Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 4

'Great,' thought Steven. 'New Year's Eve with Hungarian retirees.'

Nagy said something to them in Hungarian by way of greeting and they all stood up and hugged and kissed him. He then changed to English. 'I would like you to meet Mr. Steven Roberts,' he was very formal. 'He is a student of Marko Slatina's at the university in California.' At the mention of Slatina's name those present smiled. Nagy made introductions all around...a professor from the Sociology Department, another from Anthropology, Chemistry, History, and their spouses. Some spoke battered English, others German.

As the evening wore on Steven attempted to match them gla.s.s for gla.s.s, but gave up after it became apparent the Hungarians had learned a few tricks about holding their liquor from the Russians during 45 years of occupation. All present knew Marko Slatina and had fond memories of him. One very nice lady, a retired professor of something-or-other with a butcher's command of English, insisted on monopolizing him for most of the evening. At one point she asked: 'has Marko found anyone yet? You know he was quite a catch...' The rest of the evening pa.s.sed in an alcohol-fuelled daze, and the only thing Steven remembered was everybody joyously shouting 'Boldog uj evet Happy New Year'. Steven had absolutely no recollection of how he returned to the hotel.

As he thought back to Budapest's ma.s.sive Keleti Palyaudvar train station, Steven decided the Hungarians could teach Pavlov a thing or two about behavioral control. The enormous gla.s.s-roofed main hall built during the 19th century imperial heyday was crowded, and announcements were only in Hungarian. His head clouded by a hangover, it took Steven some time to find a train schedule, and when he did it appeared erratic, as though similar to the suspension of flights into Belgrade, Serbia's very existence now depended on the whim of the Hungarian state railway. He met a Serb who understood Hungarian and discovered that the next train was to leave at 12:10 PM.

Steven dragged his suitcases to the platform and joined a large crowd of people sitting on their bags, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together for warmth. By 12:30 the train hadn't arrived, but a series of announcements in rapid-fire Hungarian caused the pa.s.sengers to pick up their bags and run first to one platform, then to another, and then back again, until the announcer decided she had derived enough s.a.d.i.s.tic pleasure for one day and permitted the train to arrive. Steven found a compartment with the only other non-smoker in Eastern Europe and the train finally departed, an hour late.

'I've gotta stop drinking' he murmured as he gingerly rested his head against the back of the train seat, stretched out his legs and placed them on the seat opposite him.

The trip south was slow and uneventful, but by the time the train reached the border most of the seats had filled up with Yugoslavs, all of whom carried large boxes or overstuffed suitcases. From their conversations Steven a.s.sumed most were petty smugglers crossing into Yugoslavia with black market goods. Somewhere in southern Hungary the train's motion had lulled Steven to sleep, but a change in movement woke him as it slowed at the border. Green uniformed border police with the red white and green Hungarian tricolor, some carrying Kalashnikovs, customs agents searching compartments; it all pa.s.sed quickly and the blast of a conductor's whistle sent the train moving forward.

In Subotica the first station in Yugoslavia a wild peasant mob was held restlessly at bay behind metal barriers, with police standing watch. The border guards, wearing bluish purple and black camouflage, were followed by green uniformed customs officers. One customs officer opened the compartment door and greeted the pa.s.sengers, all of whom recognized him. He asked what they had in their luggage, and they all answered openly. 'I have 30 kilos of coffee and 20 kilos of laundry detergent,' said one. 'I have 10 liters of alcohol and 15 cartons of cigarettes,' offered another. 'I have nylons and chocolate,' chimed in yet a third. 'Everyone give me a little something. I'll be back in five minutes...and make sure you put it in a bag,' the customs officer said. Five minutes later he collected his tribute. Steven watched the events, shocked at the flagrant corruption.

When the customs check was completed the police pulled back the metal barriers and a wave of humanity flooded the train carrying bags, sacks, and boxes of black market goods. Steven's second cla.s.s compartment which had seating for eight ended up with ten people on the seats and two sitting on boxes. Overhead luggage racks were stuffed full of every imaginable item, and people stood packed together in the hallway. Another whistle blast sent the train slowly lurching forward as Steven a.s.sessed his new traveling companions. Three old peasant women with skin the texture of rhinoceros-hide bundled in heavy woolen knit sweaters, three middle-aged men who immediately began smoking, and a mother with two children, who alternated between the boxes and the mother's lap.

