C1 - Вариант 1

Part 1: Task 2

You will read a newspaper article by a woman who was deported from the USA. Five paragraphs have been removed. Read the article and complete each gap 6-10 with one of the paragraphs A, B, C, D, E and F. There is one extra paragraph which is not needed.
A. He was joined by a woman, and the two of them escorted me in a van to a plane waiting on the runway. They chatted and laughed in the front. I sat in the back, in shock. On the plane, my passport was handed to one of the air stewards and given back to me only when we landed in Gatwick.

B. Then he dropped his bombshell. You can't work illegally in America, you'll have to go home on the next plane. I started to cry and couldn't stop. Isn't there anybody else in the airport I could speak to, I pleaded. It was the worst thing I could have said. Ma'am, I am a US immigration officer. There is no one more important than me in this airport.

C. It was a small lie, I thought - in these days of terrorist scares, my crime would be a petty one. I put the form aside and settled back, waiting for the attendants to start bringing the dinner trays. Seeming to sense my anticipation, the man in the seat next to me gave me a tiny smile.

D. I answered all his questions calmly and handed over my bundle of travellers' cheques and a credit card. He barely looked at them. I remember him staring at me intently, without blinking. Then he picked up his telephone.

E. I parroted my answers. I'm staying in their house so I won't need much money. They're friends of the family. It's my summer holiday from university. But for the first time I started to feel afraid. The questions went on and on. We want to search your luggage, he said, and called for more armed support to take me through the airport to the luggage area. People stared as I walked by, flanked by three men with guns. I felt myself sweating.

F. Jet-lagged and disoriented on arrival, I queued at immigration. Person after person handed over their passport and visa and was ushered through. My mind was on other things. I needed to catch a Greyhound bus to Portland and was worrying about finding the bus depot and changing money.
Ruth Quayle, The Guardian, December 8, 2007
I couldn't have looked more innocent when I landed at Boston airport. I was an 18-year-old student and I had paid for a flight to spend my summer holidays in Maine, looking after the children of a family on the coast.

I'd filled in my visa on the plane. The purpose of my visit? Well, I wasn't stupid. Yes, I was going to be earning pocket money, but the family had told me it wasn't necessary to get a work permit. I was on holiday. That's what it felt like. I ticked the box marked Vacation.
I smiled at the man behind the desk when it was finally my turn. He smiled back and went through my papers. Yes, it's my first time in America, I said. I'm very excited, yes. He began to ask more questions. Who are these people you are staying with? How do you know them? How much money do you have for six weeks?
A man with a gun in his belt arrived. I was taken to a side area where he started to question me. He didn't smile. How do you know this family? What are you doing for six weeks? How can you afford to stay in America for that long?
As he took out the contents of my bag, he found my diary and, in it, a letter. He read it once, looked at me, and read it again. He seemed to straighten up, almost to rub his hands with pleasure. You've lied to a US immigration officer. Do you have any idea of the seriousness of that?
I was terrified. The letter was to my mum from friends who lived in the same part of America. It said: "We're so glad Ruth will be working in Maine this summer. We'd love to meet up with her."
The questions started again, but this time I had to stand up with my right hand in the air and promise to tell the "whole truth, nothing but the truth", etc. How many children are there in this family? I couldn't remember, but was now terrified of lying under oath. Four. No, five, I'm not sure, I mumbled.
After much begging, he agreed to let me make some phone calls. I called my parents, but there was nothing they could do at 3am in England. So I called the family in Maine. They said they could get a lawyer to the airport the following morning. It was 9pm. When I asked if I could stay the night, he got angry. Have you not listened to me? You are not allowed on US soil. You are being sent home.
I felt desperately ashamed to tell everyone I was back. To this day I can't work out why I was stopped. The following December I tried to go to America again, to visit a friend in New York. I'd been assured that I wasn't blacklisted, but at Birmingham airport the friendly check-in steward told me that, with my passport, I'd get turned back as soon as I landed. I was on the computers as a deportee. I cancelled my trip. That was 12 years ago. I've travelled to lots of amazing places since, but still haven't been to America. I'd love to get there one day.