The Vine Basket Read Online Free PDF Page A

pinned her sister’s hands together and pulled her to a halt.
    â€œNo,” Lali moaned. “Dancing is fun.”
    â€œAnd we have things to do. Time to take Chong Ata in for tea and to help Ana with supper,” Mehrigul said, turning Lali around in the direction of their house.
    Lali broke away, running into her grandfather’s room. “
Wo men he cha ba, Yeye.
Let’s have some tea, Grandfather,” she’d called in Mandarin before Mehrigul could stop her.
    Chong Ata had heard. His hand went up, cupping his mouth as he turned his head away.
    Mehrigul drew Lali back into the yard. Waited until her sister’s eyes met hers. “Mandarin is our secret language here at home, Lali. Remember? Chong Ata and Ata and Ana don’t understand the words, and they don’t want to learn. It upsets them if we speak anything but Uyghur.” Mehrigul tightened her grip as she saw her sister’s lips begin to quiver. “No, Lali, you must understand. Hearing Mandarin reminds them of how different their lives were before the Han Chinese overran our land. We must not be the ones who remind them.”
    She put her arm around Lali’s shoulder, gently pushing her down until they were squatting side by side in the yard.
    â€œWhen Chong Ata was a young boy, his country was called East Turkestan. Mostly Uyghurs lived here. But you won’t learn that in school, Lali,” Mehrigul said, her voice losing its gentleness. “The Chinese act as if they’ve always been here, that it’s always been their land. Chong Ata won’t even talk about the past anymore. It’s too sad for him.” Mehrigul struggled to hold back her anger; she didn’t want to frighten Lali.
    â€œWhen I was very little, Ata’s brother, Uncle Kasim, and his family lived with us on the farm. I remember dancing and singing right here in our yard with aunts and uncles and cousins.” Mehrigul swirled her hand around in the layer of dust and sand that covered their hard-baked yard. There had been many celebrations here at festival and holiday times, Chong Ata used to tell her, as Chong Ata’s father and grandfather had told him.
    â€œI’d like to have cousins and friends living with me,” Lali said, nestling against Mehrigul. “We could dance and sing together all the time. Maybe they wouldn’t always be as busy as you are.”
    â€œMaybe not, Lali,” Mehrigul said, hugging her sister closer. “But our farm couldn’t feed so many people anymore. The Chinese began taking over the land and misusing our precious water supply. Uncle Kasim became a cook and moved his family to a city far away.” Now Memet was gone too.
    â€œWhy are the Chinese so mean?” Lali asked.
    For a moment, Mehrigul was silent. She wanted to tell Lali, wanted her to understand, but the truth could be dangerous for her sister to know. “You must never repeat what I’m going to tell you—not to your teachers or to your friends. This is secret between us,” she said, keeping her voice as steady and calm as she could. “It’s because they don’t want us here. We’re in their way, and we don’t talk and think and do things the way they do.
    â€œLike right now.” Mehrigul rose, pulling Lali with her. “You’re going into Chong Ata’s room, and in your most beautiful Uyghur you will invite him to tea, which he will drink while sitting on a Uyghur rug on our dirt floor.”
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    There was little naan left to go with their tea. Ana would have to bake again, and it had become Mehrigul’s chore to prepare their outdoor earth oven. She gathered wood that would burn down to the hot coals needed to bake the bread. As she tended the fire, she dug a few carrots, radishes, and turnips from the garden for soup.
    Tasks done, Mehrigul walked across their fields into the peach orchard. A large patch of grapevines lay beyond. Overgrown,