The Tears of Lady Liberty

By Frank Farwell Boston

This historical novel is a cautionary tale intended to emphasize how history repeats in libertys battle against tyranny. It spans four dramatic timeframes of the French Revolutions reign of terror, the American Civil War, the Prague Spring Uprising in the height of the cold war, and concludes in the desperate Iranian Revolution, which ushered in an age of terrorism and war on freedom.

The saga chronicles the genealogy of a French family which escapes the guillotines of Paris to live in Prague, Bohemia, in the 1800s. From there, the story morphs into the struggle of one of this same familys French/Czech descendants who immigrated to America, as he fought in the Battle of Shiloh. The storyline returns to the days in Prague, 1968, as an Arab Spring phenomenon occurred to overthrow their oppressive rule, only to be followed by a new reign of terror. The final segment of the book takes the reader to the streets of Tehran, Iran, as a repeat of the revolt against a monarchy, as in France, resulted in mayhem and violence.

The book is a thus a cautionary tale for the days we live in. Finally, there is an emotional, personal study of survival despite oppression, which those persecuted under tyranny learned. The repeated character of Pierre, Pjeter, and Peter tells of this familys eventual escape to freedom. Uniquely, the story is told by the Statue of Liberty herself, as she narrates the saga on the morning of September 11, 2001.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Mar 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781462407873

Frank Farwell Boston

Frank Boston is a writer, artist and musician, the father of three, who resides in north Louisiana. Living in Vienna in the 1980s he was involved with Christian charity work in regions still under communism such as Czechoslovakia and Kosovo. He is currently active in mission work in India , using his music and language abilities.

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Copyright © 2014 Frank Farwell Boston.

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-0786-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0787-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918822

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 2/28/2014

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1:     Vivez La France, La Liberte Et Les Jacobins!

Chapter 2:     Escape From The French Razor’s Edge

Chapter 3:     A Committee Divided… A House United

Chapter 4:     A New Life In Prague, Bohemia

Chapter 5:     Mlady Petyr Lejeune

Chapter 6:     Westward To Shiloh

Chapter 7:     Two Flags And A Bugle

Chapter 8:     Going Home

Chapter 9:     Prague Begins To Thaw

Chapter 10:   A Place Called Theresenstadt

Chapter 11:   Leaving Theresenstadt…Leaving Theresa

Chapter 12:   Prague’s April Showers Bring May’s Poison Flowers

Chapter 13:   May Day 1968

Chapter 14:   A Flower Of Hope Dies In Prague

Chapter 15:   The Red Fog Rolls In

Chapter 16:   Prague Spring To Moscow Winter

Chapter 17:   To Moscow With Tears

Chapter 18:   Moscow Welcomes The Young Comrades

Chapter 19:   Arshiya, Primrose From Persia

Chapter 20:   Peter Young Looks Eastward

Chapter 21:   The Wind Of Iblis

Chapter 22:   Chaos!

Chapter 23:   Love And Grace In Tehran

Chapter 24:   The Dream And The Return Home

Epilogue

About The Author

DEDICATION

This book is sincerely dedicated to those who, due to their faith or personal conscience, are imprisoned today by the oppressive hands of those who neither understand freedom nor allow it. As I tell their story it is my hope and prayer that one day these les miserables will at last be free, and that we who are yet free will remain free.

FOREWORD

This book is both fiction and reality, both past and future in some ways. It was written from the perspective of an observer, namely the glorious Statue of Liberty which stands in silent vigil off shore from New York City. Yet in a sense, it is a personalized observation which I have been able to make after several decades of travel into the very regions where this historical saga is set. The multigenerational chronicle, will take the reader back to four periods of time over the last three centuries when the issue of freedom was being etched into our history with painful drama.

Opening in the days of the Reign of Terror on the streets of Paris, France in 1793, you will follow a young French family’s journey through the agonies of a troubled 18th century people trying to find freedom in the very land from whence came our grand Lady Liberty.

