Courage and Passion
By FreeThinker


Prologue

    The brutal Texas sun stood high in the afternoon sky as Robby and his friends furiously pedaled their bikes along the dusty winding road leading to Mt. Bonnell, their sense of excitement heightened by the knowledge of the danger and the certainty of severe punishment should they be caught by their parents. Robby’s had expressly forbidden him from ever crossing the MoPac railroad tracks, but the temptation of climbing the highest point in Austin was just too great for a ten year old boy egged on by his friends.

    Robby took the lead as they rounded the last bend, racing to reach the parking lot at the foot of mountain, his red hair falling across a freckled face tanned from a summer of exposure to the sun. He raised his arms in triumph as his green Schwinn Stingray skidded to a halt beneath the cedars lining the parking lot. The others blew raspberries at him as he grinned. The parking lot was empty and the boys didn't bother to lock their bikes as they left them unattended under one of the cedars and began the arduous climb up the precipitous steps.

    This was not the first time Robby had climbed Mt. Bonnell. He had done so frequently with both his Cub Scout pack and his dad. He loved to sit on the numerous large, flat boulders at the top and gaze out at the spectacular scene below as his dad sat in thought, smoking one of his Pall Malls. In fact, if he had to choose, Mt. Bonnell was probably his favorite place in town, even more so than swimming in Barton Springs.

    As on the bikes, Robby took the lead as the boys climbed, stopping only once along the way to catch his breath. It was a sign of the endless competition among the boys that they stopped only once, none wanting to show any sign of fatigue to the others; and, once again, it was Robby who raised his arms in triumph as they reached the top. He strolled to a point overlooking the rolling Texas Hill Country to the west of town and let out a whoop over the narrow, twisting Colorado River below.

    As the others horsed around on the boulders and concrete benches, Robby and his best friend, JT, circled around to the south, where they could see the city spread out below. Robby sat down, his arms wrapped around his knees, and gazed out at the Austin skyline dominated by the dome of the Texas State Capitol, (the biggest in the country, naturally), and the tower of the library at the University of Texas. JT sat beside him and looked up as a 727 roared overhead to the west from the airport by I-35.

    “Braniff,” JT declared authoritatively, squinting as he watched it pass.

    “Uh uh,” Robby objected. “Continental. Remember? ‘The proud Bird with the Golden Tail.’ Braniffs are all weird colors like orange and turquoise and stuff.”

    They turned their attention back to the city below.

    “So, when’s your Dad coming home?” JT asked, his eyes looking toward Barton Springs and Clarkesville.

    “Another week. He’ll be through in Saigon tomorrow and then he’s going to the Philippines to interview the pilots at the Air Force Base there. Then he’ll come home.”

    JT nodded.

    “It must be pretty exciting being a newspaper reporter.”

    It was Robby’s turn to nod.

    “Yeah. And, if this story turns out good, Dad says he might have a shot at getting’ on with some really big paper like The New York Times or one of the TV networks, like CBS.”

    “Doesn’t he want to stay in Austin?”

    Robby shrugged.

    “I guess he wants to be the best reporter he can, so if we have to move to New York, I guess we have to.

    There was a hint of melancholy in Robby’s voice, which was not lost on JT.

    “You don’t want to move, do ya?”

    Robby grinned at his friend.

    “Are you crazy? I love Austin. It’s the coolest place in America. Janice Joplin’s from Austin. Heck. President Johnson’s from Austin.”

    “Yeah,” his friend replied. “I seen his plane once when he was here.”

    “Yeah? Well, I saw him at that barbecue place on 12th St. once. And, he even shook my hand!”

    Unable to surpass that, JT fell into silence again as the other boys threw rocks over the western side. Another 727 approached from the east, but curved to the north before passing overhead.

    “TWA,” said JT. Robby nodded.

    “So, aren’t ya afraid ‘bout your Dad goin’ to Vietnam?”

    Robby looked out across the city, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. After a moment, he replied, “Naw. I mean, I wish he was home, but he’s staying in Saigon and he’s not goin’ out where all the fightin’ is.”

    He paused for a moment, and then added quietly, “He’ll be OK.”

    However, before the conversation could proceed further, one of the boys from behind called, “Hey, let’s take-off. I wanna Coke!”

    JT turned around and yelled out, “Wussie,” but Robby stood suddenly and said, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

    He stood and looked out to the east toward Anderson Rd. He never could see his house from up there, but he always tried.

    “I gotta piss bad,” one of the boys declared.

    “Me, too,” said JT. The boys gathered near a cedar and unzipped their pants. Robby joined them and in a moment, several streams were pouring down into the dirt and needles. A couple intersected and after a few seconds, the boys laughing and crying out in mock pain, a swordfight with the streams ensued With their bladders depleted, the boys zipped up and descended the “mountain.”

