Torn Apart By Those You Love

By J.F. Pasco

Torn Apart by Those You Love is a compulsive epic tale of two families that takes us through their immigration from Galicia, Poland, to America, their relationships, their revenge and the pursuit of their American dream. It is a story of hope, of resolve, and of digging deeper into their thought processes to find the strength to carry on in any adversity. Their attitudes will cloud your vision, and you will observe and eventually realize that people, even family, will use and abuse you either verbally or physically. My father stole my mother from me and then tried to steal my life. You will learn to be bold, be brave, and be true to yourself. You will be able to decide what path you want to take and then set one foot in front of the other. You have the power to create your own destiny. Taking risks were my biggest rewards. This story runs 82,940 words. I'm a freelance writer and researcher and have contributed to Clinician Reviews, The American Journal of Anesthesiology, The Clinical Advisor, PA Advance. I have been published by the Springer Publishing Company in Cognitive Behavior Therapy in Nursing Practice

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098004941

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Torn Apart By Those You Love

J.F. Pasco

Copyright © 2019 by J.F. Pasco

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Preface

Acompulsive, readable non-fiction novel about immigration, relationships, marriage, revenge, and the pursuit of the American dream. It is a story of hope, of resolve, of digging deeper into your thought process to find the strength to carry on in any adversity. The events may not be presented in chronological order but, rather, as they occurred in my thoughts, memories, and contemplations.

The attitudes of those around me clouded my vision. I eventually realized that people, even family, will eventually use and abuse you, either verbally or physically. If you treat them with compassion, love and respect, give them gifts, feed them, and take them places, they will remain your friends and family forever, or so I thought. Some parents feel that you are obligated to them until the day they die.

I made sacrifices to care for my mother because she made sacrifices to care for me. She was protective, nurturing, and down to earth. She was honest and kind. She experienced great loss and sorrow in her own life. I will never regret what I did for her or why I did it. She passed away, and I never got to say goodbye. I regret that to this day. Something happened that night between her and my father which caused her to give up. I will never know why. My father refused to tell me, and he took it to his grave. My father stole my mother’s life, and he attempted to steal mine.

I looked to the rest of my family and friends for emotional thought and rational insight. As soon as you stop catering to the needs of your family and friends, they, in turn, stop calling and coming over. You are no longer in their circle of friends. I was told that they had their own family to care for and look after. They found others who were willing to do their bidding. You may have other obligations like work, going back to school to further your education, or just not enough money to survive on your own. I spent time in solitude and silence. I looked for answers through meditation.

I found it difficult to make the best choices. Uncertainty hung over my head. I was afraid of ending up alone. I stressed over all my decisions. It was a waste of time. I needed to decide and move on. The people around me always wanted something for nothing. My hunches regarding family and friends were right on. It’s kind to consider another’s feeling, but it doesn’t mean that you let them stomp all over yours. I needed to assert myself and say no. No more. I couldn’t understand why people acted the way they did. It took a lifetime to find out why.

When my great-grandparents and my grandparents left Galicia, Poland, for America, they were told that their lives would improve. They were displeased with the difficult situations in their homeland. They were frustrated and depressed. They had left behind a country torn apart by war, or so they thought. There was a lack of opportunities and outdated agricultural techniques. The children were mostly uneducated. Typhus and cholera epidemics claimed many lives. Farmers were indebted to their landlords and government taxmen. Their entire world dissolved from the moment they stepped onto American soil. Ellis Island was the main gateway for my great grandparents and grandparents to enter the United States legally from 1892 to 1954 until it finally closed. Over three million people departed from Poland.

Polish immigrants were treated as third-class citizens. They were subjected to humiliation, profanity, and brutality at Ellis Island. They were seen with disdain. They experienced loneliness in an unfamiliar environment. Yes, they were outsiders, but they came for peace and security. They were depicted as brutal and ignorant instead. They became the butt of ethnic jokes. They were called dumb Pollacks. Officers demanded that both women and men disrobe in public view. The officers viewed them as conmen workers with inferiority complexes. They alleged that the Polish immigrants were carrying daggers and they needed to be checked every day for weapons and contraband.

That was not part of my great-grandparents’ and grandparents’ plan. They came here to work and seek a better way of life. Instead, they were categorized for the low status and low-paying positions within many companies and industries. Their annual average income was $721. Stereotypes cast them as farmers, and they continued as farmers because of economic necessities. They faced the failures, secrets, and long-buried hurts that haunted them as immigrants and as families. Now I finally understand why they did what they did. Now I understand why they acted the way they acted.

