All aboard ship found that no concessions would be quick in coming. First, were the indignities of Ellis Island. There, the confused newcomers were driven about with a baffling array of physical exams, literacy screenings, and sanity tests. The stream of weary entrants was stamped, stapled, and spindled, like little more than some vast and undeserving herd of orphan livestock.
Many age-old surnames were lost in the transition. Honorable and ancient Slovak family heralds, with their litany of hunchbacked and wounded consonants, were hacked into more manageable, anglicized pieces or scuttled entirely; shorn free of their owners by ranks of bored, phonics-challenged, clerks and administrators.
The likes of Szczepaniyak; Wojicienowicz; Czubachowski, became the butchered, compacted Anglo renditions of Zepenny, Washano, and Zuebeck. How any of the hardcore tongue twisters survived the chopping block personnel was a guess. But somehow, Macuski was one Polish handle that made the cut.
It was to be the sole compensation allowed the family, though. As shortly, they found themselves directed across the harbor to be literally dumped in their new country. The fabled gold-paved streets in reality, were only ones made of worn brick and tired mortar. Like anywhere else, they were fouled with horse droppings, windblown trash, and assorted things, discarded, disgusting, and vile.
Neither was there any rich Wisconsin farmland destined for Sarah’s family. No open fields or dairy herds. Nothing more spacious awaited them than weary, varied tenements strung between the East Coast and the Midwest, as they migrated from one Polish community to the next. In search of lower rent and higher wages, a simple lack of inertia finally brought them to rest in the southeastern Chicago community of Mayhew.
As ignorant, late arrivals to citizenship, Sarah’s kind had only an assortment of physically demanding, undesirable jobs, to choose from. And a full generation of them went to their graves never knowing anything better than slim wages earned through long hours of dangerous or backbreaking work.
Americanization was a slow process and an agenda that didn’t happen overnight. The place might be called a melting pot. But any real commingling was the result of a slow simmering, where immigrants naturally gravitated toward neighborhoods of their own kind and only with time and slow-to-come affluence, did those borders blur and fade.
As with any before them, the migrant Polish quickly learned to put aside false illusions of what joys American life might hold. They realized that their lot in the Land of The Free, was to be one of hard labor. All of their homes were multigenerational out of necessity. With little cash, no kind of health care or old age assistance, it fell to each younger batch of newcomers to share with, tend to, and bury those elders who bore the same name.
But, their privations were endured in dignified silence and from its crucible were forged the tough, responsible, and self-reliant folks, upon whose unyielding backs truly rested the foundations of mighty towns like Chicago.
So, the Macuskis took their place at the end of the line. They earned their paychecks laboring in the grueling jobs of slaughterhouse hunkie and blast furnace stoker. They breathed the abrasive dust of limestone quarries and searing, acid fumes in the porcelain manufacturing industry, awaiting their turn for things to get better.
Some immigrants, like Sarah’s mother, clung fiercely to their heritage, defiantly resisting the language of their adoptive home. But Sarah and her brothers were young and pliable enough to adapt, gradually becoming an equal mix of two distinct cultures and languages.
Sarah would always share in holiday paczki with her seniors and toast her peers with shouts of Na-zdrowie! whenever there was something to celebrate. But early on she was decided, that should she ever have babies of her own, they would be true children of her new land. Regardless of their surname, her daughters or sons would be raised as full-fledged Americans and its tongue would be their tongue.
Fifteen-year-old Savera Macuski met twenty-year-old Józef Graczyk one afternoon on the small, Mayhew passenger train platform. Along with her parents, she stood awaiting the arrival of a recently orphaned cousin they were taking into their home, when Joe stepped from the same train and into Sarah’s life.
Her future husband was freshly discharged from the service. Just returned from the war in France, he cut a dapper figure in his umber woolen uniform, buff-colored canvas leggings, and highly polished brown boots. A wide brimmed campaign hat was cocked rakishly low over his sun-tempered eyes, the Fifth Regiment, Marine Corps insignia bracing his bull neck, proclaiming him a man of substance.
