{So, a while back, say, almost two years ago, I was finishing up my medical assisting degree, in my last semester, taking an english class up on campus at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. This paper was supposed to be an "Insider/Outsider" essay. Me, the outsider, was trying to research something I didn't know too much about on the "inside". I think that's what we were supposed to do. My teacher liked it anyway.}
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| Summer of 2009 dipnetting at Chitina |
Most
people know where their parents were born, or where they came from. They’re
familiar with both sets of grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. They have
probably been to the home their parents once grew up in as a child. I… have
never met my father’s parents. In fact, the history before my mom came into his
life has always been a mystery to me. My father, Paul Stefan, rarely shares his
childhood memories of family and tradition, his escape from his once communist
country Czechoslovakia, and coming to America, a free land.
When speaking to my dad about anything that has to do with his country or previous home life, it is almost like talking to the Berlin wall itself. Even though he will never admit it, I perceive they are precious memories and even the pivotal moments in his life that eventually changed his future. But I also feel that being his daughter, I ought to know who my father is. Living with him for twenty years, he still feels like a stranger to me. I want to know what things he did as a child, who my relatives are, what he liked to eat in Czech, what his favorite memory of home was, and much more.
For the longest time, the only things I knew from my dad were things my mother had told me which usually came from bits and pieces she had picked up from conversations he was willing to open up to with someone else. A lot of the information I know about my dad comes second hand. In a way, I feel like I overstep some of his boundaries if I ask him something that might bring back moments in his life that weren’t ones he wanted to remember. But I decided to take a chance anyway. He was open with questions about holidays and traditions, but provided little information about his experience leaving. I had to use what I remember my mom telling me, because I guess it is just too hard for my dad.
I started off easy and asked him what he thought were fun things to do as a child and he replied, “The most fun thing to do was to grab something to eat. But I also liked to go berry picking, mushroom picking, and hiking in the mountains with my friends.” That, in contrast to what kids do in America is totally opposite. I often find my siblings and even myself caught up with the internet or video games, driving around with friends, or doing sports after school. It’s interesting to see the difference in entertainment and also the vast amount of opportunities one is given in such a free country with so many privileges. I also kind of envy how simple and quiet a life like that would be, content with just the little things like spending time in the outdoors.
I later asked him what his favorite thing in the town he lived in was, and to my surprise he said, “The church bells…and Easter.” He told me how he could hear the bells toll every day for miles and miles away from a 300 foot tall church tower, which would chime every hour. He loved listening to the bells ring in Spisška Nová Ves. When I asked my dad to expand further on Easter, I could almost feel the longing for wanting to be back there celebrating Easter with his family and friends. Just the way he talked about it, his expression and the movement in his voice strongly confirmed that Easter was a cherished family tradition. Easter in Czech is far different than America. My dad explained that everyone gets up at 6 a.m. Monday morning and prepares to take the food over to the church to be blessed. Such food included, “The most delicious ham – not factory made – but boiled in a pot for hours with spices. It was the best thing in the world. You can’t buy it anywhere here.” I truly felt the conviction in his voice when he talked about missing the food his mother used to cook. Then, “Seven a.m. is the water chasing. All the boys would dress up in very nice white shirts and sometimes suits and go around and chase the girls and douse them with water. Sometimes they would sprinkle them and others would get thrown into the creeks.” Through research I have found that amongst dousing, in which water symbolizes life, the boys also prepare braided pussy willow branches, or pomlăzka, to whip at the girls’ legs. It symbolizes the bestowal of year long continual youth and beauty.
While the boys got to enjoy the festivities, the women had to stay home and paint and wash the walls, cook all the food, and decorate extravagant looking eggs for the boys to come door to door for. I can definitely see why this memory would stick out in his mind as being particularly unforgettable.
Even though this information was appreciated, my real interest was in how my dad escaped. I’ve always felt a sense of pride when telling my friends I had a father who not only left his communist country, but escaped it. But I was too soon disappointed when I could never give much detail on the actual experience because I lacked the first hand story. Thus, in my efforts I tried my best to crack my father to help him divulge the memories he perhaps doesn’t want to relive.
My first question was about communism. “You couldn’t just say you were ‘communist’. You had to swear your allegiance to the party. Swear for life, forever. I think my oldest brother joined up a long time ago. My father and mother didn’t and none of us kids did.” My grandfather, Jan (pronounced John) Stefan, voiced his political opinion and was unfortunately sent to jail for a period of time because of it. My grandma Anna was forced to go to work because their family didn’t have enough money for food and in Czechoslovakia every adult person had to work. My grandfather had worked at a railroad and I learned that my dad had followed his footsteps. When asked why he chose to work at the railroad he said, “You don’t choose it. You go where the money is. You go where you can find work.” I have witnessed time and time again just how hard-working and dedicated my father is, not only to his occupation but to his family. He is one of the hardest workers I know. I believe it is because he lived in a country where working is how you lived and if you didn’t work you couldn’t live.
