We continued walking and arrived at the mess hall just as it opened for lunch. After downing a triple helping of stew I retired to the barracks to sleep. At about three o'clock I awoke to the sound of a voice on the camp loudspeaker system summoning all prisoners to elections for the new commission.
When I arrived George Perkins was already at the microphone at the center of the dais, flanked by four other elected barracks representatives: Glenn Reineke, Pete Murphy, Chuck Quayle, and Ralph Knopfler. Perkins called for discussion, after which he said he would accept nominations for chief commissioner and for members of the commission at large.
Many prisoners rose to give their views about what the goals of our revolt should be and what demands the commission should make but the first speech of any real significance was the one that Colonel Majors delivered. His remarks repeated the stump speech he gave in the barracks but placed even greater weight on the dangers of pursuing an anti–Unionist line.
Several times Majors was heckled by men expressing outrage against the regime that had trodden their lives into the mud. Each time someone interrupted him, the colonel grew more insistent:
"Anti–Unionism will be the death of us!" he declared.
"State Security is out looking for an excuse to crush us. Anti–Unionist rhetoric gives them exactly what they want!"
"We must not allow anyone to take advantage of this revolt to serve their narrow political agenda!"
After dealing with the hecklers, Majors closed on a line of reasoning that, while reminiscent of the regime's determinist doctrines, was perceived as being so sensible that it helped win over many undecided prisoners.
"When a train takes you in the wrong direction," Majors explained, "the reasonable thing to do is to jump off, isn't it? But everyone knows you have to jump with the momentum of the train and not against it or you'll get hurt. The same principle applies to the momentum of history, which right now favors the Unionists. We have to move with the authorities and not against them if we want to achieve meaningful reforms."
After Majors, a number of rank–and–file prisoners took turns speaking before it was Reineke's turn.
Reineke began with an appeal for each prisoner to follow his conscience in charting the future course of the revolt.
"Just as each of us decides individually whether to participate in a strike or a revolt, each of us has to consider the principles he wants to be governed by. Now that we’ve thrown out the Unionist bosses, what sense is there in endorsing their discredited ideology? Why compromise our principled opposition to the Unionist dictatorship at the moment when we are strongest?
"Let's not forget why we rebelled in the first place. It's because we belong to a race of pioneers who must forever be opposed to any authoritarian system. We and the Unionists represent two irreconcilable classes, one representing the common right of humanity and the other the divine right of kings. Can we allow the State, under the guise of democracy, to trample on the rights of its citizens to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?
"It's the Unionist bosses–not us–who are on a collision course with history. Since they came into power they have persisted in their course of 'rule or ruin' by which they aim to force us to do as they say or send the country up in flames. For our own sake and that of our families, and for the sake of men and women in other labor camps across America, we must stand fast against the bosses. Though we may gain little by our resistance, we have already given up everything to gain this small measure of freedom. To stop resisting now would be to deny the very essence of who we are."
The prisoners fell silent and no one raised his hand to speak. Perkins took it upon himself to respond:
"Those are very high–sounding words, Glenn. But who will pay the price for them? The last time we went on strike, hundreds were sent off to the northern camps. Since Sunday we have lost dozens more in the fighting.
"It's easy for you to say we should reject compromise but who is holding the high cards here? We are still the ones behind the barbed wire, unarmed and at the mercy of the Warden's troops. Unless we compromise, what possible hope do we have of winning any reforms at all?
"It seems to me that the unreasoning hatred and obstructionism of men like you has been just as responsible for the nation’s ruin as the government’s blunders. In today's society there is no place left for lone wolves and mavericks. We all depend on each other and have to work together to survive.
"I appeal to you and to those who support you: stop letting your vendetta against the Unionist Party stand in the way of a fair settlement of our grievances. This is our last chance; let's not squander it out of sheer stubbornness."
Perkins paused to make eye contact with Colonel Majors in the front row.
"Now, if there is no more discussion," he concluded, "let's move on to the elections."
Ralph Knopfler, Al Gallucci, and several others stood and raised their hands to speak but Perkins refused to recognize them.
Instead, he launched into a detailed explanation of how the elections would be conducted, as determined by the five representatives now seated at the dais. There were to be three elections: one to elect the chief commissioner; one to elect three commissioners representing each of the three camp divisions; and one to elect eight members at large, each assuming a distinct functional role. Nominations, including self–nominations, would be accepted from the floor.
As I had expected, few prisoners wanted to take on the risk or responsibility of serving on the commission. With few exceptions, only one candidate stepped forward for each office and, where more than one stepped forward, one candidate almost always declined in favor of the other. Each person who volunteered was someone already prominent in camp affairs and thus well known to the camp administration. Every prisoner knew that, when the time came for reprisals, the commissioners would be first to get the chop.
