Without a moment's hesitation the handler reached down to unleash his dog. In a flash a black German shepherd was racing alongside the column in headlong pursuit. Having seen dogs like these maul prisoners many times, I shuddered at the thought of what would now happen to the unfortunate woman or her child. For an instant I considered stepping between the dog and its quarry but I lacked the nerve. The beast galloped past me at top speed.
Then I heard a high–pitched canine yelp followed by shouts and cries of animal pain. I turned my head in time to see a broad–shouldered prisoner sitting astride the black shepherd dog, one forearm locked firmly in the dog's jaws and the other pinning the dog's windpipe against the icy road. Guards converged upon the man and beat him senseless but the dog remained limp when they pulled it away from the prisoner's inert body. Angry murmurs spread among us but were soon suppressed by another burst of gunfire over our heads.
"Major Whiting! Sir! Request permission to track the women!"
A young dog handler stood at attention before the convoy leader, a lean, sinewy man of about forty who spoke quickly but with an Oklahoma twang.
"Stand down, Rogers. We have prisoners to deliver. Leave the women and help move these vermin onto the trucks."
Whiting watched with a vigilant eye as the column waited opposite the trucks. Then he strode back to where one of the guards was directing two prisoners to drag the dog slayer's body to the nearest tractor–trailer.
"Is he still alive?" Whiting asked the guard.
"He was a minute ago."
"Then tie his hands and feet. If he lives, send him to the isolator with Reineke."
"Yes, Sir!" the guard answered.
"And next time, son, when you open fire, don't waste your bullets firing into thin air. Hit somebody."
Roesemann and I looked at each other in mute fury. On command we hoisted Reineke between us and lifted him onto the truck.
CHAPTER 2
"Whoever can conquer the street will one day conquer the state, for every form of power politics and any dictatorship–run state has its roots in the street."
—Joseph Goebbels
NOVEMBER 2016
We lived in a stone farmhouse atop a forested knoll that commanded a sweeping view of the hills along the Ohio River to the southwest. The south end of the house projected just beyond a line of towering maples, the French doors of our old glassed–in porch opening onto a flagstone veranda. Beyond the boxwood hedge that enclosed the veranda on three sides, the hill sloped gradually at first, then more steeply, past our neighbor’s horse paddock to the two–lane state road that connected downtown Sewickley with Interstate 79.
I finished my mug of tea and joined my wife on the veranda. Juliet had begun covering the boxwood with burlap slipcovers and called me over to shovel mulch around the roots. I pulled a long–handled shovel from the wheelbarrow to join. Meanwhile, our two daughters, Claire and Louisa, aged five and three, busied themselves collecting fallen twigs for the woodpile. The sun was already high in a cloudless sky and the morning frost had melted nearly everywhere.
It was the second Saturday in November, only four days since the national elections in which the president was re–elected under the banner of his newly formed Unionist Party. The Unionists also took both houses of Congress, which had struck me as a complete surprise. I had been spending sixty–hour weeks at the office and had not paid much attention to the persistent reports of large–scale voter registration fraud, voting machine hacking, pre–stuffed ballot boxes, and voter intimidation at polling places in major cities across the country. Even with a government blackout on live television and radio coverage at the polls, by Election Day’s end rumors of a stolen election had spread to nearly every household that owned a phone or a computer. But like too many others, I did not understand what was happening until the damage had already been done.
"Where do we put the sticks, Daddy?" my older daughter, Claire, asked, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
"By the woodpile, sweetie," I replied. "Break them up in pieces about so big and make a stack with them."
"This one’s too big to break," she replied, dragging an eight–foot branch across the grass. "Will you help me?"
"Of course," I replied and lay down my shovel.
When I reached her, Claire had dropped the branch and was pointing toward the road at the bottom of the hill.
"Who are those people, Daddy, and where are they going?" she asked. "Are they going camping?"
