Forty Days at Kamas Read online

  "She's adjusting well," Martha replied. "And Marie absolutely adores her."

  Martha held out her arms to take the sleeping baby and Helen deposited her on Martha’s waiting shoulder.

  "Martha, I’d like to apologize for behaving so badly on Saturday. I don't know what came over me. I don't normally snap at people the way I snapped at your husband."

  Martha Chambers put out her hand to touch Helen's arm in sympathy.

  "Don't say another word about it. Just know that Claire will be safe with us. I promise you Doug and I will take care of her just as if she were our own daughter."

  Helen smiled at Martha and then at Claire and asked if there was a place where she and Claire might have a few minutes alone.

  "You can stay right here. Marie and I need to go upstairs for her nap, anyway. Take as much time as you need."

  For several minutes after Martha left, Helen and Claire sat holding hands in silence.

  "So, how do you like it here, Claire?" Helen asked at last. "Do you think you'd like to stay for a while?"

  Claire paused to think.

  "It was a little strange at first, but now I really like it. It’s kind of nice being so busy. It keeps me from thinking about other stuff."

  "Like what other stuff?" Helen asked.

  Claire’s eyes welled with tears.

  "You know. Mom and Dad. And my little sister. And my friends at home."

  "I know, sweetie. But be patient. There’s not much we can do about that just yet." Helen said patiently. "Now, do tell me about Mr. and Mrs. Chambers. Are they good to you?"

  "Martha is super," Claire replied, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. And Doug’s okay, too, I guess, only he’s away most of the time. He’s fine when he's around Martha and the baby. But I don't like it at all when he's with the men who come to visit him."

  "Like the men who were in the kitchen Friday night?"

  "Yeah, the ones he works with," Claire replied. "They drink too much whiskey and say really mean things about the prisoners. Except Mr. Rocco. He's Doug's boss. Mr. Rocco told me he has granddaughters in Texas and he asked me to read him a story the way his granddaughters do."

  A cloud seemed to pass over Helen’s face but disappeared quickly.

  "Well, I'm happy that things are working out," Helen went on. "It’s good to know that you’re in safe hands. But, Claire, we have to talk about something serious now, just between the two of us. Tell me, have you talked to Martha or Doug or anybody else here about your mom and dad?"

  Claire stared at her hands.

  "No, they've been too busy," Claire replied. "Martha said she wanted to have a long talk with me last night, but the baby was acting up and we never got around to it."

  "You haven't said anything about your mom and little sister being taken away at the airport or your dad being arrested, did you?"

  "No."

  "Good. Now think hard," Helen urged. "Have you told anyone in Heber or anyone on the train about what happened to your family? If you have, I need you to remember everything you said to them. Can you think back that far?"

  "The only other person I've talked to is you. I remember saying something to Dottie at the station about my dad maybe living in Utah. But that's all. I didn't say anything about him being arrested or put in a camp."

  "You're certain of that?" Helen pressed.

  "I'm certain."

  "Okay, that's good. Now, Claire, I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm going to say to you. From now on, I want you to forget about trying to find your parents. You've got to trust me to do that for you. Your job is simply to take care of yourself. If anyone asks about your family, just don’t answer. If you're forced to say something, tell them you’re an orphan. As for how you got here, say that you got on a train in Pennsylvania and kept going till you reached Heber.

  "As for your childhood, say nothing about the stone house with the view of the river, only about the small house you rented in town. I don't know how much you've picked up about what has happened in this great country of ours, but it's not safe anymore to be thought of as wealthy or even educated. People like that get arrested and end up in the camps or worse."

  "But what about Martha and Doug? Look at their house and Doug's car and they way they live. Aren't they wealthy?"

