Forty Days at Kamas

by Preston Fleming

  "But if you said yes, I'm telling you right now that you have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. That is, if you admit right now in front of all of us that you knuckled under. Nobody knows what you went through better than we do. The main thing is that you undo any promise you made in there and tell Whiting to pound salt when he tries to recontact you. Believe me, if you turn back now, you have nothing to fear from him. He won't punish you because that might blow his chances to get to you later. It may be years before he gives up on you.

  "But now, you may ask yourself, what if I don't admit to going along with the Wart? What if I just quietly meet his people now and then for a chat? Well, sooner or later we'll find out. And we’ll come after you. And all the suffering you’ve gone through will have been wasted because you'll die a traitor's death."

  Toth glared at each of us in turn and then faced me.

  "You first, Paul. Did you accept Whiting's pitch?"

  "I refused. He sent me away and that was it."

  "J.J.?"

  "I walked out before we got to the second mug. I could see it coming."

  "Brian?"

  "Turned it down."

  "Dennis?"

  Martino hung his head and didn't respond.

  "What did you tell him, Martino? Yes or no?"

  His answer could barely be heard above the sound of the van’s engine.

  "Yes."

  Martino's shoulders shook with silent sobbing. He drew a desperate breath and put his head between his knees. His sobs turned to dry heaves.

  Toth put his arms around Martino and spoke softly to him.

  "Dennis. What you’ve told us required more courage than most men find in a lifetime. Hold onto that courage. Hold on and try not to let it get away again."

  The van stopped and Toth addressed the rest of us.

  "Anybody want to change his story before we go back to work?"

  I looked around the van. J.J. and I looked at each other and then at Toth and shook our heads. Gaffney wouldn't meet my gaze and jumped out of the van without speaking.

  When I followed him out I saw that we were at the new wing of the camp dispensary in the Service Yard. I had been to the camp dispensary only once before, on a weekend when I had cut myself with a saw while stripping branches from a fallen tree. The guards had taken me to the old wing of the dispensary, which was generally the only one that prisoners were permitted to enter. The new wing was used primarily to treat camp staff and contract workers. It also housed the medical unit’s storage rooms and administrative offices.

  The guards led the five of us into an empty waiting room that was connected to the treatment areas by a steel door. One by one, a pair of guards led each of us through the door into a vestibule and then through a second door, each controlled electrically by the receptionist inside. When my turn came, I passed through an open reception area staffed by a foursome of middle–aged nurses in white uniforms and went down a corridor lined with empty hospital beds. The dispensary smelled of disinfectant, alcohol, and ether and was the cleanest, most civilized place I had seen since my arrest. I found myself scheming to find some way to stay there.

  At the end of the corridor the guards turned right and stopped at a white curtained enclosure whose only furnishing was a stainless–steel examining table. The older of the two guards ordered me to sit on the table and be quiet. A few minutes later, a short, plump, dark–haired woman of about fifty entered the room wearing a knee–length laboratory coat. A balding, round–shouldered man in his mid–fifties followed behind. Both wore gold–rimmed spectacles and cold, dour expressions and carried clipboards under one arm. The name on the woman's badge was Dr. Renée Nagy while that on the man's badge was Dr. Ernest Fell.

  "Prisoner W–0885," the guard announced to the doctors.

  "How long ago was he released from the punishment block, Sergeant?"

  "Less than an hour ago," the guard answered.

  "W–0885, we are going to give you an examination and ask you some questions. You are to speak only when you are spoken to. Remain standing."

  They told me to undress and began what seemed to be a routine physical exam. Then Dr. Nagy turned to the next form on her clipboard and started asking me questions from a standard medical questionnaire.

  After the fourth or fifth question, I interrupted her.

  "May I ask a question, Doctor?"

  Dr. Nagy seemed surprised that I was capable of speech.

  "What is it?" she asked impatiently.

  "May I ask what is today's date and the time of day?"

  "Friday, March 29th, about four in the afternoon."

