Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  Helmut Gurtman stepped out of his vehicle and stood directly in front of Devin. “Where were you last night?”

  Devin looked confused. “Here—what—”

  “You’re under arrest,” Helmut said, and climbed back into his Rover.

  The guards threw Devin in the back of the truck. It made a 180-degree turn, and sped away over a ridge, followed by the snowmobiles.

  The Bradfords were up early, eating breakfast and trying to avoid the tensions that afflicted everyone except Scott. He was in his basketball warm-up suit, attacking a platter of scrambled eggs and toast. Jackie sat across the table, sipping weak tea, looking very unhappy.

  “You guys look nice,” Amanda said, and looked at Peter. “You too.”

  He was wearing dark wool pants, a tweed coat, plaid shirt, and black knit tie. That was about as formal as anyone got in Milford, white shirts being reserved for weddings and funerals.

  “If we’re going to Omaha, we should have gone before this dorky parade,” Scott declared.

  “Own up, you love it,” Jackie said. “All you jocks love it.”

  Scott ignored her. “There’s this great coach there, used to play for the Bulls, Leon Henderson—he could really help me.”

  “A little more work on the math could help you,” Amanda said.

  “I think you should finish school and—”

  “Mom, I want to play. Now’s the time; they’re giving white players a break. Sort of a quota system. We didn’t used to have a chance. But nobody wants to watch the game if it’s all black guys.”

  “How can you possibly say that?” Amanda stared incredulously at her son, as if he were a total stranger. “You’ll just become part of that whole sports thing. Making people feel—I don’t know ...”

  “Proud?” Peter said loudly.

  She stared at her husband. “That’s not what happens. They use it like a pacifier—the ‘circus’ part of ‘bread and circuses.’”

  Scott laughed and shook his head. “God, Mom, you’re weird, you know? Bread and circuses. What’s that? Geez.”

  “That’s when you give people what makes them feel good and distracts them from what’s really happening,” Jackie declared. “The Romans did it.”

  Peter feigned surprise. “Who could’ve believed it? A kid actually learned something in school.”

  Jacqueline made a face at him. He grinned, looking at Amanda, who was still quite upset. The phone rang. “It’s the red phone,” Amanda said matter-of-factly.

  Peter nodded and walked into the other room.

  “Hey, Mom, lighten up,” Scott said. “You take things too seriously, know what I mean? Look, I’ll be a big star and say, ‘Hi, Mom!’ when they show me on the Natnet.”

  Amanda frowned. “FIS look forward to that.”

  A few minutes later, Peter walked back into the kitchen, a strange look on his face. They all looked at him.

  “That was Andrei Denisov. He called from Washington. Something’s up. I’m supposed to meet him in Chicago tomorrow.”

  The tension of Peter’s words settled into the kitchen, bringing back a strained feeling to the Bradford clan.

  Devin sat wearily on a high stool, an intense white light blazing into his eyes. He knew the technique all too well. The blinding light forced him to shut his eyes as a voice from the darkness demanded, “Eyes open.” '

  He struggled to do so, remembering the agonizing pain of the jab to the kidneys that came to those who disobeyed.

  “You say you were with the Exiles, listening to music, talking, past eleven. And you have witnesses,” Helmut Gurtman said, his voice filled with contempt. “Your witnesses may have lied, of course. Even if they have not, it is illegal for you to fraternize with the Exiles. You are aware that I could send you back to Fort Davis at a moment’s notice for violation of parole, are you not?”

  Devin blinked into the light and said nothing. He was blind now; his world was white pain.

  “Oh, does the light bother you? Remove it, Sergeant.”

  The light snapped off. Devin continued to look forward.

  “Actually, I bear you no ill will. In fact, there is a certain sympathy I feel with the Milfords, and you. Through your sister.”

  Devin’s sight returned. He looked at Helmut, who met his look, expressionless.

  “I know your sister quite well,” the German added.

  It slowly dawned on Devin what Helmut meant. His face reddened.

