Claire was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she failed to notice the ticket lady approach and sit beside her.
"Excuse me, young lady, but it's time to close the station. Don't you have a place to spend the night? The next train doesn't leave until tomorrow morning and it's awfully cold out there."
"I'm not taking another train," Claire replied. "I'm staying right here. My father is in Utah and I've got to find him."
The woman furrowed her brow and gazed around the empty room before answering.
"Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"
"I turned twelve last month but my dad says I'm very mature for my age."
"Well, I'll be honest with you. Heber used to be a pretty nice town but I’m afraid that’s not so anymore. And it's certainly no place for a twelve–year–old girl in pigtails to be running loose. Do you have any money for food?"
"I had some, but I spent all of it getting here."
The woman frowned, then held out her hand to Claire.
"Come with me. There's a woman who sells food to the passengers. She has an extra room in her cabin that she lets out for the night sometimes. Maybe she'd take you home with her."
Claire slung her backpack across her shoulder and followed the ticket agent down the length of the passenger platform to an unmarked cinder block building. Inside, four lean and weather–beaten workmen in quilted coveralls shared a dinner of cold beans and rice.
At a counter nearby, a woman in an ankle–length down overcoat covered her wicker breadbasket with a checkered napkin and raised her duffel as if preparing to leave. A tartan scarf covered her hair and was knotted under her chin, babushka–style.
When the woman turned to the workmen to wish them a good night, Claire saw that she was not so old as one might have expected, perhaps only forty or so, like her own mother. Though not tall, her face was long and narrow, with a straight nose and a cleft chin. Her complexion was ruddy from the cold and weathered from wind and sun. She smiled at Claire and then at the ticket agent.
"Let me guess. Did you come here for the skiing? Or perhaps for a snowmobiling tour? March used to be a big month for tourists around here."
Claire said nothing but the woman continued to smile at her.
"Helen is joking with you," the ticket agent interjected. "The ski resorts closed years ago. And the last snowmobiles around here were handed over to the Army around the time of the Chinese War."
"Which is precisely your good luck," the woman continued. "Because the shortage of tourists means I happen to have some extra room over at my place. Now you wouldn't be looking for somewhere to stay, would you?"
"Yes, I would, Ma'am," Claire said.
"Call me Helen. And your name is…?"
"Claire. I don't have much money, though. All I have is…"
Helen waved aside the objection and picked up her basket.
"Don't let that trouble you. I don't have much, either."
Helen turned to the ticket agent and smiled.
"Dorothy, don't you worry about Claire tonight. We'll come by again tomorrow. Come along, Claire, we've got a long walk ahead of us and it looks like it's going to snow again. Good thing you're a strong–looking girl, because that backpack of yours may grow a bit heavy when we start up into the hills."
They walked silently in single file along the tracks toward the freight yard. In the distance Claire could see a string of vacant passenger coaches, including four unmarked sleepers at the far end of the yard. Men in shiny black helmets and dark uniforms shone spotlights at the cars, as if preparing to move in for a closer look.
Between gusts of wind they could hear bits and snatches of music played from distant loudspeakers—odd music that Claire found unnatural and disturbing. But before long they crossed the tracks to where the music no longer reached them.
"My cabin is in those hills beyond the pine grove. We're going to follow this path for a while, cross a road or two and, before you know it, we'll be there."
They continued for a mile or more when Helen stopped abruptly and raised her hand to signal for silence. She stepped off the path into the trees and beckoned Claire to join her.
"We've got company," she told Claire in a whisper. "I see trucks parked ahead. I think they're picking up prisoners for Kamas."
"What's Kamas?"
"A sort of settlement, you might say. It’s about ten miles from here."
"Isn’t there another way for us to get to your cabin? I feel cold."
"Yes, but we're not going to use it," Helen answered firmly. "Now, keep your eyes open, follow close behind me and do exactly as I do. This is still America, by God, and we have a right to use the roads like everyone else."
"Is Kamas a labor camp?"
Helen turned to Claire with a quizzical look.
"Since you already seem to know about labor camps, yes, it is. And not one of the better ones. When I was your age, places like Kamas didn't exist in this country and none of us believed they ever would. But things have–"
"They've sent my father to a labor camp," Claire interrupted. "They told my mom it was in Utah. I came here to find him."
Helen reached out both hands and held Claire by the shoulders.
"I don't know your father, Claire, but let me tell you something just between the two of us. People can say what they want, but it's nothing to be ashamed of to have a father who's been arrested. Camps like Kamas are filled with fine and decent men. My husband has been in Kamas for nearly five years and Alec is one of the best. These days it's the people outside the wire you have to watch out for."
"Do you think maybe my dad came here on the same train as me? Maybe they took him to the same place where your husband is."
As soon as she heard herself say it, something about the idea of her dad being in the Kamas camp made Claire feel more discouraged than ever. The corners of her mouth turned downward and quivered despite her best efforts to stay composed.
"It's too late in the evening for thoughts like that, sweetheart. Save your worries for the morning, when you're stronger. Besides, there's something we need to do right now and we ought to have our wits about us to do it."
