Read Forty Days at Kamas Online
Authors: Preston Fleming
"I’ll have Rosa take care of her tonight. Serving dinner for Doug's guests is something only you and I can do. Now as soon as you finish setting the table, I'd like you to go upstairs and take a shower and put on that pretty long blue dress you picked out last week. I'll have an apron waiting for you in the kitchen when you're dressed."
When Doug came home with his guests, Claire recognized all but one. Apart from the Warden, she remembered General Boscov from Colorado and the odd little man with the Russian hat from Washington, Mr. Cronin. Doug introduced the last guest as Howard Barger from the Department of Justice. He was a short, stout, unhealthy–looking man whose pasty complexion and gray hair made him appear the oldest man in the room. His slightly confused expression, together with his off–center bow tie, frayed collar, and baggy corduroy suit, reminded Claire of an absent–minded professor she once saw in a movie.
The five men went directly to the dining room and served themselves drinks from the bar before taking their places at the table. After they had seated themselves, Doug poured wine for each of them and suggested they go ahead and start eating since they all needed to retire early.
Warden Rocco spoke next, asking Doug to give a brief situation report on the day's events in the camp.
"We've been keeping heightened surveillance on all four camp divisions since last night," Doug began. "At the moment it's still a stalemate. They can't get out but we can't get in without mounting a full–scale assault. The warehouses in the Service Yard contain enough food to keep the prisoners going for sixty to ninety days. We can cut off their power, but not their water, which comes from wells beneath the camp."
At this point General Boscov broke in.
"There are obviously some serious design problems with Kamas and other camps of the same vintage. This was clearly a disaster waiting to happen."
"I would agree with Jake on that," Doug continued. "But today, our focus has to be on the prisoners' plans and intentions. My personal assessment is that, the longer we wait to go in, the messier it will be. If the prisoners get accustomed to running loose, experience tells us that their resistance will stiffen. Delay will also give them time to analyze their situation and organize defenses. That ninety–day food supply lets them hold out far too long unless we force the issue quickly."
Boscov looked across the table at his boss, Kenneth Cronin, and drummed his forefinger on the linen tablecloth.
"I agree with the need to move quickly," Boscov agreed. "If we let it go on, we'll face a nightmare of copycat mutinies from Fairbanks to Flagstaff."
"I assure you," Fred Rocco broke in, turning to Kenneth Cronin, "that from the moment the prisoners breached the walls we have done all we could with the limited resources on hand, starting with a complete overhaul of the perimeter. And for the past three days we've been on the phone to Headquarters constantly to ask for the resources and authority to cope with this mess. But until your arrival this afternoon, Director, Headquarters has been oddly silent."
"There's no need to be defensive, Warden," Cronin replied smoothly. "You're not on trial here."
Fred Rocco looked away and slowly laid down his fork.
"What the devil do you expect from Washington these days, Fred?" Howard Barger interrupted, throwing up his hands. "I can tell you right now the Attorney General won’t want anything to do with this crazy revolt of yours, particularly now that you've brought non–political prisoners into the camp. Nor will anyone on the seventh floor at State Security. And don't even think of pulling strings with the Party Central Committee."
"That's all fine, Howard," the Warden replied, "but while we wait for Washington to untie our hands, we lose production days and risk defaulting on our contractual obligations to recycling customers."
The men looked up as Martha and Claire entered the dining room to clear their appetizer plates. Conversation stopped while the plates were removed and the men refilled their wineglasses.
"As I've said before, Warden," Boscov continued after the women had left the room, "why on earth do we need a decision from Washington before we act? When Bill Barry was Director, we faced this kind of thing dozens of times. We never let regulations hold us back then and we shouldn't let them hold us back now."
"Not so fast, General," Howard Barger broke in. "We're up to our ears in legal work with Kamas already. Somebody has to justify on paper each and every one of the fatal shootings that takes place in a camp. Our people are having a devil of a time these days figuring out how to make it all appear legal."
