—Genrikh Yagoda, Chief of Soviet NKVD, in prison after his arrest
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26
DAY 37
It was early afternoon when Martha Chambers left Claire and Marie in Rosa's care and drove to Helen Sigler's cabin. Martha pulled off the road at a different spot this time, a hundred yards from the overgrown driveway and invisible from the main road, before starting on foot through the trees.
Helen met Martha at the door of the cabin and offered her a chair on the porch facing south across the Heber Valley. A cooling breeze riffled through the aspens and scrub oak. A thriving kitchen garden spread at their feet.
"I got your message last night. Sorry I couldn't make it here sooner," Martha began.
"You came in plenty of time," Helen assured her. "The news didn't come until yesterday and I'm not sure there's much we can do now, anyway."
"Was it from Claire's family?"
Helen nodded.
"Claire's grandparents have put up the money to renew all four of the family’s exit visas and have arranged through a Washington lawyer to have Claire's father’s sentence commuted to deportation and exile. They expect her mother and sister to be released as early as next week."
"But that's wonderful!" Martha exclaimed. "You mean, Claire might be able to leave the country after all?"
"So it would seem," Helen replied. "Of course, she'll have to get back to Philadelphia somehow, but that shouldn't be so hard. The sticky part is whether Claire's father will be released in time. Getting his sentence commuted won't do him much good if he's still in camp when the troops move in."
"How soon does he have to get out?"
"All signs point to an attack by morning."
"Oh, my God," Martha muttered. "Isn't there any way out before then?"
"Deserters were getting out until a week ago," Helen said. "But now both sides appear to have sealed the exits."
"But if Washington has already commuted his sentence, why would anyone hold him back?"
Helen shrugged.
"What about Doug?" Helen asked. "Is there any chance he might help?"
The question took Martha by surprise.
"I don't know. I suppose I could try," she replied, as if considering the idea for the first time. "He's going to stop by the house this afternoon."
"If there's anything I can do, just tell me," Helen offered. "I'd be happy to take Claire back east if that would be useful. Who knows, I might even stay there." "But I thought Heber was your home…"
Helen shook her head.
"Only because of Alec. My sister and daughter live in Virginia. Susan is out of college now and is planning to get married this fall. I'd like to have a go at being my daughter's mother again."
"How soon do you think you might leave?"
"As soon as they launch the assault. Tonight I plan to camp out in the hills overlooking Kamas. If I'm right, they’ll attack before daybreak. Once they do, there'll be nothing left for me to do here. That's when I’ll go."
"Why not make the trip together? I was planning to leave tomorrow, too. We’ll have a car as far as Provo and then we’re planning to take the train to Denver and catch a sleeper to Philadelphia. We could share a compartment."
"You think there would be enough room?""Of course. Besides, traveling together will be twice the fun. Claire will be beside herself when she hears you'll be with us. How about if we pick you up on Reservoir Road by, say, nine?"
"I'll be there by half past eight. If I'm not, go on without me and I’ll catch up to you in Provo."
****
Claire Wagner stood outside the doorway to Martha Chambers's bedroom and watched Martha fasten the zipper around her suitcase. Two other matching canvas bags lay on the floor at Martha's feet. Claire looked up at the clock on the dresser and saw that it was nearly four.
Marie's bag was next to be packed. Claire stepped quietly down the hall into the nursery, where Marie was asleep in her crib, and began opening dresser drawers. One after another, she withdrew the contents without a sound and laid out neat piles of toddler outfits on the floor.
Through the open door Claire heard a noise from downstairs and raised her head to listen. Next she heard the sound of keys dropping onto the marble–topped table near the front door.
"Martha?"
It was Doug's voice, which surprised Claire because Doug usually didn't come home until six. She heard Martha's muffled steps descending the carpeted stairs and took up a position out of sight at the top of the stairway.
"I'm afraid I won't be staying for dinner tonight," she heard Doug say as he tossed the newspaper onto the table. "There's a big exercise tonight at camp. I stopped by to pick up a few things."
"But, Doug, this was going to be our last night together before the trip!" Martha exclaimed angrily.
"Yes. And I was all set to come home early. But something has come up. We’ll be working all night. There's no way I can get out of it."
"I suppose not," Martha replied, her voice now drained of emotion. "It could mean a lot for your career. And compared to that, what's important about being with your wife and daughter?"
"Come on, Martha, we've been through this a hundred times. You know perfectly well that I can’t set my own hours in this business. When there's a fight, we're expected to drop everything and pitch in."
"Some fight. A sneak attack on a camp full of unarmed prisoners…" Martha said before catching herself.
"Martha, stop it! What's done at the camp is none of your business."
"I used to believe that, Doug, but not anymore," Martha said. "This morning I paid a visit to Helen Sigler. She told me that she's managed to locate Claire's father. He's a prisoner at your precious camp…"
"She must be mistaken," Doug asserted.
"Paul Wagner is his name," she persisted. "Have you come across him?"
"There are nearly 8,000 prisoners at Kamas, Martha. I can’t be expected to know each of them by name."