She nodded toward the wicker basket.
"Do you see this leftover bread? Sometimes I drop it where the convoy prisoners can pick it up. The guards don't like it but I do it anyway in the hope that perhaps one day somebody will do the same for my Alec. Here, stuff some of these in your pockets and watch me for the right time to drop them."
Claire did as she was told and followed Helen along a wooded path that ran parallel to the road. Through the trees and falling snow she could see the light of kerosene lanterns and flashlights and hear deep–chested dogs barking. As they emerged from the woods she saw a parade of men in dirty orange coveralls trudging four abreast along the road. To her right she heard shouts and scuffling among the prisoners and saw a squad of black–uniformed guards run forward alongside the column.
"Now! Follow me across the road and, when you reach the middle, empty your pockets!"
Helen waited for a dog handler to pass, made the sign of the cross on her chest, then set off brazenly across the road. The prisoners were stunned to see a civilian, much less a woman, in their midst and cautiously broke ranks to give her space. She pretended to stumble and let a dozen or more hard–crusted rolls tumble onto the snow–covered road. The prisoners closest to her pounced on the bread like starving wolves, then those at the rear of the column rushed forward to claim the leftovers. Claire took this as her cue to empty her pockets.
The last roll was gone when Claire saw the black German shepherd streaking toward her. Before she could think, Helen had seized her hand and pulled her back along the wooded path as fast as they could run. The two of them didn't stop running until they were completely out of breath. Only then did they pause to wonder why the dog had not pressed its attack.
It was nearly an hour later when they reached Helen's cabin, a one–story frame cabin nestled among scrub oaks in a sha
llow ravine facing southeast over the Heber Valley. The road that had once led to the cabin was difficult to trace now, overgrown as it was with saplings and covered with two feet of fluffy snow.
The moment they entered, Claire’s half–numbed cheeks felt the warmth left by the last smoldering coals in the wood stove. With stiff fingers she removed her snow–encrusted boots. Once Claire’s parka was hung up to dry, Helen promptly led her into a tiny bedroom with twin cots.
The room was clean and orderly except for a dozen bunches of dried flowers hanging from the rafters and a paint–spattered, wooden easel in the corner. On the nightstand was a framed photograph of a giggling blonde girl in a bathing suit not much older than Claire.
"Do you live here all alone?" Claire asked dreamily as Helen gave her a fresh T–shirt for a nightdress.
Helen nodded and grinned with obvious pride.
"Yep. It's mine by squatter's rights."
"Would you mind if I asked you a big favor?"
"Of course, sweetheart. I don't know if it's in my power, but I'll try."
"Would it be okay if I stay with you till I find my dad?"
Helen laughed gently and gave Claire a motherly hug.
"Claire, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to. From now on this room is yours. But there is one catch: if you want to eat around here, you're going to have to work. And work starts first thing in the morning."
Claire nodded in agreement then lay back in the bed. But before Helen stood to leave, Claire leaned forward to give Helen a lingering hug of her own.
CHAPTER 4
"You are not brought here to live but to suffer and die."
… If you live, it means that you are guilty of one of two things: either you worked less than was assigned you or you ate more than was your proper due."
—Soviet labor camp doctor, 1930s
THURSDAY, MARCH 7
I opened my eyes in the pre–dawn darkness and looked out upon row after row of triple–deck bunk beds. I lay on a top berth, my kit bag tucked between my head and the plywood slab. Although I had no blanket, my prison coveralls kept me warm enough in the airless barracks.
I counted five rows of beds, each row twelve beds long, for a total of 180 berths, all of which appeared to be occupied. Bodies also covered the floor. If each of the prison cars had delivered a hundred live prisoners to Heber, then 400 of us occupied a dwelling intended for 180.
At the sound of a distant electric school bell, prisoners below me began to stir. A low murmur rose as men spoke to each other in apprehensive whispers.
I looked down at the bunk directly below and saw Will Roesemann staring back at me.
"Next bell will be roll call," he said sleepily. "What do you suppose they'll do with us?"
"Whatever it is, anything is better than interrogation," I replied. "Right now all I care about is getting fed."
"I could eat sawdust," Roesemann agreed.
I slid off my bunk and sat beside him.
"I saw them take Reineke away after you fell asleep," he told me in a faraway voice, as if replaying the scene in his mind. They took the guy who brought down the dog, too."
"Thank God they didn't haul us off for helping him," I said. "With our luck, we’re probably on some blacklist already."
"Stay cool, Paul. I’ll bet they couldn’t care less about us."
I had lost count of the number of times Will had told me to stay cool. He always seemed to have things figured out several steps in advance.
As I climbed down from my bunk a trio of warders in goose down greatcoats entered the room. Each carried a two–foot nightstick and rapped it rhythmically against a wooden bed frame. Each was hatless and had a shaven head that accentuated his thick neck and beetled brow. Their demeanor combined theatrical belligerence with a pathetic need for attention. High school football bullyboys of yesteryear, I thought.