The story moves forward in time, continuing the family lineage into the Czech city of Prague in a time when that region was moving into tumultuous struggles for freedom. The narrative moves far to the west, to an America ripped apart by the Civil War. In order to tell of the high price for freedom, I included the heart-rending drama of those dreadful battles of brother against brother, and the high price of the liberation of slaves. This segment as told by America’s Statue of Liberty is a sober study to cause us to look at our own past when we as an American people didn’t yet fully grasp this issue of freedom for all.

The storyline will then resume in a communist-controlled Czechoslovakia in 1968 as a new group of people struggled to be free in their short-lived Prague Spring.

The final segment will take the reader into the streets of Tehran, Iran as the Shah was being overthrown by revolution amidst jubilant cheers of liberty; a movement for freedom which went horribly wrong, eerily repeating the deposing of the French monarchy long before.

There is a clear analogy in this continuing story to the current wave of Arab spring and Occupy movements and their sad introduction to yet more ruthless governmental oppression. In this story I expose the evil of totalitarian heavy-handed State control.

This story will focus on the human element of family members, loved ones, brave defenders of freedom as well as the persecuted victims, as Jews, gypsy beggars, impoverished Muslims, black slaves, or Native Americans displaced from their own homelands. It is expressly for this type of people who have long needed the gift of freedom that this story was written.

Some of the dialog and events are conjecture, hypothetically written. It was impossible, of course, to have been a fly on the wall to hear the private conversations of such a span of historical figures as Robespierre, Jefferson, or the former USSR leader Brezhnev or Civil War field generals like Beauregard or Grant. I have tried as much as possible to document the real characters along side my fictional story, yet there is surely some conjecture. I want to give deference to any in the storyline of this complex historical saga who may have been the actual people mentioned in these momentous events. Thus total accuracy has to be weighed against the fact that this is a quasi-fantasy book. The personalization of the Statue of Liberty to be made to speak and weep as she narrates the story, being able to see the past as well as the future, should make it clear that this is no historical documentary rather a cautionary tale.

Finally, it is my intent that the storyline will serve not only as a cautionary tale and a warning of how history repeats itself, and an admonition to hold fast to liberty and cherish it, but also to set forth the message of hope. It is the author’s belief that the individual can survive brutal oppression and loss of freedom through courage, love and faith in the ultimate author of liberty.

***********************

PROLOGUE

The lady stood motionless through the long night with her eyes unblinking, as she looked out at the churning Atlantic Ocean. Her exquisite features glowed in the pale blue moonlight with a ghostly greenish glow. The moon had just set far to the west behind her, and she awaited the first pink glow of Dawn far to the east. Cold waves were lashing around her feet as she stood there as though frozen in time. Her demanding task weighed heavy in this hour. Her life’s mission was at stake. There was a nervous uncertainly in the air.

She had many visitors the previous day. Happy people, sad people, complaining people, grateful people. She saw them as they stood in line to pay her a visit and she felt her never-ending pity for many of them and a welcome to all of them. She knew that many of her visitors in recent days would not be able to actually grasp her message. This thought worried her much. How important was her message. She loved all who visited her through the years. The East Europeans were some of her first guests. She would often watch their tears roll down their cheeks so hardened by duress, and feel such pity. She was delighted when so many came in ship after ship.

As the years wore on, and her bronze toned features began to tarnish and become greenish-blue, she was delighted to see Asians and Africans and Indians arriving in the harbor near her abode. Still, as her deep eyes continually searched the eastern ocean horizon, she always longed to see more ships come in.

This early dawning hour was different, and she knew it. Sea gulls which had hidden themselves away during the long dark hours were slowly beginning to assemble and circle around near the splashing salty spray at her feet. The pink glow of approaching Dawn was causing the inky blue nighttime skies to slowly fade into pastel hues of purple and orange…no hint of red on the horizon. Sailors would say this would be a perfect day. It would not be.

The Lady first appeared thousands of miles to the east near Paris. She was forged from copper, iron and bronze in France. Her completed head adorned with a crown of spikes, stood on display by proud and grateful French citizens long before her journey across the Atlantic Ocean. The massive form of the flowing robed figure was finally assembled on a small island off the coast of the newly burgeoning New York metropolis of the late 1800s in the north New York harbor. Upon that tiny island, later named Liberty Island, she was hoisted with her arm and the famed torch welded on in a glorious display of triumph and majesty.

