"I have a small trade in medicinal herbs and homemade baked goods. I gather the herbs and bake the breads and sell them both in town."
"Medicinal herbs," Doug replied. "How intriguing. Do you work at all with the local health clinic or the military hospital?"
"No. I'm not a doctor," Helen said.
"But still, isn't it still a bit like practicing medicine?" he asked. "Doesn't it require a license to do that kind of thing?"
"Not at all. It’s considered self–treatment."
Doug Chambers nodded slowly and settled back on the sofa with a predatory smile.
"You know, Martha, I find this medicinal herb business fascinating. I can't imagine why the government isn't doing more to promote something like this. You know, I think I'll make some inquiries tomorrow morning at the military hospital about how this fits into the national health care program. And maybe I'll ring the EPA office in Denver. We wouldn't want to use any herbs that were on the endangered species list, now, would we?"
"Make whatever inquiries you like, Mr. Chambers," Helen answered while casting a sidelong glance at Martha. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Claire and I have business to do at the station."
Helen took Claire firmly by the hand and rose to her feet.
Claire appealed with tearful eyes to Martha, who seemed bewildered at the sudden turn in the conversation.
"But, Helen, I was under the impression that Claire would stay here tonight. Have we said something to make you think we wouldn't take good care of her?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Chambers, but we do have other interviews lined up tomorrow that I think we should keep."
"But Dottie said we were your first choice. Why would that have suddenly changed? I don't quite understand what's happening."
Doug Chambers whispered a question to his wife and his wife whispered back. Then Doug spoke to Helen.
"Please don’t go," he said in a conciliatory tone. "I’m sorry if I was rude to you. I didn’t mean to be threatening. After all, this is all supposed to be about Claire, isn’t it? It seems to me that Martha and I have a lot to offer Claire, advantages she might not get living with another family. Why not let her spend the weekend with us? I’ll get out of the way and you and Martha can talk on Monday about where to go from there."
Claire lowered her eyes, folded her hands and prayed to God to give her just this one thing in exchange for all the things he'd taken away. When she looked up again, Helen seemed ready to speak. Her face was pale and her hands trembled ever so slightly.
"Sometimes it's difficult to put strong feelings aside," Helen answered. "But for Claire I will."
She turned to Claire.
"My dear, it's time for me to go off to work. Be on your very best behavior for Mrs. Chambers. I'll try to come by tomorrow afternoon to visit. If not, I'll see you Monday morning."
With that, Claire threw her arms around Helen's waist and buried her face in her dress to hide the tears of gratitude and relief that streamed down her cheeks.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she whispered quietly to herself before raising her eyes to meet Helen's loving gaze. Then Helen kissed Claire softly on the forehead and left.
CHAPTER 9
"Mankind is tired of liberty."
—Benito Mussolini
MONDAY, MARCH 11
My fifth day at Kamas was a Monday. Sunday had been a day of rest, when all prisoners were confined to quarters except for meals. In Barracks C–14, most of us went back to sleep after breakfast and remained in bed until dinner to conserve our strength. I spent much of the day thinking about how much I would miss Will Roesemann. He had been a selfless friend and had brought out the best in me at times when, left to my own devices, I might have wallowed in depression and self–pity. Without him, I knew my path would be more treacherous and my chances of survival substantially worse.
At five o'clock Monday morning, we all dragged ourselves out of bed to prepare for roll call and another day of work. All except for one prisoner, a frail–looking fellow in his early twenties who had slit his wrists with a piece of broken glass during the night. The warders examined the corpse to satisfy themselves that this was not another stoolie execution, then ordered two prisoners to drag the remains off to the camp morgue. The rest of us hurried to the latrines so that we would not be late for breakfast or roll call. An hour later we stood in formation on the Division 3 parade ground and assembled for work.
