Kristin Rose

ENG 365
Professor Jack
27 October 2014
Word Count: 3,499
Mazanec Family Stories
Chapter One
Its a perfect Indian summer day when I arrive at the front steps of my grandparents
home in Hinsdale. The sun is hot on my skin, and Im sweating even though theres a cool breeze
stirring the crimson leaves at my feet. Its the sort of day that my brothers would convince me to
go down by the lake to fish with them. I would make them bait the hook, of course, and then
Stephen would throw the extra worms at me, just to be funny. Afterwards, we would head back
to grandmas house and she would have a bowl of peaches ready for us at the kitchen table.
The front door starts to creak open, pulling me out of my reverie.
Hi, grandma!
Why hello, Kristin! It is such a treat to see you! She pulls me into an awkward hug,
even though Im still standing on the porch and she is teetering on the edge of the doorstep. She
is surprisingly strong. Come in, come in, come in! She ushers me into the foyer of their ranchstyle home.
As I enter the kitchen, a warm, familiar smell drifts through the air. There is a loaf of
hoska on the kitchen table, a traditional Czech yeast bread with raisins and bits of candied fruit
inside. She knows I love hoska.
Then, a memory: I am running through grandmas backyard with my brothers. I weave
between the tall evergreens as Ryan chases me. My hair flies about in the wind. Stephen tries to
catch up to us.

GUYS! Where ARE you? Stephen calls as he trudges through the tall grass, groaning
under his breath.
Ryan catches up with me, breathless and grinning. Hide! He hisses. He pulls me
behind a massive boxwood bush.
As Stephen marches by, a scowl on his face, we jump out from behind the bush and
scream. Suddenly, were all laughing together in a heap on the ground. Then, a distant voice
from the porch is calling us back to the house, where a plate of hoska is waiting for us. Stephen
grabs a piece and carefully nibbles around the raisins. He hates the raisins, which is silly,
because whats the point of hoska without raisins? Thats just regular bread. Now Grandma
pours us lemonade
Kristin? I said, would you like some lemonade? Grandmas voice brings me back to
the present.
Sorry, I was just thinking... Ill have water. I pour myself a glass from the tap, and then
follow grandma to the dining room table. She has meticulously arranged all of her old photo
albums at the table, just as I anticipated. Grandma is very proud of her photo albums. My
brothers and I like to joke that she treats her old photo albums like her own grandchildren: with
tender love and care.
As I shuffle through the first book, I smile at the pictures. I have never met most of the
people in the photo album, yet their faces are all familiar to me. Perusing these old albums is a
routine part of a visit with my grandparents. Since I was a little girl, I have flipped through these
worn albums and struggled to understand what life was like for my great-grandmother, my greatgreat-grandmother, and those before them.
***

My grandparents have always told us family stories, which often put my younger brothers
to sleep, but wholly captivated me. Grandma is particularly fond of her old photo albums, which
she brought out over and over for us to look at as kids, until all three of her grandkids knew the
blurred, black and white faces by heart. She used the album to illustrate her stories. She had
preserved pictures, newspaper clippings, cards, letters, and many other relics that seemed ancient
to me. All of these artifacts made her stories accessible and exciting for me.
I never could figure out if these stories were factual or not. Grandmas elaborate tales
may have been romanticized and embellished for dramatic effect. At the time, it hardly mattered.
As a thirteen year old girl, I was transfixed by her account of her first date with my grandpa, her
first time in the city, and the stories of her familys tavern in Chicagos Czech community. These
are the stories that have shaped out family. There is something intensely fascinating about these
old photo albums, something that sets my imagination free. Now that I am older, I want to
record these stories to preserve my grandparents legacy.
Its funny how family history carries more weight as you grow older. Some deep desire
to know where I come from, how my family became what it is, continues to grow inside of me.
Although I didnt realize it as a child, my grandma may be the last person to communicate these
tales. If she didnt preserve these faces and these names, I would not know anything about my
heritage. And now I feel a sense of urgency, and perhaps a sense of duty, to document my family
history.
***
Thats the latest one Ive been working on. Grandma gestures to the large, maroon
photo album in front of me. I flip to the first page and study the faded black and white photo.
There are nine ghostly figures in the photo. The blurred faces of six gaunt children stare back at

me. I focus on these children. They are unsmiling, and their eyes are wide and dark. Perhaps
its just the poor quality of the photo, but I get the feeling that these children are scared. Who
are they? I ask without looking up from the faces.