Her polished face of copper took on the natural pale green tone of age and her feet were planted on the major entryway into America. She would witness more than a century of human drama as no other place on Earth. Millions of human souls would come to her silhouetted form with hopes of a new life of freedom. And they would find it. Millions and billions of dollars of commerce would swirl around her feet as ships of cargo passed by, and she would soon witness the mighty skyline of hundreds of skyscrapers. She would soon see warships embarking for Europe to fight global wars…her steel blue eyes would peer into the distance where submarines of the enemy would dare to approach the eastern coastline. Her face would reflect the brilliant burst of color each July 4th, as a young nation celebrated her each year. Yet in all her history, she would stand unwavering and steadfast, thwarting every blast of hurricane force winds.

She was a gift from a grateful people who learned in the most painful way that only liberty can hold at bay the oppression of tyranny. The French people who had once trembled under the grinding cruelty of the Reign of Terror after the fall of King Louis 16th, understood the magnificence of Lady Liberty. Yet, many in the land she now guards do not.

***********************

A small tug boat slowly plodded its way near her backside, leaving a small wake that reflected the brilliant yellow sparkles of the rising sun. It would be a beautiful morning indeed. The tourist crowds had not yet assembled at her feet. It would seem that on such a morning, her stoic features and unblinking eyes should have formed a warm smile, but that would not be the case. Hers was a continual job of utmost sobriety, for she knew that her torch must never be lowered in casual relaxation. Her commodity of liberty was too rare.

The first who came to visit her that morning was a small family of Arab descent, arriving much too early. The humble little family was attired in their best clothing, far more formally dressed than the average tourist would be. They were from Algeria. The woman and her two daughters had the same color dark blue head covering. The husband carefully guided them to a waiting area and nervously kept looking at his watch. They had only been in America a few days and he was so eager to share the beauties of this new land with his young family. As they quietly spoke with one another in French, a statue maintenance worker strolled by and gave them a polite nod.

The Lady looked down at the family with tender concern and returned her stare to vigilantly scan the southeastern horizon. Suddenly, the small gatherings of sea gulls which had been lazily circling the waters behind the statue, took flight for seemingly no reason. Flying in a straight line seaward, their absence left a strange quietness around the entire base of the statue.

Bonbons, mes filles? said the father, offering the little girls some chocolate candy he had purchased before they arrived. The mother gently protested their eating chocolate so early and one of the girls folded her arms in a mild protest. The sun was now rising much higher, revealing a deep blue September sky. The father looked with admiration at the skyline of thousands of buildings, and sat down by his wife. They were expecting a happy day in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The Lady’s eyes can see what human eyes can’t see. She sees far into the past and she sees far into the future. Her voiceless stare never reveals her thoughts. No words leave her cold lips, yet she often speaks. Yet, in this very moment on that early September morning it seemed to the family gathered near her feet that there was a deep metallic sounding groan.

The maintenance worker cleaning trash near the family, heard the same sound the father heard. He looked up at the towering face and raised torch and yelled over to the father with a strong Brooklyn accent, The good old lady seems to be wakening, don’t you know? Guess it’s the wind on those support beams at the foundation! Nothin’ to worry over. Well, I’m on my way. You guys enjoy your visit. They will open for tours within the hour.

The young Algerian father heard the groaning sound again and noticed that his wife and children heard it as well.Papa, will it be safe to go up to the top? It did make noise did it not? Ah, my cherie, it’s only the wind. Wait till you see the view from the top. Just a few more minutes! he consoled his daughter.

Lady Liberty’s eyes were cast to never move, of course. She was mere metal; only an elaborate manmade symbol, a gift from France to celebrate appreciation for America’s example of freedom to offer to the world. Yet, though her eyes didn’t move to the northeastern sky, she did focus with absolute clarity on the horizon north of Long Island. What she saw caused a third deep metallic groan to reverberate through the entire statue.

For in her eyes that see what mere humans often cannot see, she spied in the distance a tiny silver speck approaching her direction. And as the seconds passed it was clear that she was looking at Flight 11 of United Airlines. As the plane arched over Ellis Island and lowered toward Manhattan, a giant tear formed in the corner of Lady Liberty’s eye and slowly began to roll down toward her flowing robe. She knew…it had begun.

