Czechoslovakia, 1965
For what seemed like the fifth straight day, Alexei Marrinov walked home with pain racing across his sides and back.
The six-year-old winced as he realized a likewise ache in his left leg. Inwardly, he wondered how he would ever explain this to his father. Not that he feared his father; he feared what might come after that. He feared running from the Bad Men again.
He rounded the corner, walking down the street where his dismally decrepit home stood. It was no different than the other tenements around it, but inwardly he knew that they were equally devoid of happiness. He'd heard stories from the other children at school (when they weren't hitting him) about the beautiful stretches of green farmland in Austria. But that was across the border. As far as the Bad Men were concerned, Austria didn't exist.
He walked up the steps and opened the door. He dropped his weather-worn satchel on the almost-broken table in the hall and walked past the chafed wallpaper into the main room. His father was sitting in the room's one chair, his mother standing beside him.
Having move around so much in his life, Alexei had little knowledge of the workings of other families, but that little something inside him that told him that by any relative standards, his parents were less happy than was really merited.
His father looked up from his tepid cup of tea, taking him in, before offering a weak smile and returning to the tea. His mother sidled over and kissed him on the forehead, hugging him across his middle, squeezing his torso vigorously.
The contact with his bruises made Alexei wince, and audibly. Instantly, his father sat bolt upright in his chair, and his mother let go of him, taking two steps backward and peering at him intently.
"Alexei, take your shirt off," said his father, restrained but obviously close to tears.
"Papa, please, I was just playing in school today – "
"Take it off!" shouted his father, not out of anger, but almost panic.
"Alexei, please," came his mother's soothing tone.
Alexei did so. As he shirt came off, his mother gasped, and then began sobbing hysterically. His father heaved a giant sad sigh, the next in a series of many in his pain-ridden existence.
"Alexei, who did this to you?" His tone was level and steely, and Alexei knew that there was no more beating around the bush. Only truth could mollify his father now.
"The boys at school. During play."
His father tensed in his seat. With his left hand, he reached for the telephone beside him, straining all the way to keep his hand from shaking from rage.
Ten minutes later, the resident party member was on his way to their house, not for their consideration, but to sneer at their poverty. Even a classless society has its delusions of superiority, and Prague was not exception. He was a fat man, with an air of entitlement; his fur coat was thick and full. He entered the room without asking, seating himself in the lone chair.
"And what is so important to distract me from my party's affairs?" he said.
Alexei's father's answer was controlled. "The party school…the children there have been fighting. Or more to the point, they have been attacking him. My son."
"Surely there must have been some provocation for this. Children do not simply fight one another."
"There was none. I suspect it is because we are new in this city. We have only been in Prague for three months."
A look of realization seemed to pass over the man's face. "And what is it you want me to do?"
"I want you as a party member to intervene. Tell the teachers to make the students leave my son alone."
He laughed. "If I were you, I would not let this bother you. If I were you, I would say, 'What a glorious life my son will lead, now that he has known oppression!' But then again," he continued, as a keen sense of recognition came over his face, "I was not at Lientz."
The effect was immediate. His father leapt at the party man, knocking him over the chair. His father was on top of the man, driving crushing, enraged blows to his head and belly.
But the big man lashed out with a hard uppercut, connecting with his father's chin and throwing him off balance. With remarkable agility for one so fat, he ran for the door, pausing in the doorway to catch his breath.
"I will be back. I will have more with me – Cossack."
And he was gone.
His father sank heavily into his chair, total defeat registered in his sad eyes. "Alexei?"
"Papa, do we have to leave again?"
"No. No, we are through running," he said, sounding more exhausted than his son had ever heard. "I – I just need you to run down the street and buy some fish for dinner."
He handed his son a small amount of money; Alexei turned and walked out to the street, his eyes never leaving his father as he did so. He shut the door behind him.
His father turned to his wife. "You knew it would come to this, Anna."
"From the moment we left Lientz. But what about Alexei, Sergei? Even after we've done it, they will still be after him!"
"I have all he needs. Everything is in order."
"But, Sergei, he's just a boy!"
"He'll make it," said Sergei, a tear running down his cheek. "If there's one thing he's learned from us, it's how to survive even when you don't want to."
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Alexei walked back up the street, his fish in hand. For a moment, he had been really scared. He was afraid that they would have to run from the Bad Men again. But Papa had said no, they could stay, everything was alright –
Like the sound of slamming doors, two gunshots burst through the calm of the afternoon.
The fish fell to the dirty sidewalk as Alexei ran to his door. Opening it, he found himself looking into the main room and the carnage on the floor.
Oh, Papa…!
His mother lay on the floor, a neat round hole through her temple. A small amount of blood pooled on the floor beside her. His father lay slumped forward in the chair, a small pistol in his left hand.
Alexei did the only think befitting a six-year-old. He fell to the ground beside them and cried. He cried for perhaps an hour straight, waiting for comfort from his family, knowing it would not come.
He looked up after he had finished, noticing for the first time a small bit of paper on his father's lap. He picked it up, beginning to read.
Dearest Alexei,
If you are reading this, we are both dead. In any case, I believe that since our time has been cut short, I must explain in this note all that I could not tell you.
Since before your birth, we have run, run from the Bad Men. We did no wrong – we merely survived that which should have killed us. We merely wished to live, that was all.
And so we ran, always fearful of the Bad Men finding out who we were, always on the move. It was unfair to all of us, especially you – but was all we could do to survive.
But now I realize that we cannot run any longer. They have found us. As long as we are alive they will never leave us alone – never leave you alone. I wish it were not this way, but my death must be your salvation.
Underneath the floorboards in the kitchen is a knapsack with further instructions and all that you will need to escape. You come from a family of survivors, Alexei, and I know you will make it. All that you need to know is that no matter what we have done, we loved you more than life itself.
For the things I have now forced you to see, I am deeply sorry. May God one day forgive me.
Papa
As he let the note fall to the ground, Alexei felt a numbing sense of indifference settling over him, like a blanket of apathy, clouding his very emotions. He picked up the note, put it in his pocket, and walked over to the kitchen.
As he went, one thought ran through his young mind.
Some day, I will learn who made my father do this to himself. Someday, I will make them pay.
The knapsack was there, with very basic instructions. He had to get to the Austrian border, where he would meet a man named Sokov. There he would cross the border, where he would then take a steamer to England. It was all there: Food, money, Soviet transportation papers, and a passport.
He picked the latter up. It was a deep maroon, with a picture of what looked like a lion and a horse on it. Papa had taught him English, and he was able to make out most of what was written.
Surname: TREVELYAN
Given Name: ALEC J
Date of Birth: 07/22/59
Place of Birth: SWANSEA, WALES
Nationality: BRITISH CITIZEN
In that instant, the young, innocent toddler Alexei Marrinov ceased to exist. In its place was a steely, determined young man named Alec Trevelyan. He came from a family of survivors; he would not be stopped by anything.
He packed everything back into the knapsack and walked out the door, never to return.