GOING HOME TO UKRAINE

Dear Friends,

Have not been posting too much on this blog -- and I should. Must make it part of my routine.  Busy with the Christmas book and other projects and -- packing!   Off to Ukraine tomorrow!  So excited.  I love being there. Am leading a tour with Canadian and Australian folks.


I wrote this article for The Ukrainian Weekly back in May 2007 -- it still applies.

See youse later in the summer!  Have a good one.

The things we do...

Being There – So at Home in Ukraine

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

Have you ever come to a place you’ve never been before and felt right at home? That’s how I felt when I first arrived in Ukraine in 1993; over the years, that feeling hasn’t changed.

Other cities, other countries have beauty, interesting architecture and historic places. But being in Ukraine, whether in Kyiv, Lviv or any small town or village, is so much more fascinating to me. Even though I am far removed from the place – my parents left as young adults – I am so drawn to it. After all, it is my ancestral homeland, where my roots are found. I suppose if I did not know much about the place, maybe it would be like any other tourist spot – old and interesting, and so what?

But, because it is the source of my roots, it is so very special. I am so at home in Ukraine! Yes, I know, to the people there I am a foreigner, a curiosity; I might even be regarded as one of those (expletive at times deleted) diasporans. And yet, often I am taken as being from another city or the next province. They think I am a native, but just not from right there. Thanks to my parents, I mastered the language, and only rarely does someone notice that it is not quite what is spoken there now. But that’s whole other story.

I love walking around, whether in the city, town or village – or the open countryside. I feel such comfort and a deep soul-nourishing satisfaction. It is home in a very deep sense, something that cannot be explained in any logical way. 

The streets of Lviv, Kyiv, Kolomyia, Ternopil and Ivano-Frankivsk have become so familiar to me that I rarely need to refer to the city maps. I just head off in the direction I “know” I’m supposed to go. It’s spooky, but I’m rarely wrong. Of course, there have been times where I have been completely, terribly, most embarrassingly wrong, with my poor feet paying the price. On the other hand, quite a few times I have been asked for directions, and have known what to say.

Once at the Zoloti Vorota (Golden Gates) in Kyiv on a Sunday morning, a man with a young son asked me how to get to a particular street. I thought it was down this way but, just in case, took out my guidebook to check, explaining that I was from Canada. Well, he was from Zaporizhia. We enjoyed a laugh, talked for a bit, and then they went on their way – in the direction I had originally indicated.

To be in Ukraine’s shrines or on the actual sites of ancient history is quite moving.

The first time I entered St. Sophia Sobor in Kyiv, I sensed this strange physical and spiritual emotion, and was moved to tears. I did not expect this. Suddenly I felt all that antiquity and history and the souls from those times surrounding me. Seeing the reconstructed St. Michael the Golden-domed Sobor is an emotion of another kind. The beauty and majesty of the magnificent cathedral is one thing, but knowing how ancient it is and what had been done to it, and how it rose as a phoenix makes it so much more glorious.

Walking along Virmenska (Armenian) Street and the other oldest streets of Lviv is also fascinating. From the external buttresses on the buildings, you just know how very old they are. I find photographing courtyards, gates, doors, and windows and windowsills in Lviv to be especially satisfying.

One special spot for me is the old Kyiv Hill, where Volodymyrska Street begins, at the top of Andriyivskyi Uzviz, and where the remains of the Desiatynna Tserkva (Church of the Tithes, built between 989 and 1015) are visible. This is Kniaz Volodymyr’s town, from which Kyiv expanded into Kniaz Yaroslav’s town (the areas of St. Sophia and Zoloti Vorota). Kniahynia Olha’s residence, a palace inthe-round, was located on this hill. The earthen rampart (val) that surrounded that first town is still there. The various historical locations are clearly labeled.

Past the National Historical Museum on this hill is one of the ravines leading down to the Podil, the old lower town along the banks of the Dnipro River. This was the commercial port part of the medieval city. It still has two very closely parallel streets named Nyzhnii Val and Verkhnii Val (the low and the high ramparts). Khoryv and Shchekavytska streets are there, too, and, in another area, Lybidska Street is near the stream that still manages to flow within the city. Talk about Ridna Shkola coming alive, as one of my sons exclaimed.

