"Isn't she marvelous?" Jon said dreamily as soon as Gwen was out of earshot. "When I came here, nobody thought I'd last more than a day. Even I thought it was over. But Gwen fed me and massaged me and talked to me for hours and hours. After she had invested so much time in me, it would have been ungrateful of me to die, so I hung in and, before I knew quite what happened, I wasn't a goner anymore."
"How long have you been in Kamas?" I asked.
"A little short of nine months. I arrived just before the first snowfall and it was all downhill from there. I kept missing my quota and they kept docking my rations. As the weather got colder I got weaker. I thought to myself: sixteen years of school and this is it?
"In the interrogation prison, I told myself that if I could only make it through the beatings, I could handle anything. Then, in the transit camp, all I wanted was to get away from the thieves. Then, when I finally made it to Kamas, it dawned on me that this might be the last home I'd ever see."
"It still might. What's your sentence?" I asked.
"Eight years. Sedition," he replied. "Do you want to know what I did to deserve it? I refused to rake leaves in the admissions director's yard! Can you believe it? Just because I was on a government scholarship, he thought I was his indentured servant. When I threatened to report him, he had my scholarship canceled. A week later State Security came to take me away."
"What would you say if they offered you back the leaf–raking job?" I asked.
"Until a couple weeks ago, I would have agreed to rake those leaves every day for the rest of my life."
"I can’t blame you. Anything beats the mines."
"That's what I kept telling myself," Jon replied. "Somewhere in the back of my mind I still hoped that it was all a big mistake and that before long they’d let me go. But when my twenty–first birthday came around without any sign that things would get better, it was me who let go. One morning I refused to get out of my bunk. No threats or blows from the orderly could get me to move. They had to carry me to the dispensary.
"Gwen had just been hired and didn't have many patients yet so she made me her pet project. She was so beautiful that I did my best to eat whatever she gave me just so she would stick around. Except for her, my thoughts were all about the past. The future didn't exist. I thought my life was over."
"What made you change your mind?" I asked.
"I came down with a fever. I still have no idea what it was, but for two days I hovered between life and death and was out of my mind most of the time. The second night I became lucid again and listened to Gwen pray for me to stay alive. She said I was the only friend she had and she couldn't bear being left alone.
"Suddenly it dawned on me. Even though I no longer expected anything from life, perhaps it was time to start thinking about what life might expect from me. Here was a beautiful woman who had done everything in her power to bring me back from the grave and now she was the one in need.
"As I got stronger, I realized that each day brought new responsibilities. I started paying attention to the strikes and thinking about what I could do to help. I started to think that maybe my arrest wasn’t some sort of cosmic joke, after all. Now I'm hoping that the revolt will go on long enough for me to get out of this bed and lend a hand, even if it's to grind knife blades or something."
At that moment Gwen came back through the curtain from the treatment ward and took Jon by the hand.
"You're not talking about joining the revolt again, now, are you?" she scolded. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't be ready to return to the barracks for at least another two weeks. Why, you can barely walk. What good could you possibly be to the revolt as an invalid?"
"I'm sure you could land a job at one of the observation posts when you're up to it," I said. "All it requires is a good eye and an alert mind."
"See?" Jon teased. "I think the time has come to step up my physical therapy. Gwen, could you bring me that walker over there? I'm going to see how many laps I can do of the ward before mealtime."
Gwen beamed at him and I understood how the kindness in those dewy brown eyes could have brought even a last–legger like Jon Merrill back to life.
CHAPTER 33
"Power corrupts. The beast hidden in the soul of man and released from its chain lusts to satisfy its age–old natural instinct – to beat, to murder. I don't know if it's possible to receive satisfaction from signing a death sentence, but in this, too, there is doubtless some dark pleasure, some fantasy, which seeks no justification."
—Varlam Shalamov,Kolyma Tales
MONDAY, JUNE 3
DAY 16
Little Marie Chambers squatted on the living room floor and stared with rapt attention as Claire Wagner stacked wooden blocks, layer upon layer, until they towered over Marie's head. Claire then sat back and waited.
Marie reached out with her pudgy hand, slowly at first, watching for a reaction from Claire, who feigned open–mouthed horror. Then the little hand gave a backhand sweep that knocked the foundation out from under the blocks and sent them crashing to the floor. Marie looked up with a mischievous grin.
"Oh, no! "You terrible, terrible girl! " Claire exclaimed melodramatically. "You're a wrecker! And a public enemy, too!"
Claire crawled slowly toward the toddler on her hands and knees, pretending to stalk her. Marie backed away, giggling with excitement.
"Now we're coming to get you! He–eere we come!" Marie turned and fled, stopping every few steps to make sure Claire was still behind her, a ferocious make–believe beast nipping at her tiny heels.
"Claire?" Martha Chambers called from the kitchen. "Could you bring Marie? It's time for lunch."
"Yes, Martha," Claire called out and scooped up the child with a roar that delighted her.
"And would you be a dear and set the table on the deck? There will be five for lunch. You and I will eat in the kitchen."
