Field of Blackbirds, Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen [historical books to read TXT] 📗

flight through the majestic Balkan Mountains, the falcon spotted him in a clearing just atop the battleground. Prince Lazar was bent with humility, preparing to receive counsel from God.” Mr. Nowak watched Lazar’s bright blue eyes widen as the story progressed. “The Falcon came to offer him a choice, a choice that would change the course of Serbia forever.”
Lazar anxiously waited as Mr. Nowak chomped the sliver of peppermint in his mouth. Mr. Nowak cleared his throat and then continued. “For a moment, the falcon just watched the prince, analyzed his countenance, determining what kind of man he really was. Prince Lazar believed he could defeat the Ottomans. But the falcon warned him that if he fought the battle, he would only have an earthly kingdom and no chance of salvation for his soul. The falcon told him, if he would lay down his sword and not fight, he and his men would be granted a heavenly kingdom and a throne among Gods.
The falcon sensed the inner struggle and sadness the Prince felt. Nevertheless, he returned to Jerusalem and left the Prince to anguish.”
Mr. Nowak paused, “Perhaps the hardest thing a man can do, Lazar, is to lay down his sword at the feet of his enemies. Prince Lazar did just that.” Mr. Nowak deepened his voice a little. “Because the Prince was a Godly man, irrevocably and undaunted.”
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar quickly cut in, “what happened to him?”
“Every man dies sooner or later, Lazar. So the question is not when we die, but how we die.We must make good choices while we are alive, even if they are not always popular. If they lead to our death, so be it. It is our struggles that make us strong.” Mr. Nowak reached over the table and lightly squeezed Lazar’s bicep. “Just like the jewelry I make has to withstand a certain degree of heat before it can really shine. You have a great name, Lazar. It stands for more than you know.”
“Is that why my dad died, to make me a stronger person?”
“I think so, Lazar.”
“But that’s not fair to him or my mother.” Lazar studied the chess board and without much thought he quickly moved a pawn forward, realizing it was going to be sacrificed.
Mr. Nowak saw the look of confusion and sadness on the boy’s face. Lazar had such an honest face.
“You’re right Lazar. It’s not fair your father died. I wish I had all the answers. But I do want to tell you something, Lazar. I want you to remember it always”. Mr. Nowak took Lazar’s pawn into his hand and began to turn it in his fingers.
“I make good watches Lazar, but my watches sell because I am Polish. If I was Muslim, or Croatian, or Albanian, perhaps my shop would have already been burnt down, regardless of how nice my watches were. I don’t have many friends, but because I am Polish, I have no enemies either.”
Lazar’s eyes widened again. It was something Mr. Nowak was thankful for. He always knew when Lazar was listening.
Mr. Nowak checked his watch, making sure he didn’t keep Lazar too late. He didn’t want to upset Jovanka. “Lazar, I have seen people treated like dogs because of their race. I have seen people shot down, even massacred for their religious beliefs. It’s a sad thing that you can be hated for things like that. Your father was killed by hatred. The only thing worth fighting for, Lazar, is for the destruction of hatred itself. Hatred is the cancer of Yugoslavia. I tell you this Lazar, because you are a Serb. You will be surrounded by hatred; you will look it in the eyes. It has the power to consume you alive or redefine your soul. You can’t ignore it, Lazar. You must harness it with care.”
Mr. Nowak noticed Lazar shifting more than normal in his chair. He knew the boy might have felt uncomfortable with what he was hearing. He even heard the clicking of Lazar’s big shoes under the table. Those shoes were symbolic to Mr. Nowak. They represented the responsibilities that would be thrust into his lap. He needed to be prepared for it. Now, at only ten years old, Mr. Nowak knew that someday, Lazar would be a great man, before God agreed it was time.
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar said quietly, “I hope I never have to fight.”
The sincerity in the boy’s voice was heartbreaking. Times were changing. Mr. Nowak knew Lazar would be faced with hard choices. Some of them would be awful. It was more than a young boy should have to worry about. But Mr. Nowak had waited, for what he felt was the right time, to say these things to Lazar.
“That is my wish for you too, Lazar; that you won’t have to fight. But I will tell you this; we will be responsible to God, when he says, ‘Love thy Neighbor.’ Never lose compassion for human beings. Remember; the only worthy fight is that against hatred. Live life, Lazar, as a happy young man. Nobody can steal your youth.”
Mr. Nowak reached over the table again and patted Lazar’s boney shoulder. Then he checked his watch. “It’s getting late, Lazar.”
“Yeah,” was all Lazar could muster.
Lazar scooted his chair away from the table, but not before he took two pieces of candy from the dish and put them in his pocket. He always said the same thing as if he had to explain himself; “For Mom and Dejana.”
Mr. Nowak would just smile.
It was a lot to take in for Lazar and he wasn’t sure he understood everything Mr. Nowak tried to tell him. In time, it would probably explain itself and that would have to do. But he listened and he would remember those words.
Lazar saw a tear in the corner of Mr. Nowak’s eye. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he did feel that Mr. Nowak loved him with all the compassion of a true father. And Lazar needed that so badly.
Mr. Nowak walked into the back room and came out with a basket full of fruits and vegetables and a loaf of bread.
“Give this to your mother.” he said.
Quite often Mr. Nowak would send a basket of food home with Lazar. It was dark when Lazar walked out the door. The Gipsy woman had already gone home. When Lazar crossed back over the bridge, he walked under a streetlamp that cast just enough light for him to see into the basket. There was an envelope at the bottom. He opened it. Inside was some money, and a note that read; “For Dejana’s medicine”.


