ABSTRACT
Last night, after years of searching, the author finally listened to a recording of the burst of gunfire that killed my father somewhere on the road to Stanleyville in the Congo 37 years ago. No sooner had the author heard it than he ran into one of my father’s former colleagues, Peter Hawthorne, who had come into the radio station to talk about Africa and Africa correspondents. It was a coincidence that heightened every emotion he was feeling. Perhaps the final catharsis will be when he go to Washington—with my son—to see his father’s name on the Freedom Forum Memorial. Like the families of the Vietnam fallen he would like to trace my fingers along his name and make up for the fact that he only found out about the memorial by accident and through the Internet three years ago.
