After Claire closed the bedroom door Martha spoke again.
"Don't worry about Claire's education. We can use home schooling materials from the town schools till fall. By then I'm sure Doug can get Claire a new I.D. card. His office could get new papers for the Devil himself."
"The way you say it doesn’t sound very flattering. You do mean State Security, don't you?"
Martha flushed.
"Yes, but I don't always approve of what they do, if that's what you mean."
"Isn’t it difficult to be married to someone whose work you don’t approve of?"
"Lately I suppose that's true," Martha replied, staring down into her mug. "It was different when we lived in Washington. There was so much to do there that I hardly paid any attention to Doug's job or the people he worked with. In the beginning all I knew was that he was helping to bring back our POWs. I thought that was something we could be proud of."
"But now you don't feel that way?"
"They brought back the POWs all right. Only they never made it back to their hometowns. Unless their hometowns were in places like Kamas."
"I know," Helen said. "People out here aren't as ignorant about such things as they pretend to be back East."
"To be honest, Helen, I’ve been miserable ever since we got here. If it weren't for Claire and the baby, I doubt if I'd bother to get out of bed some mornings. The only people I see in town are from the government and the only ones who will have anything to do with us are from the Department. I feel like a leper sometimes when I go places with Doug in his uniform.
"Doug's colleagues come over for dinner at least once a week now–more if visitors are in town. And they always end up drinking. Sometimes I see a side to Doug that I never knew. An ugly, mean side. When I married him, Doug was a good man–stubborn sometimes but decent and kind. He's changed since he left the Army. It frightens me sometimes the way he talks about the prisoners. I was just a teenager when the Events started, but I don't remember the government ever treating people the way they do now."
"You remember right," Helen said. "There were prisons then but nothing like Kamas."
"And now there's something else," Martha added softly. She stared at her hands and unconsciously twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
"I probably shouldn't say this, but I suspect Doug has been unfaithful."
"How do you know?" Helen asked. "Did he tell you?"
"No, of course not," Martha replied. "All I really have to go on are signs that wouldn’t mean much to anyone but me. But I've heard the men talk about it when they don't think I can hear them. They brag about having their way with female prisoners in exchange for a better job or a warm jacket or a parcel of food. It turns my stomach to think that my husband works side by side with these men and that he brings them home to where Marie and I have to live. To think that Doug might be doing it…"
Tears welled in Martha's dark eyes.
"Now I have a child and a new baby coming and there's absolutely no one I can talk to!" she sobbed.
Helen took her hand and led her to a faded blue easy chair in the living room. She pulled another chair close alongside.
"Just sit and close your eyes," Helen soothed her. "If you want to talk, I'll be here. If you want to rest, I’m right beside you."
A little over an hour later, Claire emerged from the bedroom to find Martha and Helen still in the parlor. They were huddled close together and speaking to each other in low voices the way her parents had spoken the day they announced the family would have to sell the old stone house.
On seeing Claire, both women attempted to appear cheerful.
"Is your stomach feeling better?" Martha inquired.
Claire nodded sleepily and smiled.
"Then it’s best for us to head back into town. We still have some grocery shopping to do before our guests arrive for dinner."
"Can we go to the bakery first?" Claire asked eagerly.
"You bet."
Martha rose and gave Helen a hug before donning her coat and taking Claire back down the snowy footpath toward Heber.
****
Claire tucked the baby into bed early and descended the stairs into the living room. As usual when they expected dinner guests, she heard Martha and Doug moving about the kitchen. Doug set up the bar while Martha prepared dinner. Claire joined them and began assembling napkins, place mats, and silverware. Doug appeared not to notice her and continued talking.
"I know it's a pain in the neck to entertain so often, honey, but I really appreciate all the work you do to make it happen. When you’re stuck in an outpost like Heber it's the only way to make the connections you need to move up."
"I know, Doug," Martha answered wearily. "I really don't mind having guests. With Claire taking care of the baby and Rosa cleaning up, it's not so much work. I'll get used to it."
"And don't forget the reimbursement," Doug added. "We come out ahead every time we entertain."
"It's all right, Doug. Really it is."
Martha was the first to hear knocking at the front door.
"Claire, dear, would you go quickly and answer that? Tell them we'll be right there."
Claire opened the door and recognized Warden Rocco, Major Whiting, and Colonel Tracy. With them was a somber little man in an elegant Russian fur hat and a navy blue overcoat like the one her father used to wear. The little man’s solemn expression, neatly trimmed black mustache, and gold–rimmed glasses gave him the look of a doctor on a house call.
The Warden spoke first.
"Good evening to you, Claire. I'd like you to meet Director Cronin. He's been waiting all day to taste the one of the delicious roasts that only you and Martha know how to make. May we come in?"
Claire smiled sweetly and shook the Director's hand, then held the door open for the others to enter. Before she could think of anything to say, she heard Martha and Doug coming up behind her.