In a few places, the original pink-hued stonework of medieval Kyiv is purposely exposed, for example in the pavement on Volodymyrska Street near Velyka Zhytomyrska. The same stones and bricks made from this local material are visible in the walls of St. Sophia in Pecherska Lavra, the rebuilt Uspenskyi Sobor, and other ancient buildings.

The names of the streets, city districts, hills and parks are testimony to the antiquity of Ukrainian cities, towns and villages. For example, below the ravine of old Kyiv Hill, the areas are called Honchari (potters), Kozhumiaky (tanners – remember the story of Kyrylo Kozhumiaka?) and Dihtiari (tarburners and sellers). Yaroslaviv Val (Yaroslav’s Ramparts) is the street where the actual ramparts were raised around his expanding city. Volodymyrsky Uzviz is the street along which – according to the chronicles – people walked from the upper town to the Dnipro River to be baptized in 988. Virmenska Street is where the Armenians settled and lived in Lviv from its earliest times. The village of Pechenizhyn definitely has something to do with the Pechenihy tribe of Volodymyr’s times. The stories behind the toponyms are endless and, if you know even a shred of Ukrainian history, so much more interesting.

One place I must visit this summer is the site of the excavations by Vikentiy Khvoika – the Paleolithic site on Frunze Street in the Podil. That’s about as far back as our human history goes. Talk about Ukrainian antiquity, eh?

I am at home in Ukrainian churches, no matter which denomination. The atmosphere, the reverence, the iconography, the people, the singing – it is mine, it is familiar, it is what I grew up with. (The only church that was foreign to me, I later learned, belonged to the Moscow Patriarchate. Back in 1993 we came to a church in Chernivtsi during a service. What was very strange and uncomfortable to me was the way the women were scurrying around, hunched over, heads down, kerchiefs over their foreheads. It was as if they were afraid to stand up straight, and face the priest, the altar and the icons directly.)

And so, I will be back this August. Since 1993, I have been fortunate to lead a folk art and culture tour to Ukraine each year, during my vacation (oh, that day job interferes). I enjoy showing off my other “home” to those who join me. In the last few years I have stayed for a bit after the group leaves to wander the streets of Lviv and Kyiv. And, as usual, I will be luxuriating in the sheer pleasure of being there.

A SUMMER MEMORY FROM LONG AGO

“And they called it puppy love..."

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

The summer camp season has ended. As I sent my older children off to camp, I reminisced about my teenage summers. I belonged to SUM (Ukrainian Youth Association), and the beautiful camp in Ellenville, N.Y. was my summer home. At first I was a just a camper, but later, at a still early age, became a counselor. The summer I graduated from eighth grade was also the summer my mother finally cut off my long braids. Sure, it was convenient to have braids, but at 13 I wanted a change. After all, I was a teenager now and even a counselor at camp! With my new straight-as-a-board shoulder length hair, I turned over a new leaf. It was hard work being a counselor. And I was responsible for a roomful of lovable but mischievous 7- and 8-year-old boys. But there was also time for fun. The counselors and older staff got together in the evenings for stories and songs. Many of the people had beautiful voices, and the Ukrainian harmonies of the folk songs were out of this world. One of the counselors was a handsome "older" man around 18. For a 13-year-old. that's pretty old. He was tall, tan, had a gorgeous smile, and was a marvelous dancer. I, and the rest of the younger female counselors, had a crush on him. Every Saturday evening there was a dance for the older campers and counselors. While the Ukrainian tangoes and waltzes played over the PA system, we either danced with the other girls, or waited for the young men to ask us to dance. There were usually fewer boys, so it was a big deal if you did dance with a boy.

For one of these Saturday dances. I planned to do something about my crush on Slavko, the"older man.” He was going yo notice me, because I was going to make myself especially pretty. From home, I had brought my mother's home permanent curlers. On a Thursday I asked my good friend Marusia to set my hair with these small plastic curlers. I remember instructing her to be sure to set the hair tight, because my hair was long and thick. I forgot that it was also fine. To ensure that it set well, I wore those curlers from late Thursday until early Saturday evening, a scarf tied back on my head. Do you want to guess what happened next? The curl was so tight we could barely get the curlers out of the hair! I say we, because every girl available was helping to free me from my beauty trap. After the curlers were finally removed, I had the first Afro on a Caucasian person, around five or six years before Afros became "in." Not only could we not get a comb or brush through it, my fingers couldn't get through it. Heartbreak! It's already getting dark, the dance is about to begin, and I'm in a panic about the frizzy mound atop my head. I'm supposed to dance with Slavko tonight!