"Gentlemen," Cronin interrupted. "What I would suggest is that you meet with the prisoners again tomorrow and do whatever is necessary to bring them back to work. Call up the Department's experts on hostage negotiations and find out how they do it. There's absolutely nothing original about any of this. What we need at the moment is determined action, delivered swiftly."
"That’s precisely my point!" Boscov insisted. "If the President–for–Life were alive, we would have shot all 8,000 by now, just for fear he'd find out what had happened and accuse us of shirking! Now, I ask you, what if those days were to come back again? Which is better: to act and get a slap on the wrist or not act and get a bullet in the neck?"
"Jake, the days you describe are long gone and I don't see them coming back," Cronin replied calmly as he reached across the table to refill Boscov's wineglass. "I can’t authorize you to shoot anyone unless he attacks your men or attempts to escape or threatens the safety of the other prisoners.
"Now, as to the issue of an assault," Cronin went on, "I agree in principle to begin planning for it in case all other methods fail. But, as I’ve said, let's try negotiating first. Put together a plan and a timetable. If Doug is correct, it may be weeks before you get all the action approvals you'll need. If you haven't jawboned the prisoners back to work by then, come back to me and I'll sign the order myself if I have to."
"Colonel Tracy and I have already done some preliminary planning," Doug volunteered. "The way I see it, the prime objective of the assault should be to subdue the prisoners quickly, with a minimum number of friendly casualties, and then to swap out the surviving prisoners for fresh ones so this won’t happen again. Fred, would you agree?"
Fred Rocco swirled the red wine around in his glass before answering.
"Nothing would make me happier than to ship all 8,000 to the Arctic Circle tomorrow," Rocco began. "But this is a production facility as well as a penal camp. If we ship out our foremen and our skilled craftsmen and our best workers in exchange for an entirely new crew, production will plummet.
"Now, if we do that, is someone going to lower our output quotas for us? And who’s going to pay for the extra guards and the transport charges and the cost of the assault, not to mention the expense of rebuilding the camp? These things cost money."
"As I said, Warden, you aren't on trial here," Cronin repeated ominously.
"Ken, go easy on the Warden," Howard Barger interrupted with a forced smile. "Fred and his staff have had a perfectly miserable three days since this all started. If I'd gone through what they have, I'd be homicidal by now."
Cronin smiled coolly at both Barger and Rocco.
"You're right, Howard. Our work can take an emotional toll on the best of us. It goes to show that we're human beings, too.
"But, I agree with Doug that the longer this revolt drags on, the harder our task will be. Which is why I've decided to set up a special task force here in Kamas with the sole objective of putting down the revolt. The leader of that task force, effective immediately, will be Doug Chambers.
"From now on, Doug, I want you to report your plans and progress directly to me every week. What I'm looking for is one or two pages, as clear as possible, as vague as necessary. Request whatever resources you need and I'll back you up. Just get the job done."
Someone tapped a spoon against a wineglass.
"Let's all drink to Doug's success," Cronin proposed. "From now on, I’m going to hold Doug personally responsible for ending the revolt on the best possible terms."
Martha re–entered the dining room as the men held up their glasses to drink. She caught sight of Doug just as he reached across the table to shake Director Cronin’s hand. In his eyes she detected a peculiar mixture of exhilaration and fear.
"It is not rebellion itself which is noble but the demands it makes upon us."
—Albert Camus,
The Plague
THURSDAY, MAY 23
DAY 5
I lay on my bunk with eyes wide open through most of the night, listening to the sound of raindrops on the thin tarpaper roof. A constant stream of disturbing thoughts and feelings about my wife and daughters raced through my mind. For a long time I had assumed that, within a short period after my arrival at Kamas, all three would have succeeded in joining my wife's parents in England once their exit visas had been approved and the emigration tax paid. There had always been a risk that State Security might go back on their promises and revoke the exit visas, but as the weeks went by, I ceased to dwell on that and chose instead to believe that my wife and children were already abroad.
