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My Very Best Person Ever

I had many people I knew: teachers, neighbors, acquaintances, friends, classmates, relatives, but I will never forget my mother and her name Maria.

I will be grateful to her for everything I ever had in my life. She was a short, strong and wise woman, patient and kind. She hated injustice, any kind of it, and I do too. She was a great believer, maybe, she was making mistakes, but she was an ardent Christian who would walk 3 kilometers to pray in the “little church”, as she called it. She was quiet, but I remember how devotedly she prayed on her knees, which hurt her from the long work, from the cold winter, from the deprivation. She only had a two-room apartment, which she had to fight for, since she was not a doctor, a nurse, but just a waitress. An honest and open-minded person. Her manners were sweet, she looked at people with a pleasant light in her eyes. Oh her eyes. green or sometimes grey… They were the eyes of truth. She taught me truthfulness and honesty, a sense of respect and dignity.

I will never forget her face, small and pleasant, actually beautiful, burnt by the sun and years, but always friendly, always companionable.

He loved holidays, Christian holidays, Easter and Christmas. She loved cooking the 12 main dishes for Christmas, she always loved Christmas trees and made me decorate them. She loved the lights on the New Year Tree. He liked happiness, of which there was not much. She was always happy to see me or my half-brother. Every day, when we were with him, was a holiday for him.

I will never forget her hands: how many things she had to do with them! When I was very young, she had to fetch wood for the furnace to heat our one-room apartment. Later, she brought some coal to heat the room. When there was no wood, she had to walk to the nearest grove and collect the fallen branches, bring them back and use them as wood for the stove.

Her life was difficult. She lived with my grandfather and grandmother (the Kingdom of Heaven is given to them!), she had to work in the fields, graze cattle, gather grain, bring sheaves home, clean. , to cook, to help with the rest of her siblings (they were 8).

She couldn’t really get a good education as she had to work at home. They could only study in the winter, in the wild frosts. It was the rule: the sisters had to take turns going to school, since they only had one pair of boots to use. The eldest went more often, the youngest, my mother less often. She had only 3 grades of primary school, but she knew a lot, learned a lot from life. She could read and write in Ukrainian and Russian. She spoke both fluently.

Her family was not from Ukraine. They were from Poland. She was telling me how they were walking to church in Rzeszow. She also mentioned that they often went to a Polish Catholic church, even celebrated Christmas with their neighbors, and the neighbors visited them on “their” holidays.

They were expelled from their land in 1945, I think, according to the Polish “Vistula-Operation” order, which I believe was a mistake, because later, in the attic, I found a birth certificate of my grandmother, which was marked “Rusinka “, meaning 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, maybe, 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, which they had a problem with the grandmother, as a German asked her if they had “a Russian”, and she misunderstood him, thinking he was looking for an iron to press clothes.

They had to hide in the trenches during the Polish-Ukrainian conflict, as my grandfather told me, because they were afraid, as many people were massacred in their homes.

They had to “register” on a collective farm, since the Soviets had to “prove” their loyalty to Bolshevism, and they took everything they had from them, 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 Saturday, but not often, as they were often 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 was opened, she returned to her family and began working there, only 15 years old. There was no other way out. She had to work to help the family. In the evening, in wind or snow, rain or storm, she had to return, and, early in the morning, she had to go to work again, until she was given a room to live in.

She knew war. She told me she was helping bring bullets to the soldiers. She was brave. Never forget her name!

She met my “father” at one of her workplaces, but he turned out to be a fraud, as many of the puppies were, drank, left her and me, so I had never seen her and had never known

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 not to see him again. She was right.

She loved poultry, tried to be good enough and rich even during the years of the Soviet crisis, when there was nothing in the shops. We were working on our “pillar” (plot) planting potatoes and other vegetables. We had a birdhouse. We had meat and vegetables while we were working.

She helped me so much: she gave me money, provision, when I was a student in Drohobych. I missed it so much that at first I went home every week but it was very difficult as it took 6 hours to get there.

We loved it. She adored us boys. I can hardly find the right words of gratitude to thank enough for what she had done for me.

She was my heroine. She will ever be.

I remember she asked me to go to church when I was already living in the US. I did it. She was very proud and happy. I was not. I had my reasons. I used to study in Rome, but she asked me to come back home, to Ukraine. I obeyed her. I don’t know if I was right, as my brother told me to stay there and continue my studies. Little did he know, that amidst the beauty and luxury of the Italian capital, I was a foreigner, having received a “permesso di soggiorno” (permission to stay) shortly before my departure to Ukraine: the Italians did not really respect me or my knowledge. She may have been right. Thank you!

I will never forget the last time I met him. She was sick living with her sister in a village. She wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t. She told me that my wife and my son and their relatives did not love me. But I knew: he needed me, maybe, not immediately, 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 were left alone, at my aunt’s house, as she was in the hospital. My mother helped me with the birds, with water, with everything else, since my aunt could no longer walk: working as a cook almost killed her.

I didn’t know what to do. I used to tell her the news every day by reading the newspapers out loud. She loved to pray with me. I found a booklet of Prayers for S. Antonius and we prayed the whole booklet in one place. She was happy, tired and comforted.

She knew I would go back to my son and told me not to come anymore, as he needed me more, I think.

I loved him and you can’t even imagine how sad I was to leave him. But she was not alone. She was with her sister. I knew, she wanted to live in her own house, but it was impossible, as she was old, sick and could not be left alone.

Dear mother, please forgive me if I have done something wrong. I loved you so much!

I called every week to talk to my aunt and mom. My aunt told me not to call so often and not to spend so much on calls. I heard him. I was sending them some money to help them: both of them could not walk. And the money wasn’t very helpful either, since the ambulance, according to my aunt, didn’t come when they found out it was an old woman who needed help. The doctors had one comment: “age”.

I lost it in April. My half brother called me at night and told me 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 time for me. I gave some money to my brother, sent it to my aunt, went to the church to order a service. I prayed day and night, three days, as was commanded. I know that God will forgive her sins, if any, she will be given the mercy of our Lord. She was good and had great hope in Jesus Christ.

I have her picture on top of the shelf in my room. Photo of a young woman. She was my mother and I pray for her every day, in every language I know. I think I will forever. I loved her as much as she loved me. Lord, please have mercy on her, the one who had an old icon from when her family lived in Poland. Icon of the Virgin Mary of Lourdes, with an inscription in French.

Ukraine-USA

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