I did go, with another scarf tied around my puffy head. I was so embarrassed I could die! My friends didn't help much, because to them this whole thing was a riot. Barely holding back tears of laughter, Marusia even reminded me how I had instructed her to make the curls, real tight, "so that it would hold." Slavko did dance with me once, if I remember correctly. He didn't even ask why there was a scarf on my head in the middle of summer, at a dance yet. If he knew I had a crush on him, he never let on. Thirty some years later. I can smile now as I recall this one-sided puppy-love affair, and my Ukrainian Afro. But at the time, it was no laughing matter.

The Ukrainian Weekly.  No. 39, Sunday, September 27, 1987

FINDING YOUR ROOTS IN UKRAINE

There is so much interest in genealogy today -- you want to find your roots even though you've been so far removed from your Ukrainian relatives for so long.  Here are two articles about starting the search.  (originals published in The Ukrainian Weekly)

I'll be leading my 16th (or so) tour to Ukraine in July (please see http://cobblestonefreeway.ca/tour-package/folk-art-and-culture-tour/    --- still a bit of time to register!  Go for it!

_______________

YOU WILL FIND THEM IF YOU GO – Finding Relatives in Ukraine

Getting the Place Name Right

Orysia Paszczak Tracz

Five minutes sometimes…. ok, a half-hour at most…. that is the time needed once you arrive in your ancestral village to find someone from your family.   If there are no living relatives, someone in the selo (village) will know where the family lived, and show you where their house is or was.  Of course, you need to know the name of your village and the povit (county or district).   Knowing the oblast' (province) would help.  Why is the selo name not enough?   Just like in any other country in the world, there are a few settlements with the exact same name – just how many Plainfields, Middletowns, and Baysides are there in the U.S.A.?

So before we get down to finding the people, let me first tell you where to go…

If you or your family have been in contact with the family in Ukraine, or in the Ukrainian lands now within Poland, or Slovakia, you are fortunate, because you have at least one letter from them, with the family name, the village, the povit, and the oblast'.   You're ready to go!

If your ancestors came to one of the Canadian prairie provinces, or to Pennsylvania, New York or North Dakota a century ago, and your family lost contact, don't pack your bags just yet.  On the other hand, don't lose hope.   Usually, there is some family memory, some stories from the family or from friends, photos, documents such as baptismal certificates, the ship card, or some other identification.  

But often there isn't.  From the photos, maybe you can tell what part of Ukraine they lived in – the clothing will help, sort of.  Depending on the formality of the occasion, they may have worn their own traditional regional costume, and then it is easier to at least narrow down the region. Or, they could have gotten all gussied up for the portrait and wore the almost non-descript urban clothing of that time, leaving no hint as to place of origin.

The various Ukrainian genealogical societies in Canada and the US are most informative and helpful, especially to the seekers who have very little, if any, information on their family, and no knowledge of Ukrainian.  

http://infoukes.com/genealogy/

http://infoukes.com/lists/

http://www.torugg.org/      ( Toronto)

http://www.geocities.com/uggncr/           (Ottawa)

http://www.eegsociety.org/Home.aspx      (East European Genealogical Society, based in Winnipeg , but with members around the world)

http://www.rootsweb.com/~ukrgs/index.htm

You need to be observant and careful, because some websites are strictly commercial and may or may not have reputable people running them.   Some may be like the ones in the mail or online ready to sell you the family crest for "Smith".   A trusted friend or community member may sift through some of this advice that should be taken with a bushel of salt.   Then there is one Ukrainian genealogy discussion group which, while informative, seems to have been taken over by a person who tries to convince everyone from any part of Ukraine that their ancestors were "rusyn," even if they were from Lviv or Volyn. 

