Sons of Freedom: A Historical Novel

By John Stark

Paul Easton is a Kent State draft dodger and opposed to the Viet Nam war, as many intellectuals were during the sixties. He takes refuge in Canada. While on his way to a teaching job in the interior of British Columbia, his train derails, so he takes a shortcut through the woods to the town of Castlegar. While resting beside a pond, a beautiful creature named Tanya, appears from nowhere - surfacing in the water. The two fall in love.
Soon grim realities take over. Ideologically, these two lovers are miles apart. Tanya is a member of a religious cult known as the Sons of Freedom, who live on nearby communal farms. Then there is Gregor, a Freedomite boy, betrothed to Tanya, and jealous of Pauls interest in her. Yet he admires Pauls ideology. Paul takes up his teaching position in Castlegar. Its a small school close to where the Sons of Freedom are encamped. When Tanya finds out that Paul is a school teacher, her perception of him changes. The Freedomites have always taught their own children, and its mainly religion. The relationship between Tanya and Paul disintegrates. Gregors jealousy turns into rage. He beats up on Paul, and then gets into a nightclub brawl, finally ending up in jail, and disgracing himself before his elders. Tanya is ordered by the elders to marry Gregor. Later a split occurs within the Freedomite camp. Some decide to return to Russia, others, the zealots, remain. Tanya is one of them. Gregor and his friend Michael Kirov, foil a government plan to auction off vacated Freedomite homes by torching them just before they depart for Russia. The few remaining Freedomites take refuge in the hills, living in tents. Several months later, Tanya gives birth to a son, Vassya, but only Tanya and her sister Natasha know that the real father is Paul. Paul begins to realize he is dealing with fanatics - people who have lost touch with reality. Winter sets in. Conditions at the camp become intolerable. There are food shortages and a lack of medical supplies. Soon Paul learns that the Attorney General in Victoria has ordered a new school to be opened, especially for truant Freedomite children. He volunteers to teach at the new school, seeing education as the only way to save these deluded people from their misguided ways. Few of the Freedomite children attend the school. The government decides to use force. Tanyas son, Vassya, together with the other truant children, are interned in the school. In retaliation, Tanya and several other Freedomite mothers burn the school down. They are all arrested and imprisoned. This further alienates Paul from Tanya. Tanyas sister decides to break with the commune, realizing her fate could be the same as Tanyas. She moves in with Paul, out of necessity, rather than choice. A relationship with Paul and Natasha develops, but Tanya remains foremost in Pauls mind. While Tanya is in prison, she writes to Gregor in Russia, telling him he is now a father. Gregor returns from Russia. He asks Paul to help him break into the school, get his son Vassya out, and escape with Tanya. Paul at first refuses, but when he learns from Natasha that Vassya is actually his son, in an act of self-sacrifice, he agrees to help them with their escape plan. He finally realizes that there was never any hope for him and Tanya. She has denied herself happiness with him, in spite of the fact that Vassya was fathered by him. Tanyas religion and her way of life, has always been more important to her than Pauls love.
But a tragic ending is in store. Gregor and Vassya are killed in the attempted escape, leaving Tanya distraught and hysterical. Two years later, when Tanya is being released from a psychiatric hospital, Paul anxiously waits for her with outstretched arms, but she walks right by him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483686967

John Stark

Author John Stark is a writer and editor who has been on the mastheads of People magazine, Martha Stewart's Body + Soul, Reader's Digest Walking magazine, and Cook's Illustrated. His work has appeared in the New York Times' "Sunday Arts & Leisure," Newsday, and the San Francisco Chronicle, among other publications. He is copywriter and founder of Three Way Designs, a greeting card company that sells nationally. He lives in Boston.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

May 4, 1970

As chants of Burn! Burn! Burn! pounded his ears and acrid smoke from the bonfire stung his eyes and assailed his nostrils, Paul Easton stood on the university steps holding his draft card aloft in his left hand. His right hand raised a lighter and expertly flicked it, the crowd chanting encouragement, and the card quickly ignited. He dropped the smoldering remains to the pavement as the chant shifted to Hell no! We won’t go! Paul joined in, jostled among signs and posters proclaiming DOWN WITH NIXON! OUT OF VIETNAM! and END THE WAR!

Led by banner-carrying students, the chanting crowd began its march through the university campus, ignoring the carbine-wielding National Guardsmen amassing around them. Upon a signal, the Guardsmen broke into a run, lining up in front of the marching students to block their path. A young man near Paul hurled a rock at the armed soldiers and a few others followed suit. The Guard retaliated by throwing smoke grenades into the crowd, which erupted in shouts of outrage. The students began to retreat, stumbling and pushing. Paul, carried backward by the retreating crowd, shouted, Stop the bombing now!