Claire handed Marie to Martha and continued onto the deck. Today was Heroes & Martyrs Day and it would have been a perfect day for a picnic lunch. But with so many visiting officials in town to help Doug with the revolt, the Chambers family would have little time to enjoy it until evening. The working lunch for Doug and his new task force was Martha's way of keeping him at home for at least some of the holiday.
Claire set out the place mats, then the napkins and silverware, then the water glasses, and the pitchers of ice water and iced tea. The salads and chips were already laid out on the serving table and the bar was ready in the kitchen. As usual, Martha would carry out the sandwiches at the last moment. If Doug were bringing home the same foursome he usually brought–the Warden, Major Whiting, Colonel Tracy, and General Boscov–Claire doubted that the men would be drinking iced tea.
"I'm finished," Claire reported. "Would you like me to take Marie again?"
"You're a mind reader," Martha replied. "If you could feed her the rest of her fruit, she should be ready to go down for her nap. Then I'll need you again when the men arrive."
Claire sat opposite the high chair until Marie had finished eating, then led her up the stairs for a nap. Marie was still standing in her crib and crooning through the wooden slats when Doug's car pulled into the driveway.
By the time Claire returned to the kitchen, the men were already gathered around the bar to pour their drinks. The Warden and Doug drank bourbon and water, while Colonel Tracy and Major Whiting drank beer from long–necked bottles and the General topped off his orange juice with vodka. Having brought refills to each of them on numerous occasions, Claire knew their drink preferences by heart.
Claire listened to the men's conversations while she waited for Martha to finish preparing the sandwich tray.
"I had a message from Ken Cronin over the weekend," Doug remarked. Claire noticed that Doug’s voice seemed husky and he slurred certain words.
"He wants us to set a date for retaking the camp. How’s the timeline coming?"
"I saw an updated version this morning," Colonel Tracy replied. "Other than getting appro
vals, the critical item seems to be finding enough armor. I'd say we're looking at another three weeks, at least."
As Tracy spoke, Martha Chambers looked up from placing the final garnish on the sandwich tray.
"Lunch is out on the deck," Martha announced coolly. "If you need anything, Claire and I will be here in the kitchen."
The men freshened their drinks and followed Doug onto the deck.
"Intelligence is another key piece," General Boscov continued as they lined up at the serving table. "We'll need to identify all the ringleaders and track their movements on a twenty–four–hour basis or we’ll run into the same problems we had in March, when we lost our informants. Now that the technical teams are in place, we ought to be in better shape."
"But not as good as we need," Whiting cautioned. "We still need better coverage of their leadership. Several of the prisoners we've been cultivating are at a pretty senior level. Any one of them ought to be capable of giving us the information we need if we could just bring one on board. The trick is getting him alone long enough to make a pitch."
"We need a high level informant now," Doug replied. "What would be the downside if you pitched one of them and failed?"
"One botched recruitment could blow all the others," Whiting warned. "But considering what's at stake, I think it's a risk we may have to take."
"Have you given any thought to using lower–level agents to get rid of the most dangerous of their leaders?" Tracy asked casually as he loaded his plate with potato salad and club sandwiches.
"If you ask me, the last thing we want right now is to create more martyrs," the Warden observed as he filled his own plate. "Martyrs are what got us into this mess in the first place."
The Colonel's cheeks flushed but the Warden paid no attention.
"There's another problem with your idea, Jim," Boscov joined in. "With Headquarters so concerned about legal niceties these days, we're in plenty of hot water as it is. I don't want to give them any more cause to make a scapegoat out of me."
"You and me both," the Warden agreed as he took a seat at the table next to Boscov. "Look, I'm eligible for retirement in July. When it’s time for me to ride into the sunset, I don't want to lose a moment of sleep over what happened at some god–forsaken labor camp in Utah. The more times Ken Cronin tells me I'm not the one on trial, the more I wonder whether I am."
****
It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when Doug and his friends left. By the time Martha and Claire finished cleaning, the baby had already risen from her nap. Claire brought Marie into the living room and sat with her on the carpet. Martha put down her fashion magazine and looked down from the sofa at the two children.
"Claire, darling, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. I've been thinking about going back east this summer to have the new baby. Would you be interested in coming along to help?"
Claire sat bolt upright.
"Would it be anywhere near Pittsburgh?" she asked.
"Close enough for us to stop there, if you'd like."
"I'd like that a lot," Claire said eagerly.
"Good. But there's something you have to decide before making the trip. You see, I can't say for sure when we'll come back. I know you've been hoping to find your father out here, but Helen tells me the chances of doing that very soon aren't so good. She thinks you'd have a better chance of finding your mother back in Pennsylvania. I want you to think it over."
A thoughtful expression came over Claire's face.
"If I don't go, could I stay here with Helen?"
"I don't know," Martha replied. "You'd have to talk to Helen. But here's an idea. Why don't you go visit her this afternoon and ask? I have a note I'd like you to take to her when you go. Then we can talk again tonight, if you like."
"Martha, do you mind if I ask you something first?"