But let's get back to the selo, the one you need to visit.  You remember your baba talking about Kuty, her village of so long ago.   She may have been a Hutsulka, from the Carpathian Mountains, and her Kuty may have been the famous village everyone thinks of when they hear that place name.   But, a big but – rather than that selo, maybe she was from one of the three Kuty in Lviv Oblast, or the two Kuty in the Ternopil province?   Oh, she was from Volytsia?   One of the eleven in the Lviv region, or the three in Ternopil?   Dibrova (grove)?  How about five each in Lviv, Ternopil, and Ivano-Frankivske provinces. The common place names are as prolific throughout Ukraine as forest mushrooms after a rain, but even the more esoteric ones can give you trouble.   There are four Khatky ["little houses"] in the Lviv province, and only one in Ternopil, and two Tulyholovy ["heads cuddling together"] in the Lviv oblast.  

Two Kapustyntsi ("cabbage things"), six Zalissia (beyond the woods or forest) , two Shepit (whisper), a whole stack of Sloboda (large village) and Slobidka (hamlet), four Dobriany and two Dobrovliany, and Boyany, Boyanets', Boyanychi, Boyanivka and Boyanchuk…

Oy, gotta stop, I'm having too much fun!  Next time, we'll start looking for family once we get to the right selo.

________________

YOU WILL FIND THEM IF YOU GO – Finding Relatives in Ukraine

It Helps If They Look Just Like You!

Orysia Paszczak Tracz


We've established which selo, povit, and oblast' is "your" ancestral
place.  Now we arrive in the village.

In the last article, I should have mentioned that one way of finding
family is writing to the sil'rada in the village – the Sil's'ka Rada
(village council), addressing to village, povit, oblast', Ukraine.
Try to have the letter written in Ukrainian, a neighbor or friend can
help but, if not, write in English – someone there will know the
language.  Ask very general questions about the family – give names,
years, but not much more.  Let them reply to you with information.
This avoids "finding" relatives you never knew (or actually had).  You
don't want relatives coming out of every stodola.

Before you set out to the selo, you need to arrange for a driver – and
interpreter, if you need.  The driver should be someone who knows his
way – not only around roads, but around people.  This is important,
because the way you ask questions is crucial to finding out anything
and anyone.  Prepare ahead of time – ask people who have traveled, who
have family there, and who know people they can trust.  And agree upon
the fee for the trip in advance (don't forget a nice tip, if
deserved).

During my tours, in helping people find and communicate with
relatives, I have had to run interference.  Some folks had pushy,
intrusive very distant relatives that would not go away, others had
people they weren't even sure of.  As the "glorious leader" of the
group, I was the stranger who could say "no."   I often go to the selo
with people from my group.  It is a truly satisfying, blessed
experience.

Now to find your folks.  We arrive in the selo, the right one – we
hope.  Our driver either goes straight to the sil'rada, or stops the
car as an elderly person walks towards the car.  "Slava Isusu
Khrystu….. dobryi ranok, Vam, babusiu…"   [Praise be to Jesus… good
morning to you, grandmother]   You must know the correct ritual
respectful greeting.  Then you ask about this and that family.
Usually it turns out there are a few families in the village with the
same surname.  Then you go into specifics.  If you know the first
names of the ones who emigrated, and when, that helps.  If not, you
ask if anyone had left for Canada or America so many years ago.   "Oh,
those Romaniuky, of course!  Go down this way…. Wait, I'll go with
you…."  And off you go to the house at that end of the selo.

Last August, Nadia [names have been changed] from Vancouver wanted to
meet her father's family in a village near Radekhiv.  He had supported
his brother's family for many years, helping put the children through
medical school.  We arrived in the selo on a Sunday, mid-day, during a
village council election.  The officials were all there.  We asked for
the "Ivakhiv" family.  The head of the council thinks a bit, says that
there are three Ivakhiv families in the selo – but – you should go to
the one on this-and-this road, because, turning to Nadia, "you look
just like them."  Sure enough, she did!

Another time, in Stari Kuty, in the Carpathian Mountains, Olia wanted
to find her grandmother's family.  At the sil'rada, no one recognized
the old names.  Then Olia took out the old photographs from her baba,
and – of course – everyone there recognized the "Stakhiv" family.
Someone from the rada goes on the bus with us, and we all drive
through the selo to the Stakhiv house.  Olia's distant cousin is quite
shaken, because a few days ago he had dreamt about something like
this.

Joe from Edmonton was looking for his uncle's family near Brody.
Approaching an old man on the village road, the guide asks about "Osyp
Senkiw."  No, don't know anyone like that.  "He's blind in one eye and
has one leg."  "Oh, that Osyp!  Of course!"