  "Ah, Claire!" Helen exclaimed. "You are so young! Please listen and try to understand. Doug works for the government and in today’s world it's the government who decides who can live in a big house and who is a public enemy. But that’s not the important thing right now. The important thing is that you sit tight for a few months until I can track down your family. Because no matter what anyone says, your parents are the ones who really love you and you belong with them. If it takes me a while to find them, at least here you're safe. Don’t be in a hurry, Claire. You'll grow up soon enough."

  At the mention of her family, Claire grew silent again.

  "What do you say?" Helen asked her. "Can you handle it?"

  Claire nodded.

  "I suppose. Just keep visiting me, okay? And don't stop looking for my dad, no matter what."

  CHAPTER 11

  "To revolt is a natural tendency of life

  … In general, the vitality and relative dignity of an animal can be measured by the intensity of its instinct to rebel."

  —Mikhail Bakunin, Russian anarchist

  TUESDAY, MARCH 12

  Soon after our return to the barracks, someone had noted that the massacre had occurred on the first anniversary of William Barry’s ouster as Secretary of State Security. Barry, a career–long confederate of the President–for–Life, had founded the corrective labor camp system and spent more than a decade filling it. Camp veterans suspected that the bosses had chosen this date to further intimidate us.

  Tempers flared as prisoners gave vent to their outrage about the massacre. I had underestimated their passion. Ralph Knopfler gathered teammates and friends at the south end of the barracks and presented his case for a camp–wide strike. D'Amato tried to shout Knopfler down from a bunk three rows away, dismissing out of hand the idea that the incident had been premeditated. He warned Knopfler and other hard–liners that a strike would be futile and would bring even more punishment down on our heads.

  But the massacre was merely the opening item on the hard–liners' agenda. By linking the massacre to the previous week’s shootings, they advanced the theory that State Security sought nothing less than to reintroduce Barry’s reign of terror. They also pointed out that few prisoners, if any, had ever left the Kamas facility as free men.

  D'Amato and his fellow Unionist sympathizers called for patience. They admitted disappointment that a long–rumored general amnesty had not been handed down as expected on the first anniversary of the President–for–Life's death but argued that such initiatives were complex and took time. A strike or any other act of open defiance would result in tightening the lid for months to come. To send a petition or even a delegation was one thing, if done in a respectful manner, but thrusting non–negotiable demands in the Warden's face would certainly fail.

  The debate raged well into the night in Barracks C–14, as it did in most barracks within Division 3 and many in Division 2, as well. By roll call the next morning, most prisoners had decided whether to appear for work, but none of us knew what the others would do. All we could count on was that, if a majority opted to strike, the minority would likely go along. Any prisoner who worked in defiance of a strike risked being labeled a traitor and murdered in his sleep like a stoolie.

  During breakfast, every prisoner watched his neighbors for signs of whether he favored or opposed the strike. Close friends whispered among themselves in an effort to predict what others would do when the time arrived to line up for work. Anxious prisoners milled around longer than usual in the mess hall and at the edge of the parade ground to catch any last–minute portents of what was about to happen.

  When the camp siren blew, it became evident at once that Division
3 had decided to strike. Those who had returned to the barracks after breakfast remained there while those who loitered outdoors or in the mess hall made a beeline for their bunks. No one wanted to be seen lining up on the parade ground.

  I watched from the barracks door and could see the reinforced lineup of guards and warders waiting for us under the flagpole. They stayed another half–hour before they withdrew through the gate to Division 2. As soon as the last guard passed out of view, prisoners began to emerge cautiously from the barracks: first one at a time, then in small groups, then in torrents.

  Freedom is an odd, uncomfortable feeling when you have gone without it for long. We hardly knew what to do with ourselves without being ordered around. Some prisoners were exuberant, tossing their orange caps into the air and offering high fives and victory hugs to everyone in sight. Others kept to their bunks.

  Those who favored the strike gathered to discuss next steps. It took less than an hour for a plan to emerge. I watched Knopfler and others who had a very clear idea of what they wanted go into action. Over the years, activists like these had pieced together a loose system of camp self–governance that coexisted with the official camp administration but concerned itself primarily with issues over which the administration had no jurisdiction or control.