The Guardsmen turned and began moving back up the hill from where they had come. A shot rang out. Suddenly the Guardsmen stopped and turned back. Taking aim, they fired at the retreating students, who scattered in terror and confusion. Paul watched stunned as students fell to the ground, shot. He started toward a screaming girl who was kneeling beside a fallen boy, blood pooling around his head, but was pushed back by the streaming mob. After one last glance back at the hysterical girl, he let himself be carried along with the fleeing students.

~~~

One Month Later…

From the backseat of the cramped Ford sedan, Paul watched the border guard approach. The driver rolled down his window and crisp, cold air blasted in, bringing the pungent aroma of pine forest. The US official glanced into the car at the four men, and waved the car on, pointing toward a building some fifty feet ahead. Next to the building, a large sign announced WELCOME TO CANADA. The car rolled to a stop and two dark-blue-uniformed officers approached. One of the men wore the insignia of an immigration officer, and the other a customs badge. The customs officer leaned in the window, inspecting the car and its occupants.

Anything to declare?

The driver answered, No. Nothing.

The immigration officer checked his clipboard and scrutinized the men. Where born?

Nelson, B.C., the driver replied, handing over his wallet. He reached into the glove box and removed three U.S. passports, handing them to the officer. My three friends are Americans coming up to my place to fish for a couple of days.

The officer gave the passports and license a cursory glance. He didn’t seem to notice the passengers stiffen apprehensively.

Hear they’re biting very well this year.

Best I can remember.

The officer handed the wallet and passports back.

Carry on. He tipped his hat, including the car’s occupants. Welcome to Canada.

Paul and the other three men responded with noticeable relief, Thanks.

The driver stuffed his wallet back into his pocket and placed the three passports on the dash. He let in the clutch and drove through the border crossing, letting out a long-held breath.

See, I told you. They just don’t care.

Wiping his brow with a bandanna, Paul murmured, Thanks be to Trudeau!

After driving for hours through stunning scenery, the car pulled up at a train depot. The driver announced, Grand Forks! Just in time for the eight-thirty. He handed Paul his passport. Listen, Paul. Don’t forget. Once you’re settled in Castlegar, get over to see Charlie Kenilworth.

I remember. Head of the School Board, right?

Right. If his ads in the paper are any judge, his tongue’s hanging out for teachers, so it should be a snap. He pointed to Paul’s passport. And get a ‘Landed Immigrant’ stamp in that as soon as you can. Helpful if things get rough.

Thanks, Bill. Getting out of the car, Paul leaned in and shook hands with each of the other occupants. So long, guys. Good luck.

And to you. Take it easy.

Will do.

Paul watched the old Ford pull away—taking the only people he knew in Canada. He hoisted his duffle bag and turned toward the station, just as a shrill train whistle splintered the air. He began to hurry, looking curiously as he passed a group of oddly dressed men, women, and children standing around several wagons that were loaded with furniture and belongings. Paul entered the depot and went up to the ticket window as a train pulled into the station.

One single to Castlegar.

Clutching his ticket, he exited to the platform, where passengers were still disembarking. The Station Master called out, Grand Forks! Grand Forks!

Paul waited to board until an aristocratic-looking sixtyish man disembarked, followed by an entourage of young women dressed in peasant clothing. The man turned to the women and spoke sternly.

Go back to your seats and stay there. I shall be back soon.

Looking dispirited, the women dejectedly crowded back into the train as the man moved toward two men who were advancing toward him. One appeared to be a government official of some type, and the other was clearly a police officer.

The bureaucratic-looking official greeted the man.

Ah, Mr. Chernefsky. Thank you for stopping off. We really appreciate it. I’m Robert Michener, Attorney General’s office. I spoke to you from Victoria yesterday. This is Sergeant Miller, Castlegar police.

Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Sergeant. Where is Bozhidar?

Michener replied, He and some of his followers are out in the station yard. It took some persuading, I can tell you, but he’s here. I’ll take you to him.

But Mr. Chernefsky shook his head. No, let me handle this. You’ll hold the train?

Of course.

Nodding approvingly, Chernesfsky entered the waiting room, then crossed through the depot and went out to the wagon area in front of the station. The crowd of peasants parted as he approached. Looking around, he demanded, Where is Bozhidar?

A nervous-acting young man called out, Get out of here, Chernefsky! Traitor!

Mikhail, this doesn’t concern you. Keep out of this. The speaker was an old man who had been standing quietly by his wagon. Now he stepped forward and Chernefsky walked over to him.

Bozhidar, the authorities have asked me to talk to you.

Authorities. Bozhidar laughed scornfully. There is nothing to talk about.

This is so senseless. After all these years, to leave everything you’ve worked for—to just…

A man shouted from the crowd, You are not one of us, Chernefsky! You have sold your faith for a piece of land!

Bozhidar turned back to the crowd and raised his arms for silence. Stop this. Get back to your wagons and prepare to leave.

But the crowd was not appeased. They begin heckling Chernefsky, calling out insults.

Chernefsky is a Judas!

Yes! Get out, Judas! Get out!

Suddenly, Bozhidar’s voice thundered at the crowd, silencing them.

Enough, I say! Enough! Go to the wagons, he commanded. I want you set up in the campsite before sunset!

Reluctantly, the younger Doukhobors obeyed, leaving Old Bozhidar and Chernefsky alone together. Chernefsky’s voice took on a soft, wheedling tone.

Bozhidar, have you forgotten the sacrifices I made for us? The years of imprisonment I suffered in Siberia for us? It was because of me that we finally got our freedom.

Fyodor, you have abandoned our faith.

It is just a piece of paper—a simple document…

Bozhidar looked at Chernefsky with disgust.

I’m not senile. You have signed a pledge of allegiance to the British Crown. It is an affront to God! Look at you. He rudely tugged Chernefsky’s sleeve. Your clothes, mistresses, driving around in a big car!

Chernefsky jerked away from Bozhidar in outrage.

"The