  "Can you also give me something to eat? I haven't eaten for twenty–four hours."

  "This is not the mess hall," she retorted. "Dinner begins at six. You seem well enough to survive till then."

  "Youarea doctor, aren't you?"

  "This is not a treatment session. This is an examination. Now please answer my questions. Have you ever been treated for…."

  Suddenly it became clear to me what they were doing, and I thought of Al Gallucci and the reason he gave for not becoming a foreman.

  "I get it," I interrupted. "You're studying my reactions to the isolator so you can make it more effective in crushing the next poor slob you throw in there."

  Trembling with rage, I reached out and grabbed the clipboard, tore off the entire set of forms and ripped them in half, then doubled them and ripped them again, and doubled them again until they were too thick for me to tear.

  "Go to hell," I said to both doctors. "Get your stinking data from somebody else."

  Nagy pursed her lips like a petulant child and glared. Fell was expressionless.

  "Guards, take him out," he said.

  Both physicians turned on their heels and left without bothering to draw the curtains behind them. When I had dressed, the guards led me back to the waiting room in handcuffs.

  There I waited for an hour until the others completed their exams. When all had finished, the guards led us outside and around the building to the old dispensary wing, which was packed with prisoners in various states of distress, from high fever to exhaustion to crushed limbs to self–inflicted mutilation.

  Again we were led in one by one. But we apparently had some sort of privileged status here because we were called ahead of many more urgent cases. When my turn came, the guards led me through an examining area crammed with rows of long tables on which prisoners sat or lay awaiting treatment. The air was foul with the odors of unwashed prisoners and their untreated wounds. Trash bins brimmed with discarded bandages and dressings.

  The nurses and orderlies, all prisoners themselves, wore dour expressions that spoke of long hours, unremitting stress, inadequate resources, and an abandonment of hope. I took the table next to J.J. Johns and waited for a nurse or orderly to appear. Unlike the new wing, here the guards dropped us off and withdrew promptly to the waiting room. Since the staff and doctors were all prisoners, there was apparently no need to protect them from us.

  After a few moments, a compact man wearing a soiled white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck appeared from a side office. I guessed he was in his mid–thirties, although the gray in his whisker stubble and the deep lines in his face made him appear older. He stopped at J.J.'s table, handed him a brown plastic prescription vial, and delivered some final instructions on the importance of drinking plenty of liquids, conserving energy, and doing whatever he could to obtain extra sources of food. As a parting gesture, he handed J.J. several supplemental meal vouchers good for extra ration bars or hot meals at the mess hall.

  The clinician spoke with a Spanish accent that I guessed was from South America. On my previous visit to the dispensary, I had heard that the chief surgeon in the camp hospital was a young Argentinean named Schuster. As rumor had it, Schuster had been a resident in a leading Cleveland teaching hospital when border skirmishes flared up between the U.S. and Mexico. When Unionist forces launched a surprise attack along the Rio Gr
ande, Schuster's native country had been one of the first Latin American nations to send troops and munitions to help repel the invaders. Within a few days, plainclothesmen arrested Schuster and took him to an internment camp for enemy nationals.

  Eventually, most Latin American internees were deported, but a smaller number were charged with political crimes and transferred to corrective labor camps, possibly in order to have fodder for future prisoner exchanges. In any event, Schuster had been at Kamas for nearly six years. He had a reputation as a competent and caring physician who worked hard and demanded the same of his staff. Although most policy matters were referred to Fell and Nagy, Schuster maintained high professional standards among his staff and enforced a system of strict triage to ensure that the dispensary's heavy workload never overwhelmed them. A genuinely sick or injured prisoner who managed to reach the dispensary could be confident of receiving attention while malingerers were quickly exposed and returned to work.

  Schuster sent J.J. back to the waiting room and turned to me.

  "You are one of those released from the isolator?"

  "Yes, Doctor. Prisoner W–0885. Five years. Seditious conspiracy." I recited the formula by which prisoners were required to identify themselves to camp officials.