I looked up and saw the road clogged with a slow–moving procession of cars, pickup trucks, trailers, Amish–style horse carts, bicyclists, backpackers, even big–wheeled garden carts pulled rickshaw–style. Those on foot were trailed by a pack of underfed dogs. It reminded me of World War II newsreels of the Dutch fleeing the bombing of Rotterdam or German refugees retreating later from the advancing Red Army. Most of the cars and trucks were far from new and many of the foot travelers shabbily dressed, though most gave the impression of being strong, hardy people who had once belonged to America’s middle class.
A trio of deer peered out from behind a copse of trees near the road and hesitated, unable to find a break in the uninterrupted stream of traffic. A few of the dogs looked up, as if catching a scent, but none gave chase.
"Where are they going, Daddy?" Claire repeated.
"I think some are headed north to Canada, darling, like the Moores," I replied. The Moores were our neighbors who, having lost their savings to inflation and having failed to sell their horse farm before the mortgage company gave notice of foreclosure, abandoned the farm and their unpaid tax obligations and moved in with their son in Ottawa.
"The ones in the fancy cars are probably driving to the Toronto airport to catch a flight overseas. The rest are probably headed south, where there are more jobs and it’s cheaper to live."
"Are we going away, too?" Claire asked, turning to me with a look of disapproval.
I heard footsteps behind me and felt my wife grip my arm. She held on with both hands as if what she saw on the road had given her a chill.
I looked into her eyes and saw the fear of losing our business, our savings, our house and everything in it—and not being able to start over. Not in America, anyway. Not with the Unionists in power. I glanced over to Claire, hoping that she had not sensed Juliet’s fear.
"Not today, sweetie," I replied. "We’re staying right here at home. Mommy and Daddy have work to do. And so do you and Louisa. Here, let me pull that branch over to the woodpile for you. Now, break up the small twigs, like this, but leave the big sticks for me, okay?"
My wife squeezed my arm once more and let go to take my hand.
"Jeff’s car just pulled in," she said softly. "I’ll brew a fresh pot of tea. Why don’t you carry some chairs onto the veranda?"
****
Jeff Fisher had been my personal attorney and business advisor for nearly fifteen years. He was sharp, strong–willed, and experienced, but also honest and utterly down to earth. Jeff had studied law at Columbia and doubtless could have risen to partner at any of the big law firms in downtown Pittsburgh but chose instead to join his father’s small practice in Sewickley. I was happy he did. His advice was invariably worth more than I paid for it.
"Any news from the Germans?" I asked, handing him a mug of Lapsang Souchong laced with a shot of twelve–year–old rum.
"Well, they’ve made you an offer," Jeff said without enthusiasm.
"That’s more than I’ve had from anyone else in the last three years," I replied. "I’ll give the Germans credit for that much."
"Don’t get too excited, Paul. Their offer is half of what we expected and a third of what the company is worth in today’s market. They don’t want to buy the company; they’re out to steal it. Still, it’s an offer. And it might even be worth taking, depending on what you expect from the economy under a Unionist administration."
"You and I both know that wage and price controls have been a complete disaster for small manufactur
ers like us," I responded. "The Germans, on the other hand, seem quite comfortable with government controls. With the European economy in the toilet and foreign trade down to a trickle, they seem almost desperate for a foothold in the U.S. market. I’d say that’s good news for us."
"But the bad news is that they think we’re even more desperate to sell than they are to buy," Jeff replied.
"Do you think we might be able negotiate a better price?" I asked.
"I doubt it. They’re talking to some of our competitors. They seem pretty confident that at least one of us will decide to take the money and run."
"Damned Euros! They see the Unionists come to power and now they think they have us on our knees. They’re certain that the president will go to Brussels, swallow his pride, and give special trade and investment concessions to the EU. It makes me want to—"
"Not so fast, Paul. If you’re right about the Unionists and they do put the economy into a coma, this may be the last offer you’ll see at any price. And if you have to liquidate, you could wind up buried under a landslide of unpaid bills and tax liens. The Unionists play rough with tax defaulters, Paul. You could be looking at federal prison."
