I Sing for Freedom

By

Timothy C. Phillips

For Ann Coulter

Being a Freedom Singer could be tough sometimes, Andy mused as he sat looking

out the bus window, as it sped down the highway. Meals were frequently at irregular

times, and bedtime could be quite late, and wakeup early. It had to be this way, of course.

The Freedom Bus that ferried the singers from town to town was on a tight schedule,

their tour visiting many towns in the course of a summer.

Andy was a sophomore college student, and this was his farewell tour; nineteen

was the cutoff age for Freedom Singers. Mr. Lerner, their band director, had told them

why. “Being a freedom Singer is an important honor, but the age is restricted to

encourage the young person to take what they‟ve learned working with us and work for

the good of the country.”

Wherever the Freedom Bus took them, they were met with a riot of welcome.

People always clamored to greet them, and this made Andy‟s heart swell with pride. They

were just kids, ranging in age from eleven to nineteen, but they symbolized the Spirit of

Freedom, that‟s what Mr. Lerner always said in his opening address before their show,

and people understood that. That‟s why the applause at the end was always thunderous,

he supposed. Always at the end. No one ever interrupted a performance, even to applaud.
 They were truly of the people. For living accommodations, for example, they

stayed in people‟s homes; this was one part of being a Freedom Singer that Andy had

mixed feelings about. Because no one ever knew that they had been selected to serve as a

host, until the Freedom Bus stopped on their block, and Mr. Lerner met them at the door.

“Congratulations, citizen. Your household had been selected to serve as host for the

Freedom Singers.” People would sometimes break down and cry from joy when informed

of this honor; Andy had seen them.

He realized, though, it must be something a strain having twenty young people

under your roof. The host had to provide food, lodging, and at least make some attempt at

entertainment. These people usually seemed very nervous, but eventually Mr. Lerner

would take the host parents aside, and they would disappear for a while. He probably

understood they needed time with an adult, Andy supposed. Grown up talk, or whatever.

Today they were entering a town called Jefferson, Andy noticed from the sign. He

was unsure even what state he was in. He really didn‟t care. It was his last tour, and he

knew he‟d been letting things slide. He had been a little slow on some of the dance

numbers, a little off on some of the songs. It didn‟t matter, though. No matter how awful

he thought they were, there was always a standing ovation, and deafening cries for

encores. Andy had seen people practically smacking their kids to get them to applaud. He

shook his head. That was the power of Freedom.

The bus had turned east on pulling into town, and he saw that the houses along the

streets were nice, split level homes, some of them up to three stories. Good; that meant a

good night‟s rest, and people who could afford good food. They almost always stayed in

better homes, though a couple of times they had stayed with single older men, who didn‟t
seem to have much at all. These men had seemed bitter and afraid, and Mr. Lerner had

taken them aside quite early in the evenings, leaving the Freedom Singers to goof off

until time for sleep.

“I think it‟s going to be a nice one!” Clarissa shouted from the front of the bus. A

little cheer went up. Mr. Lerner smirked, but said nothing. It was a little game, by now;

they watched rapt with attention as he walked deliberately down a street, breathless with

anticipation until he turned up a walk, (seemingly at random, though the older kids knew

the house had been preselected by the Freedom Commission) finally letting them know

what citizen was being honored tonight, and where they would be eating and sleeping.

Then, they would grab their bags and go check out the house. Today Mr. Lerner

stepped down from the bus and walked nonchalantly down the street of an upper-middle

to high-class neighborhood. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled. So; he was in a

good mood, and being a little playful. Everyone laughed.

“Aw, Come on, Mr. Lerner!” A couple of the younger kids cried. He smiled,

shrugged in mock disgust and strolled down to the middle of the block.

Andy could see faces in windows; people wanting to see if they‟d been chosen.

Tough luck for them; Mr. Lerner walked past the houses where the people gaped in

windows, and strolled right up to one of the largest homes, a beautiful old two-story

house with a carefully maintained yard and immaculately trimmed shrubbery.

He knocked on the door; presently, it was opened by a stocky, middle-aged man,

wearing glasses. He was smiling in greeting, but Andy saw the look, the one that almost

seemed like shock, spread across his face. No doubt, it was all sinking in on him, and he
was having trouble believing that he‟d been chosen for such an honor. They all grabbed

their bags and started to unload.

