The Re-educator 01


By Katzmarek


 (Part 1)


Hammond carefully pinched out the contents of the cigarette ends into his tin. This was a good haul and 
would keep him going for a few days. There was perhaps enough to swap with the other down-and-outers 
outside the mission. Yes, he was quite pleased with himself.


The bar had always provided rich pickings. It was one of the few that didn’t lock up their trash behind 
wrought iron gates topped with spikes. He didn’t need any more tears in his Salvation Army provided 
clothes.


He took a last survey of the back alley, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything valuable, and made his 
way back to the street with his tin full of dank, smelly, pre-owned tobacco.


The alley opened on to King George Street, one of the main uptown shopping districts. It was glittering 
with the signs of frenzied commerce. Respectably dressed people thronging past, and in, extravagantly 
decorated shops, frantically buying those last minute presents before Christmas.


As he made his way down the street, everyone called it KG, the shoppers parted like the Red Sea around 
him. Occasionally someone would glance pitiably at him, but most just looked away, prescribing an arc in 
his or her progress.


Hammond hated KG and all the streets like it. It reminded him of what he’d once been, or still could have 
been, if he hadn’t been fired. Sure, he’d embezzled a few grand from the Company but it was sweet 
revenge for the way they’d treated him. The resentment had built up over the two years since he’d been 
shafted by that bloody manager until finally, he’d worked out a scheme to get his own back.


So how was an Accountant going to find work after being canned for embezzlement? Word got around 
pretty fast and soon he couldn’t get any work.


So it was the meagre unemployment benefit, the cheap boarding house and meals at the city mission.


“Hey Prof.’,” Doc’ yelled at him when he arrived outside the mission building, “I’ve got something you 
might like.”


Hammond followed the old tramp around the back of the building. He wished folks would use his real 
name but they called him ‘Prof.’, because of his glasses, and ‘Prof.’ it became.


“Look!” the old man, said, “interested?”


‘Doc’ extracted a cigar from his bundle and showed it to Hammond.


“This old guy stops next to me… big limo it was… he passes it to me out the window… says ‘merry 
Christmas’… you want to trade?”


“Sure,” said Hammond, “what do you want?”


“That old flask you have… the shiny one… I like that.”


Hammond took out his old hip flask. He’d found it in a trash can and taken a fancy to it. He handed it to 
‘Doc’.


“Done,” he said.


‘Doc’ ran his fingers over the chrome flask, caressing it, a smile broke over his grubby, wrinkled face.


“Shiny… very shiny,” Doc’ said, wandering off.


Hammond stood in the dim light at the back of the Mission and took out his old lighter. With a smile of 
pleasure he puffed on the long ‘Churchill’. Blowing a smoke ring into the still night, he said to himself,


“Havana… hand-rolled… Manzanillo, if I’m not mistaken.” He prided himself on his knowledge of the 
finer things of life.


On the other side of town, and a world away from Hammond, a sleek limousine pulled into the driveway of 
a large mansion. It paused while the ornate high gate slid aside, then whisked its occupant towards the 
Romanesque porticullo.  


The chauffeur sprang from the driver’s door and stood rigidly as Harriet alighted.


“Thank you Frederic, that will be all tonight. I have the hairdresser’s at eleven then you may go home to 
your family.”


“Yes ma’am, than you ma’am,” the chauffeur replied and closed the door with a soft click.
 

As she climbed the three steps the elaborate door swung open to reveal the bowing figure of her Butler.


“Good evening ma’am,” he said.


“Thank you Graham,” Harriet said, nodding at the man, “I think you can lock up… has Georgette gone to 
bed?”


“Yes ma’am, Mr. Tempsky is in the parlour.”


“Thank you.”


Harriet believed in treating the staff in a civil manner.


Having finished his meal at the City Mission, Hammond decided to seek treatment for an infected cut he’d 
received in last night’s forage. The only free clinic available, nowadays, was the ‘People’s Health Centre,’ 
down near the docks. This had recently been set up by the Communist Party and was staffed with 
volunteers.


The old public health service had long been sold off to private enterprise.  Although subsidies were 
available to the unemployed, costs had outpaced those to the point where many still couldn’t afford minor 
medical treatment. Until, of course, the Party stepped into the breach.


The only problem at the Health Centre was, having to wait. It was always busy, day and night. It took him 
an hour before the doctor saw him.  While he waited he began to talk to some of the young Party activists 
that always hovered around. Young types with fire in their eyes and passion in their hearts that would bore 
the crap out of him as long as he waited.