By seven the metal gate had closed behind us at Recycling Site A. This was my third day in the brickyard. As soon as my work team arrived and received instructions from the foreman, I picked up my hod where I had left it Saturday evening and started filling it slowly with clay bricks from the heap near the perimeter fence. When the hod was full, I carried it on one shoulder to the pallet yard and lowered it to the ground. Then I knelt to stack the bricks on the nearest pallet and did it all over again. This was mind–numbing work that should have been done with a forklift. But forklifts were scarce and prisoners were not. So we continued.
At one o'clock, the foreman blew the whistle for our fifteen–minute lunch break. I felt the gnawing ache of hunger as I sat down on a pile of bricks to rest. For this was to be a lunch break without the lunch. As punishment for our hour–long work stoppage when Lillian was shot, Jack Whiting had ordered all new prisoners to be deprived of midday ration bars for three consecutive workdays. This was the third day and I had never experienced hunger as intensely.
So instead of breaking out a ration bar, I sat on a stack of bricks and contemplated what had become of my hands after three days at Recycling Site A. Working in the winter cold without gloves had given them a bluish–gray cast. Even at rest, my fingers remained curled into claws that required superhuman effort to straighten. Tiny shreds of skin hung from my fingertips and the heel of my hand from having handled so many hundreds of bricks. And I looked with disgust at the pits and gouges, now infected, that had caused both my hands to swell. But I also felt relief that the skin was hardening into callous tissue and that none of the nicks was deep enough to cause much bleeding.
I heard a rustle in the dirt behind me and turned my head in time to see Jerry Lee and his friend D.J. Schultz approaching. At twenty–three, D.J. was several years younger than Jerry Lee and looked even younger than that. He was a total smart aleck and cracked jokes at every chance, often at the risk of a clubbing. Before his arrest, D.J. had worked as a mechanic at a government motor pool in Ohio, while D.J. had been a long–haul driver for a nationalized trucking company in Dallas. Both shared a love for sixteen–wheeled tractor–trailers, stock–car racing, and the open road.
The two of them had met on the train to Heber and had become inseparable. All the same, I was surprised that both had managed to land spots at the same worksite and even on the same team. Either they were extremely lucky or they were shrewder operators that I had realized.
"Mind if we share your lunch?" Jerry Lee asked before sitting beside me.
"Sure," I replied. "How about a steaming bowl of three–alarm chili?"
"Don't get me started on chili. I won a chili–eating context once in Galveston. I could eat the stuff every day."
"Pull up a brick, anyway, and get comfortable," I offered. "I've been meaning to ask you boys how both of you managed to get work at Site A when the work assignments were supposed to be handed out randomly."
"Well, not quite randomly," D.J. pointed out. "We figured that since they do everything by counting off, we'd find out how many worksites there were and sit that many spaces apart at roll call. So we got the answer from an old–timer and it worked. Then, once we got here, Jerry Lee switched places with another guy to get us on the same work team."
"I can see that you boys are going to fit in here just fine. Bent minds in a bent system."
"Hell, they put me in here for conspiracy," Jerry Lee said. "The least I can do is live up to the label."
"Conspiracy, hell," D.J. snorted. "You just happened to mouth off to your boss one time too many
."
"Well, what about your sabotage rap? All that means is that you were a total screw–up on the job."
"Screw–up, my ass," D.J. retorted. "I was the curve buster who made all the other jack–offs look bad. And now here I am working in a goddamned junkyard, hauling bricks with my bare hands. Some reward."
He wasn't laughing anymore.
Jerry Lee turned to me.
"How about you, Paul? How many years?"
"Same as you," I answered. "A fiver."
"Conspiracy?"
I nodded. "I used to own a vitamin company," I said. "Come the Events, business went downhill fast but I didn’t want to let go. By the time I made up my mind to sell, there weren't any buyers left. I closed it down and applied to emigrate. Apparently, the government hates quitters. State Security arrested me at the bank the day I paid the exit tax and planned to leave. The charge was economic sabotage."
