Read Forty Days at Kamas Online
Authors: Preston Fleming
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Our work team was last in line waiting for the gate to open except for the team whose foreman had been replaced by the sadistic warder.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.
"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."
"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."
"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.