Boris Kastel was born in Zagreb, Croatia in 1914. A few months later the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated some 300 kilometers away in Sarajevo, an act which touched off "The Great War". That catastrophic event presages Boris' tumultuous life, during which he traveled to five continents and mastered at least ten languages. Throughout the violent war years following the Nazi invasion of his country, he never lost sight of his great dream-a quest for peace. That quest had to wait through the long years of World War II, when duty called him first to the mountains of Northern Italy with the Italian Underground, and then to Tito's Partisans and life in nascent Yugoslavia. That quest was realized in a most unexpectedly beautiful way. His story takes us from war-torn Zagreb to post-revolution China, to Ghandi's India, through the birth of kibbutzim in Palestine, summer and winter Olympics in 1936, the resistance movements in Italy and Yugoslavia, Nazi hunting in Argentina and Uruguay, and ultimately to New York, where he met Eva, and the peace for which he yearned.

Boris

By Jack Dold

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Jack Dold
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-7479-8

Chapter One

1924 GHOST

"Oh my God! That's impossible! He died seven years ago! They told me he was dead! Oh, God. What am I supposed to do? Oh, dear God! No!!!"

Olga Kastel-Rimsky crumbled the telegram in both hands, let out one more cry, and collapsed on the floor. Betha Pilsudsky, her best friend, the bearer of the telegram, knelt down on the floor beside her, and cradled her head in her hands.

"Boris, get some water, and a towel. Go quickly."

Boris Kastel, ten years old, had watched the scene almost with a dispassionate eye, as though he was trying to analyze what could be written on such a paper that would make his mother so upset. His sister, Branca, three years his senior was away at boarding school and for that Boris was relieved. She would have collapsed right alongside her mother in an emotional swoon. He returned quickly with the basin of cold water and an old flour sack that served as a towel. Kneeling with the bowl, he handed his aunt the towel. Betha gently swabbed her friend's face, waiting patiently for life to return to the eyes. After a few seconds, Olga stirred, opened her dark brown eyes which remained blank for a moment and then filled with fear, darting around the room as though she expected a ghost suddenly to appear.

"How is it possible, Betha?" she whispered weakly. "My Milos died on a battlefield in Turkey. We got a letter. They found his body covered with his coat. It had his name on it, right where I had sewn it before he left." She stopped and took in a deep breath. "The war has been over for five years. How can he now be alive? Tell me it is a mistake. What am I to do? I have a new husband. He can't be alive. It is not possible."

"Mama, who are you talking about? Is it my father? Is he really alive?" Boris asked these questions with the same sort of bland curiosity he had exhibited when he watched his mother faint. He had never known his father, except through small stories his mother had related, or casual remarks of friends and neighbors. He was only five when the Great War ended, born just three months before the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was murdered in Sarajevo, 300 kilometers from Zagreb where Boris lived. He was told that his father died on a battlefield in Turkey in 1917, killed while driving an ambulance, picking up the dead and wounded after the night-bugle had blown. He had seen the wine and vodka factory that his father owned, just a few blocks from his home in Zagreb. The Austrians turned it into a munitions factory when war was declared. It lay empty these days with no one to run it. For Boris, Milos Kastel was just another misty war story, and the war was not a happy thing to think about. Croatia groaned under the defeat that had seen the empire die. Best not to think about those things much. Life was hard enough.

"Is my father alive?" he repeated.

"Boris, go out and find Drazan," Aunt Betha said quietly, referring to her son who was one of Boris' closest friends in school. "Take your poles and go down to the Sava and catch us some fish. If you are lucky with your fishing, l'll cook them for your mother. Go. Your mother needs to rest now."

When the boy was gone, Betha helped her friend to the bench at the kitchen table.

"Sit here, Olga. I'll brew us some tea. Don't talk right now. Take some deep breaths and try to calm yourself."

For several minutes the two women sat on the wooden bench, letting the warm tea calm their spirits, unable even to open the subject of the impossible telegram. Finally, Olga whispered, "Where has he been?"

"I don't know, Olga. The telegram only said that he was alive, in Istanbul."

"Do you think he will be coming here?"

"Of course he will." Betha put her hand on Olga's arm and nodded seriously. "If he had run away, he would not be contacting you now, after all of these years. There has to be another explanation."

"What should I do, Betha? How can I explain this to Konstantin?"

"You can't even explain it to yourself, Olga. I think you are just going to have to wait until Milos arrives here and explains what he has been doing." She got up to get more tea water, thought a moment and turned back. "I think you should show Konstantin the telegram though, so he can prepare himself. And you better have a talk with Boris. His reaction was a bit odd, I think. I'm not sure he is ready for another father either."

"Okay, Betha," Olga shuddered a bit as she nodded agreement.

"Konstantin is in his studio. I'll go to him now. Will you talk with Boris? He respects you very much, and you will be able to tell him with less emotion than I would."

"Of course." For the first time, Betha smiled and rubbed her stomach. "Let's hope those boys caught some trout! I'm getting hungry with all of this exertion."

Olga walked out to the small shed in the rear of the house that served as her husband's paint studio. Since the war, Konstantin's work had become increasingly dark, as the horrors of Croatia being trampled by armies appeared ever more frightening to him. His work evolved to blood red, deep purples and black, with human figures looming in impossible places and positions, his mind's world filled with ghastly shapes and heavy fears. Olga didn't much like entering that world anymore, feeling that hope had abandoned her second husband, as it had her country.

"Konstantin," she said nervously, pushing her head through the barely opened door. "I am sorry to disturb you in your work, but something important has occurred. Can we speak for a minute?"

The artist shrugged and put down his palate knife, turning to his wife without a word.

"I received this telegram this morning. You should read it."

She handed him the crumpled paper, which he meticulously flattened with his artist's fingers and then reached for his spectacles. He quickly read the few lines.

"What does this mean, Olga? You told me that your husband was dead. Were you lying to me?"

"Konstantin, you know I wouldn't lie to you," she said firmly holding his gaze. "I received a notice from the army that he had been killed in battle. They found his coat with his name in it. I don't know what this means. It is a nightmare for me."

"Well, what does he want?" the artist demanded with impatience. "Will he be coming here?"

"I can't answer those questions or any others about Milos. I don't have any answers." Olga dropped her gaze down to the unframed paintings that rested on the floor against the studio wall. She looked once more at her husband. "All I know is that you are my husband. You have two step children who love you. I only have one husband. I don't know anything else."

"Then that is settled," he answered with another shrug, and turned back to his canvas, as though his wife were no longer in the room.

* * *

own on the river, Boris was discussing the same topic with his friend Drazan, as they idly watched the lines they had cast into the water. The news of his father left him confused, and he wasn't at all certain whether he was excited or not.

"I only know one father, Draz," he said, leaning back against an old willow. "Konstantin is not much as far as talking is concerned. Some times he doesn't even know I'm around. But I have never even been in a room with my real father, if I even have one. What if he comes here and I like him? Where do you think he has been all these years?"

"Who knows, Boris?" Draz replied, his face lighting up. "Maybe he joined a monastery or something. Maybe the Russians took him. Maybe he got hit by a bullet and lost his...