"Helen told me that Washington has issued exit permits to Claire's entire family, including her father. They even commuted his sentence from hard labor to exile so he could leave with them. The trouble is, he's stuck in Kamas. Tell me, Doug: If Claire's father can't find a way out before you attack, he'll be killed, won't he?"
"I can't answer that, Martha."
"Can't you help him?" Martha implored.
"You have no idea what you're asking. There's no way in hell to get anyone out of that camp tonight."
"But, Doug, he's Claire's father! And the Department has already approved it. All he needs is for you to go along with what’s already been worked out in Washington."
"I can’t," Doug insisted. "It's against the rules. If anyone ever found out I'd broken the rules to help him, I'd be finished."
"Would it be any different if they found out that you took his daughter into your household?"
For a moment, Doug seemed at a loss to reply.
"When she came here I had no idea who her father was. How could anyone say–"
"Why couldn't they?" Martha asked. "From what I've seen, all State Security needs to arrest someone is an anonymous tip."
"Surely you're not implying that you would report it…"
Martha met his gaze with a look of cold defiance.
"Martha, this isn't like you at all. You have no idea what you're asking."
"Yes, I do, Doug, and so do you. If you were still the man I married, you wouldn't even blink at letting Paul Wagner go. What's happened to you? Ever since you joined up with these black–shirted thugs, it's as though you traded your self–respect for your title and now you're afraid to speak up for fear they might take it all back."
"That's not true, Martha," Doug protested. "My career in the Army was dead when I joined State Security. No other door was open. I took the job because it was the only way I knew to support my family. Where's the crime in that?"
"Neither of us knew then what they would ask of you. But now we do and we both know it's wrong."
> "Breaking the rules to help Claire's father is wrong, too, and on top of that it's dangerous. If you have any sense at all you'll drop the idea right now."
"I can't," Martha said. "You can go on wearing that black uniform as long as you want, but I refuse to take my food and shelter one more day from someone who makes a living enslaving and tormenting innocent people. I've made my choice, Doug. Now you'll have to make yours."
There was a pause before Doug replied, now in a more conciliatory tone.
"I apologize for how I've been acting lately, Martha," he said gently. "But it's not as bad as you think. Go ahead, visit your parents and get some rest. I'll come out as soon as things settle down. We'll make it work. I know we will."
"This is not about my needing a rest, Doug. It's about our leading a decent life that we're not ashamed of. Sure, come see us when you when you get free. But don't expect us to come back with you if you're still wearing that uniform."
"I can't make that promise, Martha. Try to understand–"
"I do," she replied. "Now I hope you understand me."
Claire listened for Doug’s response but there was none. A moment later she heard his steps across the parquet floor toward the staircase and realized suddenly that he was on his way up to the master bedroom. Claire scurried across the hall into the nursery and swung the door shut. Then she listened through the thin plasterboard walls while Doug opened the drawers of his dresser and began filling his overnight bag. A few minutes later he made a noisy descent to the front hall and slammed the door behind him.
Claire remained in the nursery a minute or two longer before following him down. She didn't want Martha to think she had been eavesdropping but her ears were burning with the news she had heard about her family's exit visas and the danger her father was in.
She came out of the nursery and peeked down the stairs into the living room, where Martha sat before an empty fireplace. Seeing Martha, she descended cautiously and stood beside Martha's chair. Martha looked neither happy nor sad, merely lost in thought.
"Martha?" she asked tentatively.
"Oh, Claire, come closer," Martha replied, reaching out to embrace her. Claire squeezed in next to Martha on the easy chair.
"Is my dad really at Kamas?" Claire asked excitedly. "Do you think I could go see him?"
Martha pressed her lips together tightly and looked at the floor.
"I do believe he's there, dear, but no, they won't let us in to see him," she replied, taking Claire's hand and pressing it to her cheek.
"Will they let him out, then?"
"I hope so," Martha replied. "But I have no idea when."
"Do we really have to leave tomorrow? Can't we wait for my dad?"
Martha shook her head.
"It's all arranged, sweetheart. We have to leave first thing in the morning. Your mother and your little sister will be waiting for us in Philadelphia. If all goes well, maybe your father will be able to follow along."
"Will I be coming back here again, Martha? To Utah, I mean?"
"Do you want to?"
"Not unless you're here."
"Don’t worry, then, sweetheart. Come, let's finish packing, shall we?"
CHAPTER 42
"You die now. I’ll die later."
—Soviet camp saying
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26
DAY 37
When the conversation between Glenn Reineke and the Warden ended, I hung up the receiver on Reineke's telephone and returned it quietly to his desk drawer. I heard footsteps and muffled voices outside the conference room but these soon faded away. Several minutes passed before I ventured to open the office door. No one was outside. Even the duty officer's desk was vacant.
Unsure whether Reineke would expect me to remain in his office or search for him outside, I went to the rear of the building to see if he might have gone to the cellblocks. I found the sliding door unlocked and descended the stairs into the central corridor of the former women’s jail. At its end, Reineke, the duty officer, and two jailers were busy unlocking cells, handcuffing the prisoners and assembling them in single–file.
"Need any help?" I called out.
