Christian Nation

by Frederic C. Rich

  GI was remarkably well suited to our rehabilitation program and was a smart choice by the Jordan administration. As an island, it was highly secure, both from escape and uninvited visitation. Most of the large barracks had been built before World War II, during which troops from all over the country were assembled on the island before boarding transport ships for Europe. Liggett Hall, the main barracks building, was the first single structure big enough to house all the facilities of an entire army regiment. It was huge, spanning nearly the entire width of the island, with an imposing arch and tower at the center. Designed by McKim, Mead & White, architects of the gilded age, Liggett was certainly one of the classiest buildings ever to serve as a prison. With his well-known sense of theater, Stanford White gave the building an enormous courtyard designed as a dramatic setting for the ceremonies of regimental life. It proved equally suitable for the ritual needs of Camp Purity.

  Equally useful to the eventual needs of Camp Purity was Castle Williams, an early nineteenth-century fort used by the federal government as a prison for Confederate troops during the Civil War and thereafter maintained as a military stockade. The castle was the New York counterpart to Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. Some called it the Alcatraz of New York harbor. Its small stone cells remained largely unimproved for two hundred years. For the first few months, we did not know that Castle Williams was anything other than an historical monument. Indeed, for the first few months, some of us simply pretended that we were not in prison. Yes, the edges of the island were wrapped in double rows of coiled razor wire. And yes, guards with guns were everywhere. But you see what you want to see.

  Each morning, after breakfast and before morning Bible study, the entire company of prisoners, guards, and workers gathered in the impressive courtyard behind Liggett Hall for “assembly.” Superintendent Joe Jones, whom we quickly nicknamed Super JJ, the other federal civilian administrators, the military officers, and the clergy sat on a raised platform with their backs to the building. A small stone obelisk-like structure dating from the nineteenth century marked the center of the courtyard, and all 3,500 prisoners stood in an arc around it and faced the leadership on the platform. The guards were arrayed in a larger-radius arc in back of the prisoners. We never saw Super JJ or the other administrators wearing a tie. Instead, they all dressed in mid-American “business casual”—khakis, brown loafers, and short-sleeve button-down shirts. Super JJ, whose buzz-cut hair and fondness for tight T-shirts gave him a more military look, was the exception. The guards were all in military uniforms, and the prisoners wore standard-issue orange jumpsuits.

  Assembly followed the same pattern every day. The chief chaplain, referred to by Super JJ only as “padre,” opened with a prayer. Super JJ’s adjutant then made announcements regarding things like mess hall hours and the posting of Bible class and work assignments. Super JJ then gave a brief summary of what he described as the “news” but that we believed was a carefully programmed series of lies dripped out to convince us of the finality of their victory and the hopelessness of the secular cause. We later learned that his description of events—the immediate capitulation of Manhattan following our loss at the Battery, the return of New York to the Union, and the gradual cessation of violent resistance throughout the country—was largely accurate.

  Toward the end of the second month, the assembly program changed for the first time. The chief deacon reported each morning on inmates who had advanced to a new step in the SLURS program. The first time he appeared at assembly, he introduced about a score of prisoners who had progressed to step one (understanding that they were vile sinners), who were then invited to come forward to an area in front reserved for those in the first stage of grace. Within another week, about the same number had advanced to step two (understanding that, notwithstanding their sin, they were loved by God). When a prisoner progressed, his badge also changed color, allowing guards and prisoners to know at a glance his progress. Over the first months the ranks of those in step one swelled to hundreds, scores reached step two, and a couple even stood alone in the quadrant reserved for prisoners attaining step three.

  Although we indulged in the minor disobedience of using nicknames for the staff, and sometimes referred disrespectfully to the Four Graces as SLURS, we did so with circumspection, believing—correctly as it turned out—that all interior spaces on GI were closely monitored by video. We eventually discovered many of the pinhole cameras, which were ubiquitous. For example, there was not only a single camera in the hall bathroom used by my brothers and me but one in every shower and toilet stall. The food line in the mess hall was miked, as was each table. After a couple of months, we all felt the considerable strain of not being able to discuss our situation freely. With little more than glances, we shared with trusted acquaintances our skepticism about the growing band of prisoners advancing to step two, but we were unable to discuss it further.

  For me, the apparent progress by hundreds of prisoners through the Four Graces program was truly puzzling. Yes, I knew about the Stockholm syndrome, and the natural tendency to want to please those who control your life. But the 3,500 men in that courtyard were New York’s most committed secularists. All had chosen to risk their lives to resist the Christian Nation. They were mostly committed atheists, with many observant Jews and the occasional Muslim. My fellow prisoners were cynical journalists, tough-minded lawyers, foul-mouthed cabdrivers, and liberal professors—hardly the ideal candidates for conversion, much less full-on second birth. And though we had been through a period of enormous stress, and rose every morning under threat of execution, it seemed improbable to me that capitulation would start to occur so quickly. I was preoccupied with the question of how and why a new group, every morning, transitioned publicly to steps two and three. Was it an escape strategy? Had they learned how to fool our captors? Were they plants intended to inspire the real prisoners? Or had the mental strain of the war and imprisonment unbalanced their minds sufficiently that they were in fact open to religious conversion?