This following saga is her story. May we all listen well.

***********************

Lady Liberty Speaks

Come to me, all you who will, and listen to a strange tale I have to share. I speak to all who will listen, yet sadly I speak in vain to those who will not listen. You need to know the saga of what my eyes have seen, and in knowing what I know, it will surely help you in your days to come.

My name is Libertas. Some wrongly assume that I am cast as a French woman or an American woman. I am a Roman. Long centuries have past since I was first presented to the teeming masses of Latin people. Many millions have known me, learned from me, forgotten me and misused me.

My origin is in the copper mines of mountainous regions so far away and long ago. Before I took on my current form to which your eyes may be attracted, I was hidden in silence in bedrock for eons of years beneath the feet of mankind.

Being extracted and cast into fire and molded, I was shaped by the creative and skillful hands of your skilled fellow humans named Frederic Bartholdi and Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel. I am metal, but I am not cold. I am liberty and will forever burn brightly my torch of promised warmth to hearth and home and my fire of exultant liberation from the chains of oppression.

The story you hold in your hands is a saga that I have seen from my pedestal here in New York harbor. As you have already heard, my eyes can see into the future and my eyes can see into the past. I shall tell you your future by telling you your past. In my saga that you are about to read, I will take you to four locations, to four individuals, in four times of history that I may teach you of freedom…from whence it comes, and where it goes when it is rejected. You will learn of the cost of not valuing freedom, the critical penalty that falls on those that rob freedom and the absolute bliss of embracing freedom as it was intended, and not as you wish freedom to be.

Now hear my story, children. Hear from the heart and listen well,

And as my story is read, may you rise and ring my freedom bell.

Chapter One

VIVEZ LA FRANCE, LA LIBERTE ET LES JACOBINS!

Paris, November, 1793

The young cobbler stood at the entrance to his shop and his chest swelled with pride. Look at me he thought. I’m twenty-two, newly married and already I’m a self sufficient proprietor of this humble but useful place! Ah, merci, Dieu! Despite these sorry days, my life is relatively good!

Pierre LeJeune was proud, and well he should be for his accomplishments of restoring his late father’s shoe repair shop after the recent riots and destructive fires near the lower Latin Quarter of Paris. His pride for his late father was noble. Although he had intended to pursue law while a youth in secondary school, he willingly came to his grieving mother’s comfort and assured her that the cobbler trade would not be lost to the family. In his mind, he kept the intention to further pursue law at a later date. Yet, having completed his second full day of open business and having seen how busy he was, he was already beginning to enjoy the social interacting with common people, rather than the stodgy academic circle he had long envied.

As a horseman galloped by and the hoofs splashed in a mud puddle a bit too close to the entrance, he glared with momentary displeasure, not knowing whether to shout protest to the rider who was already ten horse-lengths down the cobblestone and dirt road, or ignore it. He was about to throw an insult to the rider’s equestrian ability when he caught himself and held his tongue. He thought, Ah, I know not to whom he is loyal. I should not risk it. The enemies of my father know of this place…and alas, the danger is not past.

His petite wife, Claire Marie walked out to the doorway holding tightly their new-born girl in her arms. Her face was drawn with stress from these days and she was not at all in her normal demeanor of being a gracious and comforting wife to young Pierre. She whispered quietly as she looked down in the face of the infant and lifted her large hazel green eyes to watch the rider and wagon rumble further down the road in old Paris. Her whispers were not comforting muttering to her baby, nor were they prayers, but muffled words of despair and anger at the misfortunes of not only her family, but this new family into which she had recently married. Claire Marie didn’t want to dishearten her husband with her worries on this his first day, and she felt ashamed and angry at herself for having such a meager dinner prepared. She knew he would be hungry, having missed the mid day meal and she had managed only to pull together simple ingredients of a meal of cabbage and bread with bits of bacon and pears, far too overripe.

Oh, Pierre, I know you’re hungry now and the baby is always hungry, but it’s just not apparent that things will get better for a more sumptuous meal for you, I fear!

