Buffalo Neighbors Exhibit: Descendants of WWII Surviviors

Intro to the Exhibit

Commemorating the 80^th Anniversary of WWII: 

Descendants speak for their families who survived WWII Genocide, and thrived

Introducing the tr-partite, traveling “Buffalo Neighbors’ Exhibit,” which opened November 3, 2019 at the Church of St Casimir, Buffalo NY. It features a unique collection of personal mementos and document placards, a guide to Polish WWII fronts, and the inspiring collection: “Our Stories” publication.  The initiative gathers the fruit of table musings of Western New York Descendants of WWII Survivors, who “want to speak for their senior family members, who are passing, and who kept their stories of quiet.”

As a prologue to this one-of-a-kind exhibit, this introduction highlights the behaviors, values, and attitudes unique to Descendants’ parents and families. Literally, the glue that holds “Our Stories” together as children of survivors of Nazi and Soviet genocide. Our families came to WNY, because they could not return to their homeland. Those who returned to Poland were rounded up by leaders of the Soviet-imposed communist government, placed in prison, tortured, sent back to the same Russian gulags they escaped from, or secretly terminated. WWII did not end in Poland until the emergence of Solidarity and free elections in 1990. 

My father owed his life to a military comrade in England who told him, “You have no wife or children in Poland, go to Canada.” So he did.

His gal wanted a Polish soldier, not the old Ontario farmer her step-father tried to matchmake. There were many Polish military men at Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada, especially during the annual June Pilgrimage to Gen Haller’s Military Cemetery.  My Babci (grandmother) organized another Polish soldier to introduce my dad as, “his cousin.”  Well, the at least the soldier’s wife came to the US on the same boat as Babci.

Every Sunday that summer the two courted along the western bank of the great Niagara River. Midsummer Tata (Daddy) finally proposed at Whirlpool Park, under a great oak tree Mama showed me, “Make up your mind Zośka, before summer’s over, or we don’t get married.” They exchanged vows for life at the Polish Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, in St Catherines, Ontario.

Babci secured the hall at a local hotel, and the stepfather brought chicken broth (rosół) and bologna. Tata, a soldier, was in charge of the bar.  Guests would remember the latter was overabundant, singing a bawdy song about a chicken soup-reception.

Daddy too, remembered. Mama and he made up for that watery chicken. Tata’s motto was: “Mountains don’t get together, but people must.” Mama in total agreement, noted how Tata was most fulfilled when the house was full, and she was pulling hot roaster pans out of the oven: “Piping hot is the best meal.” He always wanted to buy a tavern, affirming, “Mama you’ll be in the kitchen and I’ll handle the bar.” This was one of the few times Mama put her foot down, “Oh, no! I’m not.”

One of the best things you could do was to pay a surprise visit. Concentration camp survivors lived this way. Many a time backing out of the driveway for a Sunday ride, we would encounter a car full of friends arriving. Automatic stick shifted to drive, Mama to the kitchen proclaiming, “A guest at home is God at home.” Our table celebrated bountiful, homemade divine presence hospitality.

Much later in life, a culinary expert, priest friend, announced “You Mom is a gourmet!” I surprisingly affirmed, “I guess so.” I knew nothing else. For most immigrants the litmus test for a lady of the house (gospodyni) was the prepared sauerkraut: not too sour, smooth texture, smoky flavor with forest mushrooms, a tinge of apple, a ton of browned onions, and of course, cabbage soured in the family cold-cellar oak barrel.  Orchestrating the fellowship, Mama put out her own canned specialties, haût-cuisine broths, vegetable stocks, hearty soups, slicing choice rye bread, fragrant roasts, sausages and lunchmeats, each course having an appropriate Euro touch.

Smoked meats and alcohol were the guys’ realm. Everyone was included in fellowship: children got watered down wine with soda mixed drinks and toasted with the adults. Tata involved me in fellowship prep: selecting and mindfully slicing pork butts, creaming —not just dicing— garlic with a butcher knife cut from a hand saw, grinding fresh pepper, etc. Kelly hams, turkeys, sausages smoked over fragrant cherry wood fires (a five-hour minimum) with half-hour stoking check-ups. The 30-minute fire inspections soon became my responsibility, as the vets enjoyed shots of Tata’s homemade brews.