  Messengers visited each barracks to order the inmates to elect a representative within one hour for a camp–wide meeting. The purpose of the meeting would be to assemble a delegation to deliver a message to the camp authorities before the end of the day.

  The vote in Barracks C–14 was overwhelmingly in favor of Ralph Knopfler to represent us at the meeting. Knopfler circulated from bunk to bunk, seeking out the views of prisoners whom he knew and trusted. Having been in the barracks for only five days, I was flattered when Knopfler climbed up to speak to me. I was even more surprised when he made no reference at all to the strike.

  "I've been watching you at the brickyard, Paul," he began. "You're a good worker. Maybe too good for a man your age. You ought to slow down a bit until you’re in better shape. Believe me, if you try to keep pace with kids like Jerry Lee or D.J., you'll get sick. And you can't afford that here."

  "I’ll take your advice," I replied. "How long does a new man usually need to get up to speed?"

  "You're getting there," Knopfler said. "Another week or two."

  "I wouldn’t want the team to miss a quota on my account…"

  "Screw the quota," Knopfler snorted. "The numbers are all fabricated, anyway. By the time a quota gets handed down to me, it’s usually utter nonsense. As a team leader, what I do is make sure we beat the quota by a hair on some days and miss it by a mile on others. That way we get full rations the greatest number of days and short rations the fewest."

  "Now I get it," I said.

  "My friend, if the path is crooked, there's no point to walking straight," Knopfler replied.

  I was eager to turn the conversation back to the possibility of a strike.

  "Do you really believe a strike would end up doing us any good?" I asked. "I hate to admit it, but it seems to me the bosses hold all the cards."

  "They always do, but we shouldn’t let that stop us," Knopfler said with a self–assured smile. "Come watch the meeting. It’s got to be the only democracy within a thousand miles of here."

  I took Knopfler at his word. The meeting was held later that morning in the mess hall. A voting representative attended from each of the thirty–six barracks in Division 3, along with a dozen or more observers like me. But apart from the novelty of watching a representative democracy at work among rebellious political prisoners, I found the meeting disappointing. The debate in Barracks C–14 had displayed a higher level of argument and far more relevant facts.

  After two hours of inconclusive discussion, the informal body had elected a five–member delegation to draft a message to submit to the warden. Knopfler and Reineke were among the five. Their first action was to dispatch a note to a guard at the main gate inviting five officials of the Warden's choice to meet with them at three o'clock that afternoon.

  In the meantime, our entire group remained in the mess hall to eat. Despite the strike, the kitchen continued to prepare food, since most of the kitchen workers were prisoners and the rest were contract laborers unwilling to lose a day's pay by failing to work. The five elected delegates sat at a table normally reserved for warders. When they finished, Knopfler took me aside.

  "Come back at about ten minutes before three if you want to see something interesting. That's when the Warden and his crew will show up. Glenn will arrive early, too. He told me he'd like to talk to you."

  When I arrived for the meeting at the appointed time Knopfler took me aside once again. He said he had good news.

  "You're in luck. The Warden has brought six men with him. That gives us two more places at the table and we're a man short. Care to join us?"

  "I was hoping to avoid that kind of notoriety," I said.

  "Too late for that," Knopfler replied. "After bringing Reineke into camp, I'm sure Jack Whiting knows all about you."

  "All the same, I'd rather not rub his nose in it."

  "Believe me, Paul, you're much better off if Whiting thinks you're a hard–ass than a coward. Come on, big guy, we need you."

  I followed Knopfler inside and took a seat at a mess table along with the other six prisoner delegates. Besides Knopfler, Reineke, three other elected delegates, and me, there was an Argentinean surgeon from Division 2 representing the foreign prisoners.

