I held the coffee cup in my hands and looked out of the window, beyond the police officer who had asked my name.
The American flag danced in the breeze and I compared its design to the one I had grown up with. All those lines and little stars.
It had been three years since my defection, which was much simpler than I’d expected. But I still felt nervous when I thought people were sent to recover me.
“Starzanlines,” I answered. “Combo Starzanlines.”
She tapped her notepad.
“Is that German?”
“Polish!” I smiled encouraging at her and she left.
For more stories from this prompt in Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, try here.
Underdown 
I remember we had defectors from the US during the Vietnam war coming to Sweden once… I think some had to wait for many years before they could return …
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Of course. I forget that even ‘luck countries’ can have unhappy citizens. And they were terrible times for anyone involved.
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She is working for the enemy, is she?
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Ah, who is the enemy?
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Those who are trying to recover him.
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A life looking life looking over their shoulder, but at least there are some perks, like the food! Great stuff. 🙂
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Thanks, Iain.
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It must take a long time before a defector feels at ease.
Well done, Karen.
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Thank you, Dale. Yes, It probably depends on the individual. My dad was a migrant who snuck out of his country after WWII and was frightened to go back for 50 years!
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My brother-in-law just started returning to Greece. Figured that past 50, they wouldn’t try to nab him for his two years of obligatory army service!
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Dear Karen,
We take it for granted don’t we? Well done.
Shalom,
Rochelle
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Yes, I think we do. It’s very hard to imagine what you have never experienced.
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That’s an interesting little dilemma and a manoevre
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Thanks, Neil.
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Regardless of what they’ve done, you gotta love someone with a sense of humour and a penchant for appalling puns.
Bravo, Sheila!
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Thank you. But it’s Karen, unless you’re using the archaic Aussie slang for woman?
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I admit, shamefaced, that I was indeed trying for a little Aussie humour, Karen.
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