Joe had just retrieved his seabag from the train and was hoisting it atop a shoulder when his eyes happened to touch Sarah’s. It was love at first sight. But theirs was to be a lengthy and oppressive courtship.
A good many old-world daughters were still caught in a web of indentured servitude to their parents back then; expected to be the one specifically caring for mothers and fathers in their advanced years. Any brothers and older sisters could move along. But, for numerous families, the last in line, or sole female, bore this traditionally understood commitment.
The family rule was firm and any departure from it - such as marriage - was understood to include a dowry of those same indigent in-laws. That reality was an impossible burden for a struggling yard hand like Joe, himself existing in a single room, cold water flat. But, a trainman’s salary just might make the difference. So, he became part of a road engine crew.
In the 1920s Joe made two cents a mile as a rookie fireman. By working innumerable double tricks, he was able to begin scraping up a meager nest egg. Still, it was almost four years before he and Sarah could finally afford to take their vows and move her parents in with them. Married on a Saturday afternoon, Sarah’s groom was gone the following eve, reporting for Sunday’s midnight run and the first of many lengthy separations.
She was left behind to deal with her parents’ growing geriatric needs and her own difficult pregnancies. Many times, the bulk of her new husband’s paychecks were spoken for by doctoring bills, weeks in advance of their ever having been earned. And, as a rookie road fireman, whenever her mate was home, his little free time was usually spent sleeping off muscles frayed by shoveling ten or more tons of coal in his outbound and return trips.
Joe was on call after every eight hours off duty. Sometimes sooner. Working the day trick one time and the night, another, as well as regularly being sent for use in other districts, Sarah often lost track of what day it was in relation to where her man might be. Yet throughout, she never complained.
Nursing enfeebled parents and her own babies, Sarah staffed the home fires alone for days on end, while making certain that her man’s travel grip never lacked clean clothes in readiness of his next short call, or that a hot meal and fresh linen awaited his return. She thanked her lucky stars for sending her such a hardworking husband as well as his tough job, which, while so very demanding, kept everyone fed and dry and the bill collectors at bay.
The woman herself, joined the CC&S labor force with World War II manpower shortages. She spent four years as part of a female janitorial team, cleaning and housekeeping the armada of locomotives and passenger cars needed to haul servicemen. The 80-foot lengths of a dozen or more heavyweight coaches and road engines passed through her care daily. And every single one was made sparkling throughout, in preparation for the hard-working train crews and their next batch of young soldier passengers, headed toward uncertain futures on foreign shores.
That alone, wasn’t the woman’s only investment in the company. For over many foul winters, from a simple goodness of heart, Sarah also cooked up big pots of vegetable soup for the warming of emergency snow teams. She would bundle and secure the kettles aboard her sons’ sled and accompany them for the half mile trek to the crew room. Then, with the boys passing out spoons and bowls, she’d ladle out servings to returned blizzard gangs, numb from long hours of freeing buried switches and digging open the main line.
In times of violent storms, it wasn’t uncommon for this Prairie Division den mother to also be drafted into unannounced service by her husband. Rudely awakened, she’d be confronted half asleep, by Joe and entire, stranded crews he’d dragged home for late night sheltering beneath their roof.
Sarah always climbed uncomplaining from her warm bed. She’d dutifully dole out spare pillows and blankets, appoint emergency sleeping places, and even make mob-sized breakfasts the following morning. Then, facing all of the clean-up alone and again, without complaint, she’d watch the trainmen hurry off, their grateful smiles and calls of, “Thanks Mom,” always her only, but best, compensation.
Like all those homes around it, Sarah’s kitchen was the family meeting place. Seated about its rectangular wooden table, plans were laid and opinions voiced. Judgments were made and sanctions given. But equally important, was the reward generated by culinary campaigns as the one about to be launched.
