“Return not,” the ocean cried. But I returned for her

Beverly Clifford's story is part of a Global Slovakia Project- Slovak Settlers, authored by Zuzana Palovic and Gabriela Bereghazyova. The book is available for purchase via info.globalslovakia@gmail.com.

The journey of my grandmother Mária Anna Martinková from her homeland in Visolaje, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia) to America in 1919 at the age of 22 was the turning point for her future and the future of our family. As the oldest child of a family of 12 living in the country prior to electricity, piped water and plumbing, her family’s existence depended on what they could source from the land and from within their community.

In the age of electronics, automobiles, and technology, it is difficult to imagine a world without access and the comforts of modern living. Yet, it was in that world that our ancestors undertook the great journey and dared to make a fresh start in a new and foreign land.

Mária Anna’s education opportunities were limited, and so she worked as a horseback mail carrier. She was summoned by her uncle John (her sponsor) to travel to America to work with his wife in their household in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. To this day, it still baffles my mind how one would agree to leave their homeland and their family with the knowledge that they would have a high probability of not ever seeing them again. How could you say goodbye to your mother, your father, your siblings and know that they would soon be a fading memory? I think of that decision of hers and am in awe of her bravery and enterprise.

My granny, as she was affectionately known, left her home and traveled by train to Hamburg, Germany, where she boarded a ship with $5 in her pocket. The journey to New York was thought to be about 10 days. Reaching Ellis Island, she was processed, deemed healthy, and was sent on her way to the train station to travel south to Philadelphia. Unbeknownst to her, while she was traveling from Slovakia, her uncle John died. She waited for two days in the train station by herself with no English skills waiting for her aunt to pick her up. She must have been terrified and questioning her decision to come to this foreign land. Unfathomable! Eventually, her uncle’s widow came to collect her, only to treat her poorly as a servant in the home.

During the great migration from eastern Europe, it seems like the communities that formed in America were highly segregated by ethnicity. There was a Slovak enclave in Philadelphia, but my granny would have to wait to be introduced to it. For a time, my grandmother worked at the Campbell Soup factory and also at a cigar factory. This is where she met a man, Mr. Sokula, who introduced my grandmother to a section of the city that harbored people of Slovak descent. She then became aware of the network of communication between other communities in Pennsylvania which were primarily settled by Slovak immigrants.

(source: Beverly Clifford)

Walnut tree

Meanwhile in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, my grandfather John Lazovi, a miner who arrived in 1909 from the same vicinity as my grandmother, noticed her name and village on a ship’s manifest list which was prominently displayed at the neighborhood market. Through the lines of communication, he made a stab in the dark to contact someone in Philadelphia to meet my grandmother. He arrived by train to claim his bride and take her back to rural Pennsylvania. They were married in 1920 and settled in a company house owned by the mining business. After two miscarriages, my grandparents went on to raise seven children.

Taking care of a large family took some skill. The house had one faucet in the kitchen from a well. No hot water. No toilet. There was a coal stove which provided heat and hot water for cooking and bathing.

On their property, my grandparents raised chickens, pigs, ducks, and once a cow. They applied their survival skill set from the “old country” to use their property to farm their own vegetables, berries, and fruit. The land provided for all their needs. Before the first refrigerators appeared on the market, granny preserved vegetables and fruit for the winter months, and grandfather had a smoke house to cure the meat. Their sons were hunters who provided deer and pheasant meat for the household.

My mother, the second oldest, Ann Louise Lazovi, married my father Joseph Skrincosky (Polish/Ukrainian) in 1951. They bought a home across the street from my grandparents. Next door lived my uncle and on the lot next their home lived my eldest aunt. In a way, we lived as one large, extended family.

My mother was a working mom, and I was raised by my granny along with many of the other grandchildren. It was in her home that we learned of her homeland. She described the landscape of rolling hills, the stream running through the property, and the house with a central hearth. She described the orech (walnut) tree that graced the property. She told of how the girls slept in the rafters in the attic. She spoke of the feather quilts that kept her and her sisters warm. We were informed about the harvesting and fermenting of plums for the prized slivovica. All of this oral history was kept close in our hearts. When granny departed from our midst, we always yearned to learn about her past and her rich Slovak culture and heritage.