  “So you made step two,” I said with complete neutrality to a stranger following assembly. We were outdoors, where we all hoped the risk of being overheard or recorded was lower.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “I’m interested. How did it happen?”

  “Think about it. Aren’t we all sinners?” he said, walking away and revealing nothing.

  I did not dare to pursue him.

  THE MORNING OF the first flogging changed everything. We assembled and the program proceeded as usual. Super JJ, who usually had the last word, ascended to the podium.

  “A reading from the Book of Deuteronomy, chapter 25, verse 2:

  Then it shall be if the wicked man deserves to be beaten, the judge shall then make him lie down and be beaten in the presence with the number of stripes according to his guilt.

  “That is the infallible word of God. You are all wicked men, and with justice and fidelity to God’s word we could beat each of you every day. But in the Christian Nation we have a mandate to live our lives according to the model of our Lord Jesus Christ and his mercy. I have been clear with you about the rules, and clear about the consequences if you break the rules. Prisoner Number 4587, come forward with your brothers.”

  A prisoner whom I did not know was brought in front of the podium by two guards, and behind him two guards similarly held each of his five brothers. The guards looked nervous.

  “Yesterday evening Prisoner Number 4587 was observed engaging in sexual intercourse with one of the assistant cooks behind the kitchen. She has been sent off island and will be dealt with by the civilian authorities. The prisoner has been sentenced to twenty-four lashes. Each of his brothers, accordingly, will also receive twenty-four lashes. As you know, the Bible permits a maximum of forty lashes, so this sentence is a merciful one. Each of the brothers will be punished first so that the miscreant can observe the consequences of his own sin. Only when all his brothers have suffered will he be permitted to join them. Guards, do not hesitate t
o do God’s will.”

  The stone pole that I had always thought of as an obelisk had old iron rings mounted about seven feet off the ground on each face. I now recognized that it was a nineteenth-century whipping post. The guards took the youngest of the five brothers, a scrawny redhead who looked to be about twenty-five, and roughly unzipped and removed his jumpsuit. Trying not to look scared, he gave the guards a cocky look of defiance as they looped a rope around each wrist, snaked the ropes through the rings on the right and left sides of the post, pulled his arms above his head, and secured the rope on cleats lower down the post. I could no longer see his face. They then attached a stiff wide belt around his waist, a device to protect the kidneys and lower back that I recognized from the extensive media coverage given to “judicial caning” in Singapore. I was sure that in their eyes it gave the ancient barbaric punishment a modern clinical veneer. One of the guards then unfurled a whip. The single-tail black bullwhip was about eight feet in length.

  The first stroke produced a loud cracking sound that no one was expecting. A red welt rose from the upper right shoulder to midback. The young man threw back his head in wordless pain.

  “One,” said the other guard.

  On the third stroke a loud “oh” escaped from the man, the breath expelled in a blast from the force of the whip on his back. The fourth stroke was the first to cross another, and blood began to trickle from the places where the stripes crossed.

  “Six,” said the first guard, handing over the whip to the other guard, who recommenced the flogging from the other side.

  With this stroke a long sob welled up from the man’s gut. The only sounds in the large courtyard were the sickening crack of the whip, and sobbing that became increasingly convulsive and desperate with each stroke.

  By the time the second guard handed back off to the first guard following the twelfth stroke, the prisoner whose indiscretion had given rise to the flogging, had lost all color and looked to be on the verge of collapse. His mouth was open and his eyes were blank. Two of his four other brothers were crying softly. Two looked outraged.

  Only months before, I had killed men and seen men killed. I saw horrible suffering. But that suffering was incidental to a violent battle. The point of that violence was to kill the enemy, not to inflict pain. It was far different from deliberate physical torture. I had never seen anything like this. I had never seen one man look into the suffering eyes of another and calmly count out further torment. I had never seen a torturer steel himself to the sounds of desperation and carry on. At eighteen strokes the victim’s back was a single blue and purple bruise decorated with a crazy crisscross of red lines oozing blood. The soft touch of a single finger would have been unendurable on such a back, and yet he would receive six more lashes. It did not seem survivable.

  An angry murmur rose from the prisoners. A few guards shouldered their weapons, and others shifted their weight uneasily.

  By the time the guard shouted “twenty-four,” the young man hung limply from the ropes. When they took him down I saw he was conscious, his eyes partially rolled back into his head, his breathing shallow. The guards who had administered the flogging took one arm over each shoulder and dragged him upright in the direction of the infirmary.

  The eyes of his brothers and all the other prisoners turned expectantly to Super JJ. I longed to believe that he would be satisfied with the horror we had just witnessed and suspend the other punishments. The guards holding the next brother looked similarly hopeful. The Super disabused these hopes with a barely discernible nod to the guards to proceed.