Some two hours later, every office was filled and the office holders approved by acclamation. The commission consisted of the following members:
CHIEF COMMISSIONER:
MITCHELL MAJORS
DIVISION 1 REPRESENTATIVE:
LIBBY BERTRAND
DIVISION 2 REPRESENTATIVE:
GEORG SCHUSTER
DIVISION 3 REPRESENTATIVE:
CHUCK QUAYLE
AT–LARGE REPRESENTATIVES:
Security:
Glenn Reineke
Defense:
Pete Murphy
Information:
Ralph Knopfler
Government Relations:
George Perkins
Technical:
Jerry McIntyre
Food:
Betty Shipley
When the voting was finished, Perkins formally relinquished his chairperson's duties to the new chief commissioner, whose first official act was to convene the commission at eight the next morning.
As soon as the general meeting was adjourned, I made my way to the dais to congratulate Reineke, Knopfler, and Murphy. By the time I reached Reineke, he was already tied up in a lively conversation with Ralph Knopfler and Gary Toth.
"It's high time you got some credit for the work you've been doing, Glenn," Toth said. "But Security Commissioner sounds too bland. Chief Vigilante sounds much better to me."
"Watch your step," Knopfler warned Reineke. "The Wart is going to be mighty jealous over this. He’s not going to think Kamas is big enough for two security chiefs."
"Maybe if we tried another escape, he'd look the other way this time just to be rid of us," Toth joked.
Reineke and Knopfler smiled. But Toth suddenly turned pensive.
"You realize, Glenn," he cautioned, "that by accepting this position you have signed your own death warrant…"
"Maybe so," Reineke relied. "But the idea of dying doesn’t bother me quite the way it used to."
"That doesn't sound like you at all," Toth replied a skeptical look. "You've always had a stronger grip on life than anybody I know."
"It all depends wh
at you mean by dying. If by dying you mean the loss of everything you love in life, I've already experienced that death. If you mean extreme physical pain, I’ve been there, too. If you mean banishment from society and consignment to oblivion, I don’t see how I can be any deader than I am now. So let the bosses do their worst. I have nothing more to lose."
Reineke seemed totally at peace with himself at that moment. I congratulated him on his election, shook his hand, and headed back to the barracks to wait for dinner. It wasn't until I lay down in my bunk and closed my eyes that I remembered the coded message I had picked up the day before from Sigler's widow. It was still tucked in the lining of my boot. I reached under my mattress, found the paperback volume of the President–for–Life's memoirs that was the key to our book code and began deciphering.
The message began as follows:
MESSAGE SIX RECEIVED. HAVE PASSED YOUR INFORMATION TO FEMALE RELATIVES OF MALE PRISONERS. SPECIAL REQUESTS FOLLOW. FIRST IS TO LOCATE PRISONER PAUL CURTIN WAGNER, AGE 46. BORN PITTSBURGH, PA. ARRESTED NOVEMBER 2022. REQUESTER IS WAGNER'S OLDER DAUGHTER LOCATED UTAH. WIFE AND YOUNGER DAUGHTER TAKEN INTO CUSTODY. PLEASE LOCATE WAGNER BUT DO NOT NOTIFY HIM. SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES APPLY. SECOND IS…
I read no further.
CHAPTER 28
"It is true that liberty is precious…so precious that it must be rationed."
—V.I. Lenin
WEDNESDAY, MAY 22
DAY 4
The afternoon sun emerged from behind a blue–gray cloud and scattered its reflection across the wet pavement. Claire extended the stroller's gaily striped canopy to shade little Marie's eyes.
Martha and Claire and the stroller continued down the hill toward Reservoir Road until they passed the compound’s guardhouse, then stopped at the crossing. There Martha handed Claire a sealed envelope with the name "Helen" printed in blue ink.
"Keep this envelope in your backpack until you reach Helen's cabin," Martha instructed her. "If you're stopped at a security checkpoint along the way and someone makes you open it, tell them it's payment for some things Helen sold to me."
She gave Claire an affectionate smile and a quick hug before setting off with the stroller back up the hill.
It was not uncommon since the Events to encounter checkpoints along Heber's streets and surrounding highways. The entire Wasatch Front was still a Restricted Zone, studded with military installations and corrective labor camps. In addition to the town police, drivers were obliged to pull over for military police and State Security patrols, depending under whose jurisdiction one happened to be when near one of the bases or camps.
Claire first spotted the checkpoint as she rounded a bend in Reservoir Road and came out from behind a row of poplar trees. Two jeeps were parked diagonally across the road where deep drainage ditches left the shoulders impassable, allowing room for only one car or small truck to pass down the center.
Claire kept walking. Two soldiers in red berets and camouflage dress watched her from beside the jeeps while two others waited behind them. As she approached she saw that all four had submachine guns slung over their shoulders.
The two soldiers standing beside the jeeps came forward to meet her. The taller of the two, a slim, dark–eyed youth with a neatly trimmed black mustache, asked her to remove her backpack for inspection. She handed it to him and he unzipped it on the open tailgate of one of the jeeps. He called out the identity of each item to his partner: water bottle, candy bar, cookies, plastic raincoat, folding umbrella, sealed white envelope.