"Go ahead," Martha replied.
"Does Doug know you're not coming back?"
Martha beckoned Claire to come closer and hugged her tightly so the child would not see the tears welling in her eyes.
"I've told him, sweetheart, but I don't think he's heard it just yet."
CHAPTER 34
"To choose one’s victims, to prepare one’s plans minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then to go to bed…there is nothing sweeter in the world."
—Joseph Stalin
FRIDAY, JUNE 7
DAY 20
Several days after my visit to the dispensary, Jon Merrill and I were scheduled for observation post duty together. It was Jon's second night on duty and only his third out of the dispensary. We sat side by side on the roof of a warehouse near the Service Yard's eastern wall and took turns using binoculars to scan the no–man's land, the perimeter fence, and the road for enemy activity.
We were about halfway through our four–hour watch when we heard dull thuds coming from behind the wall in several places along the perimeter. It was a moonless night, without a glimmer of light except for the flood lamps mounted on the watchtowers and on the outer perimeter fence.
"Did you hear that?" Merrill asked.
"Sounds like someone hacking at the wall," I answered.
We listened closely for another minute or two to what sounded like attempts to breach the wall with picks and sledgehammers.
"Should we sound the alarm?" Merrill asked.
"I think we'd better," I replied. At that, Merrill pulled a pack of matches from his pocket and lit one of the kerosene–soaked signal torches stored at every observation post. I blew hard on the police whistle hanging around my neck.
A clatter erupted at the sentry posts and barricades nearby as prisoners took up their pikes and sabers. A shift leader called up to ask what we had seen.
"Sounds like somebody is trying to break through," we shouted back, and indeed now the clatter of hammers, picks, and shovels was very distinct. The shift leader summoned reinforcements, who waited behind the barricades while breaches appeared in the wall and grew larger by the minute. Before long, four gaps appeared in the Service Yard's exterior wall, each large enough to admit three or four men abreast. As dawn broke, we waited nervously for hordes of heavily armed attackers to pour through the breaches. But dawn came and the sun rose over the eastern hills without a single Tommy gunner showing his face.
By the time our shift ended, the Security Department had counted more than a dozen such breaches along the entire length of the camp's perimeter wall. Peering through the breaches at ground level, we could see that State Security troops had erected their own sandbag barricades opposite ours, complete with machine–gun emplacements. None of us had any doubt that the main purpose of these breaches was to facilitate an assault on the camp.
For several hours that morning, our military and security people deliberated over countermeasures. By noon, they had decided to dismantle the remaining sections of interior wall separating the camp divisions from one another and to use the materials to erect a second perimeter wall of lower height just inside the main wall. As soon as Colonel Majors approved the plan, construction crews set to work.
While they did, the Military Department dispatched additional defense platoons to the inner wall while the Security Department assigned extra sentry coverage. At each security post and defensive position hung a short length of steel rail to ring like a gong in case of attack. Men assigned to defend the breaches were keenly aware that they would be the camp's first line of defense and would confront automatic weapons with little more than swords, pikes, and stones. Even those who initially balked at such a matchup, however, soon adjusted to it and before long took perverse pride in the long odds they faced.
I left the Service Yard at midday to eat lunch, then made my twice–weekly visit to the dispensary to change the dressings on my hands. On my way to the reception window, I noticed a middle–aged couple sitting quietly in a corner. I recognized the man as Earl Cunningham, the Montana rancher whom I had met in the same waiting room nearly three weeks before. Beside him was a frail–
looking woman of about sixty, with a gaunt, angular face and limp black hair streaked with gray that fell loose to her shoulders.
I walked over to Cunningham and greeted him.
Cunningham rose to shake my hand, then introduced me to his wife, Irene. I held out my hand and she took it without speaking or making eye contact. Her hand was cold and her grip was feeble.
"Irene's not quite herself," Earl explained. "I found her in a section of the women's camp set aside for invalids. It seems she had a stroke right before Christmas. She doesn't even know who I am."
His voice thickened and he choked back tears.
We sat in silence a few moments longer before the receptionist called my name. I entered the treatment area and in a few minutes Gwen appeared through the curtain that marked off the chronic care ward. Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair unkempt without the gauze ribbon that usually held it in place. She seemed preoccupied and sat down across from me without saying a word.
"Jon sends his greetings," I told her as she reached out to take my bandaged right hand. "He's doing great."
"I’m happy for him," she answered without enthusiasm. She picked up a pair of scissors and cut away the bandage.
"Is there something wrong?" I asked. "You don't seem well."
"Just tired. I’ve been on the night shift and haven't had much sleep."
She examined the wound and began cleaning it with alcohol.
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"I'm not sure of anything anymore," she answered dully.
She gave me back my right hand and reached out to take the left.
"Is it Jon?" I asked. "Has he visited you since he moved into the barracks?"
"He's visited," Gwen replied irritably as she cut away the bandage on my left hand. "It's just that his leaving made me see what a mess I've made of my life. For years it's been one stupid mistake after another. I don't see any way out of it."
Forty Days at Kamas Page 27