This morning was Saturday and as such, Sarah’s time to begin her favorite chore, the advanced preparation of Sunday dinner. Six days each week were times of Americanized eats; meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas, white bread, and the like. All, practical body fuel hammered out with no soul; mass-produced things found in cans and boxes to be dumped, baked, boiled, or fried.
But Sunday was the family day of heritage eating. That meant bowls of hand-kneaded, egg kluski noodles, substantial usrke dumplings, the tangy, shredded cabbage known as kapusta, and golden loaves of braided holska bread. Cholesterol worries were unheard of in this age of everyday physical exertion, leaving eggs, cream, butter, and lard as basic elements of the morning’s work.
This Sunday would include a guest in Vint. So, his favorite dish of stuffed cabbage galumpkis, would be served. Even now a roasting pan awaited, its bounty of tender, young leaves wrapped about a mix of personally ground beef and pork. Immersed in a thick tomato soup marinade, all would soak chilled overnight. Tomorrow morning it would enter the oven for a leisurely, rich stewing, while the family was at church.
Vint also liked pierogis. So, Sarah would be sure that there were plenty of the chopped potato and cheese wraps to fill him up. She might even bake a ring of kielbasa sausage for the boys as a side dish, to share in their road lunches on Monday.
Like a general in review, Sarah now purveyed her materiel. Assorted bowls, rolling pins, sifters, and utensils were lined by significance and ready for action. A battery of old-world pans and pots were next; their ancient black iron heat-cured and gently oiled in preparation for the morning’s work.
Sarah spared a moment to gaze on her bounty with silent affection. She then offered a prayer of gratitude for the mild affluence given her. It was a far cry from those lean, early times, getting by on poor man’s meatless soups of dried bread hunks, oats and barley fillers; with whatever cheap greens could be bought, bartered, or grown.
The good old days, she mused. Whoever coined that term certainly could not have lived them.
Only the dialing-in of Sarah’s windowsill radio yet remained to be done. It was eternally tuned to a distant, ethnic network and on cooking days like this, filled the Graczyk kitchen with the likes of Polish troubadours, Li’l Wally Jagiello and Frankie Yankovic.
Hot accordion riffs and enthusiastic, if slightly off-key vocals of their signature hits filled the kitchen and conducting her chores, Sarah would hum and whistle along with, Let Me Call You Sweetheart, Blue Skirt Waltz, and Who Stole the Keesh-ka?
She heard the front door open, announcing Joe’s return from his neighborhood stroll. As usual, the woman called out before her husband was in sight.
“So, what’s new around town?”
Today though, there weren’t any of Joe’s normal, chuckling tidbits or updates on neighborhood antics. Just a plop of groceries being set down.
“Dziekuje.” She said in thanks.
At first, Sarah didn’t look up from working her mountainous heap of kneaded bread dough. But just as quickly, her head raised at Joe’s continued lack of response. She watched as he wordlessly deposited all but one piece of clenched mail. It, he carried in solemn personal delivery, toward the attic stairs and their sleeping son.
Sarah’s joy dimmed. The mood change she’d watched for in Joe over the last few weeks, but thankfully hadn’t yet seen, apparently sprouted in the brief time since he left on his casual neighborhood patrol. She knew that with autumn in the air, its effect could at any time, be like a poultice for the man’s subconscious - pulling at the gangrenous old poisons of his horrid incident, until they surfaced and again burst free.
In the meantime, if the stars unfortunately happened to align with a new round of road fireman’s exams, she could only ask that heaven help her youngest son. And now, though not intentionally trying to eavesdrop, the woman turned down her radio’s volume just enough to stay apprised of any raised voices upstairs.
CHAPTER 15
Jim Graczyk stretched his legs and lounged in bed. Luxuriating in his mom’s fresh linen, he listened to the faint, happy polka strains filtering up from the sanctity of her busy kitchen. This was one of those few times when everything felt right with the world.
