For
Father's Day: recollections of Tato
My
father, Vasyl, died almost nine years ago. The day after my sister's wedding,
he suffered a massive heart attack, spent two months in a coma, and died
without regaining consciousness on November 1, I978. For some reason, Father's
Day is the hardest day in the year for me, more painful than the day of his
death, or his birthday. Tato lived a life similar to that of thousands of
Ukrainian men of his generation (born right before and during the First World War).
He was born and grew up in the Boyko region. His mother died when he was very
young, and the stereotypical evil stepmother came into his life. He finished
the schooling available under Polish rule to the children of the village
(selo). The family was strongly aware of its national and cultural ideals, and
participated in the organized life of the selo.
During
World War II, my father was one of the 2.5 million young Ukrainians taken as
forced laborers to Germany. He was lucky. instead of a munitions factory or a
mine, which were prime targets for Allied bombs, my father wound up in a dairy.
There he met my mother, who was a forced laborer on a nearby farm. I was told
that there were even those who volunteered for work in Germany because ''Hitler
promised us a free Ukraine...'' From what I remember of my parents'
reminiscences, in the human turmoil during the middle and end of the war in
Germany, the Ukrainian slave laborers did not just do their forced jobs for the
Reich. A Ukrainian anti-Nazi underground was very active. The one incident I do
remember my parents retelling, was when my mother stole (yes, stole) her
brother and other Ukrainian political prisoners out of a jail carved into the
rock of the Alps (that's another story). Without everyday clothes, identity
papers, and a knowledge of the German language, they were as good as dead. The
people in my father's underground group forged identification documents for the
escapers, who could then move about the country, even go back home. I remember
being told by Mama long ago, "If I had stopped to think what I was doing —
and the danger involved - never would I have survived. " For most
transgressions, it was execution on the spot, or the lager (concentration
camp). I suppose in today's anti-Ukrainian climate the Ukrainian slave laborers
in Germany are next on the list of our diligent Nazi hunters. After all, they
did work for the Reich (what difference does it make whether it was voluntary
or not?), then they even forged documents, stole and spied (what difference
does it make if it was against the Nazis, a crime is a crime - even during war
-- no?).
During
that war, my parents suffered through the death of their first-born. Lesia, the
older sister I never knew, died of pneumonia at 14 months. There was no medical
care for the Untermenschen (subhumans, i.e., the Slavs). My mother was
convinced it was the travel on cold military trains, their windows shattered, and
her “cold” breast milk which contributed to the baby's death. Now, I'm afraid
to ask for more details, because those memories may devastate an already
fragile parent. After the war there was no going home. It's hard to imagine the
inner turmoil of these idealistic young adults, torn between family and home,
and the reality of the foreign political system now ruling that home. For the
members of the nationalist underground, going home meant Siberia or immediate
death. After what they saw of the forced repatriation in the DP camps, their
choice was made for them. Those from western Ukraine could prove they were
Polish citizens. The others, from eastern Ukraine (under Russian rule) lied.
What irony - desperate people felt grateful for having been under the heel of
one cruel foreigner instead of another! Once in the United States, my father
worked. Hard. Not knowing the language, he had little choice of jobs. His
first, in a mattress factory, left his hands cut and bleeding. Then, there was
the truck manufacturing company, and the factory where they made the brass
horses with clocks mounted into their stomachs. Along with his day job, and my
mother's night job cleaning offices in Lower Manhattan, my parents were
janitors of their building in Jersey City. Is there any DP family whose parents
were not janitors of an apartment building in 1948 - 1949-1950?
Despite
of the drudgery and exhaustion of work, Ukrainian life was not forgotten, with
the family participating in church and organizations. Soon I was receiving my
own "Miy Pryiatel" (My Friend), a children's magazine published in
Winnipeg and edited by Father Semen Izyk, a survivor of the death camps. After
all these years, a scene from my childhood stands out. In our apartment on
Grand Street, in Jersey City, my father is lying on the couch, quietly weeping,
in his hands a letter written in purple ink on graph paper. Mama is pacing the
rooms, also crying. The letter was from home. After Stalin's death in 1953,
separated families could write to each other again. Only now did my parents
learn of the deaths in their families right after the war — my father's father,
and my mother's mother and brother.