The travelers were all Serbs returning from Hungary with black market goods, or from family plots and farms in the countryside. They shared methods of smuggling, close calls with the authorities, where they had purchased their goods, where they expected to sell them and for what price.

Two small children were told to come in and sit on laps, while their grandmother remained outside in the hall. The grandmother looked tired and tragically proud, almost heroic, with a strong and n.o.ble face that was creased, leathery, and sadly beautiful, reminiscent of a bust by the famous Croat sculptor Ivan Mestrovic. She seemed used to standing.

Someone pulled out a newspaper with an article saying Belgrade had run out of milk, dairy products and gasoline. Someone else mentioned that the government was going to revalue the Dinar by removing several zeros. All the problems, the paper's headline said, were due to "unprovoked and unjust sanctions against the Serbian people and state." Now, for the first time Steven felt he was entering a country at war.

Between Subotica and Novi Sad more people managed to board the train, even though the corridor was so crowded that the conductor never pa.s.sed through to collect tickets. Steven realized only later that he could have ridden from Subotica all the way to Belgrade for free. The train crossed the Danube at Novi Sad, past the Baroque fortress of Petrovaradin, then the skeletal-frame steeples of the Sremski Karlovci cathedral, dark farmland, the outskirts of New Belgrade, and the Sava River.

The train arrived in Belgrade an hour before midnight and was immediately mobbed by an enormous crowd. People lined the tracks well outside the station and began climbing aboard the slowly moving train before it reached the platform, preventing pa.s.sengers from disembarking. Even though Steven was in the compartment closest to the door, he needed almost five minutes of rough pus.h.i.+ng and shoving to get off the train. He then ran around to the outside of his compartment where his fellow pa.s.sengers handed down his luggage.

Late at night the Belgrade train station was a melange of shadows and human bodies. Steven looked for a place to change money, but the only exchange office was closed and he changed money with a cab driver hustling pa.s.sengers on the platform, receiving twenty times the official rate. Unable to find a working pay phone, Steven walked into a smoke-filled police station located on the platform, where he was met by a tired-looking policeman in blue and black camouflage, armed with a Marlboro and a Kalashnikov. He gruffly agreed to let Steven use the phone, and Steven dialed the number Slatina had given him.

'h.e.l.lo, Dusan? Steven Roberts here,' he said in Serbo-Croatian. Even though it was a local call the connection was bad and he had to speak loudly, his accent attracting stares from everyone in the room. 'Yes, I am here in Belgrade. Yes, Belgrade,' he repeated, louder. 'Yes, the train station. Yes, the Belgrade train station.' He listened for a few moments. 'Okay, I am waiting here at the police station.' He hung up the phone, only to notice that he had attracted a crowd of policemen. A suspicious duty officer asked: 'Where are you from?'

'From America,' Steven answered.

'America? Which part?' asked the officer.

'All over, but I go to school in California,' said Steven. 'San Diego.'

'I have a cousin in America. He lives in Chicago. Is San Diego close to Chicago?'

'Not really.'

'Perhaps you know my cousin? He sells real estate in Chicago,' asked another policeman. All the officers had either family members or friends in Chicago.

'Don't you think our women are beautiful?' asked yet another.

'What are you doing here in Yugoslavia? You know there's a war on? It's not a good time to be here.' The tone was belligerent.

'I'm here to research ethnography, folklore, folk tales, etc. Serbia is famous for its folklore and poems.' Steven's response seemed to placate the policeman somewhat. The door swung open as another pa.s.senger came in and asked to use the telephone.

'Why do Americans hate Yugoslavia? I'm not a policeman. I'm a civil engineer, but the war makes me be a reserve policeman. It's because of you that Yugoslavia is falling apart and that we have a civil war.'

Steven looked blankly at him, trying to feign interest, yet unable to believe that the man believed what he had just said. 'Really?' he asked. The jet lag was killing him and it was all he could do to bite his tongue and refrain from telling the cop to go to h.e.l.l.

'Would you like a cup of coffee?' the policeman asked, suddenly polite.

'Yes, thank you,' said Steven. The duty officer sent one of the police officers scurrying to fetch Steven a cup.