"But if I sell, then what? This is the only business I know. I’m making a living in spite of it all. If I hang in, it’s possible the company could grow its way back to profitability somehow. If I sell now, and if there’s anything left afterward, where could I invest the proceeds and be able to live off the income? The only option I see would be to emigrate and start over—"
"Father says it would be crazy to emigrate now," Juliet interrupted with surprising vehemence. "His contacts in Washington insist this is a once–in–a–lifetime opportunity to buy assets at the bottom. And they also point out that when things get better—as they are bound to do eventually—anyone who emigrates will get a very chilly reception on his return.
"Paul, both of our families have been in Pennsylvania for nearly a hundred and fifty years. You wouldn’t really give it all up, would you?"
I had rarely seen Juliet so adamant.
Jeff spoke up before I could respond.
"Juliet, if you’ll remember," he said gently, "the Jews had been living in Germany and Poland quite a bit longer than a couple hundred years. The Jewish families who emigrated survived. Same with the Russian aristocracy in 1918. And the French nobility during the Reign of Terror. The risks—"
"Jeff, you don't honestly consider the Unionists to belong in the same category as the Nazis or the Bolsheviks?" she replied.
"You’ve heard their speeches, Juliet. A person is either with them or against them. To the Unionist mobs, you and I are class enemies."
"But we’re all Americans," Juliet protested. "Some of our neighbors are Unionists. They’re not bad people. I’m certain they wouldn’t do anything to harm us…"
"Maybe so," I interjected. "But how can we be sure there aren’t others who would stone our Volvo the way they stoned Sally Zimmermann's Lexus in Ambridge last week?" I asked. "Her children were inside, for God's sake. All the crazies saw was a shiny new SUV. Sally and the boys were lucky to get away with their lives."
Juliet put down her teacup. When she raised her eyes I could see that she remained unmoved. In matters like this, she still looked to her parents for leadership. Even after fourteen years of marriage… I let the thought drop.
"Paul," she addressed me in a conciliatory voice. "I hear what you’re saying. But if it’s a decision between emigrating and finding a way to make things work here in Sewickley, then in my mind the choice is clear. We both know life isn’t always easy. It was hard back in Washington’s day and in Lincoln’s day and during the Depression. If the wealthy and educated had emigrated then, America would have failed as a country long ago. I think we have a duty to stay."
I paused to refill my cup before responding and didn’t spare the rum.
"I know how you feel, Juliet. I don’t like the idea of cutting and running any more than you do. But deep in my gut I don’t trust the Unionists and I don’t want to put myself or my family at their mercy. Think about it: if we sold the business, we would have enough to start over somewhere—Australia, Ireland, maybe Costa Rica or some place in South America. It might be a little rough on the two of us, but the girls would do just fine. We could—"
"And walk away from all everything we know—the company, our house, our community, our parents? Could you really do that, Paul? I don’t know that I could and still look myself in the mirror. To become a displaced person, a refugee…?"
She lowered her gaze and her eyes seemed fixed on some frightful vision inside her head.
Jeff sighed, then let out a deep breath before looking to me for a decision.
"I suppose I can’t put it off any longer, can I?" I asked with a weak smile. "You both need an answer…"
Jeff nodded.
"The Germans want a response today. Should I schedule a meeting or tell them you’re not interested?"
My wife raised her head and I felt the burden of her gaze.
"Well, it’s a tough call. Very tough," I repeated, looking directly at my wife, then staring out past the trees to the rolling hills beyond.
"But in the end, I don’t see how I can run out on Washington, Lincoln, FDR, and a hundred and fifty years of venerable ancestors. As much as I’d like to tell the Unionists to drop dead, I suppose the principled approach is to stay and tell the Germans to drop dead instead."
Jeff rose without showing approval or disapproval, merely giving me a pat on the shoulder as he left his cup on the tea tray. Juliet smiled, palpably relieved, then rose to carry the tray back to the kitchen while I escorted Jeff to his car.