    It was mid-afternoon when, after each of the boys had split off from the group and he was shouting his good-byes to JT that Robby noticed a ‘68 Volare pull up in front of his house as he approached. He recognized it as belonging to his father’s editor at the Austin Evening Reporter. Robby pedaled over to the side of the car as an older man with a wrinkled shirt, his tie undone and his thinning hair uncombed, wearily climbed from the car.

    “Hey, Mr. Sternbeck!” Robby said as the man closed the car door, it seemed with great pain. Robby had always liked his father’s boss, a funny man who did the most hilarious impressions of Richard Nixon and President Johnson, John Wayne and Elvis. However, it was clear that Mr. Sternbeck was in no mood for impressions. Robby stopped and a funny, tight feeling grew in his chest.

    “What’s wrong, Mr. Sternbeck?”

    The man looked in the boy’s eyes, his own red and swollen.

    “No,” said the boy softly.

    “Son, is your Mama home?”

    Robby glanced toward the driveway and saw the wood paneled Country Squire station wagon and nodded. The man sighed and began to walk toward the front of the car. As he passed Robby, he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

    Robby sat on his bike for a moment as Mr. Sternbeck slowly trudged across the lawn. As he heard the muffled doorbell from inside, Robby slowly rode into the driveway and dropped his bike on the lawn. When he heard his mother’s scream from inside, he dropped to the grass and buried his head in his hands.

 

000

    His chest seemed about to burst as he searched through the throngs of young people for Stefan. He had to know what was happening and Stefan could tell him. For more than half a year, since his father had taken his position at the Charles University of Prague to teach Russian Literature, Stefan, a student of his father’s, had been his violin tutor, his confidant, his friend. It was Stefan who had whispered of the changes coming to his country, how Czechoslovakia was gradually cracking open the shell of oppression that Zhenya’s homeland had imposed on them, how Dubcek was leading them out of the egg and into life. That was how Stefan had phrased it and, listening to him describe it, Zhenya could feel the joy in his friend’s voice and he wanted to be part of this rebirth.

    However, he knew it was not possible for the son of Alexei Koronov, Hero of the Soviet Union and one of the greatest playwrights of the Twentieth Century. Even more, he was the grandson of Alexander Koronov, one of Stalin’s favorite composers. He was slo the great-great nephew of Dmitri Koronov, one of the giants of nineteenth century music, composer of the great Christmas ballet, The Ice Prince, and the moving and beautiful St. Petersburg Symphony. He was as trapped in his world by who he was as by where he was.

    He looked down at his lap at the two most precious items in his life, the century-old violin that had once belonged to his famous great-great uncle and the leather bound book, its cover faded and torn. There were secrets in that book, secrets the Soviet authorities would kill to suppress. The secrets were precious and he wanted to share them with Stefan for someone must know them. He feared telling his father. After all, he was revered by The People. He dined with Brezhnev! They lived in the finest area of Moscow and he attended a special school reserved for the children of the elite. Would his father ever risk that position?

    He sighed as he looked out across the roofs and steeples of Prague. Such a beautiful city; and, about to be such a free city.

    The knock on the door startled the boy. He nearly dropped his his book and his precious violin as he jumped. He looked fearfully at the door, as all Russians did when one was not expecting a knock.

    “Zhenya! It’s me!”

    “Stefan!”

    The boy carefully placed his precious artifacts on the table beside him and ran to the door. He flung it open, revealing the smiling face of his beloved Stefan. He threw his arms around the young man.

    “Stefan! What news?”

    The tall figure guided the boy back into the room and gently closed the door. He placed a cautionary finger to his lips and pointed toward the couch under the picture of Chairman Brezhnev. The two sat down and Stefan wrapped his arms around the boy, who snuggled in close. Zhenya thought Stefan the most handsome man in the world with his American blue jeans and tight, white t-shirt. His thick dark curls hung over his ears and down his neck. He reminded Zhenya of pictures of those English poets, Shelley and Byron, decadent poets forbidden by the authorities but given to him by Stefan, who wanted him to know of the beauty and joy of the world outside the chains of the Soviet empire.

    “My sweet ice prince,” Stefan whispered as he ran his fingers though the blond hair atop the boy. He kissed Zhenya’s forehead and the boy opened his eyes.

    “Please, Stefan! Tell me! What’s the news?”

    Stefan closed his eyes and Zhenya became alarmed as he saw the new and sudden pain in the young man’s eyes.

    “Why, sweet Zhenya. You and your father are leaving Prague tonight.”

    “What?”

    The boy pulled back in horror.

    “Stefan! We can’t leave! It’s not true! I… can’t leave you! I… I love you.”

    “And, I you, my sweet prince. But, we have received fearful news, news of danger. Your father must leave this city and he must leave it tonight. And, he must take you.”

    There were tears in Stefan’s eyes as he spoke. Zhenya’s suddenly filled with tears, as well.

