen had felt in her throat when her own long, straight

hair landed on the shower floor. It had been a moment of rebellion, accomplishing nothing, but it felt important all the same.

Outside the barred windows of the refectory, autumn leaves danced in the crisp air, their vibrant colors a stark contrast

to the gray walls of the noisy room where the bad food was served. Even though talk was forbidden until the clap of hands

or the ring of a bell, there was a constant clatter of dishes and utensils.

The nuns were strict and unwavering in their beliefs, and Helen was surrounded by a mix of teenagers deemed unfit for society—juvenile delinquents, unwed mothers, truants and petty thieves, and abandoned girls were her companions, each with their own story of struggle and despair.

Helen expected to feel increasingly alien with each passing day, but something more frightening was happening. She was getting

used to it. This had begun to feel like her world. The work, the harsh discipline, the isolation, the deprivation felt normal.

She was beginning to forget that she loved to learn and strive for high goals, that she dreamed of a life that was expansive

and filled with adventure—traveling to far places, meeting fascinating people, doing something that mattered. But these days,

all she did was other people’s laundry in an endless, numbing routine.

“What’re you drawing there?” asked Janice, sidling up to Helen’s table in the refectory.

“Just doodling,” Helen said without looking up. Great. Sure, she was lonely for companionship, but Janice?

“Doodling seems pretty pointless to me,” Janice observed.

Helen didn’t think much of Janice, who almost never had anything interesting to say. More than once, Janice had called Helen

a Chink and pretended she didn’t realize it was offensive. She was one of those girls who thought the nuns would treat her

better if she snitched on everyone else. By now Janice should know better. The nuns were equal-opportunity mean.

“My head itches,” said Janice. “Does your head itch?”

“No,” Helen said, scratching the back of her neck. “Okay, maybe a little, now that you mention it.”

“Well, I wish everyone wouldn’t have forced me to cut my hair.” Janice touched the nut-brown tufts on her head.

“No one forced you,” Helen pointed out. “You could have said no.”

“Huh. So I would be branded a chicken? No thanks.” Janice glanced around the refectory. “I’m still hungry. Are you still hungry?”

“I’ll survive,” Helen replied. She was no fan of Janice, who was pretty typical of a certain kind of girl here.

She was one of the forgotten girls. She came from a big family that couldn’t afford so many mouths to feed, so her parents had dropped her off as a charity case, earning her room and board by working in the laundry.

Janice always seemed desperate to find her place, but she went about it with clumsy intent, tagging along with the bullies like Denise, and trying to cozy up to the nuns.

Her one saving grace was her complete loyalty to Kay.

Janice was always around to help Kay when she got confused or flustered.

Helen was acutely aware of the stark contrast between her life’s trajectory and those of her newfound companions. While they

bore the weight of societal scorn or their own youthful misjudgments, Helen had never committed any of the transgressions

that led to a stay here. She’d been caught in a political maelstrom not of her making.

“What d’you s’pose happened to Mairin?” Janice asked, lowering her voice. “Sister Rotrude’s face was as red as a tomato when

she hauled her off, did you see?” Janice gave a shudder.

“At least she didn’t haul her off by her hair,” Helen pointed out.

The nuns had been livid when they’d realized so many of the girls in the unit had cut off their hair. As punishment, they’d

all been given a meager breakfast of bread and water. True to her word, Mairin had admitted that the shearing was her idea

and insisted on shouldering all the blame.

“Rotrude’s hands are like claws,” Janice said with a shudder. “She’s got a grip like King Kong.”

“Mairin will probably get a stay in the closet,” Helen said. She herself had never earned that punishment, because she kept

her head down. And maybe because the nuns were aware that her parents could return at any given moment.

“I hope she survives whatever Sister Rotrude does to her,” Janice said.

For that, Helen summoned a brief smile. Janice wasn’t so bad.

As she labored over her secret project, Helen wondered what it was like for her parents in China. Were they surrounded by

locked doors and high walls and razor wire? Were they forbidden to speak? Forced to work? Was her grandmother all right?

Helen had grown up hearing stories of her laolao, the grandmother she would probably never meet.

According to Ma, Laolao was a gifted singer who performed at local teahouses in her Sichuan village of Chengdu.

When she wasn’t singing, she liked to relax at her favorite teahouse to catch up on the news and socialize over the májiàng board.

The game of mahjong had practically taken over the world, according to Helen’s mom.

People everywhere were fascinated by the illustrated tiles and the challenge of matching sets and pairs.

History, Helen’s father said, was sometimes created by the cruel quirks of politics.

Even the famous pastime of mahjong had been outlawed in China. Expensive tile sets used to be status symbols and a source

of pride and tradition. But the burgeoning revolution, incited by Mao Zedong, brought sweeping changes that made their way

into even the smallest villages and settlements. Under the new authority, mahjong was condemned as a part of “old culture,”

and the tiles were confiscated or destroyed—officially, anyway.

Helen’s mother told her the tradition was kept alive in secret. Since the prohibition, people fashioned their own tiles from

any sort of humble materials—clay or stones, wooden squares, even paper.

Inspired by the story, Helen had decided to create her own mahjong set. A secret one that made her feel closer to her family

in China. One that reminded her of the safe, secure world they’d shared before.

Her mother had a special love for the game. When Helen was small, she would watch in fascination as her mother’s friends gathered

in the living room, slamming the tiles down on the table, constantly laughing and talking, sometimes bickering over a play.

Ma often said that an evening of mahjong honored the ancestors who lived inside her. When she closed her eyes, Helen was able

to escape to the mahjong table in her parents’ living room.

The game required 140 tiles. Helen had been pocketing collar tabs, the kind used at the laundry to stiffen clerical collars.

The distinctive Roman collars made the priests look stern and proper and otherworldly. She stole the tabs a few at a time

and stored them in a cloth bag under her mattress. By now, she had collected nearly enough for a complete set, and it was

time to begin working on the illustrations—stones, characters, bamboos, winds, dragons, and flowers.

Helen’s tiles were not as beautiful as the set her mother kept at home, but they meant the world to her. She used a stolen black laundry marker to write her observations and to draw the symbols on the mahjong tiles.

The laundry marker was the perfect instrument for her purposes, because it was indelible.