something worse later. Military recycling's not bad, either. But don’t go near the silver mines in Park City. They’re killers."
Before I could ask another question, the bell rang a second time and we followed the crowd of prisoners onto the parade ground. The roll was called, announcements were made, and then a work scheduler read out assignments for the new arrivals. I listened intently as the scheduler called out our names and assignments, which had been made based on the rows and columns where we sat on the parade ground. Road construction, snow clearing, waste disposal, and the ore crushing plant were all read out before they reached recycling sites A and B. I was assigned to Recycling Site A, which recovered civilian building materials on a large scale. I congratulated myself on my good fortune and gave a high five to Will Roesemann, who was assigned to the same place.
Breakfast was served in the Division 3 mess hall, a two–story factory–like building of cinder block construction. Each of us received a plastic bowl of watery oatmeal with a few elusive globules of margarine floating on top and a ration bar we were supposed to save and eat at midday. I estimated the food’s caloric value and wondered how I would survive until dinner.
Tucking the ration bar inside my coveralls, I picked up an enamel mug. Self–service urns contained a choice of cold water, weak tea, or a thin coffee substitute unlike any I had ever tasted. I opted for the tea and stepped into the dining area, which consisted of row upon row of metal picnic tables bolted to the floor.
Selecting a seat in a prison or labor camp dining hall, as I had learned from painful experience, demanded caution. Mealtime fistfights were commonplace. At Kamas the warders, easily identifiable by their sleekness and heft, sat at special tables near the windows. Foremen, work schedulers, and other high–ranking prisoners also sat together, as did prisoners under the age of twenty–one.
Here and there were tables of silent, slow–moving, painfully gaunt figures who could be diagnosed at a glance as goners or last–leggers. These were the prisoners who lacked the physical strength to carry on much longer and already had lost the will to survive. I had known goners at Susquehanna and in the transit camps and had seen how quickly their final decline could take hold. Every self–respecting prisoner feared this fate for himself and his friends.
Being over forty, I chose a seat for myself at a table of older prisoners with whom I imagined I might have something in common. One of them was the fellow at the barracks who had expressed fear of reprisals for the killing of stool pigeons. He was a small man whose furtive manner and yellowing front teeth made him resemble a rodent. My intuition told me that he might have been an alcoholic or drug abuser before entering the camps. He recognized me and held his hand out across the table.
"Just in from Susquehanna, eh? I was there once."
His name was D’Amato and he worked in the warehouse.
"You're lucky to be in recycling," D’Amato said. "Sometimes you can find stuff that you can sneak back to the camp and sell to the guards. I found a gold chain once that way. Traded it for a sack of ration bars."
"What's the warehouse like?" I asked.
"It's the best, believe me. I used to be in snow removal and I nearly froze more times than I can count. Lost the toes to prove it."
"How did you go about getting a change in duty? Was it hard?"
D'Amato's neighbor, a towering fifty–something whose aristocratic features showed several days of gray stubble, inclined his head to hear D'Amato's response. D'Amato gave him a sheepish smile and went on.
"Pure luck. One day you're at death's door, the next day you're in from the cold. There's no way I can explain it. Take Judge O'Rourke, here."
He nodded respectfully toward the man on his right, a small, ruddy–faced man of about sixty who wore silver wire–rimmed bifocals.
"The
Before I could ask another question, the bell rang a second time and we followed the crowd of prisoners onto the parade ground. The roll was called, announcements were made, and then a work scheduler read out assignments for the new arrivals. I listened intently as the scheduler called out our names and assignments, which had been made based on the rows and columns where we sat on the parade ground. Road construction, snow clearing, waste disposal, and the ore crushing plant were all read out before they reached recycling sites A and B. I was assigned to Recycling Site A, which recovered civilian building materials on a large scale. I congratulated myself on my good fortune and gave a high five to Will Roesemann, who was assigned to the same place.
Breakfast was served in the Division 3 mess hall, a two–story factory–like building of cinder block construction. Each of us received a plastic bowl of watery oatmeal with a few elusive globules of margarine floating on top and a ration bar we were supposed to save and eat at midday. I estimated the food’s caloric value and wondered how I would survive until dinner.
Tucking the ration bar inside my coveralls, I picked up an enamel mug. Self–service urns contained a choice of cold water, weak tea, or a thin coffee substitute unlike any I had ever tasted. I opted for the tea and stepped into the dining area, which consisted of row upon row of metal picnic tables bolted to the floor.
Selecting a seat in a prison or labor camp dining hall, as I had learned from painful experience, demanded caution. Mealtime fistfights were commonplace. At Kamas the warders, easily identifiable by their sleekness and heft, sat at special tables near the windows. Foremen, work schedulers, and other high–ranking prisoners also sat together, as did prisoners under the age of twenty–one.
Here and there were tables of silent, slow–moving, painfully gaunt figures who could be diagnosed at a glance as goners or last–leggers. These were the prisoners who lacked the physical strength to carry on much longer and already had lost the will to survive. I had known goners at Susquehanna and in the transit camps and had seen how quickly their final decline could take hold. Every self–respecting prisoner feared this fate for himself and his friends.
Being over forty, I chose a seat for myself at a table of older prisoners with whom I imagined I might have something in common. One of them was the fellow at the barracks who had expressed fear of reprisals for the killing of stool pigeons. He was a small man whose furtive manner and yellowing front teeth made him resemble a rodent. My intuition told me that he might have been an alcoholic or drug abuser before entering the camps. He recognized me and held his hand out across the table.
"Just in from Susquehanna, eh? I was there once."
His name was D’Amato and he worked in the warehouse.
"You're lucky to be in recycling," D’Amato said. "Sometimes you can find stuff that you can sneak back to the camp and sell to the guards. I found a gold chain once that way. Traded it for a sack of ration bars."
"What's the warehouse like?" I asked.
"It's the best, believe me. I used to be in snow removal and I nearly froze more times than I can count. Lost the toes to prove it."
"How did you go about getting a change in duty? Was it hard?"
D'Amato's neighbor, a towering fifty–something whose aristocratic features showed several days of gray stubble, inclined his head to hear D'Amato's response. D'Amato gave him a sheepish smile and went on.
"Pure luck. One day you're at death's door, the next day you're in from the cold. There's no way I can explain it. Take Judge O'Rourke, here."
He nodded respectfully toward the man on his right, a small, ruddy–faced man of about sixty who wore silver wire–rimmed bifocals.
"The
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