I also learned that because society was communist it meant that everybody that worked made the same amount of wages. The doctor or dentist was no different than the street sweeper or the garbage man. Because of this so-called “equality,” there was no personal incentive to do a good job. My father recalls going to the dentist, sitting in the chair looking up at the doctor with a cigar in his mouth, a glass of wine in one hand, missing most of his teeth. I remember hearing this and feeling shocked.
Why would anyone want to live in a country like that, where nobody cared how good they had to be because the only driving force was money? I also wondered what good the government saw in doing that. Apparently, my dad thought so too.
Like most men, when my dad turned 19 he had to enlist in the Czechoslovakian army. He hated it, but unlike Americans who have the choice to serve and enjoy their rights and privileges, military service was mandatory. Fortunately, my dad faked an appendix attack, had surgery, and was given the opportunity to go on temporary leave. With that opportunity he acquired a visa and he and his friend Miki decided to leave their country and never look back. They knew a soccer game was approaching soon in Austria and decided to use that as part of their plan of escape, never telling their families “good-bye”. It was crucial to not tell anybody, for if they did, and it was found out, they would undergo punishment of death and their families would suffer ultimate persecution. Knowing this, my dad took with him pictures of his family and one extra change of clothes, leaving in the middle of the night, hoping that everything would work out alright. Leaving his family and country behind was a big risk…and a great sacrifice. With every true sacrifice, you give up something valuable for the hope of getting something better.
Every step that took him closer to America was a risk. The border patrol stop was always intriguing to me. I can never imagine the fright I would feel of having machine guns in my face, soldiers yelling at me, searching through my belongings, the fear of death looking at me straight in the eye. This truly was the life or death moment. When the bus got to the border of Austria and Czechoslovakia, soldiers boarded and began searching passengers. When they came to my dad they searched his bag noticing a fair amount of family pictures. One wrong word and he could have been in trouble. When questioned why he had so many pictures, my dad said he was attending a soccer tournament in Austria in which he planned on meeting girls and showing them pictures of his family. Luckily the soldiers believed him and passed them on. After he got into Austria he spent a year in a refugee camp working and then was given the choice to immigrate to Australia, Canada, or America. He chose America.
I am ever so grateful that he made that choice to come to this free land, where often times I take the things I am blessed with for granted. His choices made a big impact on our family. He went AWOL from the communist military. His family suffered persecution because he left the country under the pretext that he was going to come back and didn’t. He came to America where the only words he knew were “yes” and “no.” His father died since he left the country. He had night terrors almost every night until 1992, dreaming the Czech government would find and punish him, and he has not seen his family in 30 years. But in return he lives in America where he can hunt and fish, own as much property as he wants, free to work or not work, worship, and can speak his mind. I feel that by taking that step into the dark so long ago, not knowing where he was going, his life has been blessed. He is my hero in so many ways. He is the very example of someone living the American Dream.
When speaking to my dad about anything that has to do with his country or previous home life, it is almost like talking to the Berlin wall itself. Even though he will never admit it, I perceive they are precious memories and even the pivotal moments in his life that eventually changed his future. But I also feel that being his daughter, I ought to know who my father is. Living with him for twenty years, he still feels like a stranger to me. I want to know what things he did as a child, who my relatives are, what he liked to eat in Czech, what his favorite memory of home was, and much more.
For the longest time, the only things I knew from my dad were things my mother had told me which usually came from bits and pieces she had picked up from conversations he was willing to open up to with someone else. A lot of the information I know about my dad comes second hand. In a way, I feel like I overstep some of his boundaries if I ask him something that might bring back moments in his life that weren’t ones he wanted to remember. But I decided to take a chance anyway. He was open with questions about holidays and traditions, but provided little information about his experience leaving. I had to use what I remember my mom telling me, because I guess it is just too hard for my dad.
I started off easy and asked him what he thought were fun things to do as a child and he replied, “The most fun thing to do was to grab something to eat. But I also liked to go berry picking, mushroom picking, and hiking in the mountains with my friends.” That, in contrast to what kids do in America is totally opposite. I often find my siblings and even myself caught up with the internet or video games, driving around with friends, or doing sports after school. It’s interesting to see the difference in entertainment and also the vast amount of opportunities one is given in such a free country with so many privileges. I also kind of envy how simple and quiet a life like that would be, content with just the little things like spending time in the outdoors.