  "What is your name, my friend?"

  "Paul Wagner."

  "Mine is Georg. Georg Schuster."

  He gave a perfunctory nod.

  "So, may I assume that Dr. Nagy has already given you a complete physical examination?"

  "No," I said. "I wouldn’t let her finish."

  "Ah, I see," the doctor replied. "Well, never mind. They never give us a record of their examinations, anyway. Their field is scientific research, you see. They prefer to leave treatment to us. Now, please open your mouth wide."

  He examined my throat, then unzipped my coveralls and applied his stethoscope to my bare chest. I removed my coveralls and he went through an abbreviated form of the examination Dr. Nagy had attempted.

  "How old are you and how long ago were you arrested?"

  "Forty–five," I answered. "I was arrested sixteen months ago and arrived in Kamas early this month."

  "For a forty–five year old, you have a remarkably strong constitution. The isolator is a rich storehouse of pathogens. Most men emerge with a variety of infections. You appear to have none. Other than hypothermia, exhaustion, and malnutrition, which are normal under the circumstances, your condition seems stable. Were you able to sleep?"

  "The first day was difficult. After that, I think I slept most of the time. I was pretty fagged out from the brickyard, even after the strike."

  "I see that," Schuster noted. "You have lost many pounds. What was your weight before your arrest?"

  "About 220."

  "The first month in a labor camp after a long interrogation, particularly when arriving during winter, is a violent shock to system. But our bodies possess a remarkable ability to adjust to the most extreme conditions, given enough time. In my opinion, the isolator may have saved your life by giving you time to adjust and recover. Do you have any injuries or acute pains?"

  I thought about it for a moment and shook my head.

  "Nothing that isn't taking care of itself, I suppose."

  "Then I shall have to release you," Schuster announced. "But remember that a short time ago, you were exposed to conditions that kill one of every two men. You must begin immediately to rebuild your strength. As I have told each of your fellows, you must seek to remain warm, avoid unnecessary exertion, sleep as much as possible, and eat as much nourishing food as you can find. You may take these extra meal vouchers. Tell me, can you make hot water in the barracks?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I will bring you some herbs that we obtain locally to help rebuild stamina. Wait one moment."

  Schuster took a few steps toward his office, called out to someone inside to join him and returned to my side. A moment later, a tall young woman dressed in an immaculate white nurse's uniform followed him out of the office. She had a stunning figure and her ruddy, slightly bronzed complexion made her appear in the peak of physical condition, unlike the few haggard–looking, underfed female prisoners I had seen in work crews around camp. Even her shoulder–length brown hair was attractively cut and groomed, as if she were exempt from the harsh camp conditions that made it virtually impossible for female prisoners to maintain their good looks. I found myself wondering what special arrangement she might have made with the camp bosses.

  "Gwen, could you find this patient some tonic herbs that might be useful to rebuild his stamina? I think some echinacea and Siberian ginseng would be good if we have any left."

  "We may have given out the last packets. I'll check the drawer, Doctor."

  She remained expressionless, spoke in a flat voice, and lowered her eyes when Schuster spoke to her. In less than a minute she returned with a brown paper lunch bag. Inside were three or four plastic baggies of dried herbs, all of a deep green hue and cut finely for making tea.

  "These are the last. Shall I send for that woman in town to bring more?" she asked Schuster.

  "Please. Tell her to double the amount she brought last time. And ask whether she can bring us any more of the wild honey and bee pollen. As much as she can lay her hands on."

  "Yes, doctor."

  "I am very sorry that we cannot admit any of you men as inpatients after your ordeal," Schuster continued. "Our orders strictly forbid it. Could you perhaps arrange for your foreman to shift you to lighter work for a few days?"

  "I doubt it," I told him. "My team leader gets a hundred requests a day for that kind of thing. As far as I can see, Doctor, the only way to get easy duty around this camp is to make a deal with the bosses and I haven't come this far to do that."