When we went to the village of Uvysla, Halia found her great uncle's
face looking up at her from a book on the sil'rada display table – he
was a hero of UPA in this very patriotic village.  The elderly lady
who wrote the history of the village was called, and told us all about
Halia's family.  She showed us where the church bells had been buried
to prevent their melting down by the Germans.  She also showed us the
burials mounds of the many village resistance fighters executed by the
Soviets.

One time, a person in my group just wanted to see her grandparents'
village.  No one would be left, since the whole extended family had
left for Canada a century ago.  We stopped at a light in Rohatyn, and
our guide opened the door to ask directions to Soroky.  A young man
thought he was getting a ride and entered.  After a confused
conversation, it turned out he was trying to get to Soroky!  Well, we
had our guide, which was good, since this village was quite remote.
Donna did not find any actual relatives, but half the village had the
same surname as her relatives – few related to each other.  The selo
was so old, with so many extended clans, that these were separate
families.  The cemetery was full of "Saranchuks."  We all had a good
time anyway.

Near Terebovlia, in Zubiv on a rainy day (of course), we approach the
old man walking down the now muddy road.  No, he can't tell us about
the Yurkiw family, because he's "new" in the selo, one of the many
exiled by the Poles in the Akcija Wiszla deportation in the late
1940s.  He takes us to one house, where the people know others from
that particular extended family.  This gentleman does ask if we know
the Potichny family, because he was taught by a Potichny in Pavlokoma,
the village where the Ukrainian population was murdered by the Poles
after the war.  As we were walking down the road, I looked back, and
there was a kerchiefed head looking out from every gate as far back as
I could see.

Some people going to Ukraine don't have any relatives left there.
They are happy just to see the selo, to go to the church and cemetery,
and walk around the streets.  "I just wanted to see the place, to be
there."  Even though these are people of a few generations in North
America, they instinctively take a small clump of soil from their
village to treasure.  In the twelve years I have led the tour, I had
only one person who went all the way to Ukraine who was not interested
in seeing her ancestor's village.  And we were only about a half-hour
away.  I still cannot figure that out.

Once you find your family, if you had not been in contact before, you
may wish to revisit them.  Be prepared for a celebration, a hostyna
that will last for a long time.  And don't think that the first entrée
served is the only one of the meal.  The food keeps coming and coming.
 Be sure you bring your own gifts of drink, flowers, family photos,
and envelopes with dollars (or – Euros?).  You will certainly be
loaded down with gifts for you and the family back home.

So, if you are motivated, do the genealogical searches but, at the
same time, if you know the place, just go and find them.  The family
will be waiting.  They remember and will be waiting for you.

CHORNOBYL, UKRAINE

The beginning of the end of the USSR was the cover-up of the Chornobyl explosion. The officials' families and children were being put on trains to get out of Kyiv. The Ukr. population was told to continue celebrating the Sunday with parades. Normal. But then, when the earthquake in Armenia happened a few months later, Gorbachev issued pleas for help. There were no pleas after Chornobyl.

I spoke with a Ukr. artist who came to Winnipeg with an exhibition a few years later. He spoke openly about Chornobyl and the system. "I am no longer afraid. When they put my elderly mother and my wife and young children in such danger, when they themselves were escaping the air itself, I cannot remain silent." There were many like him. The final straw.

During the "Spirit of Ukraine" art exhibit at the Wpg Art Gallery (from Ukraine) in the summer of 1991, one of the curators smiled bitterly at my comment -- I had said something about the summer rain -- "Yes, but at least you know what is coming down in that rain."

Update on Ukrainian Christmas traditions blog

Please see the book blog for updates on my  

FIRST STAR I SEE TONIGHT   bestseller:

Ukrainian ChristmasTraditions Book

REMEMBERING TATO [FATHER] ON NOV. 1st

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

FIRST STAR I SEE TONIGHT: UKRAINIAN CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS

Finally!   Нарешті!

After about two years, the book is at the printer's!   Launch in early December (see below).  It will be a launch like no other!

Have a great team - editor, graphic designers, sponsors, family -- would not have come to fruition without them.

Now to promote, distribute, and all that.   New blog and website in the works.