"No, we'll be up in a minute," he called back. "Go on ahead to the main gate and tell the Warden we’ll be there soon with the rest of his deserters."
"Will do," I replied, and set out at a trot for the Service Yard.
I no sooner rounded the corner of the building than I spotted Colonel Majors walking slowly toward the Service Yard with General Boscov and Colonel Tracy. Majors spoke with agitation as he went, jabbing his finger at Boscov's chest for emphasis. The General kept moving, his face a rigid mask. Then he stopped suddenly and faced Majors to deliver a cold rebuff whose words I could not hear. Before Majors could reply, Boscov had turned his back on him with an air of finality and moved on. Majors was left standing alone in the center of the road squinting into the harsh yellow glare of the evening sun.
A moment later, Majors resumed his walk toward the Service Yard but more slowly, as if lost in thought. I waited until a trio of other commissioners caught up with him on the road then followed behind. By the time they reached the sandbag bunker that faced the eastern gate, I was only a few steps behind. I overheard the other commissioners pepper Majors with questions about the Central Committee members' impending visit and how to handle the camp's transition back to government authority. Judging by his monosyllabic responses, it seemed to me that Majors was still reeling from Boscov’s rebuff.
I approached Majors and told him that Reineke would be along shortly with one last batch of deserters for the Warden to take with him.
"Nobody told me about any more deserters," he grumbled.
"The Warden has already approved it," I said. "Glenn will be along in a minute with the list."
"He'd better make it quick. Our visitors seem eager to leave."
At that moment, Reineke and the two jailers came within view with eleven manacled prisoners in tow, including Gaffney, Bernstein, and Skinner. I stepped aside as Reineke handed Colonel Majors a handwritten list. By now, Majors was busy conversing again with General Boscov and gave the list only a cursory glance before signing it and handing it back. Reineke took up the list with a barely suppressed smile and carried it to the Warden, who made a quick count of the manacled deserters. Then Rocco ran his finger slowly down the list, folded it, and stuffed in his pocket.
In the confusion of the moment, I joined my handcuffed companions without attracting undue attention and followed them across the buffer zone to the main gate and out into the no–man's–land. Judging from the absence of catcalls, no one behind the barricades seemed to have noticed that I was among the deserters. As relieved as I was to have escaped their attention, I felt ashamed to have become, officially and undeniably, Paul Wagner the turncoat, the deserter…the rat.
Even with Boscov, Tracy, and Rocco leading the way, never in my life had I felt as exposed and vulnerable as I did that evening traversing the ploughed earth between the camp’s exterior wall and the perimeter fence. We marched in the long shadow of the wall under the menacing stare of machine gunners who kept their sights trained on us every step of the way. Before us the hills were still awash with the warm yellow glow of the setting sun. But between us and the hills was a forbidding series of obstacles: barbed wire, electrified fences, deep trenches, massive berms, and a cordon of troops and armor sufficient to destroy the camp many times over.
At last we passed through a gate in the electrified perimeter fence and were told to stop before the open doors of a waiting prison van. There a familiar squad of warders herded us into the van with a flurry of curses and a hail of blows from their fists, boots, and truncheons. I recognized Grady and Mills among them and they recognized me. That entitled me to extra slashes of the truncheon against my buttocks and back.
Once the doors slammed shut behind us, the van drove for only a few minutes over the bumpy dirt roads before turning us loose again inside a corral–like enclosure, some fifty yar
ds on a side and twelve feet high, constructed of barbed wire and concrete stanchions. After a few moments, the same squad of warders pulled up behind us in a jeep, tossed a jerry can of water and pile of army blankets at us, and warned us to get some sleep. They promised to be back before dawn to put us to work.
Now that the sun was below the horizon, the dry air cooled rapidly and I shivered in my thin blanket as I tried in vain to sleep. Not only was the ground hard and rocky, but the incessant roar of the bulldozers on the other side of the berm made rest impossible.
As I lay on my back and looked up into the clear moonlit sky, I thought about what the dawn would bring, both for our small squad of deserters and for the nearly 8,000 prisoners left inside the camp. Those who accepted the Warden's glib lies at face value and expected Central Committee members to arrive the next morning doubtless slept better than those who expected tanks to roll through camp before breakfast. Reineke, Knopfler, and Gary Toth were no doubt already circulating among the sentries, pickets, and front–line fighters, warning them that their moment of trial would soon be upon them and encouraging them to live up to the trust of their fellow prisoners.
I imagined Jerry McIntyre and his scientists burning their notes and sketches in open oil drums to keep them from falling into enemy hands. And I imagined more oil drums blazing outside the bathhouse where the Military Department kept its office and at the Security Department in the old women's jail. All the weapons the Technical Department had designed were deployed by now, all the Military Department's war plans had been implemented, and all the Security Department's secret intelligence taken into account.
I formed a mental picture of the mess halls where the camp's various religious congregations would be gathered to pray on the eve of their own special Judgment Day. Some would be praying for deliverance, some for forgiveness, and others for strength to endure whatever might come. There would be hymns and chants and responsive readings by the light of homemade candles along with silent meditation in the dark.
Forty Days at Kamas Page 34