  “Perhaps you did not hijack the truck,” Helmut said. “But you may excite others. There may be those who wish to use you for a symbol. It is therefore necessary for you to make a symbolic gesture. A public confession. An appeal, perhaps, for what you have come to understand about the New America. Its advantages— the disadvantages of clinging to old ideas. Do you understand?”

  Devin stared, eyes front, and said nothing.

  The music was leaden and pompous, and to sensitive ears it might have seemed better suited to Red Square Jhan to the main street of Milford, Nebraska. Trombones razzed out martial bursts of sound, drums hammered out rhythms that suggested the relentless tramp of goosestepping boots. The Lincoln Day parade was under way.

  Local policemen on motorcycles led the way, followed by a high-school honor guard wearing the blue uniforms, red hats, and armbands of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. They carried flags—the flag of Nebraska, the U.S.-UN-USSR flag, the new Heartland flag, the old U.S. flag with the stars removed.

  This riotous confusion of banners mirrored the confusion of loyalties the townspeople felt, and were meant to feel. Amid so many emblems could any one insignia have meaning? And could any one patriarch be taken as the symbolic soul of the nation when enormous portraits of Lincoln and Lenin were carried side by side?

  Long Live Peace and Brotherhood

  Lincoln, Father of Social Democracy

  Lenin, Founder of Our Way

  Heartland, Our Home

  Long Live the U.S.-Soviet Alliance

  A troop of Little Lincoln Brigadiers, aged six to eight, carried the we are the future banner and were cheered by their parents as they marched by, grinning and waving.

  The high-school sports teams marched by in uniform, Scott in his basketball outfit, Puncher in his football uniform,'and the girls in the Dance Club, including Jackie, who basked in the attention even as she disapproved of the spectacle.

  A tractor pulled a float that held the ladies of the Quilting Club, and other floats with winsome teenage beauty queens followed the procession to the end of town. There was another float that boasted a fifteen-foot cow, the proud symbol of a dairy cooperative. Betty Milford marched proudly with other sponsors of the country 4-H Club. Clowns, jugglers, drill teams, equestrian clubs, danced merrily. Ranks of the Kiwanis, Lions, Elks, and B’nai Brith and Demolay marched by proudly.

  Peter Bradford winced a little as the first Lincoln-Lenin banners passed by. He had always thought that particular symbol was too unbelievable. Lincoln and

  Lenin were about as similar as desert and beach. And yet no one seemed to protest, or even notice, this political odd couple anymore; even the schools taught that they were great soulmates.

  Peter stood in the most prominent position on the reviewing stand. Taking its lead from the Kremlin and the great Red Square parades, the PPP was obsessed with every detail of rank and position. Slightly behind Peter and to his right was Helmut Gurtman in full dress uniform, his medals gleaming atop his black overcoat. On his left, a half step behind, was Herb Lister. A full step behind them, all in a row, were the members of the county council, with Alan Drummond, the exile representative, at the far end. Behind them were the rows of wives, including Amanda, who was not amused by the protocol.

  Groups of farmers marched by, and leaders of the government-controlled labor unions. More bands followed, trailed by the Milford County Sheriffs Department, with Ward Milford driving the lead car. But this benign and homespun progression of faces was only a prelude for the more ominous spectacle to come. Off in the
distance, a mechanical hum was gradually mounting to a roar.

  People strained to look down the street as two helicopters shot into view, skimming the treetops. They zipped past the crowd, climbed higher, performed a stunning series of dips and spins, then abruptly vanished. There was a momentary hush, then the SSU convoy raced into view, black vehicles perfectly regimented. The weaponry bristled, and the effect was raw power and intimidation. Accompanying this display was “The Internationale,” played by the high-school band. No one seemed aware that this anthem, now the theme song of forced compliance, had once been a paean to brotherhood. The townspeople watched in a kind of deadened awe.

