Chapter ten

Chapter ten in which an ugly twist of fate gets Eugene a coal-burning job 

Predictably, Mother and Dad told all their friends about Uncle Stan and everything else we were going through on account of his defection, namely the work interrogations, the phone bugging and Peg doing the rounds with her relatives, badmouthing the Dribblers and sucking up sympathy wherever she set foot, and of course, everyone understood.

     ‘We know how it is,’ everyone nodded. ‘We all have a cross to bear.’

     Looking at them spread around the living room, I envisaged quite a number of crosses for each of them. 

     Take Drystool, for example, blacklisted by the communist party.

     ‘Ouch! It hurts!’ Drystool, grimacing, would cry just for a lark when conversation ebbed, and of course 

everybody always laughed and so did Vendula although she didn’t quite grasp why. All she knew was that 

Drystool was a legend.

     Married to Mother’s best friend Ancha, (for that alone he should be canonized, Dad joked) Drystool was 

a legend because Drystool had at one time defected to the USA, returned after a few years and even lived to 

tell the tale which, indeed, he frequently did. According to Dad, who was very fond of him, Drystool was a kind 

of a homing pigeon, none too clever but reliable, and he liked him almost as much as he did Elvis. Of course, 

now that we had our own defector, Drystool’s value only soared, his tale becoming topical once again; his 

remarks were remembered and his opinions trusted as people sought guidance in these tumultuous times. 

Since Uncle’s defection, one word from Drystool drew crowds like a call to prayer.

     Drystool’s story was simple. In the early seventies, Drystool, having had a gutful of marriage, left our 

gloomy shores for greener pastures. After great many adventures, he ended up in North America where he 

stayed for five glorious years. During that time Drystool had fun trucking his way through the continent, 

flying on the wings of eagles, he alleged, (more likely spending money on whores, Ancha alleged and she might 

have had something there) when apparently a one-time indiscretion with an American lady led to a warrant 

being issued for his arrest for failure to pay child support, and that’s when our Drystool got homesick. 

All of a sudden he remembered the wife and child he left behind in the old country, and the next thing we knew 

Drystool was back.

     Showing appropriate remorse, he agreed to appear on national television where he denounced capitalism. 

Rallying against the allure of the capitalist dollar, Drystool passionately appealed to the People to help him 

find his way back to the fold. It was truly an arresting performance; we watched it on the telly and we were all 

emotional. Dad especially wept buckets, laughing his head off. The authorities, too, were pleased with Drystool’s 

theatrics; as a magnanimous gesture of good will they let him out of jail and gave him a new job. They let 

him lay train tracks. Drystool was beside himself with gratitude. Sure, the work was hard but he liked to be out 

in all sorts of weather, and of course, he’d never travel abroad again but all things considered, this was a 

small price to pay, Drystool thought, choosing to remain cheerful.    

     ‘Yeah, those were the days,’ Drystool said now, winking at Eugene who sat sprawling in Dad’s armchair, 

quietly sipping mulled wine. Eugene too had a story to tell.

     A man of principle, Eugene Setinpredy had, once upon a time, shown the strength of his conviction. 

‘He certainly has, Eugene is nothing if not convicted,’ Dad said now, subtly joking about Eugene’s legendary 

arrest back in the day. In reply, Eugene raised an approving brow but said nothing for he was busy cracking 

nuts. Despite the cold (the power was off) (again), he sat with his shirt wide open, and in the soft light of the 

candle his veiny gut spilling over his trouser belt appeared as round and mysterious as the full moon. He knew 

what was expected of him and eventually rolled up his trousers and showed us his latest burn. It wasn’t 

much really, we’d seen worse but everyone nodded appreciatively: Yeah, that’s what you got when you fought 

for freedom.

     Pleased with this reaction, Eugene remarked that he’d left all that behind. No longer interested in 

freedom-fighting, he was happy working at the steelworks. He liked the heat, it was pleasant, Eugene said, asking 

Dad about the shift roster for the following week. Dad, who worked in the office in charge of furnace-stoking 

personnel, replied that he hadn’t had time to draw one up but he’d make sure Eugene could sign up to shovel coal 

if he so wished. Indeed, it appeared that Eugene would like nothing better. Dad, however, felt differently.

     ‘You could fry your balls down there,’ Dad would tell anyone on the sly, mindful of Eugene who counted 

himself lucky to have that job. 

     Yes, Eugene was very grateful. He knew it could have been much worse.

     ‘It’s better to stoke the furnace than to mine uranium,’ he preached to his wife when she worried about his black 

phlegm.

