Forty Days at Kamas Read Online Free PDF Page B

at the rear of the barracks: "How about food? We haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
    "You'll get a ration bar at registration and another at the end of the day when you finish your work," the warder answered. "No hot meals till tomorrow."
    A muffled voice asked: "And who the hell are you?"
    The bullet–headed warder scanned the group angrily for the man who spoke.
    "My name is Renaud but you'll call me Deputy Renaud if you don't want to spit teeth. I'm chief warder for new prisoners. And anybody who doesn't like the way I do things can step forward right now. There's plenty of room for you in the isolator."
    Silence followed. Renaud gave a last look around the crowded barracks as if to spot future troublemakers.
    "Alright then, when I say 'go,' I want you to line up outside in single file. No stragglers–the last ten in line lose their morning rations."
    Renaud gestured for Mills and the other warder to leave and then followed them to the door.
    "Go!"
    All four hundred of us rushed for the door at once, crushing the weak and the unlucky against the walls and against bunks bolted firmly to the floor. But once outside and under Mills's direction, it took us only a few minutes to line up in formation, most of us having been drilled in prison yard protocol at detention facilities all across the country.
    Roll call went swiftly. Out of habit, I counted the number of names reported as missing. The total exceeded forty, which meant that hunger, dehydration, exposure, and illness had reduced the size of our transit convoy by nearly ten percent. Natural selection had already begun and I wondered how long my own strength would hold out.
    Mills counted off the first forty prisoners to enter the transit center. I was among them. He ushered us into a concrete–floored shower room with sprinkler heads mounted along three walls. A fleet of wheeled laundry hampers was parked near the entrance.
    Renaud rejoined us, followed by Mills and a third warder who appeared to be in his early forties. His freckled face wore a permanent expression of skepticism and disapproval that aroused my immediate dislike. His name was Grady and, as I learned later, had once been a partner in a well–known accounting firm before he, Renaud, and Mills had all been convicted of looting the company where Renaud and Mills had been executives.
    Renaud then resumed the briefing he had begun before roll call:
    "Listen up, scum! It's shower time. Yes, these are real showers and to prove it I will be staying here with you to supervise. You will have exactly two minutes, timed by my watch, to get undressed. In these two minutes, you will deposit every possession and article of clothing you have into one of these hampers, taking with you only eyeglasses, artificial limbs, and other medical prostheses. Your prostheses will be x–rayed and searched by hand. So if any of you think you are clever enough to smuggle in drugs, weapons, money, or other contraband, I urge you to come over here right now and deposit your treasures in the hamper. Because I will personally hang from the watchtower anybody caught smuggling. Camp rules permit me to do it–I've done it before, and I'll do it as many times as I must to keep contraband out of this camp. Am I making myself clear? Good. Your two minutes start–…now!"
    Some of us wore the orange coveralls issued at transit camp. Others were still dressed in civilian clothes or in prison denims. Regardless of what we wore, when Renaud signaled that our time was up, every one of us stood naked while the hampers brimmed with our filthy, louse–infested clothing.
    In the disinfecting room, trusties with shaved heads worked us over with electric clippers, shaving our scalps and removing every vestige of beard and body hair. Next we had five minutes to shower. Orderlies then handed out antiseptic ointment to spread on any sores or wounds and dusted us with de–lousing powder before we stepped onto the scales.
    There we stood, naked,