If you're reading this, please pass it on.

http://www.mcnallyrobinson.com/event-14601/Orysia-Tracz----Book-Launch/#.Vhj6xnpViko

UNDERGROUND SOLDIER by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch -- a review

UNDERGROUND SOLDIER by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

“The corpses around me provided an odd sort of comfort…”   The first sentence of this young people’s novel sets the scene.  This will not be a light easy story.

Caught in the middle of World War II, Luka is a young teenager in Kyiv. He is captured and shipped to Germany as an Ostarbeiter [eastern worker], a forced labourer in a munitions factory.  Luka escapes, under those corpses, and attempts to make his way back home to Kyiv to find his family.

 

The reader learns very much about survival, persistence, and a child’s determination to reach family and home.  Luka’s experiences are so detailed that one stops breathing along with him when he is again and again in danger of being discovered by this guard or that soldier.  He must make decisions that an adult would have difficulty with.  Luka grows up the hard way.  He is on a mission to find his parents and a friend, Lida, in the maelstrom of war, and risks everything to do so.

The reader learns so much through Luka’s experiences about history, warfare, medicine, pharmacology, and human relations.  Skrypuch is a meticulous researcher, and the reader learns about everything from dressing your wounds with fresh cow’s milk to knowing how to walk in the woods in another’s footprints to avoid detection.  The horrific history of Ukraine during the war and the battles against both the Nazis and the Soviets – and the unbelievable inhuman cruelty of both – are shown on a personal level.  The friendships are also there – of Luka and David, his Jewish friend in Kyiv, and of Luka and his escaped Czech trek-mate Martina.  Luka’s life in the UPA – the Ukrainian Insurgent Army is related in detail, and demonstrates the international make-up of this underground army fighting on two fronts with no external support other than the local population. 

A map of Central and Eastern Europe would have helped the reader envision the regions and distances Luka travels.   Even though this is a work of fiction, it is based on and inspired by the real experiences of Dr. Peter J. Potichnyj, a retired professor of political science.  History is not just what is in a textbook.  History is the accumulation of the lives of individual  people living through a particular time.

There is an Author's Note at the back which provides short information on several key historical events such as the Bykivnia massacre (an event, of so many in Ukraine, about which even most Ukrainians do not know).  

I found it difficult to read this book, and the other two in this series, but not because of the writing, which is excellent.  I wanted to keep reading each of the books, but could only do so in short segments.  The writer recreates the atmosphere and the situations of war so realistically that my heart and nerves could not take much at once.  All I could envision was the experience of my parents, young adults at the time, as forced labourers in Germany during the war.  Possibly someone with no connection to the war would find it less stressful to read.

Most of the children’s and young people’s books about World War II in Europe published so far have been about experiences of The Holocaust.   The Diary of Anne Frank is well-known, and is on most reading lists and in curricula.   The three companion books on World War II by Marsha Skrypuch should be required reading in schools along with Frank’s Diary.

Even though this is classified as "juvenile fiction", I recommend that adults read all three companion books.  Underground Soldier is the final book in the author's trilogy on young Ukrainians in World War II.  The first two are Stolen Child and Making Bombs for Hitler.  These do not necessarily have to be read in the order published, but the lives of the characters in the three books are intertwined.  Skrypuch has written 19 books, many award-winning, on topics that other authors have not approached.  Not only is she a fine writer, Skrypuch is a determined and dogged champion for the underdog and the topics avoided by the mainstream.

Regrettably, while the author’s other books are available in the USA, this and the companion books are not.  

Skrypuch’s deeply moving books in this series take us into the horrible world of war and its effect on ordinary people.  Regrettably, with the Russian invasion of Ukraine right now, there is no end to the eternal Ukrainian struggle for independence and peace -- and how this affects the nation and individuals.

UNDERGROUND SOLDIER by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch.  Toronto:  Scholastic Canada, 2014.   ISBN 978-1-4431-2437-9  (pbk.)    ISBN 978-1-4431-2898-8 (html)

For more about Marsha Skrypuch:

http://www.calla2.com/wordpress/?page_id=22

Dr. Peter J. Potichnyj’s life is covered in  My Journey, parts 1 – 2, published in book 4 of Litopys UPA [Chronicle of the UPA].  Series “Events and People”, 2008.

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

That's yours truly.   Have been away from blogging for a while.....   life interferes.   But will try to keep up from now on.  Thanks for your support, dear readers.