My grandfather and his brother were trained as weavers, but they were treated as unskilled laborers. They were placed in menial jobs and paid little. They came to America with no money and only the clothes on their backs. Because of the Immigration Act of 1882, they survived any way they could. They stood in bread lines to sustain themselves and lived with others in one room, sleeping on the floor. Naturalized immigrants and established Americans considered them lowlifes.

I never met or got to know about my paternal grandparents. They left my father alone in his teens in New York to fend for himself. My father refused to speak their names. He refused to speak about his childhood. In his mind, they never existed. He didn’t exist. He changed his name to forget his past. But could he forget his past? Now I realize why he acted the way he did and said the things he said.

My maternal grandparents never wanted to speak about their experiences either. They were once kind and caring human beings. From the time I can remember until today, the male members of my family cheated and lied their way through life until they died. It is not known when or how the wives realized this, but they stayed with their men. It was the thirties and forties—World War II. Men didn’t enlist; they were drafted. They were sent to another state for basic training and then overseas. Many were listed as missing in action, killed and buried in Europe, or sent home in a box to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Perhaps this is where it all started.

How much suffering and crisis can one person experience in his or her life time? I grew up in my grandparents’ row house with three bedrooms and one bath in North Philadelphia at the end of World War II. I learned to speak Ukrainian and Polish and spent my days in a house filled with four women and their children until the men came home from war. It took me fifty years to be diagnosed with autoimmune disease while I watched the females in my family succumb, one by one, from this unknown disease. Each one of us had the genes, the same symptoms, and went from physician to physician to get a diagnosis and help.

I was under the impression that a physician took a Hippocratic Oath to prevent disease, relieve suffering, and to heal the sick. I believed that physicians dedicated themselves to provide clinical care with compassion. I believed that they were committed to treat the body as well as the spirit. I believed that they chose their profession to make a positive impact on our lives. Very few were committed to making a difference in our lives. I still believe, to this day, that a good physician treats the disease but a great one treats the patient who has the disease.

Thank goodness I eventually went into the medical field. Thank goodness I found a female endocrinologist who cared about her patients, did tests, and finally diagnosed me with autoimmune disease. Sixty years too late for my maternal ancestors. Sixty years too late for me, when I developed the devastations of the disease itself.

I’m a freelance writer and have contributed to Clinician Reviews, The American Journal of Anesthesiology, The Clinical Advisor, PA Advance, CBT and Chronic Medical Illnesses for Springer Publishing Company.

Chapter 1

My Heritage

Fig. 1. Mom and Me

Everyone has a reason for being here on earth. Everyone has a unique contribution that no one else can make. It is this reason that I was born. Everyone wants a life filled with joy, purpose, and meaning. Society only teaches us to read, write, and understand science and math and to make a good living and end up with enough money to enjoy our retirement.

Life took me on a journey of exploration and evaluation. It made me ask myself questions like, Who am I? I have never stopped to think about it. Can you imagine living my life without knowing who I really am? I learned that I lived in an illusion of me. Seeing was not always believing. I only saw a tiny portion of reality. There was so much going on around me that I never noticed.

I almost ended my life not knowing who I was, where I was, or where I was going. I woke up from a coma due to an anaphylactic reaction. I was in the intensive care unit of a local hospital where I just began working as a house officer. I could not speak. I could not walk. I could not write. I could not read. I could not remember. I had been in a coma for a month. I spent two more months at two different nursing homes. I was reborn and had to relearn everything all over again.

I began changing my world by changing my attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors—by releasing them from my mind. Through exploration, I could find my limitations and was able to let go. I can now accept the responsibility of running my own life without the expectancy of other people. I am learning to look within myself for power and not allow outside forces to be the major influence in my life.

I was born on a Friday, 11:59 at night, in a blizzard. My eyes opened, and I gave my first cry in the birthing room of St. Luke’s Medical Center. Many people say that a baby is born without sin. Many believe that sin is acquired by the environment. I still believe this notion is correct. From the day I was born, I absorbed my words, actions, and reactions from my family, neighbors, and friends. I was a blank slate.

I learned to react to fundamental urges such as feeding, sleeping, and excretion of urine and stool. This is much like a puppy who has been brought into a family situation and reacts to their owner’s reactions. I reacted to my mother’s face. If she was smiling or speaking softly, I was smiling and happy. If she was crying or speaking loudly, I was crying and uncooperative.

My mother said I was born on the thirteenth floor and in the thirteenth room. For years, I thought thirteen was my lucky number. When I revisited my birth hospital, I found that the hospital on Girard Avenue lost money and was sold to a physician. He lived on the top floor until his death. There was no thirteenth floor. The highest floor was seven, and the delivery department was on the third. The building had gone through many hands and is still on Girard as a drug center.