Tato
was a quiet man. He didn't express it to us much, be we knew he loved us and
was devoted to his family. But I knew that above family, above everything, his
whole being was devoted to his Ukraina. He longed for home, he prayed for
Ukraine's freedom, he lived for his homeland. The only way he could practically
express his devotion was to belong to the Organization for the Defense of Four
Freedoms for Ukraine. Tato always attended meetings, served on the executive, went
carolling to raise funds. I wonder if the top brass fully appreciated what the
rank and file did. He was one of the foot soldiers, who worked because he
believed in The Cause. A long time ago he had pledged himself to Ukraine, and
had sworn to obey the organization. He believed, and obeyed. I hurt him deeply
once when, during a discussion, I reminded him that during the war Ukrainians
fought amongst themselves and, maybe, for the greater good, they shouldn't
have. To him, his cause was right. It was for the good of the nation. No
discussion. Ukraina and his family there were always in his thoughts. When the
parish in Newark voted to change the calendar, and celebrate Christmas on
December 25, Tato went along unwillingly. And on January 7 he quietly went to
church again, because then he would be celebrating with everyone back home. The
understanding pastor held services for the fiercely stubborn people like my
father.
Tato
was so anti-Communist that he even objected to the red color of my coat. When
we talk about the immigrants after World WarII who still kept their emotional
suitcases ready, my father was one of them. Rationally, he knew there wouldn't
be a change soon in the Soviet political situation. But deep in his heart, he
hoped against hope. He wanted so much to believe that one day he would go home.
When Mama traveled back in the early 1970s to see her family after 30-some
years, Tato would not go along. There was no way he was going to give 'them"
(i.e., the Russians) any of his money. And yet I know how he longed to touch
his Ukrainian soil. Tato was very proud of my defense of Ukraine in my writing.
I didn't know this until after his death, when a friend of his told me how he
always bragged about my latest letter to the editor. I knew then, that in spite
of all my normal childish and teenage transgressions, I did OK in my father's
eyes.
About
those eyes. Tato was a handsome man with black bushy eyebrows over very large,
very blue eyes. My sister and I inherited his big eyes, as did all our
children. You can tell those Paszczak eyes a mile away. As most immigrants,
Tato was a devoted American citizen. He always voted — Republican, of course -
because they were anti-Communists. In a sad way, I'm relieved that he's not
here today to endure what his friends and compatriots are going through. He
would have felt betrayed, totally devastated by Ronald Reagan, the Republicans,
and the U.S. Justice Department's Office of Special Investigations (OSI). Tato
knew what he worked for and against during the war. And now the country that
welcomed him is betraying all Ukrainians because of a lie. His heart and soul
could not have taken it. Maybe Tato died from happiness. At the wedding
reception he told a friend that this was the happiest day of his life, because
now both his daughters wеге married to good Ukrainians. To him that meant
everything. He was surrounded by friends, including a wartime and DP camp buddy
whom he hadn't seen in decades, who had come all the way from California.
After
his collapse, there was hope at first that he would come out of the coma. Then
slowly the realization sank in that he would not. We had the time to accept
this. At least he was not in pain. To me, Tato's funeral was something I floated
through. We were in a daze. I remember the funeral director asking if we wanted
flowers from the family. Thinking that he meant another wreath, we decided
instead to donate the money to the UPA (Ukrainian Insurgent Army) veterans. And
so, through a misunderstanding, there were no flowers on his coffin, і still
regret that. But Tato would have understood. I'm glad he's resting at St.
Andrew's Ukrainian Orthodox Cemetery in South Bound Brook. At least there all
our people are united, no matter what political stripe or religion. In our
post-funeral thank-you announcement I wrote: ''Sleep peacefully, Tatu. May the
hospitable American soil take the place of that Ukrainian earth, which you
loved above all.''
THE UKRAINIAN WEEKLY SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1987