  At the sight of the SSU, Peter’s face turned cold. He remained standing correctly, but there was no mistaking his attitude toward this display. What he found himself resenting most about this exhibition of raw power was that, in its way, it was thrilling.

  Almost as quickly as they appeared, the SSU vehicles were gone, leaving an odd emptiness. Then, from around the comer, marched two dozen old men, old soldiers in full battle dress, members of the local VFW. A couple of them had difficulty marching. One ancient World War I veteran, shrunken now inside his uniform, was being pushed in a wheelchair. The unit’s color guard was a single American flag. The only difference was that it was being carried upside down.

  At the veterans’ head, behind the flag, was the dignified figure of Will Milford, wearing the World War II uniform of a major. He walked stiffly, a little haltingly, eyes front.

  As the old soldiers approached the reviewing stand, the image of the upside-down U.S. flag—banned now, never seen in public—sent a bolt of electricity through the crowd. The applause began far up the street and roared like thunder as the old men reached the stand.

  Peter heard the roar before he understood it. Then he saw the flag and felt the thrill that all the others felt. He knew there could be trouble, but for that first spine-tingling moment it seemed not to matter.

  “What is this?” Gurtman demanded.

  Peter did not reply. The people on the reviewing stand, the leaders, the politicians and powerbrokers, were stunned, visibly shaken, as this symbol of rebellion passed. Someone at the back of the stand began to clap. Peter turned to see Amanda, head held high and defiant, her eyes looking past the two men, toward the flag making its way to the stand. Others joined her, until many of those on the reviewing stand were applauding and cheering along with their supposed followers in the street.

  “What is happening?” Gurtman cried.

  “Sentiment, Major,” Peter said. “You must have had some contact with it, even in East Germany.”

  “The flag is forbidden.”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, the flag is forbidden.”

  The veterans executed a creaky right face and stopped at parade rest before the reviewing stand. The ovation continued, and then Peter saw—soon everyone saw—another unscheduled spectacle as a ragtag band of two hundred Exiles marched into view.

  They were all there, men, women, children, dressed in their accustomed rags and tatters, and they too carried banners:

  Dignity Human Rights Our Children Are Hungry We’re Americans Too

  The townspeople who had given the VFW marchers a mighty ovation just moments before greeted the Exiles with a nervous silence, the kind of silence that might accompany a display of bad manners. There were regulations to keep the Exiles out of town. The Exiles marched in silence, the quiet now gripping the courthouse square.

  Peter was nonplussed at this intrusion. He glared accusingly at Alan Drummond, but Alan returned his stare without wavering.

  Major Gurtman watched the Exiles’ march with cold amusement. He was no politician, but he understood the Soviets’ strategy was to divide and conquer, and he realized he was seeing that policy brilliantly executed. The townspeople had been genuinely touched by the gesture of the VFW, but were unsympathetic and hostile toward those they considered outsiders.

  The Exiles halted at the side of the square, their banners still flapping in the cold wind. Amid the tense silence, Peter Bradford stepped to the microphone. He shared the tension, anger, and uncertainty of the moment, but forced himself to be calm and chose his words carefully.

  “Friends and neighbors,” he began. “Thank you all for coming to our Lincoln Day celebration. There may be bigger celebrations somewhere, but none better!” The applause helped ease the tension. He smiled and continued. “We live in unsettling times. I hope we’re moving toward a new life where our spirit—your spirit—keeps us together. We can’t stop change. What we can do is follow the example of Mr. Lincoln and turn defeat into victory, despair into hope. And we can start that right here in Milford County.”

  The crowd was a little confused by the message, but applauded enthusiastically. Peter held up his hand for quiet.

  “As is customary,” Peter continued, “I would like to introduce the Milford party chairman, Herb Lister, and Major Gurtman, of the United Nations Special Service Unit, and invite them to say a few words.”

  The crowd muttered its displeasure. Herb Lister waved stiffly but did not try to speak. He had attempted a speech the previous year but had been hooted into silence.