World War II caused rationing of scarce goods and services. Each family was issued a set number of each kind of stamp. This was based on the number of adults, ages of children, and the income of its members. This was done to discourage hoarding and insure equal distribution of products. Sugar, coffee, meat, cheese, canned fish, and milk were added to the list of scarce resources. Because of rationing, the more children in a household, the more food and needed items were allowed. All three sisters had jobs which brought in little money.

A barter system developed. People on our block were trading one type of stamp for another. What couldn’t be used by one family could very well be used by another. Black markets were established. They forged ration stamps or stole items and then illegally resold them. Everyone knew what was happening but kept quiet.

My grandmother, Mariyah, watched the children during the day, cooked the meals, and cleaned the house. She was responsible for the disciplining of the children. Olga lost her business and was forced to work for the utility company as a phone operator supervisor. I can still remember the old dial phones. Christine, a chemist, was forced to work in the navy yard building ships. She hated it, but the family needed the money and food stamps. I still can’t understand how she became a chemist without going to college. Lily, an artist, was also forced to work at the navy yard on aircraft. They used to call them Rosie the riveters. All three sisters left early in the morning and came home late at night. All the money brought in was combined for the needs of the whole family. My cousins and I hardly saw our mothers and never saw our fathers. We became best friends. We were inseparable when we were younger.

Philadelphia’s original navy yard was built in 1776 in Penn sport. It was the first naval shipyard in the United States and lasted two centuries. It was the first shipyard to use floating dry-docks. Iron-clad warships made the site obsolete, and new facilities were built on League Island in 1871. It was closed in 1995, and the City of Philadelphia became the owner.

Naval Yard–1940

Mustin Air Base

The naval aircraft factory where my mother worked was built in 1917. Mustin Air Field opened in 1926 and operated until 1963. My aunt Christine was involved with the building of the battleship New Jersey, which now floats across the Delaware River in Camden, New Jersey.

Battleship New Jersey—Camden, New Jersey

The house was small, with two floors. There were three bedrooms and a bath on the second floor. Olga and her two children slept in one bedroom, Mariyah and Christine in the second, and Lily and me in the third. There was a small backyard for the children and Fluffy, the small, mongrel puppy, in which to play. Fluffy was found roaming the streets and was picked up by Aunt Olga. He had no tags or collar, and he was thin and starving. He helped protect the family and gave them companionship. He stationed himself by the table and received all the scraps and leftovers.

The first male to return home from the war was my grandfather, Stephen. My first memories of him were kindness and caring. I remember him smiling and speaking in a soft voice. He was a weaver by trade, but there were no jobs for weavers at that time. Since neighbors and friends could not afford new clothes, they brought him their items to be repaired. He worked from the house and brought in as much money as he could.

Stephen was born in Galicia, Poland, on March 5, 1892. It was part of the Austrian monarchy and was used as a reservoir for a cheap workforce and recruits for the army. It was coveted for its fertile soil. The ethnicity included Ukrainian, Polish, German, Hungarian, Russian, and Yiddish. In 1914, during the First World War, Galicia saw heavy fighting with Russian forces. They overran most of the region in a vicious battle.

By 1918, western Galicia became Poland, and eastern Galicia became Ukraine. Galicia was less affected by the Industrial Revolution than the other regions of Poland or the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Overpopulation of the rural areas was a problem. There was an increase in emigration to the United States because of this. During World War II, the Soviet Union united Galicia with Ukraine.

Stephen went through elementary school and then learned the trade of his father. His brother John was born in 1894. Their father Philip was a weaver but joined the army during the First World War When their father was killed in the war, Stephen and John set their sights for America. Stephen was only seventeen years old, and John was fifteen. There were no jobs available in Galicia. They were encouraged about their chances to finish their schooling. They heard about openings for craftsmen, salesman, and laborers. They were told there were jobs in the cotton mills, retail grocery, farms, and the shipyards.

Were they told about the economic hardships created by the drought and wind? The dust bowls covered Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Texas. Migrant workers were forced to abandon the land. The 1900s was a decade of social and economic upheaval. Many were toiling for low wages. Part-time employment was prevalent.

Stephen and John’s mother, Christine, decided to stay with her daughter in Galicia. Stephen and his brother John left Germany and arrived in New York, April 24, 1913, on the passenger ship Prince Friedrich Wilhelm. They migrated to Philadelphia and moved into a boarding home on Lawrence Street. Both young men became naturalized citizens on June 12, 1923. Stephen was twenty-four years old. Both Stephen and John registered for the World War I draft in 1917.

All was going well until Black Tuesday, when the stock market crashed. Another day that will live in infamy, according to President Franklin Roosevelt. Economic conditions led to the Great Depression from 1929 to 1941. Families were living in parks under tents. They were on the streets begging for food. Soup kitchens were opened to accommodate the homeless and hungry.