Thats the Mikus family. On the right there, that is my mother Mary, or Mickey, as they
used to call her once they came to America. Grandma gazes fondly at the blurred face of her
own mother, who has been gone for years.
I cannot fathom what that must feel like.
Suddenly, grandma looks up at me. Did your mom tell you about grandpa? Her voice
falters a bit.
yes. I pause, unsure what to say next. I never know what to say. What more is
there to say? Cancer isnt new to this family. Grandma had breast cancer. Grandpa had prostate
cancer and kidney cancer. But grandpas cancer was in remission for so long, I had almost
forgotten that he ever had it in the first place. Now it was back again.

I want to grab her hand, or touch her arm, or do something to comfort her, but I cant
bring myself to do it. Instead, I ask How is the treatment going?
Hes doing well. Hes very strong. She forces a smile, but I see the tears forming. I
hate it when my grandma cries. I also hate hearing the same tired clichs about cancer patients.
How could anyone be brave in the face of a terminal illness?
I try to change the direction of the conversation. In an attempt to talk about happier
times, I say Remember all of those stories you used to tell us when me and the boys were just
kids? Remember the story about Joseph and Katherine? Can you tell me a story like that
again? I pause and stare at the picture with the six ghostlike children. Its been so long since
Ive heard you tell one of those stories. I dont tell her that I want to document the stories for
our family. That would make her nervous. Now more than ever, I feel a sense of urgency to
record these family stories on paper, before they are lost forever. The blurry, black and white
faces are as real to me as beloved characters in a favorite childhood book. Their stories are part
of my story. And these stories must be told.
Maybe I am just like my grandmother a storyteller at heart.

Chapter Two
There is a trendy wood picture frame that sits on the mantle at my house. Around the
edges, the frame reads: Family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us,
we see the past, the present, and the future. Ive always laughed at the wonderfully corny
quality of that quote. When I look at my grandparents, I see the past. I occasionally see the
future, but I always see the past. And its comforting to me, but also vaguely depressing. I cant
imagine a future where they are not with me.

***
Like any great storyteller, my grandmother is engaging and captivating. She leans
forward in her creaking hardwood chair at the dinner table and shakes her head for emphasis.
She talks over you if you ask a question in the middle of her story thats part of her charm. Of
all the stories she tells, there is one that fascinates me above the others. She tells this story
exactly the same way every time: the story of how her grandparents (my great-greatgrandparents) came to America.
However, due to my grandpas specialized treatment program, my grandparents have
moved back to their condo in Florida. It would be simple and convenient for me to hear
grandma tell the family stories over the phone. However, Im worried that Ill miss her facial
expressions, her gestures, her general quirkiness, if I dont see her tell the story in person. So I
do the next best thing: I set up a Skype date.
***

Grandmas eyes light up when I see her blurred face on the screen of my iPhone.
Well, wouldya look at that? She has been the proud owner of an iPad for the past two
years, yet she still expresses childlike amazement at the wonders of technology.
Hi grandma! Can you see me okay?
Yeah, honey, I can see you! Whys it so dark in there? She squints into the camera.
Well, um, its dark outside. Im sitting in my dorm room. Not the best lighting.
Oh! Can you give me a virtual tour?
Um, how about we do that after the story? I have to keep her focused before she
forgets the point of this call.

Right, right, the story. Well where do I begin?

