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anarchist. You were deported from the U.S. in 1920. This office cannot help you. It’s D.C. I’m just not sure what to tell you. Deported? An anarchist charge? Don’t you see?”
    â€œI’m not an anarchist.”
    â€œThat’s not what the file here says.”
    â€œMy children are Americans. Surely that must mean something?”
    â€œNo. I’m sorry. Listen,” he begins again in a whisper, “it says that you are an anarchist. You are, by some definitions, un-American. Unfit for entrance. You’ll have to wait for Washington to overturn such a charge.”
    â€œBut please, between you and me, there must be someone here who can help me. Contact Washington? At least inquire—”
    â€œWe’re not permitted.”
    Silence. He can hear a typewriter striking up from behind a row of filing cabinets that stand like sentries.
    â€œNot permitted,” Austin repeats.
    â€œNo. Look. Do you see what it says here?” the clerk opens the file, turning it upright for Austin to read. The clerk’s cuff links, ring, and watch face catch the light. “See this? Clause ‘d’—”
    (d) That said AUSTIN VORONKOV is an ANARCHIST and believes in the overthrow by force of violence of the Government of the United States and that he disbelieves in and is opposed to all organized government.
    â€œI can explain,” Austin pleads.
    â€œStill, our office is not perm—”
    â€œAll right, all right,” Austin says. He is leaning close to the glass, can feel his cheek graze its cold, smooth surface. The row of ceiling lights shine in a line of white along the pane. How he’d like to shatter the glass, the typing like steady pinpricks. His breath fast and quick. He sputters his lips, bows his head, and steps away from the partition, arms slack and at his sides, though he feels a throbbing along his jaw and neck. He shakes his head.
Not permitted, not permitted.
He takes his first slow steps away from the partition. He is letting it settle in with each stride,
not permitted, not permitted
. And what is this now, but panic, the heart flutter and chest constricting, the sudden blush as if he’d come down with an instant fever. His envelope, his postcard! He looks around. Why do all these people stare so? The clerk is tapping on the glass partition. He waves Austin’s envelope in irritation. Two long strides and Austin is back before the clerk.
    â€œNot permitted,” Austin says, grabbing his envelope of documents. “Well, here is what I’m permitted to say to you: I see that you are married,” he continues, motioning to the small gold band on the clerk’s ring finger. The clerk retracts his hand.
    â€œYou see—when you have children of your own,” Austin says, “remember me and how you were ‘not permitted’ to help me. Remember me. Does your stamp there show that I am a husband, a father? No! So, I don’t want it! You have it! Why should I want a stamp from a country that threw me out? You say, ‘yes,’ and stamp, and ‘no,’ and stamp. You are a cog! Do you realize this? A cog. You are a speck on the surface of my life! So you can have your stamps and your papers and your ink-stained, filthy fingers and when you go home at night, kiss your wife, eat dinner, put your children to bed, think for a moment if you were denied all of it, all of it—the smell of your wife, the sticky hands of your children, the earth and air smell of their hair from play outside. Think then for a moment and remember me. It is you, and all the men like you, who have caused boys to have no father, a girl to have no father. I did not make this choice! So, please.”
    â€œWe cannot do anything,” the clerk says. He swallows, his Adam’s apple like a knot of contrition. He sits motionless.
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œI’m afraid we are not