cotton, not even thick enough to be called pajamas, striped blue and white, and his shoes fell at his feet.
“Feeling generous today,” one of the men said. “You get to keep your shoes.”
“But no socks!” another one called out. “Don’t want people think we’re goin’ soft.”
Sam awkwardly put his bare feet into his leather shoes. “Guys, let me make one phone call, to the FBI, a guy named LaCouture, and—”
The Legionnaire who had disinfected him raised his truncheon. “Shut up or those new clothes of yours, they’re gonna be stained. Now let’s go. And it’s your lucky day, asshole, our tattoo man is gone for the day. So no number on your wrist. Tomorrow.”
Aches and pains everywhere, Sam walked out into the cloudy sunshine, the sound of the equipment thumping in his brain. Up ahead, a gate opened at a fence, and he was pushed in.
“Barracks Six, your new home. Work hard, and you’ll have a nice life.”
More laughter, and he walked unsteadily forward, by himself knowing he was no longer Sam Miller, police inspector for the city of Portsmouth. He was cold, he ached, and his ribs and jaw hurt. He was inside the camp for real, in an area filled with barracks, the ground packed dirt. In the distance the walls of the quarry rose up on three sides, smoke and dust in the air. He stood before one of the barracks, shivering, the thin clothing providing hardly any protection. He rubbed at his eyes, crusted from the stone dust in the air. Barracks Six, the numeral painted in dark blue. It was made of rough-hewn wood and built on square concrete piers. His new home. He opened the door. It creaked.
Darkness.
Strong stench of unwashed bodies, other odors as well.
He took a step in, his eyes adjusting to the weak light. There were bunks crammed tight, floor to ceiling, four beds up. Movement as well, as men turned to stare at him, raising their thin shaved heads. He took a step forward, winced at the sharp pain in his ribs and hips.
“Hello?” he said.
Voices murmured in his direction. He took another step forward, the boards creaking underfoot.
The heads turned away. He kept on walking, trying to breathe through his mouth, to block out the stench that seemed to surround him like an old blanket as he went deeper into the barracks. Two small coal stoves with chimneys going up through the roof, more bunks, and in the very rear, what had to be the latrine, for the stench was thicker there. By the latrine was an empty bunk. He saw a bare mattress, a single blanket folded at the end, and a threadbare pillow.
One man unfolded himself from a nearby bunk and came over, favoring one hip. “You new, eh?” the man said.
“Yeah, I am,” Sam said.
“Thought so. Look too clean, too fresh. American?”
“Yeah.”
The man was about six inches shorter than Sam, his head close-shaved. He had a thin dark beard and a prominent Adam’s apple. His prison uniform hung like old laundry on his thin body. “My name is Otto,” he said.
“I’m Sam. Are you German?”
Otto shook his head. “Netherlander. Dutch. Though originally German. Are you
“Excuse me?”
“
“No, I’m not.”
Otto looked nervous. “Ah. So why are you here?”
“Because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and asked the wrong questions.” Sam looked at the faces and said, “Why are they staring at me?”
Otto glanced back and said, “They are nervous. You are clean, an American, and you say you’re not a Jew. They think you are a spy. An informer. Who can blame them?”
“And you?”
The Dutchman cocked his head. “Not sure. Maybe I’m more trusting. Who knows, eh?”
Sam said, “Look, are you all Jews here?”
“Of course.”
“From where?”
Otto shrugged. “Everywhere. Germany. Poland. Holland. Even some English in another bunkhouse, all Jews.”
“How did you get here?”
Another shrug. “How else? We were taken from other camps, brought into trains and then ships. Ships across the Atlantic. All of us got very sick. And then to a military port. Virginia, I think, and then another train here.”
Sam could barely believe what he had just heard. “You mean you all came here from Europe?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But why are you here?” Sam asked.
Otto smiled, his lips twitching mirthlessly. “We all volunteered.”
“Volunteered? To come here to this camp?”
Otto’s smile remained. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why would you volunteer?”
“America. We were told we would come to America to work, to survive, and even if we came here to work, who would not want to come to America?”
Sam looked to the man’s wrist.
It bore a series of tattooed numbers.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sam was in his bunk, breathing in the stench, listening to the wheezing and snoring from his bunkmates. Every now and then somebody would crying out in a dream in a foreign language. His shoes were off and tied about his neck—earlier Otto had warned him, “Thieves everywhere, so keep your shoes close”—and he stared up into the shadows.
At last he knew the secrets of the camps. Refugee Jews from Europe were being transported to America to work in quarries, mines, and forests. Slave labor, long hours, long days, and all they got was poor food—supper had been oatmeal and chunks of stale bread—and a place to sleep. They had all volunteered to come here.
Petr Wowenstein had escaped from a research facility in New Mexico and had been murdered in Portsmouth.
But why?
Sam rolled into his pillow, his shoes striking the side of his face, trying to get comfortable and failing.
Did it matter anymore?
Petr Wowenstein had escaped from a camp and ended up in Sam’s hometown.
Investigating his murder had brought Sam to the same kind of camp. But as a prisoner, not an investigator.
He woke with a start, hitting his head on the overhead roof frame, the shoes nearly strangling him. Men were shouting, banging gongs, yelling, “Out! Out!
He dropped out of his bunk, pulled his shoes off his neck, and struggled to put them on his swollen feet. The bunkhouse was still unlit, so he bumped into his bunkmates as he moved outside into the assembly area. The morning air was frigid and he started shivering, rubbing at his arms. He could not believe what he saw. Long’s Legionnaires were there, overseeing the rows of prisoners, but they had been joined by German soldiers… No, not soldiers. Their uniforms were black, with polished black boots, caps with skull symbols in the center. SS. German SS