"We're so pleased you came," Martha greeted them, shaking Cronin's hand and giving Rocco and Whiting each a polite kiss on the cheek. "It's been dreadfully quiet here all day. It's about time we had some company to liven things up."
Once the coats had been stored in the front closet, Doug led his guests into the dining room, where they congregated around the bar. Doug took drink orders while Claire delivered bowls of nuts, crackers, and chips before returning to the kitchen to help Martha prepare a salad.
Moments later Claire heard Fred Rocco tap a spoon against his tumbler to capture the other men's attention. She peeked through the doorway toward the bar.
"While Director Cronin is with us, I wanted to take a moment to congratulate all of you for your professionalism in putting down this week's strike. In all my years of government service I've rarely seen a better combination of intelligence work, planning, and seamless execution. So I’m delighted that we have with us tonight the director of the entire corrective labor system to see firsthand how we do things at Kamas."
Cronin acknowledged the warden with an indulgent smile and raised his glass of orange juice.
"You have a fine team, Warden. I'm sure your after–action report will be read with interest at Headquarters."
Jack Whiting spoke next.
"Thanks for the pat on the back, Fred, but if you don't mind my injecting a note of caution, you should know that if we had another strike tomorrow, I'd be hard pressed to deliver half the intelligence we had this time around."
"And why might that be?" Cronin interrupted.
"Because this morning, we lost nearly thirty of the informants whose reports guided us through this episode. Murdered overnight. Even before the strike, our crew of informants was dangerously thin. Now the few we have left are more afraid of the vigilantes than they are of us. Some went to jail rather than collaborate with us. Others have refused to go back to their barracks and are begging to be transferred."
"If your informants fear the vigilantes more than they fear you, you've got your work cut out for you, Jack," Colonel Tracy said wit
hout smiling.
"We know what needs to be done and we know how to do it," Whiting retorted. "I just want everyone here to know it's going to take time and a lot of support from Headquarters. Today I sent a request for some experienced informants from other camps. I also asked for an intelligence team to help us recruit more informants.
"If we’ve learned anything this week it’s that low–level agents aren’t enough anymore. We also need high–ranking types who can infiltrate the prisoners' leadership cadres and dig out their plans and intentions."
"I think Jack has the right approach," Rocco added. "If you agree, Director, perhaps you’d consider expediting his request when you get back to Washington."
"Send me a note, Warden, and I'll see that you get my full support," Cronin answered without enthusiasm.
"Jack is quite right about the need for more informants," Colonel Tracy pointed out. "But we also need to think about getting rid of the troublemakers. The way I see it, we ought to cull out a couple trainloads worth and send them up north where they can’t cause any more trouble. But even transfers don’t get to the heart of the matter with prisoners like these. It used to be that, when all means of correction were exhausted, we had the authority to terminate a certain number of incorrigibles at the local level. What might be the chance of getting back that authority, Director Cronin?"
Cronin raised his eyebrows slightly and took a sip of juice before answering.
"First of all, let me say that I have no objection to transfers of the kind you’re talking about. But, as for local authority to terminate, I don’t see a consensus for that quite yet.
"Still, you aren't left entirely without options. Look at your attrition rate. Has it ever been challenged? Of course not. You have always been completely free to exploit local conditions to overcome disciplinary problems. Nobody says you have to coddle these men. Medical care, heating, clothing, nutrition: all these can be adjusted to achieve your objectives. In my day, I found that a special diet often brought difficult prisoners around. I assume your people are no less resourceful."
Claire stepped away from the door. She recognized Doug’s voice and shot a glance at Martha, who stood motionless before the pork roast with carving knife in hand. Martha also appeared to be listening to the men but her face had grown ashen and she did not look well.
"Our staff is highly resourceful, Director, and we already use Kamas's natural advantages to help keep the prisoners in line," Doug explained. "All the same, Sir, we find ourselves facing a dilemma. Since Director Barry's departure, the extent of our discretionary authority over the prisoners has been unclear. On one hand, if we show too much zeal in putting down disturbances, we risk becoming scapegoats for people who accuse the Department of excesses. On the other hand, if we show too little zeal, we could be accused of going soft on our enemies. How do we steer a safe course between the two extremes?"
"You probably can’t," Cronin answered. "And to see why not, you have to understand the new generation of political leaders in Washington. Lately, a movement has arisen in some Party circles to, shall we say, expunge certain aspects of the President–for–Life's political legacy. With an aim to tarnish his reputation, this movement has drawn attention to false reports about the Department’s so–called excesses.
"Having had the privilege to know the President–for–Life personally, I can assure you that we will never in our lifetimes see another leader like him. The Union needed a man like him to take us through the Events and to give the country a fresh start. He single–handedly transformed the old class–ridden system into a new single–class society that offers justice for everyone.
"Our job in State Security is to preserve and protect this just new society from those who want to go back to the old ways. So, you see, there can never be an issue of too much zeal in pursuing the traitors who would tear it down."