***
Joseph and Katherine Mazanecs story begins in Russia in 1900, after they had emigrated
east from Bohemia with their four children and many other Czech families. The Mazanecs lived
on a farm where they raised work horses as well as crops. Here, grandma pauses to stress the
hardships of farming life. They had to plant their own food. Do you have any idea what that
would be like?
Before I can think of a clever response, she continues.
One evening, the Mazanecs were eating dinner in their tiny, two-room home when there
was a sudden knock at the door. Here, she starts to knock on the hand rest of her wooden chair.
The sound is muffled through the iPhone camera.
Grandma continues to tell the story with great enthusiasm, as if she was present when the
police busted down the door and demanded to search the Mazanecs tiny farm house. Joseph and
his family were outspoken Christians, and they had a Bible study group that met at their house.
As the story goes, the police were searching for the Bible to destroy it. While Joseph distracted
the police, Katherine wrapped the Bible in a cloth and placed it in the center of a bowl of rising
bread dough to prevent their arrest. Shortly after the incident, Joseph and Katherine made the
decision to move their family to America.
***
Ive lost track of how many times Ive forgotten to return my grandparents calls, or
neglected to write them a thank-you note for sending me a birthday card with cash, or forgotten
to reply to their incredibly detailed emails. The funny thing is, no matter how many times I
forget to give them something they deserve, they still continue to give and give and give. Its not

always a tangible gift. Like now, for instance, I have been caught up in weeks of schoolwork
and havent taken the time to contact them, yet they are still willing to chat with me and tell me
important bits of family history. Amidst the most devastating news in recent family history the
return of my grandpas cancer my grandparents are Skyping me to talk about their relatives.
My relatives.
Maybe its healing for them in some way, to know that one of their grandkids actually
cares about the old days. Ive always been an old soul. Maybe I feel guilty for not expressing
enough interest in those black and white faces from the past.
***
Theres another story that grandma tells. Its the story of her own mother, Mary
Mickey Mikus. From a treasured old tape recording, grandma has memorized the details of a
story that my great-grandma Mickey articulated in the 1990s, before she died. When I was born.
She recorded the tale to pass on to my brothers and I.
It was 1920. The Great War was finally over. In the village of Velke Rovne, Slovakia,
Mary and her mother and sister, Anne, lived in a two-room home divided by a large, wood
burning oven. Her uncle, a baker, originally owned the house but had moved into a larger
facility across the street. He allowed the Mikus women to live in his abandoned bakery in one
large room. The other rooms were occupied by other residents. Among them lived an elderly
woman who acted as Mary and Annes grandmother. This woman watched the girls while their
mother went out to work.
Mrs. Mikus hired herself out for a week at a time to the Jewish Family in town to sew
their clothes. She was able to take apart an old dress, make a pattern out of it, and then create a

dress from new cloth, all done by hand. Mrs. Mikus sewed all their linens every spring and fall.
A different time, to be sure.
As a young girl, I often wondered where are the men in this story? Now, my grandma
explains to me that Frank Mikus left the family in l912. He emigrated to the United States and
then settled into Chicago's Czech and Slovak community. Although Frank found employment as
a lamp maker, it took him many months to earn enough money for his wife and daughters
passage to America.
As a child, I never heard much about Frank Mikus. In retrospect, its strange that he
disappeared from the familys collective consciousness so quickly. It seemed as if he had faded
into the background of everyones memory. It never occurred to me that my grandma was
purposely leaving him out of our photo albums and family stories. And now, in my persistence,
grandma reveals to me the truth about Frank Mikus in an email: He was a useless, abusive drunk.
I can tell that it pains her to tell me.
There are more details but they involve drunkenness every weekend, beatings
and rough treatment on the part of Frank Mikus -- such that may be too graphic
for you. Real life is often difficult but I recall my Mom's words Only the
strongest will survive. With that in mind, I charge you with the responsibility of
caring for and developing our family's stories and to be a strong woman!
It doesnt surprise me, somehow. Every family has dark secrets. But her words are comforting.
***
After many months of waiting, the tickets were purchased and the Mikus family made
plans to be transported to the train station in a nearby town. In a time where taxis and buses did
not exist, the women had to walk with their bundles of clothing and food to a prearranged