On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The United States entered the war with a vengeance and grief. The civilians at home provided munitions, money, morale, and military personnel. I got to visit the Cemetery of the Pacific and saw Ernie Pyle’s grave. I embarked on a visitor boat and proceeded to the Arizona Memorial. The mood was somber. A moment of silence for all those service men who perished that day of infamy. Oil from the torn hull was still leaking into the water.

The United States Army Air Force joined forces with the British Royal Air Force. My father, Alec, was one of the pilots who bombed the German cities, air fields, and munition plants using one of the B-17 flying fortresses. Before the attack, he did reconnaissance of the area. He brought home pictures which he had taken. The main invasion of France took place under General Dwight Eisenhower, June 1944. Berlin fell to Soviet Russia, May 1945. In May 1945, the Germans surrendered.

John was drafted first and was sent back to Europe. He was riding one of the horses which pulled the cannons when their unit was attacked. His horse was killed, and he ended up under the horse. He was sent home to recover from his broken bones. He moved back in with Stephen.

Mariyah was born in Heluskowicz, Austria, August 11, 1894, and her sister Hanla was born in 1898. Her family was starving in Europe because of the war. The girls did not attend school, and no work was available for her parents. Her mother decided that she would take her two daughters to America. She called it the land of prosperity.

They didn’t realize that the American dream was dead. The immigrants who lived in the southern states or near the Alaskan natives or near American Indian Reservations were the most economically disadvantaged. They were living in poverty because of business regulations, poor services, poor access to amenities, and housing challenges.

They packed what little they could and left most of their belongings behind. Mariyah, her mother Makryma, and sister Hanla departed Liverpool, England, on the passenger ship Etruria and landed in New York on December 9, 1906. Her father Frank and his brother Henry stayed behind in Austria. They were to join them later. New York was crowded, and immigrants lived in areas of their origin or beliefs. They moved into a boarding home temporarily until Frank and Henry could join them. My grandmother, Mariyah, was only eleven years old, and Hanla was seven.

The family eventually migrated to Philadelphia, and Frank was only able to find menial work. Makryma was unhappy with where they lived on Twenty-fifth Street and the life they were living. Mariyah attended school in Philadelphia, but her sister Hanla refused. She could barely speak English and was picked on by the other children.

There were many verbal fights and disagreements between the parents. Mariyah’s mother and sister missed their family back home. After a night of screaming and crying, the mother and her younger daughter packed up and left for Poland. Mariyah stayed with her father in America. Her parents never divorced.

Mariyah’s father had been having an affair with another woman. He left Mariyah at the boarding home and ran off with that woman to Pittsburgh. Mariyah never heard from him again. She loved her father, and he broke her heart.

Great Uncle Henry had other options. He moved in with other relatives who had migrated to the States earlier. His one goal in life was to be a physician. He would do whatever he had to do to get into college. He was born in 1895 and died in 1993. Through the influence of his relatives, he applied and was accepted to pharmacy school. At that time, the degree was granted after three years of classes. He had worked at various occupations to pay his tuition. In his last year, he interned at various pharmacies in the city.

After graduation, he applied and was accepted to medical school. As a registered pharmacist, he went to classes during the day and worked at different pharmacies during the afternoon. He did this for two years until he started his rotations. He decided on pediatrics for his internship and residency at Hahnemann.

The hospital was a holistic medical center. The physicians believed in herbs and plants to heal their patients. Many times, they made their own concoctions. This was called homeopathy. Cocaine was extracted from the coca leaves in 1860. According to my great uncle Henry, it was used in a soda drink sold all around the country. It was also used in cough syrup to soothe the throat. The extraction wasn’t taken out until the 1950s.

Digitalis was made from foxglove and Strophontin from African dogbane. They were used as agents for heart disease. The opium poppy produced opium, morphine, codeine, and heroin, which were used as pain relievers. Salicylic acid, used later in aspirin, was extracted from willow bark in 1874 and used for pain and fever reduction. There was a pharmacy on Girard Avenue which closed years ago and was designated homeopathic. My great uncle knew the founder. Both graduated from pharmacy school and became best friends. He supplied many of the homeopathic physicians with his extractions.

After passing his boards, he bought a single home in Wynfield. It was near St. Joseph’s College. The living and dining room was transformed into his office. His kitchen became his laboratory. When he wasn’t in his office seeing patients or going on home visits, he was making skin creams in his kitchen. He was a pharmacist, after all, and used his mortar and pestle to make different medications from herbs and plants.

He went back to medical school and studied pediatric dermatology. In fact, he was one of the first pediatric dermatologists to write a text book and have it published. He approached a pharmaceutical company in Fort Washington about his skin cream for acne. They accepted his research, produced it, and patented it. He received a