hand, if you stay here and let me help you, we can contact your grandparents overseas and let them know where you are while we're looking for your parents. Then, together, maybe we can sort things out. But for that to happen, we need to buy some time. So, are you with me?"
Claire frowned as she considered the decision.
"I'm with you," she replied, then slowly wiped away her tears.
"Okay, then. It's a deal," Helen answered with a cheerful smile. "Come, now, finish your oatmeal so we can find you some clean clothes to wear till yours are dry. Then you can start helping me prepare the things we're going to sell tonight at the railway station."
C HAPTER 6
"In any country, there must be people who have to die. They are the sacrifice any nation has to make to achieve law and order."
—Idi Amin Dada, Ugandan dictator
FRIDAY, MARCH 8
An electric school bell mounted on the barracks wall erupted without warning and harassed me out of a deep and dreamless sleep. The clanging penetrated every corner of my brain, distracting me from the throbbing pain in my lower back and the ache in my arms and shoulders from the previous day's snow shoveling. I rolled slowly out from under the bunk and surveyed my new home in the pre–dawn darkness.
Like the transit barracks, it was a simple rectangular box of flimsy prefabricated construction with no interior walls or partitions. It was smaller than the transit barracks, however, being designed to sleep little more than half the number of prisoners. I counted three closely packed columns of triple–decker bunks, twelve beds to a column. The interior walls were covered with graffiti and riddled with holes stuffed with rags and straw.
A murmur arose from an adjacent row of bunks. I turned to see a knot of prisoners gathering to look at something in a lower berth just across the aisle. One of the men stepped aside long enough for me to see a pool of dried blood on the bare wood floor. A moment later I caught a glimpse of a bloody arm hanging down from the bunk.
"They slit his goddamned throat," I heard someone say with disgust. "Served him right."
"I knew there was something fishy about that guy," another voice added nervously. "He gave me the creeps the minute I saw him."
"Maybe so," a third voice countered. "But every time somebody goes killing a stoolie, the bosses take it out on the rest of us. Just you wait, they'll be shooting another poor bastard like that girl they shot up yesterday."
"Just a second. Maybe you don't remember the way things used to be around here," added a voice from the top bunk just behind me. "Whiting had stoolies in every work crew feeding him lies about us to save their own skins. Those rats sent the best of our men into the isolator or off to Canada or the mines. Without stoolies, the bosses can't control us and they know it. Personally, I'd rather take a bullet than go back to the way it was."
The speaker climbed down from his bunk and stood next to me. He was tall and rangy with a narrow face and tranquil blue eyes. He looked about ten years younger than I and seemed in good physical shape for someone who had been in the camps for very long. I placed his accent as being from Wisconsin or Minnesota. He spoke with a confidence that I associated with higher education and I guessed that he might be a high school or college instructor.
"I just arrived here yesterday, but I'm with you about the stoolies," I told him. "At Susquehanna there were more stoolies than lice and you couldn't say a word without hearing it played back to you during interrogation."
"Welcome to Kamas. Here at least we have the stoolies on the run," the man said, holding out his hand.
I shook hands and gave him my name. His was Ralph Knopfler.
"Do you have a work assignment yet?" he asked me.
"No. Any advice?"
"If you have a choice, go for the civilian recycling plant. They have plenty of work for new men and you don't run much of a risk of being reassigned to
Claire frowned as she considered the decision.
"I'm with you," she replied, then slowly wiped away her tears.
"Okay, then. It's a deal," Helen answered with a cheerful smile. "Come, now, finish your oatmeal so we can find you some clean clothes to wear till yours are dry. Then you can start helping me prepare the things we're going to sell tonight at the railway station."
C HAPTER 6
"In any country, there must be people who have to die. They are the sacrifice any nation has to make to achieve law and order."
—Idi Amin Dada, Ugandan dictator
FRIDAY, MARCH 8
An electric school bell mounted on the barracks wall erupted without warning and harassed me out of a deep and dreamless sleep. The clanging penetrated every corner of my brain, distracting me from the throbbing pain in my lower back and the ache in my arms and shoulders from the previous day's snow shoveling. I rolled slowly out from under the bunk and surveyed my new home in the pre–dawn darkness.
Like the transit barracks, it was a simple rectangular box of flimsy prefabricated construction with no interior walls or partitions. It was smaller than the transit barracks, however, being designed to sleep little more than half the number of prisoners. I counted three closely packed columns of triple–decker bunks, twelve beds to a column. The interior walls were covered with graffiti and riddled with holes stuffed with rags and straw.
A murmur arose from an adjacent row of bunks. I turned to see a knot of prisoners gathering to look at something in a lower berth just across the aisle. One of the men stepped aside long enough for me to see a pool of dried blood on the bare wood floor. A moment later I caught a glimpse of a bloody arm hanging down from the bunk.
"They slit his goddamned throat," I heard someone say with disgust. "Served him right."
"I knew there was something fishy about that guy," another voice added nervously. "He gave me the creeps the minute I saw him."
"Maybe so," a third voice countered. "But every time somebody goes killing a stoolie, the bosses take it out on the rest of us. Just you wait, they'll be shooting another poor bastard like that girl they shot up yesterday."
"Just a second. Maybe you don't remember the way things used to be around here," added a voice from the top bunk just behind me. "Whiting had stoolies in every work crew feeding him lies about us to save their own skins. Those rats sent the best of our men into the isolator or off to Canada or the mines. Without stoolies, the bosses can't control us and they know it. Personally, I'd rather take a bullet than go back to the way it was."
The speaker climbed down from his bunk and stood next to me. He was tall and rangy with a narrow face and tranquil blue eyes. He looked about ten years younger than I and seemed in good physical shape for someone who had been in the camps for very long. I placed his accent as being from Wisconsin or Minnesota. He spoke with a confidence that I associated with higher education and I guessed that he might be a high school or college instructor.
"I just arrived here yesterday, but I'm with you about the stoolies," I told him. "At Susquehanna there were more stoolies than lice and you couldn't say a word without hearing it played back to you during interrogation."
"Welcome to Kamas. Here at least we have the stoolies on the run," the man said, holding out his hand.
I shook hands and gave him my name. His was Ralph Knopfler.
"Do you have a work assignment yet?" he asked me.
"No. Any advice?"
"If you have a choice, go for the civilian recycling plant. They have plenty of work for new men and you don't run much of a risk of being reassigned to
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