"Listen up, you pukes," shouted the shortest of the three, a heavy–jawed, bullet–headed gorilla. The room fell silent.
"In exactly two minutes, I want every one of you standing at attention on the parade ground. Deputy Mills will show you how to assemble for roll call."
He pointed to a sullen thug a few feet away.
"When roll call ends," he continued, "I want to see you march single file to the latrines where you will have five minutes to do your thing. Then Deputy Mills and his men will lead you to the transit center for disinfecting, de–lousing, and registration. Is that clear?"
A voice was raised at the rear of the barracks: "How about food? We haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
"You'll get a ration bar at registration and another at the end of the day when you finish your work," the warder answered. "No hot meals till tomorrow."
A muffled voice asked: "And who the hell are you?"
The bullet–headed warder scanned the group angrily for the man who spoke.
"My name is Renaud but you'll call me Deputy Renaud if you don't want to spit teeth. I'm chief warder for new prisoners. And anybody who doesn't like the way I do things can step forward right now. There's plenty of room for you in the isolator."
Silence followed. Renaud gave a last look around the crowded barracks as if to spot future troublemakers.
"Alright then, when I say 'go,' I want you to line up outside in single file. No stragglers–the last ten in line lose their morning rations."
Renaud gestured for Mills and the other warder to leave and then followed them to the door.
"Go!"
All four hundred of us rushed for the door at once, crushing the weak and the unlucky against the walls and against bunks bolted firmly to the floor. But once outside and under Mills's direction, it took us only a few minutes to line up in formation, most of us having been drilled in prison yard protocol at detention facilities all across the country.
Roll call went swiftly. Out of habit, I counted the number of names reported as missing. The total exceeded forty, which meant that hunger, dehydration, exposure, and illness had reduced the size of our transit convoy by nearly ten percent. Natural selection had already begun and I wondered how long my own strength would hold out.
Mills counted off the first forty prisoners to enter the transit center. I was among them. He ushered us into a concrete–floored shower room with sprinkler heads mounted along three walls. A fleet of wheeled laundry hampers was parked near the entrance.
Renaud rejoined us, followed by Mills and a third warder who appeared to be in his early forties. His freckled face wore a permanent expression of skepticism and disapproval that aroused my immediate dislike. His name was Grady and, as I learned later, had once been a partner in a well–known accounting firm before he, Renaud, and Mills had all been convicted of looting the company where Renaud and Mills had been executives.
Renaud then resumed the briefing he had begun before roll call:
"Listen up, scum! It's shower time. Yes, these are real showers and to prove it I will be staying here with you to supervise. You will have exactly two minutes, timed by my watch, to get undressed. In these two minutes, you will deposit every possession and article of clothing you have into one of these hampers, taking with you only eyeglasses, artificial limbs, and other medical prostheses. Your prostheses will be x–rayed and searched by hand. So if any of you think you are clever enough to smuggle in drugs, weapons, money, or other contraband, I urge you to come over here right now and deposit your treasures in the hamper. Because I will personally hang from the watchtower anybody caught smuggling. Camp rules permit me to do it–I've done it before, and I'll do it as many times as I must to keep contraband out of this camp. Am I making myself clear? Good. Your two minutes start–…now!"
Some of us wore the orange coveralls issued at transit camp. Others were still dressed in civilian clothes or in prison denims. Regardless of what we wore, when Renaud signaled that our time was up, every one of us stood naked while the hampers brimmed with our filthy, louse–infested clothing.
In the disinfecting roo
m, trusties with shaved heads worked us over with electric clippers, shaving our scalps and removing every vestige of beard and body hair. Next we had five minutes to shower. Orderlies then handed out antiseptic ointment to spread on any sores or wounds and dusted us with de–lousing powder before we stepped onto the scales.
There we stood, naked, hairless and utterly undignified, waiting in single file to enter the next phase of our initiation. This was when I noticed that many of the men bore the scars of past beatings and interrogations, while others bore war wounds. It was equally sobering to see so many prostheses, especially among the younger men, some of whom had seen combat in Iraq or Afghanistan or Civil War II or had fought in the Russian Far East against the Chinese.
I turned around in the queue and looked Will Roesemann over from top to bottom. He was thirty–two years old, just short of six feet, small–boned, and moved with the grace of a former college soccer forward. But now he weighed twenty pounds less than he had in college and displayed the sagging shoulders and bony ribcage of an idle and malnourished prisoner.
If Will appeared unfit for a life at hard labor, I did not look much better. Though I had been reasonably well muscled in my youth, endurance had never been my strong suit; twenty years behind a desk had not done anything to improve it. Now, after dropping some thirty pounds since my arrest, my stamina was nonexistent. And with my forty–sixth birthday approaching, my recuperative powers were well past their peak.
Will looked at me and stifled a laugh. I looked back at him and at the other pale scarecrows whose powdered skin made us all look like horror–movie zombies. Then I, too, let out a quiet laugh.
Forty Days at Kamas Page 3