Almost done with the Rusalka 50th Anniversary book.   So many wonderful stories!

Something that dropped into my lap most unexpectedly was the Taras Shevchenko 200th Anniversary of his birth project of a traveling exhibition across Manitoba on the poet and artist.  Write it!   And include as much information about him as possible, but keep it short and concise because people don't read any more!  [that's what happens when you miss a meeting - upon return, you find out you're the one doing it!]  After a few months of research, stress, and much editing (thank you, Ostap and Myrosya), the exhibition was completed.  Launched at the Manitoba Legislature, then traveled to Canada's National Ukrainian Festival in Dauphin, Manitoba, was exhibited at the Kyiv Pavilion at Folklorama in Winnipeg, and will be going around Manitoba until March 2015.  Thanks also to Alice Bass of Graphics Girl, for her talent in graphic arts.

Then there's my major project that is on its way.  I finally decided that I will compile my many articles on Ukrainian Christmas traditions into a book.  Over the last four decades I have written quite a few.  The first ones were in the New Leisure Magazine of the WInnipeg Free Press four decades ago, and since then the two or three a year in The Ukrainian Weekly.  No matter where in North America -- and Australia -- I have gone to speak, people have been asking "when are you going to compile your articles?  I'm tired of taping your columns back together -- I've used them so often."

After meeting with my graphic designer, we agreed that a launch this fall is unrealistic, to put it kindly.   The text will be ready, but not everything else. So it's the fall of 2015!    Grants are still being applied for, others received, editor awaiting the texts, and on and on.    If there are any philanthropists out there interested in supporting a worthwhile cultural project, please contact me!

That's my update.  Now back to the writing.......      So much for retirement, eh?




 


 

THE FEAST OF KUPALO - UKRAINIAN SUMMER SOLSTICE

With the Summer Solstice arrived, this is my article on Kupalo http://www.artsoflife.ca/documents/IvanaKupala-KupaloDescription.pdf

 

This is the original:
No. 29 THE UKRAINIAN WEEKLY SUNDAY, JULY 16, 1995


Kupalo: fire, water, flowers, nature, and love

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

There is something about the feast of
Ivan Kupalo that fascinates young people.
Most probably, it has to do with the
unfamiliar, the unattainable, the mythical,
because somewhere, somehow, they
have heard that this particular Ukrainian
celebration has to do with love, passion,
even something about naked orgies!
Since, for most of us, such events are
far-removed from our everyday life, this
makes the feast of Kupalo that much
more fascinating. While we experience
the special rituals of Christmas, Easter
and Ukrainian weddings, this particular
holiday has eluded us.

Ukrainian traditions and customs are
with us throughout the year and on special
family occasions. We are blessed with the
most extraordinary, fascinating and meaningful
customs - ones that have their origins
in human prehistory (we're talking
about the Paleolithic and the Neolithic, the
Upper and Lower Stone Ages).
For most of us, our Christmas, Easter
and wedding traditions are so much a
part of our life that we could not be
without them. However, there are two
other major feast days of the calendar
year - the more non-family oriented
Kupalo and Obzhynky (the harvest
thanksgiving feast), which could not be
that easily adapted to an urban setting,
and for this reason are not as common
here in North America.

Some of us have fond memories of
summer camp, with young men leaping
over a bonfire, young women casting
fresh flower wreaths with lit candles
upon a river or lake. But the symbolism
probably wasn't explained to us in
depth, and we were too young at the
time to understand anyway.
Midsummer's Night, celebrated all
over Europe, is the longest day, and the
shortest night of the year. It is the height
of summer, the turning point, the day
when the sun is at its longest, highest
power. Nature also has reached its peak,
with plants at the pinnacle of their
growth. From here, no more farm work
is needed, and all growth just continues
until harvest. In fact, Kupalo heralds the
harvest to come.

Wild plants, especially herbs and medicinal
plants are at the height of their curative
powers, and are gathered that day for
use throughout the year. The basic elements
of each Ukrainian feast, and their
symbolism, are present here also: fire,
water, holy Mother Earth and nature,
ancestors, and love/fertility/procreation.
Fire symbolizes and reinforces the
power of the sun, and is present in the enormous
bonfires (often a few per village) and
in the burning big wheels of straw careening
down hillsides towards the water.
Water symbolizes life and purification,
and the companion to fire. Fire evaporates
water, water puts out fire. Water
from heaven - the dew - is very powerful
in the early morning of the feast, and people
wash and roll in the dew in order to
be healthy for the rest of the year.
All villagers are expected to attend
the Kupalo festivities, and there are
even songs mocking and shaming those
who do not.