The message from Helen Sigler filled my mind with the worst sorts of speculation that my wife might have landed in a camp and my children in a state orphanage or even a juvenile detention facility. The prospect of their being thrown in with criminals as brutal as the ones I had seen in the transit camps haunted me no matter how many times I tried to reason it away.
I rose from my bunk before dawn and walked along the perimeter fence, contemplating the few yards of dirt that separated me from instant death by electrocution or a tower guard’s bullet. I had thought of suicide many times since my arrest, but had always kept the thought at bay. But now, what if my wife and children were not in England? What if they had been sent to Hudson Bay like the Muslims or Utah’s Mormons? What did my own survival mean if my family no longer existed when I was released?
I sat on the doorstep outside the entrance to the mess hall and gazed at the sunrise. The early morning rain shower had moved on, leaving the sky clear and blue over the Kamas Valley. But above the mountains to the east, the horizon was alive with clouds of ever–changing shapes and colors, from bright orange to deep purple. The muddy camp yards, weather–beaten watchtowers, and rusty wire fences offered a stark contrast to the luminous sky and the puddles of rainwater reflecting the clouds' colors from below.
I sensed someone sit down quietly beside me.
"How beautiful the world can be," said a familiar voice. It was Al Gallucci.
I made no reply.
"I noticed you staring off into space yesterday, too," Gallucci continued. "I've never seen you so lost to the world. Is it something you'd like to talk about?"
"I had a message from the outside," I told him. "I thought my girls had left the country a year ago. Now looks like they never made it."
"Do you know that for sure?"
"No," I said. "But with the revolt, I won’t be able to get any messages in or out."
"Is there any way I can help?"
"Who knows," I said in despair. "I can't even think straight. One moment I feel guilty for leaving them behind; the next moment I want to bust out of here to find them. But I wouldn't know where to look for them if I could. I've even thought of running into the wire, though I know that would be stupid and wrong. It's driving me crazy thinking that my wife might be in some camp all because of me. And to think of my little girls…"
I couldn't bear to say aloud what I feared for them.
"I know what you mean, Paul. I felt the same way once. I wish I could say the pain goes away, but it didn't for me."
"You're married?"
"Yes," Gallucci replied.
"Children?"
"Three teenagers," he said.
"Where are they?"
"The last I saw them, we were all in a police van on our way to an interrogation prison outside Atlanta."
"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "How do you manage to stay sane…?"
"I can only speak from my own experience," Gallucci continued. "But life has taught me that each man's destiny is different. Sometimes it calls for action, sometimes a change in attitude, and sometimes simply suffering and acceptance. When it's suffering, you have to remember that your own pain is totally unique in the universe. Nobody can relieve you of it or suffer it in your place. It's the way you bear it that gives your life its special meaning.
"Dostoyevsky once wrote that there was only one thing that he dreaded: not to be worthy of his sufferings. The way I see it, the thing that determines whether a man is worthy or not is the choices he makes. No matter how desperate the conditions, no matter how great the suffering, no one can deprive you of that last inner freedom to choose your attitude toward life."
"Was there ever a time–in the north, maybe–when you considered taking your own life?" I asked.
"Oddly enough, not in the north. Death was so close at hand all the time that there was never a need to seek it out. The only time I seriously considered it was here in Kamas, during a bout of illness."
"What stopped you?"
"An idea. You see, by the time I left the Yukon, I thought I had faced the limit of human suffering. But you know what? When I came to Kamas, I was surprised to learn that suffering has no limits. Suffering is like a gas. If a gas is pumped into a chamber, it diffuses and fills the chamber completely and uniformly, regardless of the chamber's size. Suffering fills our consciousness the same way. So when I hit bottom, I decided to change my attitude and turn my pain into a positive achievement rather than let it destroy me."
"I don't think I have that kind of willpower," I said.