Read Online Amerika by Brauna E. Pouns, Donald Wrye - Free Book Online
Authors: Brauna E. Pouns, Donald Wrye
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Committee in Chicago. They conferred, huddled over their note pads, until finally one of them rose, a thin, plain, intense woman in a dark suit.
“The committee would like to thank all of you. Dance is such a joyous expression, with a long tradition. As we have traveled the last three weeks to these area tryouts throughout the Central Administrative Area, it has been very gratifying to see so much interest in the return to traditional dance, with its grace and discipline, after the undisciplined and unseemly contortions of recent years. Thank you again. Mrs. Knox will let you know the results.”
Amanda saw Jackie’s face fall. The woman’s words were an unmistakable slap at the modern dance that Jackie loved—and had just performed—and a defense of the classical ballet that was officially favored by the Russians, in America as well as in their own country.
Amanda stood up, crestfallen. The judges stood in front of the stage, saying their goodbyes. Amanda gathered her courage and walked slowly down the aisle. She stood there a moment until one of the judges noticed her and smiled stiffly.
“Yes?”
“I’m Amanda Bradford,” she said, holding back her anger. And that was not easily done. Too much had happened that day. The child in her yard, the news about Devin, and now this woman’s cruel rejection of Jackie.
“Jacqueline’s mother,” the teacher, Mrs. Knox, prompted.
“Yes,” the judge said. “And you’re concerned that my comments were directed at your daughter.”
“I’m concerned about the fairness of the judging process,” Amanda said tersely.
“There’s a lot more to these competitions than being a potentially good dancer, Mrs. Bradford.”
“My daughter was wonderful. How can you possibly not give her a chance?”
“We’re looking for the kind of dancer who is able to become part of a corps—one of a group expressing the kind of spirit and attitude we’d like to see in our young people.” The woman’s face was a frozen mask; Amanda realized that she could never penetrate her wall of ideology.
Moments later, in the car, Amanda embraced her weeping daughter. “Oh honey, it makes me so damn mad. I could kill.”
Jacqueline stopped crying, gaining control. “Could you really, Mother?” The question hung between them as they drove away.
Finally, in late afternoon, the group of Fort Davis prisoners reached the courtroom. It was a small, drab box with walls painted a hospital green and the sour smell of industrial soap in the air. The chamber was adorned only by the US-UN-USSR flag above the judge’s bench. Devin waited his turn before the magistrate, fighting the rising panic in him.
“83915,” the judge droned, without looking up.
“83915, sir,” Devin parroted back.
“Devin William Milford, you are assigned to live in the town of Milford, Nebraska, and not to travel more than twenty-five miles from there for any reason.” The judge paused a moment, as though trying to remember something. “You’re Devin Milford?” he asked, for the first time looking directly at the man before him.
“Yes, sir.”
The judge seemed undecided, as if he wanted to say something, to establish human contact. The hesitation passed. He met Devin’s eyes for a moment, and Devin looked away. At once, the judge resumed his businesslike tone. “You will reside at the home of your father, William Bradley Milford. You will report without fail to the designated authorities once each week. If you violate your parole, you will be returned to confinement. Do you understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Next case,” the judge intoned.
“Sir.” Devin felt the bailiff grasp his arm, but he stood firm. “My children, I have to see them. I—”
“You have your instructions,” the judge snapped, cutting him off. “Bailiff.”
Devin turned and walked to the back of the courtroom. The guard at the door looked at him and smiled. “Well, how’s it feel to be a free man?”
Andrei was back in his
“The committee would like to thank all of you. Dance is such a joyous expression, with a long tradition. As we have traveled the last three weeks to these area tryouts throughout the Central Administrative Area, it has been very gratifying to see so much interest in the return to traditional dance, with its grace and discipline, after the undisciplined and unseemly contortions of recent years. Thank you again. Mrs. Knox will let you know the results.”
Amanda saw Jackie’s face fall. The woman’s words were an unmistakable slap at the modern dance that Jackie loved—and had just performed—and a defense of the classical ballet that was officially favored by the Russians, in America as well as in their own country.
Amanda stood up, crestfallen. The judges stood in front of the stage, saying their goodbyes. Amanda gathered her courage and walked slowly down the aisle. She stood there a moment until one of the judges noticed her and smiled stiffly.
“Yes?”
“I’m Amanda Bradford,” she said, holding back her anger. And that was not easily done. Too much had happened that day. The child in her yard, the news about Devin, and now this woman’s cruel rejection of Jackie.
“Jacqueline’s mother,” the teacher, Mrs. Knox, prompted.
“Yes,” the judge said. “And you’re concerned that my comments were directed at your daughter.”
“I’m concerned about the fairness of the judging process,” Amanda said tersely.
“There’s a lot more to these competitions than being a potentially good dancer, Mrs. Bradford.”
“My daughter was wonderful. How can you possibly not give her a chance?”
“We’re looking for the kind of dancer who is able to become part of a corps—one of a group expressing the kind of spirit and attitude we’d like to see in our young people.” The woman’s face was a frozen mask; Amanda realized that she could never penetrate her wall of ideology.
Moments later, in the car, Amanda embraced her weeping daughter. “Oh honey, it makes me so damn mad. I could kill.”
Jacqueline stopped crying, gaining control. “Could you really, Mother?” The question hung between them as they drove away.
Finally, in late afternoon, the group of Fort Davis prisoners reached the courtroom. It was a small, drab box with walls painted a hospital green and the sour smell of industrial soap in the air. The chamber was adorned only by the US-UN-USSR flag above the judge’s bench. Devin waited his turn before the magistrate, fighting the rising panic in him.
“83915,” the judge droned, without looking up.
“83915, sir,” Devin parroted back.
“Devin William Milford, you are assigned to live in the town of Milford, Nebraska, and not to travel more than twenty-five miles from there for any reason.” The judge paused a moment, as though trying to remember something. “You’re Devin Milford?” he asked, for the first time looking directly at the man before him.
“Yes, sir.”
The judge seemed undecided, as if he wanted to say something, to establish human contact. The hesitation passed. He met Devin’s eyes for a moment, and Devin looked away. At once, the judge resumed his businesslike tone. “You will reside at the home of your father, William Bradley Milford. You will report without fail to the designated authorities once each week. If you violate your parole, you will be returned to confinement. Do you understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Next case,” the judge intoned.
“Sir.” Devin felt the bailiff grasp his arm, but he stood firm. “My children, I have to see them. I—”
“You have your instructions,” the judge snapped, cutting him off. “Bailiff.”
Devin turned and walked to the back of the courtroom. The guard at the door looked at him and smiled. “Well, how’s it feel to be a free man?”
Andrei was back in his
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