  Gwen's cheeks reddened as she handed Schuster the bag and retreated. It seemed I had struck a nerve.

  Dr. Schuster called for an orderly to take me back to the waiting room. I was the last of the five to arrive. As soon as I did, the guards led us out to the van for the short trip back to Division 3.

  Along the way J.J. delivered the news that the mess hall would be closed for dinner. Someone had stolen a sack of dried rice from the kitchen storeroom and Jack Whiting had threatened to close the mess halls until the thief came forward. It was now nearly six o'clock and the culprit had not been found.

  When I returned to Barracks C–14, nearly all the prisoners were lying silently on their bunks, hoping for a last–minute reprieve from a night without food. Only a few prisoners noticed me enter the barracks and take my bunk after a week's absence. Gallucci called out a greeting, as did Ralph Knopfler, Jerry Lee, and D.J. Schultz, who had recently transferred into our barracks. The others seemed lost in their own thoughts and troubles. Morale seemed lower even than when I had left.

  "I heard about dinner," I said to Knopfler, who sat cross–legged on his bunk. "I was planning to use my extra ration coupons tonight to celebrate beating the isolator. Wrong night to celebrate, I guess."

  "That's not all. Did anyone tell you about Monday's transfers?"

  "No," I replied. "How many?"

  "Maybe five hundred. Most of the men were taken straight from jail and put on a train headed north. It was a weird assortment, though. Not as many hard–liners as I expected. It's as if they couldn’t tell the rebels from the Unionists. The Wart must really be low on stoolies if that's the best he could do."

  "Any other fallout from the strike? How about work quotas?"

  "They worked us hard all week. After losing so many men, making up lost output has been a stretch. If we don't get reinforcements soon, we’ll be hurting."

  "Any change in rations?" I asked.

  "They docked us a meal a day to make up for what we ate during the strike. Not including today's double loss, we ought to be back on full rations by Monday. All in all, Paul, it looks to me like you didn't do so badly spending the week in the can. At the very least, it kept you out of the transfer."

  "The doctor thinks the
isolator saved my life. Still, once is enough for me."

  "Some of the men seem to feel the same way about the strike," Knopfler said. "They're afraid. Some have given up. We may be in for another crop of suicides."

  "Don't we have a priest or a rabbi or somebody who can give the men a pep talk?" I asked.

  "I don't think we have any priests in C–14 but maybe we can get one of the old–timers to give a talk. We used to have Sigler do it."

  "How about Gallucci?"

  "Go ask him. I'll give him an introduction if he wants one."

  A few minutes later I came back with Al Gallucci, who had been thinking along the same lines. Knopfler rose from his bunk, stood by the door, and clapped his hands to get the men's attention.

  "Men, I think the time has come to spend a minute talking about morale. Over the past few weeks we've lost many good friends to starvation, sickness, and suicide. Many of these men didn't have to die. The real reason they aren't with us is that they gave up hope. We all reach moments when it seems easier to die than go on living. I've had those moments myself but each time I just kept on going and it was the right decision every time I made it. But my reasons to stay alive might not be the same as yours. All I can say is that tonight is a good time to take stock of those reasons–whatever they are–and to remember that you're not alone.

  "That’s all I have to say except that our friend Al Gallucci would like to add a few words of his own."

  Knopfler returned to his bunk while Gallucci took his place at the door. He swept both his hands slowly back over his head and down his neck before clasping them in front of him as if he were about to pray. Then he looked down each row of bunks at his fellow prisoners and spoke.

  "This year marks the twelfth year of the Unionist regime. This month marks a year since the death of the President–for–Life. To anyone who sees the situation objectively, our future must seem hopeless. I myself have finished eight years of a ten–year sentence but I put the chances of my release at less than ten percent. Still, I don't intend to give up on life. Who can know for certain what the future may bring? Even if the Unionist regime seems unshakable in its grip on the country, who knows better than we do, after enduring anarchy, war, and the camps, how a great opening may sometimes present itself in a man’s darkest hour?