Oh dem cordials! Their flavor and vintage marked every season: anytime wine, spring raspberry, summer sour cherry, autumn plum, and above all Christmas Krupnik – honey spiced with holiday flavors and secret herbs. It was an honor, only matched by his Buffalo countryman, Tosiek, to be invited or drop by to sing a dozen carols for Staszek’s (my Dad) honey cordial. It was served on cut crystal tray and drank only from Polish crystal shot glasses which Tata hand imported from Frederyck Chopin’s birthplace. If the table fellowship guests ate well and with gratitude, some got a doggie-bag ring of Tata’s smoked sausage (kiełbasa). This is what “You got to live with people!” meant.

Colors were red and white attitudes were green.  “Waste not, want not,” management reigned. Vegetable-herb-flower gardening, composting, mulching, canning, curing, even leftovers —all was sacred, processed and reprocessed. Nails, wood, paper, bricks, tiles, etc. were also re-purposed. Poets taught us to raise and kiss a fallen crumb of bread and hallow this gift from heaven.

And yes, without drama or attitude, we went to church. There were no excuses nor thoughts to the contrary: “If you can play, you must pray” resounded the parental proverb. For the Survivors, faith was the only freedom they experienced, their singular hope. Every Sunday was the bare minimum. 

Holidays whether somber, silent Holy Week hours, or a funeral, all ended up with joyful songs, bells-and-smells celebrations. Since Tata was in the Polish Army Choir, he worked his way up to the parish loft. Mama regularly listened for his voice below with Rosary in hand, because “Well rounded people pray the Rosary with the same passion they dance!” 

Sonny (synek) served in the sanctuary. All three of us sang the same church hymns which marked holyday feasts at home. The best, most significant, and unforgettable compliment I ever received was from a saint, “You’re Polish is very good!” On another occasion as a priest-student in Rome, “You sing well [in Polish].” I bounced back the affirmation to Pope St John Paul, saying, “It’s my father’s fault.”  He mindfully smiled.

Tata wanted grandchildren, not a priest. Throw that into a boiling pot of his memories. A priest-catechist expelled him out of 7^th grade, forever. He was accused of evening visits to a cute neighbor girl. Her father was the wealthy kapellmeister of the Potocki Palace at Łańcut. Daddy’s sisters, noting how much time he spent with Szczepanikowa, during visits in 1960 and 70, defended him with a grin, “Your father had neither a pencil nor notebook, and he was smart. They studied together.”

Not completing elementary school, my father joined his stepfather, as a “bricklayer,” carrying the heaviest “V” holders of bricks up rickety, wooden scaffolds. He quickly left that job, and joined the team of his Buffalo countryman’s uncle, on weekly assignment reconstructing provincial and national capitals destroyed in WWI. These well learned skills made him the master builder at Niagara’s Union Carbide Acheson plant. His talents as a Euro-style innovator, gained him this top position, replacing a long time local, Italian building firm.

My father never held a grudge and interacted both with priests and Russians at any opportunity. One of his best fishing buddies was a Russian immigrant, who “never threw back a single fish.” Crossing the US-Canadian border, it could have cost him his license and car. Trunks loaded to the brim with every species and size of freshwater fish pulled into our driveway. The Russian took everything except the largest sturgeons, and a few fine northerns for our Christmas Eve.

That same day Tata’s sturgeon-portion of the spoils ended up at the smoking plant on Lake Erie. My parents canned these kippered delicacies, lasting for a few years and delighting even my former priest-professor, Katyń massacre survivor. Tata, who in 1942 single-handedly escaped from a Russian gulag, would repeat, “You must speak to everyone, ‘with four-eyes,’” the Polish version of face to face. Then continuing, “Russians are good, long-suffering people. The people saved my life. Never trust their officials.”

And German Americans? Mr Miller interviewed him for his first US job. The foreman asked, “You were in the war. Did you ever shoot a German?” “Yes I did,” replying without flinching. “You’re hired,” retorted Miller, “you’re an honest man.” They became life-long friends.