'It's the fault of America and the Germans that Croatia and Slovenia want to destroy Yugoslavia. The CIA worked with the German government. Also, the Free Masons are responsible. Did you know it was the Masons working together with the Croatian fascist Ustase that killed King Aleksandar Karadjordjevic in Ma.r.s.eilles in 1934? We're trying to protect our country against Islamic fundamentalism. Do you like the Ayatollah? Do you want the world to be over-run by Islamic terrorists? Don't you in the West know that Serbia is the last bulwark against the Turks and that we saved Christianity? If it wasn't for Prince Lazar and the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 you would all be Muslims today. We have fought to defend you against the Turks, and now you're turning your backs on us and are supporting the Albanians in Kosovo and the Muslims in Bosnia. The Masons and CIA and Vatican want to create a 'Green Corridor' of Islam through the Balkans. It's all there in Alija Izetbegovic's book.'

The coffee arrived: black, strong, sludgy Turkish coffee. Steven sipped silently, watching and listening, too tired to follow the policeman's convoluted train of thought, knowing that if he did he'd lose his temper.

'The CIA is working together with the Vatican to destroy Yugoslavia. You are helping the Croat Ustase, and we are simply trying to defend ourselves against this aggression. The only salvation for Serbia is Slobodan Milosevic. He knows what we have to do to them. He'll take care of them and save Serbia. Remember: "Only Unity Saves Serbs".' The policeman's discourse won approving nods from his chain-smoking colleagues.

The policeman continued his monologue, while his colleagues chipped in their comments. 'You know that the Muslims are all Serbs who left Christianity and joined Islam?' said one. 'You should read Bridge on the Drina by Ivo Andric, the famous Serb n.o.bel Prize author.'

'The Muslims have all become Turks, they have become vampires who want to suck our Christian blood,' said another.

'Did you know they impale people on stakes while they're still alive. They did it to poor Martinovic in Kosovo with a beer bottle, and they burnt Serbian haystacks and barns and destroyed our graveyards. They won't even leave our dead in peace. They're vampires,' added another.

'And now they want to take Bosnia from us,' said the duty officer. 'But we won't let them. Vuk Draskovic and Vojislav Seselj will stop them. They've organized the Cetniks to fight against the Turks and Croat Ustase fascists. Do you know what Cetniks are?'

Steven nodded his head, knowing it wasn't wise to argue late at night with Kalashnikov-armed police in a foreign country at war. By now the conversation had deteriorated into a free-for-all of competing voices, as each policeman offered his take on news of the latest atrocities from the front lines and the character of Yugoslavia's other national groups. He simply sat nodding his head, waiting for it all to end.

After another 20 minutes of this harangue, the door of the police station swung open and a tall, dark-haired college-age male dressed in a cheap winter parka, jeans and woolen cap entered and inquired: 'Is there an American here?'

Salvation in the form of Dusan had arrived.

Interlude II: Grosswardein, Wa.s.serstadt: Friday, 28 February 1733 The Austrian Imperial Grenadiers a.s.sembled on the fortress' frozen parade ground in the twilight of the short winter day, their dress uniforms concealed by the bulk of their greatcoats, heads swallowed by bearskin hats, muskets at parade rest in thickly-gloved hands. Snow crunched under the Captain's riding boots as he made his way down the ranks. He scented the air as he walked: it was crisp with a twinge of wood smoke. He stepped onto a wooden crate, steam billowing from his nostrils and rubbed his freshly shaven chin, his face far too young for a Grenadier officer. 'What shall I do without them?' he thought. 'How shall I find the twelfth?'

'My dearly beloved brethren,' he began, his Italian accent more p.r.o.nounced. 'For you are truly my brethren, as you have proven time and again these past years in the most difficult of circ.u.mstances, where only G.o.d, the Devil and the Emperor knew we existed.' He wiped a tear from his eye with a handkerchief. 'I placed my trust in you, and you have been ever true. I asked you to follow and you followed, even when the very jaws of h.e.l.l gaped open after us, and all the elements combined to hedge up our way. When we were encircled about with darkness and destruction, you stood fast. You have been true and faithful,' he said, his voice choked with emotion. 'Like unto Saint George of old you have fought against the Dragon. For this service, only G.o.d can give you the reward you so richly deserve. My heart, however, I pledge to you. I give you my most solemn oath that henceforth and forever, I shall be at your service, for you are my brothers.' The men stood silently, some with tears running down their face.

