my best person of all time
There were many people I met: teachers, neighbors, acquaintances, friends, fellow students, relatives, but I will never forget my Mother and her name, Maria.
I will be grateful to him for everything I have had in my life. She was a short woman, strong and wise, patient and kind. She hated injustice, any kind of injustice, and I hate her too. She was a great believer, perhaps she made mistakes, but she was an ardent Christian who would walk 2 miles to pray in the “little church,” as she called it. She was calm, but I remember with what devotion she prayed on her knees, that she ached from the long work, from the cold winter, from her privations. She had only a two-room apartment, for which she had to fight, since she was not a doctor, nor a nurse, but only a waitress. She is an honest and open-minded person. Her manners were sweet, she looked at people with a joyful light in her eyes. Oh, her eyes. green or sometimes gray… Those were the eyes of truth. She taught me truthfulness and honesty, the feeling of respect and dignity.
I will never forget his face, small and cute, in fact, pretty, tanned by the sun and the years, but always kind, always sociable.
He liked the Holidays, the Christian holidays, Easter and Christmas. He liked to cook the 12 main Christmas dishes, he always liked Christmas trees and he asked me to decorate them. He liked the lights on the New Year Tree. He liked happiness, of which he didn’t have much. He was always happy to see me or my half brother. Every day when we were with her was a holiday for her.
I will never forget his hands: how many things he had to do with them! When I was very little, she had to bring wood for the oven to heat our one-room apartment. Later, she used to bring some coal to heat the room. When there was no firewood, she had to walk to the nearest grove and collect the fallen branches from the trees, bring them back and use them as firewood for the stove.
His life was difficult. She lived with my grandfather and grandmother (may the Kingdom of Heaven be granted to them!), she had to work in the fields, graze the cattle, pick berries, bring sheaves into the house, clean, cook, help with the rest of his brothers and sisters (there were 8).
He couldn’t really get a good education, since he had to work at home. They could only study in winter, in fierce frosts. There was a rule: the sisters had to go to school in turns, since they only had one pair of booties to wear. The eldest went more often, the youngest, my mother less. She only had 3 grades in primary school, but she knew a lot, she learned a lot about life. He knew how to read and write, in Ukrainian and in Russian. She spoke fluently.
His family was not from Ukraine. They were from Poland. She used to tell me how they went to Rzeszow on foot to the church. She also mentioned that they often went to a Polish Catholic church and even celebrated Christmas with the neighbours, and the neighbors would visit them on “hers” her holidays.
They were deported from their land in 1945, I think, according to the Polish order “Operation Vistula”, which I think was a mistake, since, later, in the attic, I found a birth certificate of my grandmother, in which it was denoted “rusinka”, which means a Rusyn.
They had to leave everything they had and come to a place they didn’t know, but they wanted to be closer to the border, perhaps, hoping that times would change and they could return to their true Homeland. . It didn’t happen.
They all worked hard. They overcome the Nazi occupation, so they had a problem with her grandmother, because a German asked her if they had “a Russ”, and she misinterpreted him, thinking that she was asking him for an iron to iron clothes.
They had to hide in trenches during the Polish-Ukrainian conflict, as my grandfather told me, that they were afraid, since many people were massacred in their houses.
They had to “enlist” on a collective farm, since the Soviets needed to “prove” their truthfulness to Bolshevism, and they took everything they had, leaving only a cow, a horse and ten chickens. With 8 children.
They had to work day and night. They could work on their plot only on Saturdays, but also not very often, since very often they were ordered to work for the collective farm.
My mother was very young, when she had to start working for a “lady” in Lviv/Lwo’w.
Later, when a sanatorium opened, he moved in with his family and started working there, at only 15 years old. There was no other way out. She had to work to help the family. In the afternoon, wind or snow, rain or storm, he had to go back, and early in the morning he had to go back to work, until they gave him a room to live.
She knew the war. She told me that she was helping bring bullets for the soldiers. She was brave. Never forget her name!
She puts my “father” in a place of his work, but he seemed to be a scoundrel, as were many of the boys, drank, abandoned her and me, such that I have never seen him and never met him. .
Later, my aunt told me that my mother had no money to feed me, she went to Lviv, where my biological father lived, took his coat and watch, sold it, and decided never to see him again. She was right.
She loved poultry, tried to be good and rich enough even during the years of the Soviet crisis, when there was nothing in stores. We were working on our “polo” (plot) planting potatoes and other vegetables. We had a hut for the poultry. We had meat and vegetables, while we worked.
She helped me a lot: she was giving me money, the provision, when I was a student in Drohobych. She missed her so much that, first, she came home every week, although it was very difficult, since it took her 6 hours to get there.
We love her. She loved us boys. I can hardly find the right words of gratitude to say enough for what she had done for me.
She was my hero. She will ever be.
I remember that he asked me to go to church, when he already lived in the United States. I did it. She was very proud and happy. I was not there. I had my reasons. She used to study in Rome, but she asked me to come back home to Ukraine. I obey her. I don’t know if she was right, since my brother told me to stay there and continue my studies. He did not know, that among the beauty and luxury of the Italian capital, I was a foreigner, who received the “permesso di soggiorno” (residence permit) just before my departure for Ukraine: the Italians really did not respect me or my knowledge. She could have been right. Thank you!
I will never forget, the last time, when I met her. She was sick living at her sister’s house in a town. I wanted her to stay, but I couldn’t. She told me that my wife and son and his relatives did not like me. But I knew: he needed me, maybe not right away, but it was important for him to know that I was close, that I could help him, that he knew that he had a father.
We stayed alone, at my aunt’s house, as she was in the hospital. My mother helped with the birds, with the water, with everything else, since my aunt could no longer walk: her work as a cook almost killed her.
I did not know what to do. She would tell him the news every day by reading the newspapers out loud. He liked to pray with me. I found a little booklet of Prayers to S. Antonio, and we prayed the whole booklet on one seat. She was happy, tired and comforted.
She knew that I would return with my son, and she told me not to come back, because she needed me more, I suppose.
I loved her, and one cannot even imagine how sad it was to leave her. But she was not alone. She was with her sister. She knew it, she wanted to live in her house, but it was impossible, since she was old, sick and couldn’t stay alone.
Dear mother, please excuse me if I did something wrong. I love you so much!
I called every week to talk to my aunt and my mom. My aunt told me that she should not call so often and that she should not spend so much money on calls. I heard it. She was sending them some money to help them: they both couldn’t walk. And the money didn’t help much either, as the ambulance, according to my aunt, didn’t even come, when they found out she was an old lady who needed help. The doctors had a comment: “age.”
I lost her in April. My half brother called me at night and told me that he was gone. I called my aunt. She said that my mother died in her hands: she got up, my aunt gave her some water with honey, and she passed away…
It was the most difficult moment for me. I gave some money to my brother, I sent some money to my aunt, I went to church to order a service. I was praying day and night, three days, as ordered. I know that God will forgive his sins, if he had any, he will grant him the mercy of Our Lord. She was good and she had great hope in Jesus Christ.
I have his photo on the top shelf in my room. The photo of a young woman. She was my mother and I pray for her every day, in all the languages I know. I think I will forever. He loved her, just as much as she loved me. God, please have mercy on her, the one with an old icon from the time, when her family lived in Poland. The icon of the Virgin Mary of Lourdes, with an inscription in French.
Ukraine-United States