Blood and Salt (48 page)

“Sir, we have been instructed to keep costs down. We do the best we can –”

“Has it occurred to you,” Bellamy rolls on as if the commandant hasn’t spoken, “that the Canadian government, having taken these men from their homes and families, has a serious responsibility toward them?” There’s a strong enough edge to his voice now that even the commandant hears it.

“We have always –”

“They must be treated correctly.”

“Certainly. No question.”

Taras can’t believe the man’s ability to lie. Or is there some way he’s convinced himself that things really are good for the men? In which case he has learned well how to lie, first and foremost, to himself.

“Now.” Bellamy leans across the desk. “I understand two men were punished.”

“Two radicals, sir. I felt I must make an example.”

“Entirely unacceptable. You had them dragged through icy water. That’s barbaric! You could not treat an actual prisoner of war in that manner.
You could have killed them. It was your own idea, I suppose?”

Taras begins to shake. He can’t believe he’s hearing this.

“They were completely insubordinate.
Attacked a guard.”

“Indeed? And what were the circumstances of the attack?” Andrews has inadvertently drawn further into the room and Bellamy turns to him. The commandant must wish Andrews wasn’t there but now can’t get rid of him.

“Speak up, Sergeant,” Bellamy says.

“Well, sir, they were concerned about another prisoner.
A fellow who was ill... Captain Workman...” Andrews is obviously looking for some way out of this.

“Please continue,” Bellamy says. “What did Captain Workman do?”

“He...attempted to, uh, rouse the sick man.
Tried to pull him to his feet, you see.” He stops but the consul nods, as if to say there must be more. “He called him... He called him...a lazy bohunk. The internees are very sensitive to –”

“Yes, quite.” The commandant glares. “That will be all, Andrews.” His look says that if ever there were a soldier who could forget about any kind of promotion, Andrews has shown himself to be that man.
Andrews withdraws just beyond the door.

Bellamy makes the commandant wait a few moments, then speaks with unconcealed contempt. “Sir. Has it occurred to you to think of these men as a resource?”

“Certainly, sir.
They have built a number of roads and a bridge and an extra nine holes on the golf course –”

“Ah, the golf course. Yes, I see. Not exactly essential to the war effort, but I suppose a golf course is always a delight in and of itself.”

“I suppose so... Tea, Mr. Bellamy?”
The commandant pours tea, offers biscuits, cream and sugar, all of this completely ignored by his guest.

“I must consider what report I am to make,” the consul says. He watches the sweat break out on the commandant’s brow.

“Now. I am aware of the change in Canada’s labour situation. A great many of your young men are away fighting the war and Canada is now short of labour.”

“An unfortunate corollary of war, if I may say –”

“My government is also aware that a great many of the prisoners in this camp have been released to work in mines, on the railroad and indeed on farms and ranches.”

“That is correct. We have been able to supply a number of mines and a cement plant in the area. A thoroughly satisfactory arrangement for everyone.”

“Except for the remaining prisoners, I would suppose. And except for the complete outrage of logic their release implies.”

“Er?” The commandant stirs his tea vigorously. “Don’t quite follow.”

“I mean, sir, that if these men were previously far too dangerous to be allowed their freedom, what must now be the consequence of their release?”

“Sorry? Still don’t quite –”

“I would assume that when these alarming fellows were allowed to leave, there must have been an outbreak of violence, lawbreaking, perhaps even sabotage?”

“I’m not aware of any.”
The commandant picks up an iced biscuit but obviously doesn’t realize the force he’s putting into it. It bursts into tiny shards and sprays the table and the front of his uniform. He tries, furtively, to brush them away but only manages to stain the cloth.

“No factories blown up or bridges bombed? No attacks on government buildings? No murder and mayhem in the streets?” At last the consul takes a sip of tea.

“Perhaps you understand me? I don’t believe these men are any danger to Canada’s peace. If any of them have committed crimes, they should be dealt with according to the law.
The rest should be released and, I would suggest, compensated for their imprisonment.”

Taras takes a deep breath and feels his chest and belly relax. He realizes he’s barely been breathing all this time.

The consul has confirmed Taras’s own ideas. The consul is telling off the commandant. Taras will never forget this. He has his own analysis. It’s not so different from Tymko’s, but he’s pieced it together himself.

“Released? Compensated?” the commandant is saying, as if he can’t believe his ears. “Now look here, that’s the business of the Canadian government.” He looks happy to have thought of this objection and it invigorates him for a moment. He takes another cookie.

“It
should
be. And don’t mistake me, I’m under no illusions about what’s likely to happen. However, be assured that if there is any repetition of such scandalous acts of inhumanity here, I will raise holy hell with your government, and the world press will know of it! And that is
my
business.”

“You can’t mean –” The commandant tries not to choke on the cookie.

“I’m only sorry I can’t do more. Now, I understand from our ambassador in Ottawa that there are plans to close this camp down in the near future.”

“Do you indeed?”
The commandant looks vexed. “I was not aware that was being discussed beyond Canadian government circles.”

“I expect your prime minister knew of our interest in the camps. He no doubt wished to remind us that we will need to be vigilant about our borders as more of these internees are freed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.
The great majority are going to companies where they have previously worked. And I really believe most of the prisoners have learned their lesson.”

Bellamy takes a long sip of his tea. “What lesson might that be? Is it that they somehow made a mistake in being born Ukrainians?” Again the commandant looks baffled. “Never mind that.
You confirm this camp will not exist much longer?”