Something was wrong, though. The man was still standing in the door when they

got there. It was as if he were barring their entry. He was saying things to Mr. Lerner.

Andy heard some of them.

“Contrary to founding principles,” something about “troops being quartered,” and

other things like that.

Mr. Lerner put up his hand. “Citizen, you have been chosen to be the host. This is

quite and honor. You should realize that.” Mr. Lerner put quite a bit of emphasis on the

words chosen and should. Andy and the other Singers stood there, gear in hand, sighing

impatiently. How long was this going to take?

Eventually a woman appeared and murmured to the man, and he stepped aside.

Andy and the others pushed in, looking around. It was a very nice home, and big; maybe

only a few of them would have to rough it on a pallet in the floor tonight.

They came in and flopped down. The sofa was very comfortable, Andy noted

with pleasure. He wondered how long it would be before they ate. The man was still

talking, sputtering, really, to Mr. Lerner, who stood with his arms crossed, listening

without reacting. It wouldn‟t be long before Mr. Lerner took him aside, Andy knew, and

the noise would then cease.

Andy looked around; there was a den off to the left; he got up and strolled in. He

heard the man get louder as he did so. Andy shook his head. It was almost like the man

resented them being there. Maybe he had mental problems. Andy looked on the walls in

the den. Here was the man was in many photos, shaking hands with different people.
Some of them looked familiar. He was trying to place where he‟d seen one face when he

noticed the degrees on the wall.

There were three of them; the man was a doctor of some kind. He looked closely

at the last one:

Know ye all men by these presents that upon recommendation of the faculty, and

conformation by the board, Harvard University hereby confers upon Jacob Solberg The

Doctorate of Philosophy in Political Science...

Political Science? He wondered what that was. It sounded somehow related to

government, a subject that he found boring. His college didn‟t offer any courses in it, and

he was glad, especially if the subject made you act in the shameful manner in which

Solberg had behaved.

He went back in, and Solberg was hovering on the edge of the room, staring at the

Freedom Singers as though they were alien creatures, and he didn‟t know quite what to

do about them. Mr. Lerner was still just inside the door, but now he was talking in quiet

but firm tones to the woman. She was listening, nodding. Taking orders. Great, Andy

sighed. The uncomfortable scene was at last over.

The woman vanished into the kitchen and he heard pots and pans. Great; at least

Mrs. Solberg understood what an honor that was being bestowed upon her home, and was

acting accordingly. Some of the younger kids were running around upstairs. Andy was

glad. Sometimes they could get on a guy‟s nerves. Presently there was a crash from

above and the sound of running feet. Solberg started to the stairs but Mr. Lerner stepped

forward. Solberg drifted back into the shadows.

 That night Andy slept in the Solberg‟s bed. The house had several bedrooms. Mr.

Lerner and several of the others installed themselves into these; the smaller children

crashed on the couches, or slept on pallets in the floor. The Solbergs themselves kept an

all night vigil in the kitchen. Andy was glad for such a comfortable bed. He felt like it

was going to be a big show the next day. Just a few left now, he reminded himself, as he

drifted off to an untroubled sleep.

The next day the entire town turned out for the show. This wasn‟t unusual. The

townspeople had decided to turn the event into a full-fledged festival however, and that

was a bit odd. They had set up stands that sold everything from lemonade and baked

goods, to t-shirts and novelties.

Andy shrugged. As long as they were in the spirit of the show. The Spirit of

Freedom. That was what was painted on the side of their bus. That‟s what they

represented. That‟s what Mr. Lerner had told them when they had volunteered to become

Freedom Singers.

Andy strolled through the different booths. He had no money, but he never

needed any. In his many visits to other towns the people were always extremely nice to

him and the other Singers. No, no, they always say; just take the soda, hamburger, or

whatever. It‟s on the house. Enjoy your stay. This let Andy and the others know that

most people were really proud of what them, and what they represented..

So naturally, he was a bit taken aback when he picked up a candy bar from a

booth and the attendant looked at him sharply. “Hey buddy, that‟s a dollar.” The
attendant was young, probably only a couple of years older than he was. Andy gaped, but

the man did not alter his expression.

The nerve. He wished that Mr. Lerner were here. He would take the man aside

and change his point of view in a hurry.