I later asked him what his favorite thing in the town he lived in was, and to my surprise he said, “The church bells…and Easter.” He told me how he could hear the bells toll every day for miles and miles away from a 300 foot tall church tower, which would chime every hour. He loved listening to the bells ring in Spisška Nová Ves. When I asked my dad to expand further on Easter, I could almost feel the longing for wanting to be back there celebrating Easter with his family and friends. Just the way he talked about it, his expression and the movement in his voice strongly confirmed that Easter was a cherished family tradition. Easter in Czech is far different than America. My dad explained that everyone gets up at 6 a.m. Monday morning and prepares to take the food over to the church to be blessed. Such food included, “The most delicious ham – not factory made – but boiled in a pot for hours with spices. It was the best thing in the world. You can’t buy it anywhere here.” I truly felt the conviction in his voice when he talked about missing the food his mother used to cook. Then, “Seven a.m. is the water chasing. All the boys would dress up in very nice white shirts and sometimes suits and go around and chase the girls and douse them with water. Sometimes they would sprinkle them and others would get thrown into the creeks.” Through research I have found that amongst dousing, in which water symbolizes life, the boys also prepare braided pussy willow branches, or pomlăzka, to whip at the girls’ legs. It symbolizes the bestowal of year long continual youth and beauty.
While the boys got to enjoy the festivities, the women had to stay home and paint and wash the walls, cook all the food, and decorate extravagant looking eggs for the boys to come door to door for. I can definitely see why this memory would stick out in his mind as being particularly unforgettable.
Even though this information was appreciated, my real interest was in how my dad escaped. I’ve always felt a sense of pride when telling my friends I had a father who not only left his communist country, but escaped it. But I was too soon disappointed when I could never give much detail on the actual experience because I lacked the first hand story. Thus, in my efforts I tried my best to crack my father to help him divulge the memories he perhaps doesn’t want to relive.
My first question was about communism. “You couldn’t just say you were ‘communist’. You had to swear your allegiance to the party. Swear for life, forever. I think my oldest brother joined up a long time ago. My father and mother didn’t and none of us kids did.” My grandfather, Jan (pronounced John) Stefan, voiced his political opinion and was unfortunately sent to jail for a period of time because of it. My grandma Anna was forced to go to work because their family didn’t have enough money for food and in Czechoslovakia every adult person had to work. My grandfather had worked at a railroad and I learned that my dad had followed his footsteps. When asked why he chose to work at the railroad he said, “You don’t choose it. You go where the money is. You go where you can find work.” I have witnessed time and time again just how hard-working and dedicated my father is, not only to his occupation but to his family. He is one of the hardest workers I know. I believe it is because he lived in a country where working is how you lived and if you didn’t work you couldn’t live.
I also learned that because society was communist it meant that everybody that worked made the same amount of wages. The doctor or dentist was no different than the street sweeper or the garbage man. Because of this so-called “equality,” there was no personal incentive to do a good job. My father recalls going to the dentist, sitting in the chair looking up at the doctor with a cigar in his mouth, a glass of wine in one hand, missing most of his teeth. I remember hearing this and feeling shocked.
Why would anyone want to live in a country like that, where nobody cared how good they had to be because the only driving force was money? I also wondered what good the government saw in doing that. Apparently, my dad thought so too.
Like most men, when my dad turned 19 he had to enlist in the Czechoslovakian army. He hated it, but unlike Americans who have the choice to serve and enjoy their rights and privileges, military service was mandatory. Fortunately, my dad faked an appendix attack, had surgery, and was given the opportunity to go on temporary leave. With that opportunity he acquired a visa and he and his friend Miki decided to leave their country and never look back. They knew a soccer game was approaching soon in Austria and decided to use that as part of their plan of escape, never telling their families “good-bye”. It was crucial to not tell anybody, for if they did, and it was found out, they would undergo punishment of death and their families would suffer ultimate persecution. Knowing this, my dad took with him pictures of his family and one extra change of clothes, leaving in the middle of the night, hoping that everything would work out alright. Leaving his family and country behind was a big risk…and a great sacrifice. With every true sacrifice, you give up something valuable for the hope of getting something better.
Every step that took him closer to America was a risk. The border patrol stop was always intriguing to me. I can never imagine the fright I would feel of having machine guns in my face, soldiers yelling at me, searching through my belongings, the fear of death looking at me straight in the eye. This truly was the life or death moment. When the bus got to the border of Austria and Czechoslovakia, soldiers boarded and began searching passengers. When they came to my dad they searched his bag noticing a fair amount of family pictures. One wrong word and he could have been in trouble. When questioned why he had so many pictures, my dad said he was attending a soccer tournament in Austria in which he planned on meeting girls and showing them pictures of his family. Luckily the soldiers believed him and passed them on. After he got into Austria he spent a year in a refugee camp working and then was given the choice to immigrate to Australia, Canada, or America. He chose America.
I am ever so grateful that he made that choice to come to this free land, where often times I take the things I am blessed with for granted. His choices made a big impact on our family. He went AWOL from the communist military. His family suffered persecution because he left the country under the pretext that he was going to come back and didn’t. He came to America where the only words he knew were “yes” and “no.” His father died since he left the country. He had night terrors almost every night until 1992, dreaming the Czech government would find and punish him, and he has not seen his family in 30 years. But in return he lives in America where he can hunt and fish, own as much property as he wants, free to work or not work, worship, and can speak his mind. I feel that by taking that step into the dark so long ago, not knowing where he was going, his life has been blessed. He is my hero in so many ways. He is the very example of someone living the American Dream.
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