"Where are you going, Miss?" the dark–eyed youth asked.
"To visit a friend of mine. Her cabin is in the woods up ahead."
"What's your friend's name?"
"Helen Sigler."
"Jeff, check the list," the dark–eyed soldier ordered his partner.
"Bingo. We have a hit," the shorter soldier declared excitedly after flipping through the dog–eared pages on his clipboard.
"May I inspect the letter?"
"Do you really have to?" Claire asked.
"Not unless you want us to take you to the command post."
"Okay, go ahead. Just don't lose anything," Claire replied anxiously. "I don't want to get in any trouble with Mrs. Chambers."
The soldier opened the envelope using a sinister–looking black dagger that he pulled from a sheath hanging upside down from his shoulder harness. He unfolded the letter, counted the money inside and described the contents of the envelope aloud.
"Envelope is addressed to 'Helen.' Contains a three–page letter, written on one side only. A pair of folded twenties inside. Nothing else unusual about it, as far as I can tell."
"Hand it back," his partner replied. "But take down her name and address."
With Claire watching, the dark–eyed soldier folded the money into the letter, tucked it all back inside the envelope and returned it to Claire's backpack.
"See, that wasn't so bad, now, was it?" the dark–eyed soldier teased.
"I guess not," Claire admitted. "May I leave now?"
"Go right ahead."
She took a step forward and stopped.
"Just what were you looking for, anyway?"
"Just doing our job, Miss. You'd be surprised what we find sometimes."
Claire felt a chill as the soldier gave her a closer look. She stepped past him, then quickened her pace for the rest of the trip to Helen's, as if crossing a graveyard after dark.
She arrived at Helen's door fifteen minutes later. Helen could see immediately that Claire was shaken and listened patiently while she told the story of the letter and the checkpoint.
"Did the soldier keep anything that was in the envelope?" Helen asked after Claire had finished talking.
Claire shook her head.
"Did he hold the letter up to the light to look at it?"
"Nope. Didn't even read it."
"That's all there was to it?"
"Well, your name was on some kind of list they had on a clipboard. That's why they decided to open it in the first place. They wrote down my name, too."
Helen frowned and turned around abruptly to boil water for tea.
"Did I do something wrong?" Claire asked, sensing the change in Helen.
"No, dearest," Helen replied, still facing the stove. "You did just fine."
As soon as the tea was ready to pour, Helen carried the tray out to the living room and the two of them sat down to talk.
"So tell me, how is Marie doing?" Helen began with forced cheer.
"Marie's doing fine," Claire answered. "But I just don't understand what's going on with Martha lately. It seems like she's sad all the time. I catch her crying sometimes when I go to her room."
"Doesn't she ever tell you why she's sad?"
"No," Claire continued, "but I hear her arguing with Doug pretty often. And sometimes when he comes home at night he looks drunk. I stay out of his way when I see him like that. Martha avoids him, too. I know because the next morning I see her sleeping in the baby's room."
"I'm sad to hear it," Helen said. "But grown–ups often go through tough stretches for a while and still manage to pull out of it okay. Tell me, do you think you can find a way to hang on a while longer?"
"I guess so," Claire answered. "But I miss my real family a whole lot. I'd do anything to see Mom and Dad and Louisa again."
Helen held out her arms for Claire to sit on her lap. Claire cried tears of longing for her family, tears she had not allowed herself to shed in front of Martha and Doug. Helen stroked her head and rocked her softly until the sobs let up, then took a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and wiped Claire's moist cheeks.
"Maybe it’s time we talk about that, Claire. You see, I haven't been idle these last two and a half months. You may not recall, but the night you came to the cabin I found some papers in your jacket. I hid them because I was afraid they might cause problems for you. But one of them had an address in England where your grandparents were living. I wrote to them and told them you were safe. I
also told them what happened when you and your mother and sister tried to leave the country. I haven't heard from them yet, but I’m hoping we’ll hear soon."
Claire thanked Helen and squeezed her tightly around the neck. She tried to speak, but the sobs came too quickly.
"I've also made some inquiries about your father. I expect to find out very soon whether he's at one of the camps in Utah. If he is, maybe your grandparents can do something to get your family back together again. I know others have done it. The Unionists will break almost any rule of theirs if you’re willing to pay in cash. But in the meantime, Claire, what I need from you is to be a good girl and keep working hard for Mrs. Chambers."
****
Claire took a different route home, one that Helen showed her along a deer path that crossed hillsides thick with scrub oak. She arrived shortly after five o'clock, just in time to start her evening chores.
"Claire, I have a special job for you tonight," Martha told her. "I'd like you to set the dining room table for five, using the good china and silver. I'll also need your help in serving and clearing. Will that be okay?"
"Sure, but how about Marie?" Claire asked.
"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.
Forty Days at Kamas Page 23