“Property is theft,” the young guy was saying, “rocks are worth nothing in the ground. It’s the workers who 
provide those rocks with value with their sweat and the ruling class who get rich.”


It was a message he’d heard a thousand times before, but this time something snapped. He was bored to 
death with life. He was resentful towards wealth and privilege and this democracy really was only a sham. 
He’d had enough living from day to day and living off the crumbs of the rich. It was time to change society.


During the next year Hammond rose quickly through the Party hierarchy to become Branch Secretary. He 
was a natural organiser and his accountancy and managerial skills stood him in good stead. He soon gained 
the respect of those above him.


Society was beginning to unravel for both Harriet and Hammond, but it would have diametrically opposite 
effects for each of them.


For Hammond, the global economic crisis brought unprecedented support for the revolutionary movement 
and the Party became a major player in the political scene.


For Harriet, it brought her husband’s companies to the brink of bankruptcy and their personal fortunes 
began to tumble. Strikes at the factories were finishing off the work of the worldwide depression.




5 years later Harriet and her 13 year old daughter Georgette lined up with all the other women and girls as 
they alighted from the buses. They stood staring at the bleak surroundings and barbed wire that would be 
their home for the next year.


They had been told that ‘re-education’ would require a year but Harriet had a foreboding that they would 
never be allowed to leave or see Mr. Tempsky, her husband, ever again. 


The camp guards were a mixture of women and men, all wore the same shapeless, olive fatigues. Their 
caps all displayed the red star. Each guard had a sub-machine gun slung over their shoulder.


Harriet noted what must be the officers. Their uniforms had a better fit and each carried a collar patch 
denoting their rank. She particularly noted a rather average looking man wearing cavalry boots with rather 
more stars on his patch than any of the others. He carried a riding crop that he tapped impatiently on his left 
leg. His glasses made him look like a jumped-up bank clerk.


Harriet didn’t like his eyes, or rather the way he was scanning the crowd of women and girls. It seemed to 
her that he was like a farmer appraising a heard of cattle. As his eyes drifted towards her she decided to 
stare right back at him. She hoped she would show this bank clerk that she, Harriet Tempsky, wasn’t going 
to be intimidated.


Hammond and Harriet stared at each other for an uncomfortable period of time. Harriet poured as much 
hatred as she could into her stare and at first it startled the Camp Commandant. Hammond’s face finally 
broke into a grin,


‘That one’s going to be fun,’ he thought to himself.


Later, Hammond read through the personal files on the new intake. He stopped at Harriet and her 
daughter’s and read it carefully.


‘Harriet Tempsky,’ he said to himself, ‘husband, Theodore Tempsky… steelworks… shipping… 
government adviser to industry… insurance brokerage… retail chains… hell! Personal fortune estimated at 
1.3 billion… or was,’ he noted, smugly. ‘Harriet… various charities… tennis club… school committee… 
living the life of the idle rich.’ He set the file aside.


The attached photo showed a rather imperious face of a woman in her mid-forties. She was staring at the 
camera in the same manner she’d tried to stare him down outside earlier. Defiance, hatred perhaps 
arrogance, it touched his nerves, reminding him of the way his managing director looked at him the day he 
was fired. He had the word, disdain, yes, that was it, disdain!


He read the daughter’s file,


‘Georgette Tempsky, silly capitalist name,’ he thought, ‘ 13 years old… private girl’s school… pony 
club… oh boy, has she come down in the world.’


Hammond stared at the photo of Georgette for a time. He noted the bewildered, rabbit eyes straining to 
look down, away from the camera. He could picture the cameraman demanding she look up into the lens 
for the photo. She was hoping that this was a nightmare and she would wake up soon and the nanny was 
bending down to her, comforting her, telling her that everything was all right. Hammond decided that she 
was the key to the mother.


He set the files aside, marking them, HOLD.


‘Let them stew for a while,’ he said to himself, ‘listening to the camp rumours.’


During lunch with his fellow officers the talk was on that afternoon’s initiations. This program was 
especially devised by Hammond and proved very popular with the camp staff. This was the beginning of 
the ‘breaking in,’ the humiliation of the internees to make them pliable and receptive. Indoctrination would 
only start after their capitalist airs and graces had been hammered out of them. 