    “No! I can’t leave you! I can’t go back to Moscow! I’ll die if I have to go back!”

    Stefan held the boy tightly and whispered in his ear, “You’re not going back to Moscow.”

    “B-b-but, where?”

    Stefan breathed in the sweet smell of Zhenya’s hair as his tears fell to the boy’s head.

    “To freedom. To America.”

    Zhenya pulled back in shock, his eyes wide. America? How was this possible? It couldn’t be. Not he. Not his father. Not Alexei Alexandrovich Koronov! He would never leave the Revolution! Besides, the authorities would never allow it!

    “We must pack your things now. Come.”

    “But, Stefan! What about you! Are you coming with us?”

    Stefan froze for a moment before standing. Without looking at the boy, he softly said, “No, my little Zhenya. I must stay here and defend my homeland. I must fight for the freedom of my people.”

    Zhenya stood.

    “I will stay and fight with you!”

    Stefan saw the defiance in the young boy’s eyes and felt the tears form in his own again.

    “No, sweet prince. You must go with your father.”

    He wrapped his arms around the boy again and added, “Tonight, the tanks will come and we must be prepared to fight for Dubcek, for freedom, for Czechoslovakia.”

    “The tanks?”

    Stefan nodded.

    “From Poland and East Germany and Hungary. That is why you and your father must leave immediately, while you still have the chance. The arraignments have been made. Your father is attending to the final preparations as we speak. Now hurry. Where is the book?”

    Zhenya’s poor mind was in a whirl. With confusion, he asked, “The book? What book?”

    “You know what book, Zhenya. Please. Where is it?”    Zhenya pointed to the table by the window.

    “But, how do you know of the book?”

    Stefan smiled.

    “Come. This is a treasure and it must make it to America. As you must. As your father must. Come.”

    As Stefan carried the violin and the book to the bedroom as if he were holding sacred relics, the door opened and Zhenya’s father entered the room with a pleasant looking man, tall and dark-haired, with a comfortable smile on his face.

    “Papa!” Zhenya asked fearfully. “Is it true?”

    “Yes, my son. Now hurry. Stefan has much to do.”

    The man beside him grinned at Zhenya and said in a strongly Americanized Russian, “Yevgeny Alexeivich. I’ve heard great things about you! You’re going to have a wonderful life when you get to America! You’re going to be a famous man some day.”

    “This is Mr. Bennett from the American Embassy,” his father said as he strode past to the bedroom. Stefan followed with the violin and the book. To Stefan he said, “The car is outside. We have very little time. You must meet the others.”

    Moments later, they emerged from the room with two suitcases and a violin case. They stood at the door. Zhenya still in a state of confusion looked in agony at Stefan. The young man avoided the boy’s eyes, looking instead at those of the boy’s father.

    “Comrade Professor…”

    “Good Stefan. Do not call me ‘Comrade.’ I hope never to be called ‘Comrade’ again!”

    They smiled at each other. Suddenly, Zhenya ran to Stefan and threw his arms around him. The two held each other as Zhenya’s father and the man from the American Embassy waited, the American checking his watch.

    “My little ice prince,” Stefan whispered. “You will be a great man in America someday. You will accomplish great things. Remember your Stefan.”

    Zhenya cried into the young man’s t-shirt. Stefan pulled him away and knelt before him, their faces just inches apart.

    “You must be brave, my Zhenya. You must have courage. You and I will both face great danger tonight. But, you will soon be in Germany. And, from there you will fly to America. I shall stay here and fight the Soviet tanks and my friends and I will build a true socialist democracy here, free of the oppression of the Soviets. And, someday, when you are a man, you will come and play your violin in a free Prague and I will be there to lead the bravos!”

    The American touched his father’s arm and nodded toward the door. His father gently pulled the boy to the door. Zhenya fought the tears as they stepped outside.

    “Good luck, Professor,” said Stefan from inside.

    “And, to you, my boy. And, to you.”

000

    
    “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”
 

    The surging crowds moved forward, chanting their refrain, anger and defiance in their faces as the police stood their ground, their nightsticks at the ready. From two blocks away, Ethan stood beside his parents, watching in awe and horror. His parents held his hands tightly and he could feel the anger in their hearts translated through their grip and it added to his concern and fear. Across the street, a film crew was setting up their camera, but the reporter kept looking fearfully up the street. Ethan watched as the cameraman spoke to the reporter. The reporter’s eyes roamed around the scene until they fell on Ethan and his parents huddled in the doorway of a shoe store. Their eyes met as the man looked at Ethan in shock. The boy nudged his father and pointed to the man, who held out his hands in a gesture of amazement before pointing at the demonstrators down the street about to confront the police of Chicago. Ethan's father turned.

    "Emily, this may not have been a good idea."