  Helmut Gurtman was not so easily intimidated. He stepped forward with the self-assurance of a man who commanded the mightiest military force within five hundred miles. “I too extend my thanks for being able to serve the people of this area,” he began. “But I would like to give my opportunity to speak to someone else. Someone well known to you. Someone who now wishes to confess his past errors and present a very personal message of peace and understanding.”

  The crowd shifted uneasily, fearing the worst from this man. Gurtman turned and nodded to the rear of the reviewing stand and soldiers escorted Devin Milford forward.

  Amanda gasped and there were scattered cries. Devin was dressed in simple, loose prison garb, and his face was grim, his emotions hidden. The soldiers guided him with the gentlest touch on his arm; he had learned the routine at Fort Davis. Just before the microphone he paused and glanced out at the crowd.

  “My God, Devin,” Peter muttered, and then the soldiers pushed him forward.

  “I present to you Mr. Devin Milford,” Gurtman said contemptuously.

  Gurtman and the soldiers stepped back, leaving the captive alone at the microphone.

  Devin gazed out over the crowd, at the far horizon. He hesitated and the entire gathering seemed to hold its breath. A full minute passed.

  The crowd was still frozen in silence.

  The courthouse clock began to peal the hour.

  Devin’s face seemed carved from stone. Whatever the German wanted, he would not oblige him, no matter the cost.

  Gurtman spoke again to the soldiers. Peter clenched his fist and wondered if he would have the nerve to intercede.

  Then there was a stirring. At first the sound was unclear, barely definable. Dieter Heinlander, the cello player, started it. In his gruff voice he began to sing, “Oh say, can you see . .

  In the silence, the words were an electric current, uniting them all.

  Other Exiles took up the anthem. “. . . by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed . .

  Amanda was the first on the reviewing stand to sing. Tears burned her eyes as she looked out on the ragged band of Exiles, people who were her friends now.

  With Amanda, other townspeople joined in the song—the one they had mumbled through at football games for so many years, and thought a nuisance, the one that was banned now. Soon it spread through the entire square, cresting like a wave.

  “And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air . . .”

  Helmut Gurtman, for the first time in memory, seemed indecisive, as the national anthem echoed through the town square. “That song is forbidden,” he shouted.

  “Arrest them all,” Peter suggested sardonically.

  Gurtman barked a command to his soldiers. They seized Devin’s arms and started to lead him away. Peter stepped in front of
them, stopping them, and turned to their commander.

  “You have a thousand emotionally charged people out there,” he said. “I suggest that the less you make of this, the more you gain. Remember, you brought him here.”

  Gurtman flushed, furious but uncertain. He was a soldier and this was politics, unknown terrain. He stiffened, breathed deeply, and looked out over the crowd with impotent loathing.

  . . o’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.” The people finished the anthem and cheered and embraced one another.

  “You take him,” Gurtman snapped at Peter. “I will deal with him later.” He marched away, followed by his men.

  Peter stepped to the microphone. “God bless you all,” he said. “And God bless America too.”

  Peter quickly led Devin across to his office in the courthouse. There had been enough crowds and displays of emotion for one day.

  “Thanks for your help,” Devin muttered.

  “Thank the townspeople; they saved your butt,” Peter said.

  Others soon joined them—Amanda, Aiethea, Ward, and Betty. They all embraced Devin, and a few tears were shed. Devin said, “I saw Dad; where is he now?”

  “He was tired,” Ward said. “Somebody drove him on home, just after your brilliant speech.”

  Devin grinned. “Damned if he didn’t look great in his uniform.”

  “You looked great too, honey,” Aiethea said, smiling back at him. Devin had made her feel proud, something she had been sure she would never feel again.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Peter said. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and this is definitely it.”

  They all started along the courthouse corridor, laughing and talking, but abruptly fell silent when they saw Helmut Gurtman awaiting the approaching group. Tall and sinister, in his black uniform with the glittering gold medals, he blocked the door.