‘The stick and the velvet glove,’ Hammond liked to say.


In truth, Hammond loved the power and control he had over these people. He could do pretty much 
whatever he liked short of execution, which would require a tribunal.


“Shall we get started?” he announced to his officers.


Many were grinning as they left the officer’s messroom.


Two guards brought the first batch of 5 to the punishment room. The confused looks of the internees turned 
to fear as they saw the range of whips and canes hanging on a rack on one wall. In the middle of the room a 
leather belt hung down with two leather straps attached to the end.


The women had already changed into sweats and pants and it seemed that the prettiest had been selected 
first. Two guards and three officers were present, 3 women, 2 men as well as Hammond himself.


Wordless, Hammond nodded to the guards and they brought the first candidate forward. She was a blond in 
her late twenties, slim and pale, her braless boobs wobbled as she was escorted to the middle of the room.


“Sarah Rowntree, 10 strokes,” Hammond announced formally.


The two guards strapped her wrists to the leather belt in the middle of the room while a woman officer 
selected a cane from the rack on the wall.


The woman emitted a frightened, whimpering noise and looked likely to burst into tears. Hammond hoped 
she would, he liked it when they cried.


The woman guard glanced at Hammond and he nodded in reply. She went behind the woman and snatched 
down her pants.


The internees gasped and someone said,


“Oh god, no!”


“SILENCE!” yelled Hammond, sternly, “LISTEN, you have all been judged criminals by the 
Revolutionary Tribunals. You all deserve stiff prison sentences, but we are humane people, unlike 
yourselves. I hope you will all become good citizens but you must atone for your past behaviour. This will 
remind you that you are no longer in control. You must pay close attention to what is happening. If you 
turn away I will see and note your name. Then you will receive twice, I repeat TWICE the punishment. Do 
I make myself clear?”


The women looked at him with fearful expressions, silent.


“DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” he repeated, loudly.


Some nodded, some said ‘yes,’ in small, frightened voices.


Satisfied, Hammond ordered the punishment to commence.


Sarah Rowntree shivered in fear and embarrassment.


“You don’t need…” she started to say in a little voice.


The Lieutenant leant forward, flexing her cane and spoke to her,


“You will count off each time until 10, firmly so I can hear you. Don’t twist and move about or it will be 
worse for you, understand?”


“Please don’t… I haven’t done anything…” Sarah whimpered.


Hammond sat down at the desk in the corner of the room. He always got noticeably aroused at these times 
and he used the desk to hide his erection.


Some of the women were looking at him through the corners of their eyes, not wanting to be caught not 
paying attention. As Hammond scanned them they hurriedly looked to the front. He loved the game.


The Lieutenant extravagantly lined up Sarah’s pale, round bottom. She made sure to brush the cane lightly 
over her cheeks watching them flex in anticipation. Staring fixedly at a spot on the swell of her quivering 
cheeks she swung the cane back. Hesitating for a second she then brought it down with absolute accuracy 
right across the middle.


It connected with a solid ‘SWACK’ making the woman’s arse ripple with the impact. Recoiling, Sarah 
shrieked in pain.


“COUNT!” the Lieutenant demanded. 


Sarah was now sobbing loudly, the officer repeated the demand.


“One,” she said, barely audible.


“LOUDER.”


“One,” she said, louder.


Hammond watched the faces of the other women as the officer prepared the next cut of the cane. They were 
in stunned silence. He knew he’d had them as soon as they entered the room and saw the implements on the 
wall. This was not much of a challenge. He’d wish some of them would put up a fight or go all-haughty on 
him. This group was broken already.


‘SWACK’, went the cane again.


“OW… OH… two… ooohhh… (SWACK) OOOOWWWW… thr’, three… ooo. (SWACK) 
OOOOOHHH… AAAHHHH… f’ four…”


By the time ten came up, Sarah was slumped in the hanging belt. She had no energy even to howl anymore 
and was just grunting as the last few strokes came down. Hammond was beginning to lose interest. There 
comes a point when it just becomes torture, the purpose already having been achieved.


The two guards took the woman down from the belt and escorted her to the side room. Hammond followed 
them. The guards left her slumped over a table, sobbing to herself. She offered no resistance as he unzipped 
his pants and took out his throbbing dick. 


As he slipped on a condom he watched the battered, red arse of the woman. He grabbed her hips and thrust 
himself into her. She just grunted as he pounded away.


