“You’re going to meet people out there,” Mr. Lerner had told them, “who don’t

understand what Freedom truly is. They are only out for themselves. They don’t think

about this marvelous country, or the brave leaders who fight every day to make sure that

it stays that way. That’s what we represent. You are young people, so it will shock you to

meet these…traitors. But they are out there, and when you meet them, be brave, because

you are the faithful.”

He considered these words now. In the past twenty-four hours, he had seen two

such people. He thought of Solberg the previous evening; now he was confronted with

this young man. Perhaps this town, Jefferson, was a nest of traitors to freedom. He‟d

remember the man‟s face, he decided. He‟d see if the man was so smug after he reported

him to Mr. Lerner. He laid the candy bar down and moved away.

Backstage, everyone was donning red, white and blue jumpsuits. They were

slightly excited, as always, but even the youngest children were used to the routine by

now. Mr. Lerner would go out, and give a brief speech describing in the most uplifting

and patriotic terms the Freedom Singers, what they represented, and just how important

and deserving of the utmost respect these high ideals were.

Then, it was show time for them. They would go onstage, and perform a rigid set

of numbers that they had rehearsed in Washington, before setting out. Even the encore
numbers were planned in advance. They never varied from the order. There was no need.

In a few minutes, a light came on, and Mr. Lerner went out onstage.

Andy had heard his speech so many times that he barely listened any more. Like

the songs that they performed, the words never varied. Like them also, it was sternly and

relentlessly patriotic in tone and subject. At the end of the speech, he introduced his

charges, and Andy first noticed something wasn‟t quite right. The applause were not

deafening. As a matter of fact, they were rather paltry.

When they went out onstage, Andy felt astonishment for the second time that day.

He had never seen so many empty seats. For a moment he thought that the situation

might be saved. Mr. Lerner came out, holding his hands up as if stemming the tide of a

thunderous applause that only he could hear. But his words were quite stern.

“I just want to say that these kids have worked very, very hard on this

presentation, a presentation that has drawn not good, but truly great reviews in some of

the most historic cities in our great nation—“

“No good, freeloading bums!” Someone shouted.

“Who said that?” Mr. Lerner demanded, the microphone squealing in protest from

the loudness of his voice.

“Those kids are no good! People only applaud „cause they‟re afraid of you finks!”

An older voice cried.

“Jefferson isn‟t afraid of you!”

“Let‟s run „em outa town!”

“Yeah! Let‟s get „em”

 Mr. Lerner was through trying to deal with these ingrates. He walked over to

Andy, and said “Let‟s get them out of here,” Just as the first barrage of rotten produce hit

them.

“Here‟s what Jefferson thinks of you red, white and blue fascists!”

A not-too-ripe tomato stunned Andy on the temple. This couldn‟t be happening.

They were the Freedom Singers. “We‟re the Freedom Singers!” He couldn‟t resist

shouting to them.

“Go to hell, you damned Nazis!”

Andy was the last to rush off stage, just as several irate boys his own age began to

climb the stage. He ran out the side door, and as fast as he could toward the Freedom

Bus, whose name had acquired a quite literal new meaning for him.

They mounted the steps into the bus, unaccustomed to emergencies, the crowd hot

on their heels.

“Drive, drive!” Mr. Lerner screamed at the driver. “Get us the hell out of here!”

The bus driver, looking terrified, fired up the engine and ground the gears.

“What‟s going on?” He asked meekly.

“I SAID DRIVE!” Mr. Lerner roared. The bus driver swung the lumbering

vehicle out into the road, leaning on the horn. People darted across the road, screaming

and chunking things at the bus. Tomatoes splattered against the windows, a bloody rain

of ruined fruit. Andy noticed more solid sounds too, and then he noticed windows crazing

as heavier objects smashed in the safety glass.

“Get down!” Mr. Lerner cried. “Stay away from the windows!”
 He stayed close to the driver, shouting into his ear. “Don‟t slow down if you want

to live! Run them over! Kill them! Just get us out on the highway!” And Andy saw now

that Mr. Lerner held a pistol, a sleek black automatic. He‟d never seen that before.

The smaller children whimpered. A couple cried openly. Andy sat in the aisle,

dazed, watching the bus glass shatter around him.