As he reclined, fingers laced and set cushion-like beneath his head, the moment’s easy peace took deep root in the room about him. Rich stores of prized memories wicked-out from among its plaster and paint. And every one included older brother, Mike.
Jim considered the room’s vacant twin bed, recalling those long ago summer nights up here, spent as youngsters. He thought back, wondering how many Cubs away-games they had listened to, from their mom’s borrowed kitchen radio, accompanied only by the lime radium glow of their old monster windup clock with its drop forge beat. The game time ceiling was always dark. But its void made the perfect backdrop for visualizing each play; distant crowd cheers fleshing out a solid hit or daring stolen base.
Jim recalled the brothers’ ongoing speculation of how it would feel to be the lucky stiff chosen for the team’s batboy. They pondered and dissected a batboy’s daily routine from every possible angle, happily fantasizing how, if them, they’d have to manage travel, tend the team’s needs, and still keep pace with their school work. And of course, they regularly bemoaned Wrigley’s lack of foresight with no lights for night home games, speculating bitterly when and if that might ever change.
The boys’ sharing of pastime and purpose included assisting in their folks’ many annual home canning sessions. They harvested the bounty of Depression era and wartime Victory gardens, hauling out those many cases of Ball canning jars in advance of the marathon bottling session.
Glass was then sterilized. Oven top pickling concoctions stirred, rendered, and carefully preserved. Afterward, came the colossal cleanup and many basement trips, return-hauling hefty jar racks to shadowed storage, where all would wait their turn in helping span the winter wartime grocery shortages.
There were the so-called cutting parties, both aptly named and hosted by their father. They took place whenever the railroad changed a stretch of outdated mainline ties. Kicked aside, the split halves were left either to rot among the weedy embankments - or for the frugal, like Joe Graczyk - meant to be retrieved for wintertime furnace fuel supplements.
Home heating coal was a rationed, pricey commodity in those same austere years and any free, stout burning stand-in was a welcomed addition to trim back on furnace and water heating costs. So, with the aid of Boots’ loaned Railroad Express baggage cart, the boys would spend a couple long Saturdays, kicking tie sections down the freight yard elevation. They’d shake out any dirt or resident wildlife, then load them onto the highwheeled steel wagon, for hauling along the rough, cinder paved alleyways, leading home.
Rows of wood were arranged in the backyard. Each was graded by their dad and assigned for cutting into halves, slabs, or kindling. The boys would then man Joe’s prized crosscut saw, rendering the piles into usable fuel lengths over the course of
another few Saturdays. The man’s sense of timing was acute and the task would be completed just as the heating season’s first chilly nights arrived.
Even so, that wasn’t the end of the matter. For their father always had certain loads earmarked as complimentary donations for the neighborhood’s less fortunate. Pensioned couples, old widow-women, ailing, fatherless, or crippled households (as well as Boots’ tower stove, in repayment for the use of his grand REA wagon) all benefited from the brothers’ days of sweat.
Heaven help them if any kind of token money offering was ever accepted and even the stodgy old wagon itself would not be returned, until it had been scrubbed cleaner than when received; all four creaky wheel hubs also being disassembled and freshly greased in additional thanks.
Jim recalled he and Mike collaborating on a savings program to buy a balsa wood airplane kit; one with the grand, hand carved cowling and its rubber band powered propeller. They’d relentlessly scrounged alleys and the weedy plots about baseball bleachers, collecting empty pop bottles for the precious penny refund that each would bring, also gathering and bundling old newspapers for sale to the passing ragman.
Between salvage safaris, they visited the model airplane catalog acquired from Tom’s toy store. In their hands, it took on the magnitude of Scripture and the very color was worn from its slick pages long before the hard-earned communal funds were assigned to a certain, red-winged biplane.
Construction tasks were divvied up. Jim handled the less precise joining of wing to fuselage sections, watching with awe as big brother Mike surgically wielded the loose razor blade allotted them. Mike’s fastidious carving of an oval engine cowl from a single hunk of two-inch balsa was nothing less than perfect.
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