  The second brother, terrified, panicked and struggled against his guards. Two others rushed forward to hold his arms while the ropes were looped over his wrists. Even secured to the post, he continued to struggle like a wounded animal, moaning over and over “no, no, no.” They tied his feet and waist so he could not turn around. After the first stroke, he let out a scream. It was more the sound of terror than of pain, but as the strokes went on, the pain overwhelmed the terror, and he too was reduced to gasping sobs, sobs that eventually abated as he sank into shock during the final strokes.

  By the time the final prisoner was secured to the post, both he and the assembled company seemed to be in a daze. Disoriented. More uncomprehending than scared or angry. JJ and his thugs had committed the crime, but it was the other prisoners and I who felt guilty. We had stood and watched a monstrous evil and done nothing.

  At the end, the superintendent resumed his place at the podium.

  “Remember this. What you saw this morning is nothing compared with the suffering of our Lord. Nothing. Each flogging should remind you of the terrible suffering that Jesus endured for you. He suffered to redeem your sins. And with his stripes, we are healed. Think on this. You are dismissed.”

  After this first flogging, the atmosphere at GI changed considerably. The summer camp illusion was shattered. The prisoners became sullen and the guards more aggressive. It was as if the genie of latent violence had been released. In our private metaphoric language, certain prisoners started to allude to rebellion and escape. Others accelerated their progress on the four-step program, focused only on escape through the path that had been laid out for them. The vast majority was simply at sea. Being born again was not something they could do honestly, and to do so dishonestly was both repulsive and risky. And yet, somehow having survived the Holy War, our determination to live seemed to have grown. We did not want to die.

  The first floggings led inevitably to a spiral of disobedience, fear, and further violence. Prisoners were caught speaking out against the authority of the administration. Small acts of resistance proliferated. The guards became more cautious in their dealings with inmates, and they took offense more easily. The next flogging occurred only three days after the first and thereafter became a regular feature of morning assembly. Super JJ had reduced the standard sentence from twenty-four to twelve lashes because, as rumor had it, the initial victims of twenty-four strokes had yet to leave the infirmary.

  It would not be exactly correct to say that we became accustomed to the morning violence. We no longer suffered the shock of the first day, but the weight of observed suffering accumulated differently within each man. All of us, I think, felt a gradual sense of emasculation and helplessness as, day after day, through our inaction we became complicit in their crimes.

  Time passed slowly, marked by the larger and larger numbers of inmates clustered at assembly in the spots designated for those who had reached steps two, three, and four. At the first anniversary of our incarceration, more than two dozen men wore the gold badges of the born again and had commenced the six-month trial designed to test the authenticity of their second-birth experiences. Scores of others had reached step three.

  As for me, after the first year I had read the Bible front to back three times. We were permitted no other reading material, so I devoted all my intellectual energy and analytic skill to that single anthology. I regretted not knowing Greek, as some prisoners were allowed to read the gospels in their original language. I was a diligent student and an active participant in Bible study, but I needed to be exceedingly careful not to stray too far into the mode of literary criticism, thus indirectly challenging the only approved manner of engaging with the text, which was as revelation received directly from the omnipotent being. We were permitted to debate what God meant and how to apply the lessons and the mandates of the Bible to everyday life. We were not permitted to note the inconsistencies among the gospels and the wonderfully different voices of their human authors, or to acknowledge the existence of the non-canonical gospels.

  I gave little thought to the endgame. I had managed a sophistic confession of sin and moved to step one, but I remained stuck there for many months. To profess knowledge of God’s love was to admit to the existence of God, a line I saw no way to cross. But the third anniversary was still a long way off, and I did not allow myself to think ahead.

  Oddly, I was not miserable. My brothers and I had
avoided the whipping post, and I found myself much strengthened in body and mind from the regime of regular food, sleep, study, and fresh air. After all, the years before my incarceration were years of unparalleled stress and uncertainty. In contrast, at GI, there seemed during this period to be little uncertainty about what the next day would bring.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  October 9, 2022

  Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.

  —Blaise Pascal,

  Pensées

  OCTOBER 9, 2022, STARTED LIKE each other day. My brothers and I rose, showered, shaved, dressed, and cleaned our room. At GI, purity included a quaint emphasis on cleanliness and grooming. Facial hair was not permitted.

  It was one of those rare early October days with the clarity and cleanliness of autumn but the lingering warmth of summer. The leaves were still on the trees and had not yet turned color. The harbor reflected the hard blue of the cloudless sky and slightly cooled the warm breeze out of the south. It was, in some ways, a paradise. The assembly area was shaded by 250-year-old white oaks, straight-trunked passive observers of the long-running human drama played out beneath their crowns. The trees inspired confidence. Behind them, the great McKim, Mead & White barracks were an exemplar of the classical revival style—visible testimony to the Enlightenment, an architecture of reason and civilization. Surely, I thought, the species that computed the entasis of the column and took joy in its perfection would return to its senses. It started out as a very good morning.

  When Super JJ entered assembly, I was surprised to see two men with video cameras following behind. Our morning program had never before been televised. I tried to imagine what propaganda end might be served by recording our normally pedestrian proceedings. If there was to be a whipping, that hardly seemed like something to advertise to the outside world.