When the first relatives took it upon themselves to venture to the ancestral land first, we were all anxious to hear of the adventure. Their stories whetted my cousin George’s appetite to seek more about where our grandparent’s family originated. George’s mother Mary was the oldest of my grandmother’s children and fluent in the Slovak language. So, in 1994, George, his mother Mary, along with others made the trip back to Bratislava.

Staying in the capital city overnight before their adventure north to Trenčín, my aunt found it difficult to communicate, because the dialect seemed foreign to her. They almost aborted the trip because of the confusion. But then, just like her mother before her, she forged forward.

The only address they had to connect them with my grandmother’s family was an old, tattered envelope that was found in the family Bible. As their train made its way north, the language of the passengers on the train became more and more familiar. My aunt beamed from ear-to-ear knowing she could communicate.

At the train station, they found the only taxi for the community. With envelope in hand, they were delivered directly to my grandmother’s family in Visolaje. At the time she still had two living sisters: Anna and Gizela; both in their 90s. Several family pilgrimages to the area by my relatives followed, but I was a young working mother who could not take the time out. I lived vicariously through the eyes of my cousin George who now was the ambassador for the family.

“Program”

Then in 2006, my cousin afforded me the opportunity to travel with him to Slovakia. He insisted that we leave Bratislava on the train, just as my grandmother would have done. As we made our way through the countryside and changed trains, I could see just from the population on the train how the economic conditions were changing. City people dressed in business attire gave way to the country women boarding the rickety older trains wearing scarves and carrying live chickens!

We checked into the Tatra Hotel in Trenčín, right underneath the castle! Carved into the cliff rocks behind the hotel is the oldest inscription in the territory by Roman soldiers in their crusade against Germanic tribes dating back to the 2^nd century AD. Charming old world.

A recipe (source: Beverly Clifford)

My cousin whisked me away to have my first introduction. My grandmother’s nephew Jozef was the first to greet me. Even though he spoke no English, his eyes sparkled, and he heartily hugged this American relative. Then came the celebratory shots of slivovica. I was knocked on the floor by the high proof! But the shots kept coming and I struggled to keep up! In Slovak, he announced to his family: Bev – not good Slovak! Thank God that his wife presented us with an incredible meal of homemade soup, fresh baked bread, a roast, dumplings, salad, potato pancakes, blood sausage, pickles, sauerkraut, and the courses kept coming! Then the gorgeous desserts—all from scratch in an incredibly small kitchen hardly bigger than a closet—a testament to Slovak hospitality and resourcefulness.

There was a sad moment too. My grandmother’s sister Anna, Jozef’s mother, was in the hospital and not expected to live. Gizela had passed away already. So Anna was the last remaining relative who knew my granny from Slovakia. I had to see her.

Entering the geriatric ward of the hospital, I was taken back by the 1950s-type equipment—metal syringes, medicines in brown glass bottles, wooden potty seats next to the beds. As we entered the room, I could see a familiar face in that bed. Smaller framed, but the same features as my grandmother. When she spoke, tears ran down my face. The same voice, tone, as my beloved grandmother. I embraced her and she smiled.

Anna was a young girl when my granny left Slovakia. To think that I was close to not having met my grandmother’s last living sibling. My own mother is her namesake. No words can describe the emotion of connecting with her. It was overwhelming in the most beautiful way. Anna passed away shortly after my visit.

The next day came amid a whirlwind of activity. Apparently, from far and wide, the extended family was notified that the Americans were in town. As we went from town to town, we were greeted with slivovica, open-faced sandwiches and sweets. They were all so proud to host us, giving us the very finest food that they could afford.

The last home in Visolaje included a trip to the church where my grandmother worshiped as a child and a visitation to her parents’ graves. The honor and reverence that Slovaks afford their deceased relatives is evident in the beautiful graves—covered with slabs of granite, graced with flowers and candles, and tended with love. We attended mass at the ancient church, and I was in wonder of its simplicity, and the awe-inspiring spirit that rose from there. The tradition of the men in the upstairs choir balcony and the women downstairs gave me a sense of their rituals.

The highlight of the stay was visiting grandmother’s home which was still standing. In my head that night I recalled all the conversations with my granny and her recollection of her family home. There were so many emotions coursing through me in anticipation of finally seeing the actual place where this long journey began.