meeting spot to be picked up by a horse and buggy. However, the horse and buggy never came.
Rumors of the impending war had spread through the area, and the owner of the carriage fled
instead of helping the Mikus family. As a result, Mary lost hope of ever leaving Slovakia.
Later that month, Marys uncle Joe came to the village unexpectedly. One afternoon, he
kidnapped Marys sister, Anne, and took her to Prague. To this day, the details of the story
remain unknown. No one in the Mazanec family knows why Anne was kidnapped, but she
remained in Bohemia and did not ever emigrate to America with the rest of her family.
Frank Mikus once again saved up money for tickets to America. This time he sent for his
brother, Joe, and his younger daughter, Maria. Great-grandma Mickey vaguely remembers the
voyage and, on her recording, describes what it was like to board with the other women in third
class. For the whole voyage she was with strange women who took care of her. She insists
that the women spoke many different languages, but they took care of her as if she were
family.
What was it like to be on that ship? How crowded were the boarding rooms? Who were
these mysterious women who watched over Mickey? I would give anything to talk to my greatgrandmother about her experience. The tape recording is all I have. Its history come to life. Its
my only clue to the past.
While on the ship, young Mickey saw a person of color for the first time. She describes
this experience as frightening and she thought that the man must be the devil himself. With
no adult around to explain anything to her, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. My
grandma attributes the harsh realities of this voyage to the development of her mothers very
stoic, enduring nature. Again, grandma tells me She [Mickey] often said to me Only the
strongest will survive.

***
Only the strongest will survive. What makes a person strong? Is it purely emotional and
mental strength? Physical strength? Or some magical combination of both? My grandparents
are not physically strong, but they are mentally strong. They are withering away on the outside,
but on the inside they are filled with life because they hold these stories from the past in their
hearts.
***
When Mickey came to America, one of her uncles picked her up at Ellis Island and they
began their long journey to Chicago, where Frank Mikus had settled. Neither of them spoke any
English.
Mickey was surprised to discover that her father had remarried and had another family. It
was an extremely difficult adjustment. Suddenly she had a step-mother, two step-sisters, one
step-brother and a half-sister, Millie. The newly-formed Mikus family lived in Chicago for
several years, until they moved into a new home in Stickney, Illinois. At this time in 1920,
Stickney was farmland which surrounded Chicago.

Mickey shared one bedroom with all of her siblings. She claims that they all shared one
bed in the unheated second floor bedroom, covered by a feather-filled pezina (comforter) hand

crafted by her step-mother. Feathers and down would be culled from the poultry, cleaned and
used to stuff pillows and comforters. She attended school in a one-room school house, sharing
books with her siblings.
Although her story seems like an idyllic picture of the American melting pot, Mickey
says she was keenly aware of her status as an outsider. With little preparation for reading and
writing in English, she did not make friends easily and she was not confident in her English
speaking skills.
Mickey went on to work in the Mars Candy Factory for many years. She lived at home
until she was nineteen.
***
There is a long history of strong, resilient women in my family. And it is becoming more
and more obvious to me that my grandma is one of those women. She didnt save her family
from death at the hands of the Russian government, like Katherine did, but she saves my grandpa
every day by being with him through countless treatment sessions and appointments. She didnt
immigrate to a country where she had to learn the language and start all over with a new family,
but she sleeps at the hospital overnight to be with my grandpa. Only the strongest will survive.
Its not that I never noticed this before, her hardiness and her toughness. But in these
family stories, I see grandmas character. I see what I failed to see when I heard these stories as a
child that I come from a proud, diligent group of people. And the Mazanec women arent just a
part of the background. They make history. They do remarkable things for their family.
My grandma told me her mothers story. Someday I will tell my children my grandmas
story. And then I will tell them my mothers story. Grandmas words still weigh heavily on my

mind: I charge you with the responsibility of caring for and developing our family's stories.
More than anything, I want to do this for her.