I read about an intriguing trinity. Three persons united almost by nothing but courage. One was the poet Percy Shelley; the other, the poet George Gordon, Lord Byron; and the third had no achievements in their field nor in any other endeavor but mystery. Yet, in a fleeting blaze of glory, his fame would equal the fame of the other members of that trinity. His name was Trelawney—just a surname, and I am not sure of how to pronounce it. Yet, of the three, it was he who always stood out in this young man’s imagination.
Of Trelawney, it was said that when Percy Shelley washed up on the shore of a lake, the body was put on a funeral pyre and set aflame. As the flames wrapped around the body, and broke it open in places, Trelawney’s hand shot out and pulled the smoking heart from the poet’s chest. That image stuck in my mind. So, one of the trinity was gone, leaving two.
Both left for Greece to fight for the freedom of another race—Byron to die before the fight, Trelawney to fight and marry the daughter of a king. When Psinakis came into view in our society back then, by marrying the beautiful daughter of a man who was all but a king, the image of Trelawny came into my head, and that is where it stayed. Martial law came, the Lopezes were exiled, though one was detained along with the son of a politician with a name of equal fame.
One evening, I went, as I usually did, to visit a distant cousin at her home; we both assumed it was watched by the military. Her brother shared Geny Lopez’s detention. I knew that she would not be there; but I went just the same to keep up the pretense that she was there. I don’t recall seeing her again, until we met again in San Francisco. That night her brother and Geny Lopez were spirited away, in a daring escape organized by the only man I knew who would do such a thing.
There were other stories about him, about how this foreigner chose to fight for our freedom—not with words but actions. Indeed, his actions were so bold that when I suggested to the Palace that he be honored for the daring deeds he’d performed, I was made to understand: the thought was appreciated, but a public honor, so soon after the fall of the US-backed dictator, would not be taken kindly by a government that frowned on freedom fighters really fighting dictatorial clients like Marcos.
So Psinakis went on with his life, unofficially honored by his own choice. But you could tell he did not feel in the least diminished by the lost public honor. A hero is not chosen by the people he saves but by the man himself, when he takes the solitary and the dangerous decision to be one. Perhaps, such men are better honored by their enemies than by the people they save. Much later, I would see Psinakis…. Oh, he could never be just Steve to people like me. He was old, often in a wheelchair, but never frail. The fire in his eyes never dimmed, and when they looked at me, into my mind there rushed again the name and image of the English adventurer who went to a foreign land to fight for the freedom of another race. And whose spirit—who knew?—might have left Greece, 150 years later, to return the favor to yet another race. Sleep well, modern Achilles, in your family’s, and in your adopted country’s fond and grateful embrace.