Poem 

After my granny passed away, I put my pen to paper and wrote a poem to try to embrace the feelings that would have been in my grandmother’s heart as she made her goodbyes and began her trek across Europe. Then boarding a ship across the vast Atlantic full of people speaking many languages. “Babylon relived.” The thought of her arriving in Ellis Island and being herded through the customs and immigration, I tried to put myself in her shoes. I tried to imagine how a 22-year-old woman could brave this adventure by herself and not having the comfort that money afforded. It was unfathomable the terror and fear that she must have had.

When morning came, we set off to Visolaje. In my hand, I clutched a copy of my poem. I was finally going to see with my own eyes and walk the same path on the land of my ancestors.

Off the paved road we turned onto a long, winding dirt road, past bushes and trees that encroached the road. As we continued, I was able to feel the remoteness; I could smell the earth under our vehicle; my mind was alive with vicarious thoughts of living this primitive life. With every bump of the road, I prayed to my grandmother – “Granny, I made it! I’m here. I feel you with me. I know you are watching and shining down on me.”

With every bump of the road, I prayed to my grandmother – “Granny, I made it! I’m here. I feel you with me. I know you are watching and shining down on me.”  

At last, in the horizon, I could see the barn-like building come into sight. I saw the beautiful walnut tree that granny told me about all those years ago. The sun was shining down through the trees like a lattice on the ground. It was so bucolic; so surreal. I was really here.

As I stepped out of the car, I could feel the soft breeze, the fresh country air. And there it was at last. The rough-hewn, simple cottage. I scanned the property. There were the grassy, rolling hills, the trickle of the stream. It was all there just as it had been painted in my mind.

As my cousin George escorted me over the threshold, my feet touched the dirt floor. This I hadn’t anticipated. Where was the tile, the carpet? No, my grandmother and her family of 12 lived on a bare earthen floor!

The inside square footage was incredibly small for a family of 12. The centerpiece of the home was a large white plastered hearth for cooking and heating. I glanced to the left and saw a crumbling door with a primitive lock. Through the door was an animal pen. I was told that the animals were kept in the same building for warmth!

While exploring the property, I saw a ladder on the outside of the house that led to an opening in the eave. Then it hit me, THIS IS WHERE THE GIRLS SLEPT! In the attic! After much admonition and objections from my cousins, I ascended the rickety ladder. When I peered into the cavernous darkness of the garret, I was hit with a damp, musty smell. On a whim, I aimed my camera into the blackness and used the flash on my camera to take several random pictures.

As I reentered the house one last time, I could see objects protruding from the earthen floor. With my hands, I began to do some excavation. After some tedious digging, I unearthed a glass pentagon-shaped pitcher, a porcelain bowl, a wooden board used to make halušky, a piece of a still, a rusty funnel, a teacup, and six shot glasses! All the while I was doing my archeological dig, the cousins were asking me to stop plowing up this junk! Well, I had intentions for this ‘junk’!

"After some tedious digging, I unearthed a glass pentagon shaped pitcher, a porcelain bowl, a wooden board used to make haluski noodles, a piece of a still, a rusty funnel, a teacup, and six shot glasses!" (source: Beverly Clifford)

As I surveyed the house for the last time, I allowed myself a moment to feel my grandmother in my bones and her life here. I approached the wall adjacent to the hearth. With tears in my eyes, I unrolled my poem and pinned it to the wall. I said to myself: “I’m here, granny. I came to see and understand the life you led here; the sacrifices you made to leave this very place and make a new life for you and your own children, your children’s children, and your great -great grandchildren.”

The winter after my visit, the roof was blown off the house, and my grandmother’s abode had to be razed. I had made it just in time.

Finding my roots was a cathartic experience. Knowing exactly what life must have been like at the end of 19^th century Slovakia gives me such a feeling of appreciation for all my grandmother’s sacrifices, her courage, her resilience, and her stamina. When there are days in my life that are filled with tragedy, hopelessness, or struggle, I look to my granny for her strength to push me through. She will always be my inspiration, and she will forever be knitted in my soul.

My four voyages to Slovakia over the years have given me a strong sense of my Slovak identity and a territorial belonging. I have come full circle with my grandmother and feel a sense of completeness.