Pierre smiled as he looked over his shoulder at her and said with reassurance that he wasn’t angry,Ah, cherie, I know you are trying to say that today is more cabbage and bread and sardines, non?She laughed with a sigh of relief, Ah, Non, Monsieur LeJeuene! Our menu for this eve is cabbage and bread and swine!

Pierre was good to his young bride and normally did not wish to discuss the current events of the reform on the streets of Paris with her. He knew how frightened she was during the days of the taking of the Bastille and the horrid guillotine execution of Louis the 16th and Marie Antoinette they both had observed only months before. But these days weighed heavy on his mind, with the continual fears of how the transition would go from monarchy to the rule of the new common people. He needed badly to talk out his fears with his wife, yet knew from wise talks from his late father that a young mother often cannot handle emotional talk too well so soon after childbirth. Thus he elected to keep to himself the talk of change in the air which he had heard throughout the day as the few clients visited his little shoe repair boutique.

Ah, the work today was slow but steady, and I do think I’ll learn to do well here, if we can muster up a bit more who dare to venture out for shoe repair these days! Well, I said it was slow, slow it was but steady. It went well, Claire. We will be fine and not starve, I promise you.

Claire’s eyes were misty with tears as she gently laid the baby in the crib and tiptoed back to the front door of their combined shop and home. She put her hands around Pierre’s neck and lay her head on his shoulder, and whimpered very quietly.

I’m scared even still, as though the guillotines were at our very corner. I’ve heard talk today in the back porch as we ladies were cutting vegetables. Both Madame Dufrene and Madame Estange spoke again of ‘la Comite de Salut Public’, (the Committee of Public Safety), and they talked about what the ‘committee’ set up to carry out more of this dreadful guillotining! They talked of the Revolutionary Tribunal and all these new proposals of the Jacobins that I just do not understand! And I fear greatly this, Pierre! The ladies spoke of things you’ve not mentioned, dear Pierre. They spoke of the….the lists!

Ah, non! No worry this evening, cherie…You know what they say of ‘old wives’ tales’. Make no concern from what those two old women say. The committee may not be as bad as you hear… surely not. These things will work out with time and we will soon be far better off than under the king, you’ll see.

In his mind, thoughts of contradiction to his words of consolation were raging. He had little faith in the apparent new leader of their fledgling republic, the charismatic and powerful Maximilien Robespierre. Neither did he trust his associates, these who called themselves the Jacobins who were almost daily holding rallies in Paris.

Young Pierre detested the pompous and insensitive ways of the old monarchy as most of his neighbors did. Even so, he was noticing things creeping in, so soon after the Revolution’s deposing the House of Bourbon, that troubled him deeply. Though his wife was of keen intellect, he chose not to discuss them with her. Yet he knew that she too was less than eager to see this new leadership led by Jacobins taking over total rule. There was still so much they didn’t know of what the Jacobins would do, and how their new France would be. Yes, there was the matter of the lists.

Claire, we’ll speak of this for only a moment, then let me play with the baby while you cook. What exactly did Madame Dufrene say? I care not what the other silly dame says. She speaks too often with wine on her mind, does she not?

Pierre, don’t be so harsh with that dear old lady, what with the death of her poor old man whom she long adored. She drinks far less than you suppose, and now with the city-wide rations, how can she afford but a few drops each week? Now, here is what I heard, Pierre. Please tell me Madame DuFrene is mistaken.

She sat down on a crude rocking chair Pierre had fashioned only days before and gently rocked the baby, slowly speaking her words that she feared were true.

She told me…she said, well, mind you, I was listening closely to the way she said it and trying to determine her veracity… Anyway, she spoke of a local registry list in our neighborhood that is being complied of all who regularly attend mass at Saint Joseph and Our Lady of Holy Angels as well as those two friendly protestant Huguenots who live on the next block. She said the list is of those who are suspect by the new authorities in that they are said to be agents of the old monarchy. And that…well that just can’t be true, can it, Pierre?…..But Madame DuFrene also told me that she heard from three sources the same, that Father Michael was questioned by the local gendarme and roughly interrogated and given threats! They told him that he is being researched as to whether he was a defender of the late royal family.