Kupalski pisni, the Kupalo ritual
songs, are about love, nature, and
Marena and Kupalo, symbolic of this
feast. Marena is the goddess of spring,
and Kupalo is one personification of
the god of winter. From evidence in the
songs and rituals, some scholars believe
that Kupalo (a "he") was originally
Kupala or Kupaila (a "she").
Two scarecrow-type figures made
from tree branches or saplings are
dressed as a male and a female, then carried
around by the young people singing
ritual songs. At the height of the night's
festivities, Marena and Kupalo are either
burned in the bonfire, drowned in the
river, torn apart, or buried - symbolizing
the end of winter and spring, and the
Illustration of a Kupalo tradition from a Ukrainian-language brochure by
Lidia Orel, titled "Ivana Kupala" (Kyyiv: Pamiatky Ukrainy, 1992).
decline of the earth's fertility, leading
towards autumn and harvest. Often a
separate young tree is decorated with ribbons,
flowers and other ornaments by the
young women, and is carried as Marena.
Because there are variations from region
to region, and even between villages,
there is no one set pattern of rituals,
although the basic elements are there.
The power of plant life on this night
is reinforced by the fragrant herbs braided
into the vinky, the garlands or
wreaths of wildflowers worn by the
young women. These wreaths, with candles
in them, foretell the maiden's
romantic future as they are gently cast
into the flowing water. Depending if the
vinok floats, sinks, gets caught in an
undertow or tangles on the bank - this
symbolizes if, when, and whom she will
marry, or even if she and/or he will die.
It is believed that all plant life in the
forest comes alive during this night, and
trees walk and talk. The elusive "tsvit
paporoti" - the fern flower that is considered
the flower of good fortune - blooms
at midnight. Whoever finds it, picks it
and manages to bring it home, will be the
richest, wisest, most loved and most
blissful person on earth. But this is a lesson
in the folly of greed and foolishness,
an example of elusivity - because we
know that the fern does not procreate this
way. It never blooms, there is no flower
at midnight and, sadly, maybe there is no
ultimate bliss after all.

Love plays an integral part in these rituals.
Couples who are in love and want
to marry jump over the bonfire holding
hands to seal their fate. Couples frolic in
the water together (one of the ancient
symbols of marriage). In some regions,
the ideal was to jump over the bonfire
directly into the water. In early times
(and maybe not that early), this was done
after disrobing, because certain rituals
were more powerful if carried out in the
"natural state." There is much erotic
symbolism in the songs and rituals, and
much wandering off into the woods. If
anyone ever thought that Ukrainians are
straight-laced and prudish, this is one
feast that would blow that theory out of
the water.

Why is this holiday sometimes called
the feast of Ivan Kupala? As with all our
traditions, it is an example of dualism, of
the combination of pre-Christian and
Christian religions. For centuries, the
Church tried to forbid the pre-Christian
rituals, but the population would not give
up what had been part of its life and
belief for millennia. In time, beginning in
the 16th and 17th centuries, Church
authorities conceded, and began combining
the pre-Christian feasts with Christian
ones. The celebration of Kupalo fell
around the time of the Feast of St. John
the Baptist, Ivan Khrestytel, so the name
of the feast became that of Ivan Kupalo,
and the feast was moved from the June
summer solstice to July. The earliest ritual
songs do not mention any Ivan.

Ukrainian tradition, with its abundance
of ritual and symbolism, is a testament to
the richness, antiquity and power of our
culture. We are fortunate that our ancestors
lived in such a naturally beautiful and
bountiful place, that they valued their
way of life and beliefs, and passed them
down so many generations. It is remarkable
that they did so in spite of the invasions,
persecution, dangers and lack of
freedom over the centuries.

On this night, we can go back in
time to the enchanted world of magic,
nature, and love. And if some of you do
wander off into the woods, the organizers
of the festivities and the vatra take
no responsibility for the consequences!

www.artsoflife.ca

www.artsoflife.ca