As a 12-year-old in a refugee camp in Germany, I had dreamed of a far-off utopia, a land called the United States of America, where justice ruled and all people were created equal. Not long after arriving on these shores, however, I discovered that Americans were just as capable of bigotry and hatred as Europeans. I was devastated to read about anti-Semitism, particularly during the pre-war period, when prominent people such as Henry Ford preached that Jews were “the world’s foremost problem.” And, in disbelief, I stared at photographs of Japanese-Americans being taken from their homes and placed in concentration camps after Pearl Harbor.

Most of all, I was disappointed in my adopted country’s mistreatment of its Black citizens. I had read about lynchings and other cruelties as a boy in Europe but somehow, I assumed that these had taken place hundreds of years ago. Upon arriving in America, I discovered how recent such events were and that, even in the 1950s, African Americans did not have equal access to education and jobs; in many places, they were confined to inferior public schools and facilities separate from those reserved for whites. Where as a boy, I had seen signs reading “Jude,” (meaning “Jew” in German) on schools, restrooms, and water fountains, here these signs were replaced by those reading “Colored.” And the first time I stepped onto the floor of Gallagher Hall, the basketball arena of Oklahoma State University, I was amazed to find that all my teammates looked like me—white.

Fast-forwarding to a decade later, I was encouraged by the changes in laws and attitudes which had taken place under Presidents Kennedy and Johnson. Then along came Martin Luther King, whose nonviolent appeals for equality for Black Americans gained millions of followers, me among them. But now it was 1968, and he was dead—murdered by a white man in Memphis. Disenfranchised Americans not only lost their leader, but they determined that equal rights could not be gained peacefully. They rioted. Nearly one hundred cities and towns throughout the country were on fire. America was in trouble.

We were in the middle of a presidential campaign, and I hung my hopes on one man who could return sanity to our nation and the world. Bobby Kennedy was my last remaining hero in public life. If elected President of the United States, he promised to end the insane Vietnam War and gave hope of a brighter future to Black Americans. One day after celebrating our ninth wedding anniversary, Sue and I watched television late into the night of June 4, as the returns from the critical California Democratic primary were being counted. We cheered and drank a toast to Bobby when he was declared a winner, and thus would most certainly be our party’s candidate in the general election.

The following morning, the radio woke us with the same kind of somber music we had heard after the deaths of JFK and Dr. King. I was startled. It can’t be. Not again! But soon we found out that, indeed, it had happened again. Bobby had been passing through a hotel kitchen in Los Angeles after addressing his supporters when a Palestinian refugee named Sirhan Sirhan shot him three times. Now, my last hero was lying in a hospital with a team of doctors trying to save him.

One day later, Bobby was dead. I felt as though my world had come to an end. How much more could one take? What kind of a lawless country was this? My idealized vision of America, one I had carried with me on our journey from enslaved Czechoslovakia across the pond, was long gone. I had always prided myself on self-control and coolness under pressure, but now I felt totally helpless and lost.

The following Sunday, I was awarded my doctorate in engineering from The Catholic University of America in Washington. My proud parents, my wife Sue, and our four-year-old son David held a muted celebration. Even after six years of my hard work and Sue’s sacrifices, it was difficult to savor the moment of victory under the circumstances. And 1968 was far from over…

As a Czech-American, I was aware of the fact that major events in my native country happen in years ending with the digit “8.” 1968 was no exception, and it had begun on a promising note. After twenty years of totalitarian Communist rule, Czechoslovakia experienced a period called “Prague Spring.” Censorship of speech and press ended; travel to the west was allowed; secret police was dissolved; the people felt free. For the first time in years, a spark of Czech patriotism ignited in my heart.

But my elation did not last long. The nation’s Soviet masters decided that freedom did not fit the Communist formula. Concerned about events that had been reported in the news, I scanned the dial of my Zenith Transatlantic radio a few minutes after midnight on the 21^st of August. Soon, I heard the halting voice of a distressed woman:

“At eleven o’clock last night, troops of the five Warsaw Pact states invaded Czechoslovakia, brutally violating all fundamental international and human rights.”

500,000 soldiers of the Warsaw Pact—Soviet Union, Bulgaria, East Germany, Hungary, and Poland—had invaded the country. Tanks were rolling into Prague.

“They are going to silence our voices, but they cannot silence our hearts,” the woman continued, her voice cracking. I closed my eyes and saw the panorama which is engraved in the heart and the soul of every Czech: beautiful and majestic Hradčany, the Castle and cathedral, which tower over my native city and which have seen so much over the centuries. And the little pilot light which had flickered inside me grew dim once again, nearly extinguished by a foul easterly wind. It would be another twenty-one years before it would glow once more.