The parish priest respected my father. This man of the cloth showcased his knowledge of classic Polish language and literature in every other homily. Together, they played Friday pinochle tournaments (my Tata chaired) at the parish Holy Name Room frequently discussing Polish Hymns and spirituality. Tata took every opportunity to challenge the pastor’s blood-sister, elementary school principal, especially if a celebration omitted Polish hymns.  She said, “Mr Krysa, this is America!”  The pastor discretely affirmed, “Staszek’s right.”

Mama and Tata formed a from-the-heart, memorized, duet. Long vacation trips to family along the Long Island Sound were extended song fests starting with hymns, moving through passionate, patriotic melodies, and culminating in a myriad of humorous folk tunes. Rides shortened and we always arrived safe, with light hearts.

Our families celebrated identity, history, and bonding in literature and song. They reminded each other of 19^th century Russian tsars usurping Poland and sending off thousands to Siberia. They remembered Teutonic aggression on almost every generation since the Polish-Lithuanian victory in 1410 at Grunwald. This year was branded on our soul and in a framed lithograph at the rectory entrance.

WWII repertoire recounted Kaiser Wilhelm devastating Poland’s northern and southern trade routes warring the Russians. Their land gained the nickname, “God’s Playground.” Poles, from Canada and the US calling war “a strangely attractive lady,” formed the largest volunteer force training and sailing from nearby Niagara-on-the-Lake to free Poland from her insatiably, hungry neighbors in 1919. They also were the only nation, with the assistance of the Ukrainians, to defeat the Red Army in 1920.

This same western wolf and eastern bear in 1939, agreed, once again, to tear the Polish map in two. This war brought our exiled families to Western New York. In 1945 it ended everywhere except Poland, where Soviet-led communists imprisoned and murdered thousands of resistors. Of my father’s two brothers remaining in Poland, the youngest survived severe torture from the communists, the other escaped north, taking a wife, hiding until after Stalin’s death (1953).

These immigrant Survivors were community activists. Having participated in 1920 in the miracle of Polish independence, only 19 years later their legacy of faith, language culture and human resources was targeted for extermination. These decades coalesced individuals into a common faith, bond and purpose. Their mere numbers vivified old Polonia churches and organizations. For their own social and personal needs, they founded intellectual and mutual support societies.

We are strong patriots. My father once welded two pipes into one flag stand. Every national holiday, both US and Polish flags waived from our porch. I never wanted to wear blue jeans, nor protest the Vietnam War —despite the fact that two of my high school classmates’ bodies returned in closed, collective coffins.  My father valued American peace and understanding (spokój) and his hand-built homestead. 

As\proud veteran, he participated in local public commemorations in a Polish uniform he created and as president of the local branch of the Polish National Alliance. Yet he was very cautious, perceptive, and objective. His Canadian comrades offered his only son refuge in case of the draft (I still have my card). My seminary enrollment granted me a 1-H (hold) status, saving him from choosing the asylum option.

Inspired by a priest-son of Dutch immigrants to Toronto, my 1980 ordination banquet words of gratitude promised, “I want to live as a priest in memory of those who inspired me.”  Their passion and resolve have driven me my entire life. “Sursum Corda,” my ordination motto, was taken from the figure of Jesus carrying his cross in front of Warsaw’s Church of the Holy Cross, where the heart of Chopin, it’s organist, is enshrined.

Never self-sung heroes, at least in English circles, our survivor-parents inspire today us to remember, and speak in their name a story which was confined to tables, halls in a language both symbolic and verbal, most of their neighbors did not understand. This devotion drives the “Buffalo Neighbors Exhibit.”

We’ve learned knowledge and faith, more than self-actualization and opportunity, are the most powerful fundamental freedom. The former lay the foundation for the latter. We, Descendants, hope this exhibit, among its many subliminal attitudes, behaviors, and values, helps you experience the collective potential to dismantle societal judgmentalism and polarization and build an interpersonal, humanizing, face-to-face understanding of every newcomer.

Rev Dr Czeslaw M Krysa, Rector

Church of St Casimir, Buffalo, NY

Buffalo Diocesan Director of Worship