CHAPTER 3
"Those who plot against us in the dark will vanish in the dark."
—Mohammed Taraki, Pro–Soviet Afghan coup leader
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 6
Claire Wagner removed her backpack and set it beside her on the long station bench. The train that had brought her to Heber, Utah, had rolled on toward Ogden a half hour ago and she was now the only person left in the double–wide trailer that served as the town's passenger railway terminal. The puffy–faced woman in the Amtrak ticket window glanced at her disapprovingly every two or three minutes as if to convey that she was ready to close the station and go home.
Claire wore the same navy corduroy trousers, white turtleneck, and navy sweater that she had worn to the Philadelphia airport a week earlier with her mother and eight–year–old sister, Louisa. Her clothes were no longer clean after a week of travel and her hooded red parka was torn in front where she had brushed against a nail on the train. But her outfit was warm and durable and she was glad that it had distinguished her from the bands of homeless children she had seen at each stop along her westward journey.
Claire's mind wandered and her soft brown eyes welled with tears as she tried to figure out for the thousandth time how she had become separated from her mother and her sister at the emigration counter in Philadelphia. She remembered clearly going through the emigration line ahead of them, handing the man behind the counter her ticket, passport, exit visa, and exit tax papers, then waiting as he stamped them and returned the ticket and passport to her.
Then she had told her mom that she needed to go to the bathroom. When she had finished, she went directly to the gate as Mom had told her and found a place to sit on the waiting room floor. But ten minutes later, when the ticket agent announced the start of pre–boarding, Mom and Louisa were nowhere in sight. That's when Claire started to worry and decided to search for them back at the emigration counter.
When she got there, the men behind the counter were not the same ones who had stamped her passport. None of them knew anything about her mother or Louisa. At Claire's insistence, they shuffled through the papers in their outboxes but her mother's and sister's papers were gone. She considered trying to board the flight alone but decided against it. She didn't know anyone in London; if her grandparents failed to meet her at Gatwick airport, she
might be in even worse trouble than she faced now. She decided to stay at the gate and wait for her mother and sister to come looking for her.
A few seconds later a woman with a kindly round face, dressed in an elegant but threadbare camel's hair coat of the kind her grandmother always wore, knelt beside her. Claire saw the sadness in her eyes and sensed that the woman did not find it easy to speak.
"Please listen to me, dear, and don't say anything until I'm finished. I was in the line behind you and I saw them take your mother and sister into the security office. Please don't stay a minute longer. Leave the airport right away and go find some relatives or friends who can take care of you. Here—take this money for your cab ride. And don't bother about your luggage. Just go quickly and don't ask questions."
Claire had taken the woman's advice and the cab fare, too. It had been a lot of money, enough for ten cab rides to downtown Philadelphia.
That had been exactly one week ago. Since then, Claire had made her way to the Philadelphia train station, from there back to Pittsburgh and then to Cleveland before the long ride to Utah. Once she had known relatives in each of these cities, but now all of them had left the country. The only one who had refused to leave was her father. But all she knew about him now was that he had been in prison for a year and that a special court had sentenced him a month ago to five years hard labor at a camp somewhere in Utah.
Now that she was here, Claire was determined to find her dad and to stay close by him until he was free again. But from what she had learned on the train, there were dozens of labor camps in what was now the Utah Security District, and there were even more camps to the north, in the former states of Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Some people spoke of Utah as if it contained nothing but Restricted Zones, military bases, and labor camps. And what she had heard about the camps had terrified her. To think of her dad as a prisoner working outdoors all day in these Wasatch Mountains during the dead of winter made her desperately sad despite her lingering anger at him for having been arrested and having left her and her mother and sister all alone in Pittsburgh. For the hundredth time, she asked herself why she hadn't stayed in Philadelphia or Pittsburgh instead of buying the train ticket to Utah.
Forty Days at Kamas Page 2