The Captain signaled to his Lieutenant, who handed him a large parchment with an official wax seal attached to a ribbon at the bottom. He cleared his throat with a deep rumbling sound. 'A message from his Imperial Majesty. Hats off!' They removed their bear-skin hats. 'Attention!' The entire company snapped ramrod straight in a well-drilled movement.

The Captain read the doc.u.ment out loud.

'We, Charles, by the grace of G.o.d, Holy Apostolic Roman Emperor, King of Hungary and Bohemia, Archduke of Austria, do hereby declare Our greetings to Our most loyal and trusted soldiers of Our Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company. You have served Us and the Holy Church with great devotion and sacrifice. You have engaged in the most perilous of duties in the service of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and have defended the Holy Cross against the Dragon as did all the holy saints and apostles. To reward your faithful service, We have sought from His Excellency the Holy Father in Rome, complete and full pardon of all your sins, which the Holy Father, in His mercy, has chosen to grant you as a reward for your service to the Holy Church.'

The Captain paused to observe the reaction of the men. All stood expectantly. He continued.

'By Imperial decree We hereby release you and your posterity from your military obligations to the Emperor in perpetuity. We do hereby grant each of you the status of a freeman and declare null and void any bonds of serfdom or obligations which you, your wives or children may have to any person or inst.i.tution in Our Imperial lands. We do also grant each of you a full state pension befitting the rank of lieutenant. We...'

'Long live the Emperor; Long Live Charles; G.o.d save His Majesty;' the cries broke forth spontaneously from the lips of the jubilant Grenadiers.

The Captain once again cleared his throat with a deep rumbling and resumed reading.

'We have endeavored to grant you that which each man holds dearest: his own land.'

A gasp went up from the Grenadiers.

'In agreement with His Majesty George I, King of England, We have arranged for the entire company and their families to travel to the British colonies of North America, where you shall be awarded a generous grant of land. His Majesty King George has agreed to give you a charter to establish your own free town in the colony of Pennsylvania, and there you shall live as free men, with all the rights and privileges of landowners.

We shall also award each man a generous monetary gift sufficient to establish himself in his new life. Upon the reading of this proclamation, the Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company shall be disbanded. You are free men. So declare We this 8th day of December in the year of our Lord 1732. Signed, Charles.'

The Captain looked at his men. The Grenadiers stood in stunned silence, steam issuing from their mouths in the cold evening air. 'Your loyalty, devotion and service to G.o.d and the Emperor have been richly rewarded. As of this moment I am no longer your Captain, only your former comrade in arms. I would like to spend this last night with you as my comrades and treat you to a night on the town. We shall meet at the Sign of the Elephant, where I have asked Herr Siegel to prepare a farewell feast for us,' he grinned. 'There we shall drink to His Majesty's health, and to our comrades.h.i.+p, and to your future lives in the North American colonies. Three cheers for His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Charles.'

CHAPTER THREE.

IT'S ONLY FOLKLORE

Belgrade: Winter 1992 The Popovic apartment lay just up the road from Slavija Square, across the street from the concrete ma.s.sif that was rapidly taking shape as a cathedral to Serbia's patron, St. Sava. A labyrinth of musty rooms, the apartment's high ceilings, elegant chandeliers, cut gla.s.s salon doors and parquet wood floors were relics of a bygone era, before a tidal wave of proletarian values had drowned bourgeois sensibilities. Now, three generations of family called it home. Steven's bedroom was a large converted pantry off the kitchen, and he shared a bathroom with Dusan.

'If anyone asks for me,' Dusan had told Steven the first night at the train station, 'tell them I've left the country. I don't want to get sent to the front to fight.'