Oh, Pierre, you know how careful Father Michael has been to not speak openly of such things even long before the Bastille was stormed! And Madame DuFrene said as well this, and she told me that she was quoting precisely the gendarme policeman at my priest’s parsonage door : ‘Father Michael, the Razor of new France will visit your neck soon if we find more evidence thereupon of your collaboration with the late monarchy!’ Pierre, oh, what if…what if our names are on this list?

Claire’s head bowed as she whispered those words, and Pierre knew it was best to change the subject to something else. He couldn’t bear seeing her fall again into a fit of depression with which she had so long been plagued almost throughout her pregnancy. The morbid specters of the falling iron triangle of the guillotines were too dark for her, and often, since she had personally witnessed the dreadful beheading of Marie Antoinette only a few weeks before, she had nightmares from which Pierre had to shake her awake.

He determined that on the following morning he would close his shop and go out beyond the Latin Quarter and find out news that was verifiable concerning this developing list. It concerned him greatly that Father Michael’s name was apparently on this list. He and his wife thought highly of their new young priest. Though Pierre often skipped mass, to Claire’s chagrin, both respected the man’s intellect and his pursuit of the well being of his poor parish in that dilapidated neighborhood of theirs. But far more of concern than the fate of their local priest, in the back of Pierre’s mind, he worried of their own fate. And the fate of tens of thousands in those troubled streets of Paris during this most precarious time. Yes, he was determined on the next morning to go to the announced rally at the Revolution Square.

This place had several months earlier been filled with thousands cheering the death of King Louis the 16th and only weeks before Marie Antoinette’s beheading.He didn’t want to go. He had heard of an unsavory trend lately of these public gatherings becoming festive blood sport as crowds would gather to watch the French razor, as the guillotine was nicknamed , fall on the neck of yet another of the supporters of Louis 16th’s rule. They would cheer in such merriment as their hated enemies were killed. What was happening to his beloved France? But this was advertised in the handbills as a special political address by the honorable Chairman of the Committee, Maximilien Robespierre. Pierre knew he must go to hear of any new decrees that could affect his family.

It was a cold and overcast November morning as he arose soon after daybreak. He tiptoed past the baby’s crib, after kissing his wife good morning and goodbye. It would be a long walk, as he wished to save his bit of money and not flag down a transport. Anyway, few service carriages or the cheaper human drawn buggies were available in these days. In fact, there were very few of any of the things that morning in old Paris that had any resemblance of normalcy. He was resolved to walk the full distance, not at all worried for weariness of walking in such cold wind. His coat was far too thin, but he had a bundled neck warmer and his long wool pants would be warm. Actually, he was glad not to be clad as the affluent of old Paris, pants cut off at the knee with white stockings. How impractical he thought such attire was. Besides, in these days the representative fashion of the gentry of France was divided, among many other things, by the very term of sans coulette pants of the common people. Most every man wanted not to be identified with the pompous House of Bourbon royalty which was so violently deposed.

There was much to see that was different and deeply troubling as Pierre walked briskly along the muddy streets and the cobblestone lanes. Most noticeable to him was the abundance of placards and banners and signs almost at every location printed and posted by the National Committee with the predictable slogans of power to the new French ruling class. Vile cartoon faces of the deposed king and queen abounded as well as revolutionary quotes from various atheists like Voltaire. Virulent anti-catholic placards were ubiquitous, upon every little café and lamppost along the way.

One of the deepest worries of Pierre LeJeune in these days was the rumored talk of a plan to disband all churches. Indeed, in these very months of that sad year for France, there was an organized attempt to de-Christianize the entire culture and turn cathedrals into anything but houses of God. Crosses were removed as being offensive to the new French ethic of enlightenment and reason. The National Committee of Jacobins had in their inner circle several men who were virulent in their hate for the church and indeed for all things divine.

Chief among the Jacobins leaders who were so obsessed with this were two working closely with the assumed leader Robespierre: the volatile and hugely influential Jacque Hebert and Jean Paul Marat. Pierre detested what these radical men were doing to the post-monarchy France. They singlehandedly drafted measures to institute a new atheistic religion to replace the traditional faith of France. It was being announced as "The