Before Jerry Lee or D.J. could respond, the foreman blew the whistle that signaled the end of the lunch break. They rose to leave.
"Are you guys holding up okay?" I asked them.
D.J. stretched his arms out wide and gave a gigantic roar of a yawn.
"Yeah, we're okay. As long as you do what you're told around here, they’ll leave you pretty much alone," he replied. "There’s too many of us for them to do it any other way."
"Beneath all the craziness, there's a certain order to this place," Jerry Lee added. "You just have to take the time to figure it out. Hell, this morning they even let Major Reineke out of the isolator a day early. I saw him over in the lumberyard a while ago."
Jerry Lee pointed toward the fence. There I spotted Glenn Reineke talking to Ralph Knopfler through the barbed wire. Reineke looked unsteady, but after a week in the isolator, it was a miracle he was on his feet at all. Even from a distance I could see that Reineke carried himself with the total self–confidence of a natural leader. Beneath his inexpressive features I detected a powerful determination that would not be cowed nor diverted from its goal.
As the afternoon wore on, Knopfler stepped up the pace so that our work team would be sure to meet its quota before dinner. From time to time I had to stop and put my head between my knees to avoid feeling dizzy. But whenever I bent over, my lower back pain flared up again. I was back to feeling sorry for myself until I heard screams from across the yard and saw a warder beat a gray–haired prisoner to the ground with a rubber truncheon.
As bad as my afternoon might be, the newcomers on the adjacent work team appeared to have it even worse. Their usual foreman had not appeared for roll call and had been replaced by a warder who was notorious for the sadistic pleasure he took in driving his prisoners to the limit. I had been watching their ordeal for several hours. Any man who failed to keep up with the warder's relentless pace felt the bite of the truncheon. Those who complained were assigned heavier loads. Those who refused an order were beaten into submission.
Several of the older prisoners collapsed and were carried off to the dispensary. More would doubtless have taken that escape route but for a rumor that prisoners beyond the age of sixty who reported to sickbay ran the risk of being euthanized by lethal injection. Some even claimed that the sound of bulldozers during the night came from mass graves being dug in the hills east of camp. Although we had no evidence to support the rumor, many chose to believe it. Preposterous rumors swept through Kamas so often that even sensible prisoners became conspiracy theorists over time.
When the workday finally ended, I was almost as relieved as the men in the neighboring work team to see the warder's abuse come to an end. Knowing that one could be put at the mercy of such a sadist at any moment completely undermined the sense of order that good leaders like Knopfler labored to create.
My spirits sank further when I realized that the extra minutes we had taken to achieve our quota had landed our work team at the rear of the column for the march back to camp. The advantage of being at the head of the column was that one could maintain a steady marching pace without having to respond to the frequent stops and starts required when stragglers were beaten or pulled out of line. Being at the end, with its frequent double–time marching, required twice as much effort to get home.
Our work team was last in line waiting for the gate to open except for the team whose foreman had been replaced by the sadistic warder. After their day of torment, these men seemed barely able to stand. Two team members collapsed where they stood and were dragged off. The remaining men raised their voices in protest but the convey guards merely summoned additional warders to bludgeon them into silence.
At last the gate opened and the column marched out, leaving the recycling site behind after yet another day. Ahead of us the western sky had turned shades of pink and purple. But owing to the suffering of the men behind us a palpable tension remained in the air as we trudged along the icy road toward camp. Unlike previous evenings, tonight the guards kept to the edge of the road, as if to maintain a greater distance from us. Then the extra warders who had whipped the hapless prisoners into shape at the end of the column moved to the front of the column while a platoon of armed guards took their places in the rear. Suddenly the guards and warders seemed edgier than ever. I sensed that something nasty was about to happen.