They were twenty miles from Jefferson before Mr. Lerner let the bus driver pull

into a truck stop for refueling. Andy, feeling exhausted, climbed down from the bus, and

walked into the truck stop. He went into the bathroom, and washed his face in a sink, and

went out into the dining area and sat down. The truck stop was a big place, one of those

all-in one places, with thirty fuel pumps, as well as a garage and a restaurant built on. In

the small cafeteria where Andy sat, there was no one. Except that is, one old man, who

brooded quietly over a cup of coffee.

Andy rubbed his eyes, and sat, thinking to himself about the events of the last few

days, when he noticed the old man‟s eyes were boring into him. He realized that the man

was staring at the insignia on his Freedom Singers jacket. It wasn‟t a polite stare.

Andy was about sick of the Midwest, its inhospitable atmosphere, and all of its

seditious inhabitants.

“What‟s the matter with you?” Andy shouted at the old face.

“Why is it everybody out here wants to commit treason?” He arose now,

something in him too afraid to approach the serene old face, but of his feet now, he spoke

louder, glancing from the girl behind the counter back to the old man who sat smiling—

smiling! Smiling at his rage—“Doesn‟t that word mean anything to you? Treason?”
 The old man enjoyed a sip of his coffee. The old man regarded Andy with the

smallest of smirks.

“Never used to think about it. I‟ve lived a long time, and I‟ve seen a lot of things

change, that‟s for sure. But Treason? Funny though; nowadays, treason sounds a lot like

freedom used to.”

Andy knitted his brows, but for some reason felt a strange smile starting at the

corners of his mouth. What is that supposed to mean, he started to ask. Then Fate played

its hand.

Mr. Lerner chose that moment to come through the door. It seemed that he had

heard the comments that the old man had made.

“Andy, I‟ve been looking for you. We‟re leaving in a few minutes. Go to the bus

now. I‟ll deal with this riffraff.”

Andy sat in his seat without moving for a moment. The old man sat motionless.

“Andy? I said go to the bus.”

“It‟s just that—“

“What? It‟s just that what, Andy?”

“He-he‟s just old,” Andy hesitated, remembering the sleek black pistol that Mr.

Lerner had produced. “he just...he—“

“Andy, no more of this. You get out of here, now.”

Andy walked out slowly toward the bus, a strange feeling washing over him. He

had wanted to hear more of what the old man was thinking. He wanted to understand why

the people in the town had pelted them with rotten tomatoes, oranges and apples. he

wanted to understand why the other old man, Dr. Solberg, had wanted them to go away.
His mind was full of questions, and he had half made up his mind to go back and say,no,

I will not go to the bus, not until I understand why we are hated by these people, when,

pop, pop, he heard the crisp reports from the restaurant area that he had just left, heard the

cashier in the front of the store cry out, heard two more reports of what he knew was the

sleek black pistol.

Andy wandered outside the station and stood dazed on the pavement, beneath the

shade of the giant gas island, where he could see the vague shapes of the other children,

the other Freedom Singers, through the tinted glass of the tour bus. The other Fascists.

The other Nazis. He walked into the garage that adjoined the place and looked around. In

a minute he found what he was looking for. He walked back to the doorway with it

behind his back. Presently Mr. Lerner came through the door.

“Andy, what are you doing out here? I told you to get on that bus.”

Mr. Lerner was quick, but Andy was quicker. Andy was young and strong, and he

laid the tire iron right across the older man‟s temple with considerable force. But Lerner

still managed to get the gun clear, the lethal little black pistol, and fire two rounds. There

was a hot knife of pain in Andy‟s right leg, and he slid down, so that now he and Mr.

Lerner were facing each other, Lerner against the wall, eyes confused and even now

becoming glazed.

Andy tried to rise, but it was very hard. The strength was gone out of his right leg.

He rose, supporting himself against the wall, and tried not to look at Mr. Lerner. Even

now the little black automatic slid from his dead grasp. Andy stooped slowly, painfully

and picked it up. He heard the grind of gears, and looked up to see the frightened faces of

his fellow singers as the battered Freedom Bus pulled away from the curb.
 They would be coming for him, now, he knew. It wouldn‟t be long. He hefted the

little gun, and moved back, slowly, painfully, into the shadows of the woods behind the

garage. Let them come; he would be waiting. If he lived for only a few more hours, or a

hundred more years, he would do it on his own, thinking his own thoughts, and he

wouldn‟t let anyone ever take that from him again. Andy smiled bitterly as he limped

along. He finally understood what Freedom was really all about.