************


Hinkley California, 1981


Reed woke to the sound of his dad’s tractor just outside his window. He never remembered actually falling asleep last night. Baseball cards still covered his bed. He’d divided them into two piles; the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Philadelphia Phillies. Of course Reed was a Dodgers fan being from Hinkley, a farming town just northeast of LA. Reed's dad had been promising to take him to a Dodgers game. He would be turning eight in two weeks. Bu today was game-day. And the icing on top was; Reed didn’t have to share the adventure with his five-year-old brother, Reddin or his two-year-old baby sister, Gracie.
It didn’t take long for anticipation to flood his little body. He threw his blanket to the edge of his bed, causing cards to flutter into the air. He grabbed a ball and his red Wilson mitt and bolted toward his door. Before he crossed the threshold, he took one step backward into his room. He glared up at the life-size poster of Don Sutton on his wall. Don was scheduled to be on the mound later.
“Good luck, Don,” he said. “I don’t think Rose will give you any trouble. He’s getting old. It’s Mike Schmidt with the hot bat. He’s got forty-eight home runs and you know he wants to break fifty this year.” Reed plucked the ball from his mitt and tossed it back in. “Just remember, Schmidt likes to reach for those curve balls just outside the plate. Pitch a little inside and you should get your strikes called. I think you can handle the rest.”
Reed could see his dad on the tractor out in the alfalfa field. Reed darted out and was quickly consumed by a trail tractor dust.
Mr. Beckly was a large man, 245 pounds and six feet, four inches tall. He had wide straight shoulders. His back rounded a little from years of operating heavy equipment. His hands, low and weighted like sledgehammers. His legs were like railroad ties, straight and sturdy.
Mr. Beckly had labored in this field before he was even in school. He remembered the burns in his small clammy hands after losing tug-a-war matches with the work mule. He had permanent lines across his finger tips where the thin bands of bailed hay rested against bone. Mr. Beckly believed in faith and principal. To him, life was simple; black and white, not gray. There were very little dos and a lot of don'ts. The only time he would go into town was when Mrs. Beckly would steal him away for an evening at the theatre and dinner.
When Mr. Beckly noticed Reed running up behind him, he slowed and killed the engine.
“Dad, what are you doing?” he yelled. “We're supposed to be on our way to the game.”
“The first pitch isn't until noon, and the stadium is only an hour away. I thought I could get a little work done.”
“No Dad. We have to go now to get good seats.”
Mr. Beckly laughed. He knew their seats were assigned.
“Okay,” he conceded, “Go see if Mom will pack our lunches and then meet me at the truck in