Free Bloodlines by Neville Frankel Page B

expelled from better countries than this. I’ve made my life, and I won’t tell you how to live yours. But I can’t help wondering whether the writer of your little poison pen letter is right—some of us just never learn. Please, don’t you be one of them.”

    But the more opposition Michaela faced, the more determined she became. She just held her head a little higher, put her chin out a little further, and kept going.
    Your grandfather’s concerns didn’t stop us from volunteering at the convention when three thousand people from all over the country descended upon this little town on the veld . They came by bus, by car, by the truckload. Some came by foot. Most of the delegates were black, but there were representatives of Indian, colored and white organizations, too.
    Michaela thought it would be a major turning point in South Africa, as important as the 1776 Continental Congress when Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, and James Madison’s writing of the Bill of Rights thirteen years later, all rolled into one. She hoped the impetus for change was so strong that time would compress and the impossible be accomplished–and we would be there to watch it happen. The police were there, too, but on the first day, all they did was take photographs and write down names and a record of whatever they heard. I thought the People’s Congress was too much of a threat to the government—they would shut it down before it started, and it would never happen. But they were smarter than we gave them credit for. They wanted to catch the organizers in the act, and make a show of force. Which they did.
    On the second day, in the afternoon, a cordon of police armed with rifles surrounded the crowd, and several went up to the podium. They pushed the delegates off the platform, and the officer in charge took the microphone.
    “You’re being held here on suspicion of treasonous activity,” he said. “No one leaves until we have the identity of every person here.”
    Each section of the Charter had been approved by the time the raid took place, and the goal of the convention was achieved. But for the next few hours, the police took down the identities of every person present and confiscated whatever written material they could find. We were forced to line up at a table they set up at the entrance, and only after providing proof of identity were we allowed to leave. When I reached the table I identified myself, the officer took down my information, and a photographer took my picture. Then it was Michaela’s turn.
    “Name?”
    “Michaela Green.”
    The officer leaned back and with his thumb tipped up the brim of his khaki police hat. He was older than we were by about fifteen years, which would have put him in his late thirties. I remember him well—we met several times after the convention. He was a muscular, big-boned man; thick bellied. He had reddish hair and freckles, pale blue eyes, thin lips, and I watched with distaste as he looked your mother up and down.
    “So, this is Mrs. Green, who used to be Miss Davidson,” he said with a serious expression, and in a dense Afrikaans accent. “I’ve heard all about you. Read several of your little Socialistic pieces in the university paper. I wondered when our paths would cross. Let me congratulate you on your marriage, Mrs. Green. Tell me, does your father, Dr. Davidson, know that his daughter is here today, serving food to our kaffir communists while they plot treason?” Michaela stiffened at the mention of her father’s name, but I squeezed the back of her arm, and felt her lean into me, acknowledging my signal. The officer missed nothing.
    “No need to be alarmed,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “See these?” He opened his lips to show his teeth. “Your father keeps them in good shape. He’s my dentist. He gives me really good advice about healthy living. That way, I get to keep my teeth.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at