  The other three elected delegates were men I knew primarily by reputation. Seated to Reineke's left was George Perkins, a bookish former Washington legislative aide who had been working as a lobbyist for the German chemical industry when he was arrested on espionage charges. Although I had been annoyed to hear him defending the Unionist Party line in discussions earlier that morning, he seemed an intelligent man who might bring balance to the debate.

  To Reineke's right was Chuck Quayle, a thirty–five–year–old former plant manager for a frozen foods company in Indiana who served as a team captain at the military recycling site. Quayle was highly popular in camp but he had such a generous and easygoing nature that some hard–liners considered him too soft to deal with the camp bosses.

  The final elected member of the delegation was Pete Murphy, a recently retired Army officer from Kentucky who had served briefly with Reineke in the Russian Far East. He was generally a likeable fellow, but subject to frequent bouts of depression and was rumored to be a recovering alcoholic.

  Kitchen workers were still delivering plastic water pitchers and mugs to our table and to the empty table directly opposite ours when the government delegation filed in.

  Leading the government's side was Fred Rocco, a tall, trim, scholarly–looking man of about fifty–five dressed in a dark blue business suit. Rocco gazed at us through dark steady eyes that conveyed shrewd detachment. The Warden was a survivor of bureaucratic intrigues in both the State Security Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, where he had spent most of his career. He had landed in Kamas as warden through a combination of luck and years of networking inside the Washington law enforcement community. Faced with imminent arrest when his chief backer in the Bureau fell victim to political intrigue, Rocco pulled off a defensive coup by engineering his own transfer into the Department of State Security.

  Once in the Department, his new backers defended him against his enemies in the Bureau and reached a compromise that satisfied all concerned. Under the deal, Rocco retained his rank and salary and his right to retire with full pension in three years, but only if he left Washington and served out those years as Warden of a labor camp in a Restricted Zone. For nearly his entire term as Warden, Rocco had rarely set foot inside the camp compound and remained a shadowy figure to most prisoners. By reputation, he was neither liberal nor draconian but followed regulations closely and let his deputy warden handle most day–to–day matters. He approached the negotiating table with a relaxed smile, t
ook a seat near the center and unzipped a leather writing portfolio.

  Close behind Rocco was the Deputy Warden, Doug Chambers, a fair–haired man several years short of forty with a broad forehead and deep–set blue eyes. On the surface, he projected an air of unshakeable self–confidence. But something about the man’s bravado didn’t quite ring true. Beneath his black State Security uniform, Chambers appeared to have gone soft and fleshy and, to my mind, showed signs of dissipation.

  Most prisoners were aware that the deputy warden had fought for the Unionists throughout the Events and later in Mexico and Canada. The veterans among them, however, regarded Chambers with a mixture of envy, mistrust, and hatred. Had it not been for a lucky wound that saved him from the Russian–Chinese War, Chambers might well have ended up inside the wire like them. Instead, he had traded on his combat record to transfer into State Security, where he became just another self–promoting careerist whose job was to make their lives hell.

  The third man at the Warden's table was one I had never seen before. He wore the same black uniform as Chambers, but his shoulder insignia outranked those of Chambers, indicating a rank of full colonel. He appeared to be in his early forties, but had a puffy, florid face that had turned jowly and double–chinned. He sat before us as silent and immovable as a roadblock and I recognized his pugnacious expression as that of the typical schoolyard bully. Before long we learned that the colonel’s name was Tracy and that he was as stubborn and cruel as he looked.

  The next man at the table was well known to all of us. This was the camp security chief, Major Jack Whiting, or simply "The Wart," so nicknamed for the growth on his left cheek. Whiting had once served on the police force in Denver. Soon after the Colorado riots, he joined the newly formed State Security Department and rotated through a series of camps as security officer. Whiting was notorious at every labor camp west of the Rockies for being an enterprising sadist who never let go of a grudge.

  The final two members of the Warden's delegation were anonymous staff aides whose role seemed limited to note taking and recording the meeting on tape.