    "And, just what was the tip-off, Morgan? The thousands of protestors screaming obsenities or the hundreds of policemen armed with billyclubs and mace?"

    Ethan watched his father sigh as he looked around.

    "I just didn't think. I thought it would be instructive for Ethan to see the fascists in their natural habitat. I thought we would be safe here on the fringes.”

    Ethan’s mother rolled her eyes.

    “Morgan, we’ve been on the fringe since we met. That’s the problem. You’re always on the fringe.”

    “Emily, is this really the best time to recount your laundry list of recriminations? We need to get Ethan back to the Kopinskys’.”

    “Dad?”

    “Not now, son. You know, Emily, every time we face a crisis, you never have the grace to wait until after the crisis…”

    “Dad?”

    “Not now, Ethan! Can’t you see we’re trying to figure out what to do?”

    “Dad, look over there. I think there the police are coming from behind.”

    Ethan’s parents both looked up the street in the direction opposite of the police and protestors they had been watching. There, turning a corner was another phalanx of police in riot gear and they did not seem to be in a forgiving mood.

    Holding Ethan’s hand, his mother took off in a furious walk toward the line of police, Ethan dragging his father behind them.

    “Someone has to wear the damn pants in this family,” she was muttering. “This is what happens when you let poets make decisions.”

    As they approached the line of marching police officers, Ethan became even more afraid. From behind the line of police, several small objects flew through the air, arcing over the police and flying past Ethan and his parents. When they hit the street, they exploded into clouds of white smoke and mist. Almost immediately, Ethan’s eyes began to burn. A second later, he began to cough and, then, to choke.

    “Mom! It’s tear gas!”

    Even as he spoke, his mother stopped and watched in horror as the line of police in front began to charge, their shields before them and their nightsticks in the air. Ethan's father muttered, "Oh, my God," as he took hold of his wife and son and through them against the nearest wall. He pushed them down and covered them with his body as the police rushed.

    Ethan was choking from the tear gas as he held his arm over his face. He felt his parents holding him against the concrete of the wall and sidewalk. He heard yelling and screaming, profanities and insults as the police rushed by. Suddenly, hus father cried out in pain and was pulled away from him. In horror, he saw his father sprawled on the sidewalk, desperately covering his face as two policemen kicked him and beat him with their nightsticks.

    "Stop!" he screamed, jumping up and attacking one of the officers. The man roughly shoved him aside as he continued to kick Ethan's prone father.

    Suddenly another policeman shoved the other two away and stood between them and Ethan's family. The first two cursed and ran on, joining their brothers up the street in their attacks. The new comer, when he saw it was relatively safe, turned and knelt beside the prone figure of Ethan's father.

    "What in the Hell are you people doing?" his mother screamed as she, too, knelt beside her husband. The police said nothing, but took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the blood on Ethan's father's face.

    “Ethan! Ethan! Are you OK?”

    “I’m OK, Dad!” the boy cried as he tried to hug his father.

    "My God," he muttered. "I have a ten year-old son! What's the matter with you people?"

    "Why would you bring him down here?" the policeman demanded as he continued to wipe the blood away. "Didn't you know it was dangerous?"

    "Well, I didn't expect the police to go on a rampage!" He tried to sit up. From up the street, there were screams of pain and anger, of hatred and fear as the police and demonstrators clashed.

    "Come on," the policeman said, trying to help Ethan's father stand. "We've got to get you out of here. Can you stand?"

    His father nodded uncertainly and proceeded to stand. More policemen were rushing up, but when they saw Ethan, they veered off toward the melee up the street. The wind was blowing the tear gas away, but Ethan was still coughing and his eyes burned terribly. He hugged his father and his mother wrapped one her husband’s arms around her shoulder to help support him. They began to walk away from the pandemonium.

    “I will make sure you people pay for this,” she spat at the policeman.

    “Mom, he’s helping us,” Ethan admonished.

    “Good luck finding a lawyer,” the policeman said softly.

    “I have one,” she replied. “Me.”

    The policeman looked at her as if she were crazy.

    “You? You’re a lawyer? A woman?”

    Ethan could hear his mother getting ready for her usual speech about how women were just as intelligent and mature and emotionally stable as men and that there was no reason why a woman could not do any job a man could do. To head her off before it started, he pointed toward a truck with a large red cross on it and yelled, “Help! We need a doctor!”

    Two men and a nurse came running toward them and as they led his mother and father away, the policeman tapped Ethan on the shoulder.

    “What the Hell were you doing down here?”

    “My father wanted me to see this. He wanted me to see history.”

    The policeman shook his head and sighed.

    “You should be home fishing or playing baseball, not protesting the war and betraying your country.”

    Ethan stood up proudly before the policeman and declared, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. My father taught me this.”

    The policeman looked at the boy with amazement.

    “How old are you?”

    “Ten.”

    The policeman shook his head.

    “God help us when you grow up.”