They began to hear the commotion from the brass band. The hum of people and the mayor’s voice over the loudspeaker were carried by the dust-wind a quarter mile before they arrived.

“I know, Jeetu. I’m only telling you what I see.”

They left the buckboard and horse on the outskirts and walked down to Main Street. The streets were filled with vendors of popcorn, candy, peanuts, and balloons. Many businesses had shut down for the day. A large tent was placed at the intersection of Main and Church Streets. Underneath it, the band played a happy tune that the orchestra had played at his high school.

“I always liked that song,” Amarjeet said.

“What?” Ram asked.

Suddenly, Amarjeet was irritated. Of course Ram would not know the tune. “Look, the line is there,” Amarjeet said, pointing to the post office.

Young men queued in front of the doors for the length of two blocks. Ram and Amarjeet joined them. At 8:59, church bells rang all over town. The post office doors swung open and the first young men stepped in.

“They will think badly of us, because of the Ghadar arrests,” Amarjeet said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ram said.

Amarjeet disagreed, but said nothing.

They stood for two more hours in the summer heat before the line advanced into the cool of the building. Five tables were set up as desks, operating simultaneously, each staffed by a Valley resident. Amarjeet and Ram stepped forward to the same table; Ram did not feel confident facing the interviewer alone. Nick Amsler, whose father ran the Swiss dairy down the road from their farm, stood at the table next to theirs. Amarjeet had gone to high school with Nick.

“Name?” the man asked. In front of him was a neat stack of blanks, a box to file them in, and two rows of fountain pens. He was near forty years old, his face bronzed from the spring harvest. Everybody was volunteering to contribute to the war effort.

“Amarjeet Singh Gill.”

“Whoa, son,” the man said. “You’re gonna spell that for me nice and slow.” Amarjeet did so, and the man noted the letters on a blank. He peered at them through his thick glasses. “That ain’t so bad, when you look at it on paper. Date of birth?”

“April first, 1896.”

“Birthplace?”

“Ludhiana District, Punjab, India,” Amarjeet said, spelling that too.

Now the man took out another card from his file, placed it beside him, and read carefully. “Of what country are you a citizen or subject?” he said, as if seeing the words for the first time.

“India,” said Amarjeet.

“Great Britain.” The man peered at him.

“I mean it to be India,” insisted Amarjeet.

“Amarjeet—” Ram said.

“I’ll mark both,” the man said, writing carefully. He did not seem to notice Amarjeet’s irritation.

“By whom are you employed?”

“I work on my uncle’s farm,” Amarjeet said, then, after a pause, “What are you marking now?”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”