     On this point, Dad had to agree. The first time Euge suffered a third degree burn, Dad told us the very same thing.

     ‘The worst he could do here is to lose a leg. Mining uranium would have cost him his life.’

     It might have. Cost him his life. Or he might have survived the experience. That’s neither here nor there. 

What matters is that Eugene seemed to be quite happy with the hand fate had dealt him even though others in his 

shoes would have grumbled. Euge, you see, used to be a college headmaster who, once upon a time, had a 

promising career and a comfortable job in line with his education and temperament.

      Eugene’s career prospered until the infamous ‘68 purge. Many comrades fell under its pitiless axe for reasons 

obscure to this day, but in the case of our Eugene, the charge was easily understood: assault occasioning grievous 

bodily harm.

     It happened on a rather gloomy November afternoon I was told, three months after the liberation of our country 

by the Warsaw Pact army*.

     What liberation? People whispered in their dreams. You mean the Soviet occupation?

     Well, I say, it all depends how you look at it, doesn’t it?

     It does. One person’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter. All that comes into play, doan it?

     Prior to the event, there had been talk of democracy. A whiff of freedom in the air, some people said, and they 

were excited. Dreaming of Socialism with a Human Face, they put up posters and organized concerts, urging 

their fellow countrymen to support the movement for change.

     Open the borders and let the world in! Free trade with the West! Let us speak our minds without fear! Those people 

cried, hoping for a different future, one filled with choices, decisions, dilemmas even. It was an intoxicating idea, 

this future that seemed to be just around the corner.

     However, not everyone shared their point of view. Some people were scared of the choices, decisions and 

dilemmas they would have to face, should they be in charge of their own future. Ah, to change or not to change? 

That was the question. Confusion ensued and in that confusion, legend has it, a letter was sent to Moscow asking 

our Soviet brothers for help.

      Come, brothers! The scaredy cats wrote. Dark clouds have gathered on the horizon! We do not want change! 

Come! Help us restore law and order! 

     Like a biblical plague peacekeepers in their thousands suddenly appeared overnight, liberating the country 

from the pesky dilemma. There was to be no change. United we stand, divided we fall. Problem solved. 

With the Soviet Union We Stand Forever and Ever! (… and not a moment longer… as Dad used to say when 

he’d had a glass or two).

     Eugene was depressed. He too had to sign a nice letter on behalf of his colleagues pledging support for the 

‘liberation’ but when the tanks rolled into town, Eugene did not rejoice. It did not make him happy to see a great 

number of Soviet peacekeepers come to stay. Eugene became restless. Beset with doubt and self-loathing, he took 

to frequenting a certain beer hall where he met up with other closet renegades. They blasphemed and plotted 

schemes of no clear outcome and drank a lot of beer.

     On that fateful afternoon, already well into the grog, they got hold of a flyer detailing an apparently 

imminent NATO offensive on the Soviets. The battle, involving American forces currently stationed in 

West Germany, was to occur on our soil. In colourful language the flyer called for every able-bodied man to 

take up arms to help fight communist oppression. This phantasmagoria filled the rebels with such hope that they 

ordered another round. And another and another. By the time the peacekeepers entered the scene, our insurgents 

were legless.

     The Russians sat down at a nearby table where they drank beer, talking quietly amongst themselves. 

The partisans meanwhile decided to spice up the occasion. Beer jugs in hand, they commenced singing 

‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’

     Hearing the butchered English, the soldiers turned to investigate the obnoxious sound.

     Eugene registered their interest and increased volume, roaring like a lion: “Itza a looonk vaaay hoooome…”

     Grimfaced, the soldiers stood up, possibly with the intention to put a stop to this inflammatory display, this 

blatant provocation, when the door opened and in walked a group of young men wearing American army uniforms. 

That’s all the incentive Eugene needed. Clutching his half-empty beer kriegel, he leapt over the table separating 

him from the Russians, and with an emotional: ‘THEY’RE HERE!’ brought the mug down, splitting the nearest 

soldier’s skull.

He should not have done that. You see, the young men in uniform did not belong to the eagerly awaited 

liberating forces from the West. Much to Eugene’s chagrin, the young men turned out to be members of a little 

known local amateur theatre group, who were, in that decisive Moment, taking a break from the rehearsal of 

their new play. The play itself, under the working title of ‘Go Home, Johnny!’ condemned America in the 

strongest possible terms.

     ‘It was an ugly twist of fate,’ Eugene told the judge when asked to explain the assault charge.  Eugene’s lawyer

pleaded temporary insanity but it made no difference. Eugene got two years in the clink and, on completion, 

the coal-burning job.