The circumstances that led to my family fleeing Tetrzlevakia in

1954 are always misunderstood. People believe it was because of the increasing

despotic nature of the communist regime or the student protests happening

in Prague or because of the food shortages that had plagued the country since the end of the Second

World War.

However, none of these reasons accounted for my grandmother's rapid departure, mostly because

their effects were limited in her isolated village and the northeastern frontier.

Rather, it was because the trees began to move.

It's a story that doesn't really leave my family.

It's one of those strange old tales that aren't worth telling guests or friends, largely because they wouldn't be believed.

Nevertheless, it isn't something we shy away from, nor is it some great secret.

I'll repeat the story exactly as my grandmother told it to my mother and how she later told it to me.

I was 12 years old when the trees began to move. I don't mean move as in sway or bend.

I mean they moved. It was on the last day of September and me and my little brother

were walking back from the schoolhouse

along the dirt road that led into the village.

That track of land was and always had been lined with poplars.

And on a windy day you could see them gently swaying back and forth, their tall forms happily waving in the breeze.

We were chatting in the way that children do, watching our shoes stirring up the dust from the ground,

when I looked up to see that in front of us. watching our shoes stirring up the dust from the ground.

When I looked up to see that in front of us, a poplar stood in the middle of the road.

It was about 30 meters ahead of us, and identical to the the rest just planted squarely in the center of the

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