After everyone had absorbed Cronin’s remarks and each had duly registered an amen, the conversation languished momentarily. Martha filled the silence by announcing that dinner would be ready in five minutes. To Claire's relief, Martha’s cheeks seemed to have regained their color.
Doug used his wife's interruption to change the subject.
"Director, I've heard that you spent some time in Utah early in your career. What are your impressions from those days?"
"I recall Utah as being a very odd sort of place," Cronin replied. "I don't know how much you all remember about the old Mormon Church, but Mormons dominated the state in those days. The Church of Latter Day Saints possessed enormous wealth and a vast infrastructure in the region.
"I happened to be regional director for FEMA before the Events. When refugees started pouring inland from California after the first big quakes, my job was to supply them with food and shelter along the major evacuation routes. At that time Utah was a major relief station. At first, the Mormon Church was a tremendous help to us, turning over vast quantities of stored foods and clothing and helping us provide emergency housing all over the state. But as our needs grew, and as the moment arrived to make greater sacrifices for the good of the country, their help began to dry up.
"One day the Mormon elders circled their wagons and refused to take in any more refugees. Before long, articles in the local press began featuring crimes committed by refugees and public health risks from the refugee camps and accusations that FEMA had taken sides with the refugees against Utahns.
"When the locals started arming themselves and organizing local militias we had to take action. That’s when the Utah governor gave his famous order to clear the refugee camps and expel the homeless to Colorado. Of course, at that point we had to move in and use all necessary force to restore order."
Cronin turned to Rocco.
"Warden, how many Mormons do you suppose are left in Utah?"
"Probably less than a hundred thousand. Not many will confess to being Mormon anymore, so it's hard to say. Their last temples were brought down or converted to civil use eight or ten years ago, when the President–for–Life declared the LDS church an illegal terrorist organization."
"We get a few Mormon prisoners by accident from time to time," Doug Chambers noted. "But as soon as we check their dossiers, we send them back north. There are special camps set up for them and the Muslims in the Northwest Territories."
"Which takes us back to what we were saying about the Department's mission," Cronin continued. "These Mormons, and for that matter, all the other religious zealots and militiamen in this country, have stubbornly rejected the Unionist goal of a one–class society and have put themselves in direct defiance of the Party. The people who denied relief to the California refugees are the same ones who refused to send their sons and daughters for voluntary national service. They lorded their wealth and privileges over everyone but blocked the path for others to get ahead. These people have deliberately chosen to sit on the sidelines of nation building and snipe at us rather than join the team.
"As far as I am concerned, these people have had their day. History has passed them by and soon they will sink into oblivion. And when they’re gone, we won’t have a need for corrective labor camps anymore. The camps will be closed and before long no one will know that they ever existed. I’ll tell you, that's the day I'm dreaming of."
Martha dropped the silver serving platter onto the sideboard with a clatter.
"Dinner is served," she said, and abruptly left the room.
CHAPTER 17
"You'll get used to it, and if you don't, you'll die."
—Soviet camp saying
TUESDAY, MARCH 26
I woke up so thirsty that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my lips were cracked and peeling. My throat was too parched to swallow.
The cell was as dark and quiet as a mineshaft. I no longer knew whether it was day or night or how long I had been there and I feared I had slept through my daily feeding. When I waded across the cell to the door, the receptacle where the guards left my bread and water was locked.
; I returned to the bench and lay on my side, my cheek pressed against its rough surface. I resolved to sort out my thoughts and to find some way to occupy my mind until my body was ready to sleep again. But thoughts kept darting about, passing back and forth through my head like actors crossing a stage. I tried to slow them down but they wouldn't respond.
Despite the cold and discomfort of the cell, my starved and overworked body still could not seem to get enough sleep. The constant shivering brought a new kind of exhaustion that made every muscle ache. I knew I couldn't afford to miss my daily rations and tried to stay alert for the sound of the receptacle's hinged flap swinging open. But I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness and lost the ability to distinguish minutes from hours.
Sleep was my only refuge. It kept the incessant thirst and hunger away and stopped the lice from tormenting me. It dispersed the palpable clouds of fear that hovered around my head. It let me forget that at Kamas I was no longer Paul Wagner in the eyes of my government, but Prisoner W–0885, convicted under Title 18, Section 2384, for seditious conspiracy against the Unionist State of America, sentenced to five years of corrective labor and expected to die long before my release date.
After a while, the flashing images in my sensory–deprived brain became a source of entertainment. People, places, and events reappeared that I had not considered for years. Some brought momentary joy, some guilt or sorrow, but most were nothing more than images without emotional value. Many times I had to drop a foot into the water or reach for the wall to verify whether a particular vision was real or imaginary.
One vision that returned more times than I could count was that of a nine–foot by a twelve–foot interview room of the kind that interrogators used at Susquehanna. Gray cinder block walls, a gray tiled floor, and a high whitewashed ceiling formed its outline. An overhanging globe lamp and a pair of rusting steel chairs, both bolted to the floor on opposite sides of a steel table, were its only furnishings.
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