“I believe that is a real possibility, perhaps by midsummer.”

Bellamy eats a biscuit and follows it with more tea.
The commandant breathes a sigh of relief.
The interview has been most unpleasant, he must think, but it’s almost over.

“I’d like one of the prisoners to come in for a moment,” Bellamy says.

“Now, do you mean?”
The commandant looks horrified.

“Yes, I think that would be best.” Bellamy turns to Andrews, still lurking in the hall. “Sergeant Andrews, please bring in the man who spoke up in the bunkhouse.”

“You mean Taras Kalyna, sir?”

“Yes, Sergeant, if that is the name of the man who spoke up.” Andrews goes back into the hall and waits a moment.
Taras nods; Andrews doesn’t want the commandant to think he’s been right there listening all this time. He tries to smooth his hair. Andrews pulls a comb from his pocket and hands it to Taras. Helps him button the front of the mackinaw
.
Then they enter the room. Not sure what to do, Taras stands quietly to attention.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Kalyna.”
The commandant almost jumps out of his chair when he
hears Taras being addressed politely. “I thought the internees might like to know that the Canadian government is making plans to dismantle the work camps within the next few months. How does that sound to you?”

The commandant looks aghast, and Taras is totally startled to be asked about anything. “You mean, they’ll send us home?” he manages to say.

“I’m afraid not right away.
The plan is, you’d work for various industries for six months of what your government calls parole. It is likely that work can be found for all of you – in mines, on the railroad or in the forest industry.
You’d sign a contract to stay six months. After that, you’d be free to go home.”

“All the men would be free to go home? We would work only six months?”

“That’s my understanding. A regular job, and you’d agree to stay six months.”

“We would be paid same as other workers?”

Bellamy glances at the commandant, who nods. “Yes, that’s right.
The same rates.”

Taras struggles to take it in. Nothing in the last half hour is like anything in the last year and a half.
The cold that works to the bone, the threadbare clothing, the sparse food and misery of spirit threaten to overwhelm him. To stay alive in this place he’s been forced not to dwell on when or even if he’ll ever leave. Now he stands in a warm room and hears a fairy tale.

“I don’t understand.
Why does the government do this?”

“It’s simple – there’s a shortage of workers. Because so many men are away at war.”
Well, isn’t that what Tymko always says? “And I think they realize by now that your people are not their enemies.”

Taras almost breaks down in tears. He doesn’t think the government will ever say what Bellamy just said, but it feels good that somebody said it. “We are not enemies. We should be free.”
Taras wants to feel joy but can’t forget his lost days.

“Apparently this is the best that can be hoped for. I thought you would like to know there will be a limit to this incarceration. You might explain it to the other men.”

Taras is suddenly tired to the bone. “
Dobre.
I will tell them. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kalyna. Andrews will accompany you back to the bunkhouse. I will speak to the commandant about the possibility of obtaining a doctor for yourself and the other man who was punished.”

As they leave, Taras sees the commandant stir his tea with unusual concentration.

CHAPTER 35

Kvitka

The doctor
has come, several times. One day near the end of February, as the mountain snowpack begins to thaw, he declares Taras fit for work and Tymko nearly so.
That evening they walk to the bunkhouse after supper in their new woollen mackinaws, a sleet-filled wind at their backs. Out of nowhere, it seems, they hear boots pounding and hoarse, raspy breathing. Taras turns to see a stocky man with an angry, red face. Sees his arm rise.

The knife slices through Taras’s coat and into his chest. Blood gushes out in time with his heartbeat. On his own he would fall but the screaming man holds him tight. Twists the knife free and then Taras falls. The man raises his arm again. Taras sees the arc the knife will take.

Tymko catches the man’s wrist and snaps it with an audible crack. The knife floats to the ground. The man sinks to the snow, clutching his wrist, lips stretched in a howl so wild and hoarse his throat will surely tear. Face wet with snot and tears. And so close Taras sees right into his eyes.

How can Viktor be here?

Tymko tears off his jacket, folds it and presses it against the wound, but blood still spurts out. Taras is intrigued by the dark puddle in the snow.
Kalyna, kalyna.
Sleet drenches his hair and coat.

Guards come running. Andrews sends a private for the truck they use to fetch supplies. Bullard picks up the knife and puts it in a pocket. He and Andrews lift Taras into the truck box still bleeding. Tymko keeps pressure on the wound all the way to the hospital.

Taras wakes slowly.
An hour drifts past, and he understands he must be in the Banff hospital.
A private room with a soldier sitting by the door. Why? Ah... He’s too dangerous to be near other patients. The guard will keep him from escaping. Good. He feels the wound in his chest in a distant way.
They must be giving him medicine for the pain. Best not to move if you can help it, a voice inside him says. It’s quiet in the hospital.

And warm, deliciously warm. He sleeps.

Wakes to see a nurse looking down at him. Tall and pleasant looking, with red-gold hair, she’s the first woman he’s been near since he came to the camp. He’s amazed by how strong she looks; by the colour and texture of her skin, the warmth in her eyes. He wishes he could touch her just to know what that feels like.

“That’s better. Sleeping Beauty’s finally waking up.” She has a strong Scots accent – like Tymko’s Rainey had. It takes Taras a few moments to get an idea of what she said.
What’s Sleeping Beauty?
He has a feeling he’s heard those words before. One of the guards...

“You must be hungry. Can I get you something to eat?”

This can’t be heaven, but it will do for the present.
“Proshu,”
he says, and sees she doesn’t understand. “Please.”