The family had taken Steven in as a favor to Professor Slatina who knew Dusan's father. His grandfather had placed a color portrait of Slobodan Milosevic on the wall of the living room, and Dusan told Steven it had replaced an earlier portrait of t.i.to. 'They're communists,' he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Each evening Steven and the grandparents dutifully watched RTS, the state television evening news broadcast, which inevitably led with reports of Milosevic's activities or the latest atrocities committed by Croats the announcer always used the pejorative term Ustase against Serbs. RTS told how victorious Serb forces were defending and liberating ancient Serbian lands from fascist aggressors, and how the Muslims in Bosnia were threatening to secede from Yugoslavia, create an Islamic fundamentalist state and drive the Serbs from their centuries' old homes. And whenever the story was about shortages of heating fuel, food, electricity, gasoline or food, the announcer always began with the mantra: "because of the unprovoked and unjust sanctions against the Serbian people and state..." It was brainwas.h.i.+ng at its best, and Steven marveled at its effectiveness. The television mesmerized Dusan's grandparents as they helplessly watched the collapse of their world.

The winter was cold, and the government kept the central district heating at very low temperatures, claiming that sanctions were causing a shortage of heating fuel. Some days Steven could see his breath inside the apartment, and he constantly wore long underwear and woolen sweaters.

The archives, libraries and research inst.i.tutes were closed until after Serbian Orthodox New Year on 13 January, so he read ethnography books, puzzled over his meetings with Professor Nagy, the Order of the Dragon, and wondered why Professor Slatina had wanted Steven to learn of it in such detail. He also spent considerable time walking around the icy sidewalks, getting acquainted with the city.

His impression of Belgrade was one of dirty decay. He choked on the coal smoke, leaded automobile exhaust, cigarettes and diesel fumes, yet admired the awkward mix of graceful neglected old buildings and concrete communist kitsch. Street-corner black market currency dealers buzzed about like swarming bees as they chanted endlessly the Serbian word for hard currency, 'devize, devize, devize.' He was almost run over several times by new black Audis, BMWs and Mercedes with tinted windows, whose drivers braked for no one and rarely observed traffic lights, while the police stood by. And no one smiled.

One night before bed he re-read the letter Katarina had given him at the airport. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper and her photograph. It was simple and written in Serbo-Croatian.

Dear Steven, As you set out on your journey I wish you luck and good fortune. I will also pray to the Lord to protect you every day. Please keep yourself safe. This is a strange time when men are doing horrible things. The fabric of society and the hearts of men are failing and evil is everywhere. Please guard yourself against this evil.

I know that you are a good person, that you like truth and light. Please remember what you know is right and do not turn from it. You do not yet know it but you have a great task ahead of you. The work you do will be valuable and necessary and will help many people. Please use wisdom and good judgment in all you do and protect yourself from the adversary. And never fear to pray for help.

Thank you for listening to me when I was having a hard time. You are a good friend.

Kisses, Katarina P.S. Don't forget the pine cone.

'What does she mean, a "great task"? Does she know something I don't?' he asked as he thought back to Slatina's impromptu lecture on knowledge of good and evil and the serpent.

'Do I love her?' he wondered, looking at her picture on his nightstand. 'Does she like me? Am I ready for this again?' he asked, as he opened his journal and removed a smudged, white silky card. He ran his finger-tips over the richly embossed floral edges. As he opened it his eyes caught the words inside, words he knew by heart.

Harold and Margene Woodruff-Kimball Are Pleased to Announce The Wedding of their Daughter Julie to Steven Preston Roberts On Friday, the Twenty-Second of December, Nineteen Eighty-Nine His blurry eyes looked at the photograph of a happy couple, posed against a mountain stream, gazing intently at each other as though nothing else existed.

He thought back to the day that had marked the end of an old year and the start of a new life...a day that just wouldn't seem to let go of him, any more so than he could let go of her. Maybe life in Serbia would help him let go of the past. Or maybe it wouldn't. He slipped the invitation back among the pages of his diary and looked at Katarina's photograph once more before turning off the light and closing his eyes. 'But if she's in California, what am I doing here?' he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

For Serbian New Year, an aunt, uncle and cousins came over and the family celebrated, the television glowing in the background. Food constantly arrived from the kitchen: sarma filled cabbage leaves, roast pig, different types of cheese, corn bread, pickled vegetables, cold cuts, roast chicken, grilled meat, homemade baklava, homemade cakes, and lots of high octane rakija. Around 10:30 p.m. a heated argument erupted over the war, with the grandmother telling Dusan he was a coward for evading the draft and Dusan's mother getting angry and calling the grandmother a fascist for supporting Milosevic. 'He'll save the Serbian nation,' the grandmother retorted. 'He'll do things for Serbia no one else has ever done. Just you wait and see.'

