Every male who came to the United States as an immigrant was required to register for the Selective Service draft, within a few months of arrival. I registered as required. I was living at that time at 170 Babcock Street in Brookline.

It did not take long. I was told to report to an Army induction center somewhere in Boston, near the ocean, on a specific date and time. When I arrived there were many young men. We underwent physical examinations and written tests. When it was over I received my draft card with a classification of 1-A. Some Americans I knew told me what that meant in Brookline — I would be called up within a month. Someone also told me that because I spoke Czech, I would likely end up in Vietnam. North Vietnam used Czech language for radio transmissions, and they needed translators.

I thought about this carefully. I had already spent two years in the Czechoslovakian Army, conscripted into a communist military I despised. I hated communism. The idea of fighting against it, rather than being forced to serve it, did not frighten me. And I had always wanted to fly. So I went to the Air Force recruitment office.

The recruiter listened to my story and then told me that because I had served in a communist army, they would need to conduct a one-year security check before I could enlist. Since I was already classified 1-A and living in Brookline, I would be drafted within a month. There was nothing they could do to stop that process, and it would be a waste of their time.

I was surprised by the answer. The next day I went to the Army recruiting center in Boston, already expecting the same response. I got it. But this time I was prepared.

I told the recruiter it was not fair. I was not a US citizen. If I were captured by North Vietnamese forces, I would be sent back to Czechoslovakia and spend the rest of my life in prison. A US citizen, at least, had some chance of coming home after the war ended. I had no such protection. And then I told him something else. I said that if I ended up in Vietnam under those conditions, I would use everything I had learned from political schooling in the Czechoslovakian Army to disrupt the morale of US soldiers.

The recruiter picked up the phone.

I was taken to Army headquarters and interrogated for several hours by Army Intelligence. The recruiter had evidently realized — or someone above him had decided — that you could not draft a man from a communist country without at least checking him out first. When it was over, I was given a 1-F classification, meaning I was deferred while the security investigation was conducted.

While the check was underway, KLH tried to help. Henry Shor, the Director of Personnel and Organization, wrote a letter to the Selective Service in September 1967 requesting an occupational deferment on my behalf, arguing that I was a difficult person to replace and that there were simply not enough electronics technicians in the Greater Boston area. It made no difference.

About six months later, in January 1968, the security check was complete. The Army had found me fully qualified for induction. My classification returned to 1-A.

I was living next door to a man named Martin Linsky. He was a Republican state representative, and he rented the apartment above the garage from an older woman who owned the big house at 12 Abbottsford Road, right next to mine on Babcock Street. One winter, we were both out shoveling snow from our adjacent driveways and I told him my situation. I explained that I felt I had already lost too many years — two years in the Czechoslovakian Army, one year in Austria as a refugee, one year getting adjusted in America. I needed to concentrate on my education. I was attending night school at Lincoln College, attached to Northeastern University, taking four subjects at a time.

Martin sent me to a lawyer named Ralph Fine, who worked at a prestigious law firm in Boston. I sat down with Mr. Fine and told him everything. He told me to write it all out, and he would send it to Senator Brooke for help. I wrote the letter.

Around the same time, Marie — the Czech friend I had known since my early days in Boston — was working at Harvard Travel Service in Cambridge. When she heard about my draft situation she arranged for me to meet her boss, Vladimir Kazan-Komarek. He had recently returned from Czechoslovakia under dramatic circumstances — an Aeroflot flight returning from a travel agents’ conference in Moscow had made an “emergency” landing in Prague, and he had been taken off the plane and arrested by the Czech secret police on charges of treason and espionage. The case had caused a major diplomatic incident between the United States and Czechoslovakia, and after a brief trial he had been expelled back to the US. He wanted to see if he had any connections that might help with my situation.

I never found out exactly what, if anything, came of that meeting in terms of practical help. Harvard Travel Service eventually closed. Kazan-Komarek died some years later under unclear circumstances — somewhere in Europe, Spain I believe. He had a Cessna and had been making transatlantic flights, and was reportedly writing about aviation. After he died his wife could not find out exactly what had happened. There were rumors and quiet speculation about whether he had been involved in intelligence work. I never knew the truth of it.

Not long after sending my letter to Senator Brooke, I received an invitation to a hearing at the local Selective Service office.

I dressed as well as I could for the occasion. After I first arrived in America, one of the first things I had done was buy myself a good pair of Bally shoes — to replace the ones I had worn through the Austrian winter, the ones with the hole in the sole. A good shoe mattered to me. It was a small thing, but it was mine.

The hearing was on February 12, 1968. There were three older gentlemen. I explained my circumstances, my education, my history. At some point one of them looked down at my feet and said, with a certain tone, “You have nice shoes.”

I did not respond.

I received another 1-A classification.

Mr. Fine told me to write to Senator Brooke again, this time about what had happened at the hearing. I did. By then Honeywell, where I had started working, had also written to the local board requesting an occupational deferment on my behalf. Senator Brooke’s office had contacted the Massachusetts State Director of Selective Service directly. I received another invitation — a “courtesy hearing,” they called it — scheduled for April 8, 1968, at the same Selective Service office.

When I arrived, the same three gentlemen were there. And a fourth man I had not seen before, who smiled often and kept glancing at me with what I can only describe as an encouraging expression. Looking back at the correspondence from those months, he had almost certainly been sent by Senator Brooke’s office.

I was asked the same questions I had been asked before. I gave the same answers. No one said anything about my shoes.

After that hearing, I received a student deferment.