I heard an anguished cry from a prisoner somewhere behind me, then a warder’s angry threat, and suddenly staccato bursts of gunfire filled the air. Guards on both sides of us let loose without warning. I dropped to the ground like everyone else and prayed that no bullet would find me. My eyes stayed shut until the shooting stopped. I dreaded what I might see when I opened them.
When I finally dared raise my head I saw very little at first. Nearly all the casualties were behind me. Though we were forbidden to turn around, I couldn’t resist stealing a glance to the rear, where more than a dozen bodies sprawled across the icy road, with crimson streaming from their wounds. Cries of pain shattered the stillness. If the previous week’s shootings might have been explained away as the occasional excesses of overzealous individuals, this had the earmark of a systematic massacre.
Row by row the guards ordered us to rise and drove us at gunpoint some fifty yards further on, where the front of the column waited for us. Whether from shock or apathy, not a whisper could be heard among us. When everyone who could walk had rejoined the main column, the guards ordered us to face front and resume the march to camp.
Later we learned that eight men died in the incident and another dozen were treated for wounds at the camp dispensary. Still others had concealed their injuries to avoid being singled out for further punishment.
When at last we reached the outskirts of camp I spotted black–uniformed marksmen silhouetted against the pale sky, both in the watchtowers and atop snow–covered barracks roofs. As we came closer, I saw additional machine guns trained on us from either side of the camp gate. If the deaths of Lillian, Fong, and Roesemann had stirred unrest among the prisoners, this unprovoked massacre seemed likely to ignite something far worse. The camp bosses appeared to have anticipated our reaction and were prepared to meet it head on.
But, as it happened, the column passed through the gates without incident. We stood at rigid attention on the Division 3 parade ground while the roll was taken and we remained there while the warders returned small groups of prisoners to their barracks. When our turn came, the unit marched off the parade ground in silence.
The barracks were dark when we arrived. I climbed into my bunk, let out a sign of relief, and heard the clatter of the door being padlocked behind us.
CHAPTER 10
"I keep my ideals because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart."
—Anne Frank
MONDAY, MARCH 11
Claire paced back and forth across the living room floor with baby Marie, stroking her tiny back and cooing in an attempt to stop her crying. She checked the diaper for wetness but the diaper was dry. Then over the baby’s wailing she heard the doorbell. It was Helen waiting on
the doorstep.
"I was so worried!" Claire exclaimed as she opened the door. "When you didn't come yesterday I was afraid I might never see you again."
"Forgive me," Helen answered, wrapping her arms around both Claire and the baby. "I was on my way over when I met someone who needed my help. It took longer than I expected."
Helen released her grip and Claire noticed that the baby had nearly stopped crying.
"Marie seems to like you," Claire said. "Come inside and let me give her to you. Maybe she'll nap for you."
Helen removed her overcoat and hung it from a hook in the entryway. Then she took the baby in her arms and gave Claire a thorough once–over. A trace of pink had returned to Claire's pale cheeks and her thick brown hair was braided into gleaming pigtails. Her navy corduroy trousers, white turtleneck, and navy sweater were nowhere to be seen. In their place Claire wore a new blue denim jumper over an embroidered pink T–shirt.
Claire noticed Helen admiring the new outfit.
"There wasn't much worth buying in the stores, but Martha bought everything we could find that fit me. And wait till you see my room! I have my own closet and dresser and even my own bathroom!"
"You look happy," Helen said softly.
Claire noticed Helen's eyes start to glisten oddly. Suddenly Claire seized her around the waist and buried her face in Helen's coarse woolen sweater. The baby had fallen asleep in Helen’s arms.
"Is Martha around?" Helen asked when Claire had relaxed her grip.
"She's upstairs. Would you like me to get her for you?"
"Please do. I can't stay long today, I'm afraid."
Claire raced up the stairs and disappeared for a few moments, then returned with Martha Chambers in tow.
"Helen, it's so good to see you. Claire missed you terribly. Did she tell you about our shopping trip?"
Helen nodded.
"She seems very happy here."
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