'If we wait long enough he'll turn all of Serbia into another Vukovar,' the mother answered derisively, referring to the Baroque city in Croatia that Serb forces had just razed to the ground during a three month artillery bombardment. 'And my own son and your only grandson will be killed. Is that what you want?'

A crescendo of automatic weapons fire signaled the approach of midnight. 'Srecna nova G.o.dina' 'Happy New Year' they all shouted, clinking gla.s.ses together, hugging and kissing each other and momentarily forgetting the war next door in Croatia, the gathering storm clouds over Bosnia and all their misery.

The next week Steven set off to meet Professor Miroslav Ljubovic at the Philosophy Faculty building, a brick, gla.s.s and concrete monstrosity defiling the heart of Belgrade's old pedestrian district, where a suspicious doorman interrogated him before letting him enter. The doorman said the professor's office was located on the fifth floor, but the elevators were out of order, so Steven took the stairs, which were lined with smoking students whose cigarette smoke funneled upward, turning the stairwell into a chimney. By the fifth floor Steven was barely able to breathe. He found Professor Ljubovic's office in a darkened corridor and knocked.

'Come in,' he heard a voice call loudly.

A grey-haired man in his late 50s stretched up to return a book to its shelf. He smoothed his threadbare suit coat over a woolen sweater and equally threadbare trousers. 'Yes?' he asked.

'Good day. I am Steven Roberts.' He handed Ljubovic an envelope and looked about the office, yellowed with age and central planning. 'Professor Marko Slatina asked me to present his compliments and to give you this letter.'

Ljubovic smiled and shook his hand. 'Yes, I've been expecting you. It's so pleasant to meet you. Please have a seat.' He took the envelope, read the letter and then looked up. 'It's so pleasant to hear from Marko again. He's been unable to return because of problems with the authorities. I'm glad he's still teaching. His knowledge is valuable and should be pa.s.sed on to new generations.'

'Indeed,' agreed Steven.

'Marko tells me that I'm to direct your research on monsters and mythical creatures in our rich South Slavic folklore. As you know we have many of them...witches, fairies, vampires, werewolves, the wild man and others. Some are old Slavic creatures that were brought here in the 5th and 6th centuries when the Slavs migrated from the north-east. Others appear to have already been here when they arrived, so I guess you can say that some of the creatures you will meet are local, while others are imported.' He laughed at what he considered a joke.

'We'll start you off here in the Ethnographic Library and History Library, and then when you're ready we'll send you across the street to the archive of the Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences. There you'll find many living monsters. However, I'm afraid that they are primarily old communist academicians who bear a greater resemblance to political dinosaurs than to anything you'll find in the literature.' Once again he laughed, as if at an inside joke. 'When we have given you a good grounding in the folklore we'll send you to Novi Sad to work in the Matica Srpska archive.'

'In his letter Marko asked that you start with vampires,' Ljubovic continued. 'He always took an interest in them. So, here is a list of books to start with.' Ljubovic smiled broadly, revealing uneven teeth. 'Actually, the list is Marko's. He left it with me some years ago, urging me to look at it, but I never had the time. When you've finished with the books, you'll start in the archives.'

He handed Steven ten typewritten single-s.p.a.ced pages. 'I think you'll have great fun.'

Steven looked at the list: there wasn't a single book in English. The winter would be long.

The following day Steven fought his way onto a battered and overcrowded electric trolleybus that somehow managed to take him to the heart of the city. In the Philosophy Faculty's sixth floor History reading room he ordered a book and began to work.

He quickly entered into a routine: a morning run, the reading room until closing time at 2:00 PM, a solitary cup of hot chocolate at the Aristotle cafe, then the trolleybus to the National Library where he perused back issues of newspapers in the cavernous reading room. He repeated this pattern, alternating between the Ethnography and History reading rooms in the morning and the National Library in the afternoon.

His social life...well, he had none, so for the first time in his life he grew a beard against the cold. He thought often of Katarina and wondered what she was doing, whether or not she liked him, and whether she had a boyfriend. Weekends he took refuge in Belgrade's unheated movie theaters to watch outdated films. Often the lights came on in the middle of a screening as Military Police swept the theater for draft dodgers. They never left empty-handed.