The immigrant story we don’t like to tell

Leaving central Europe for America brought work and survival — but also separation, silence and enduring fractures in my family.

Anna Susová and her sister Mária in Richnava, 1935 (source: Courtesy, Michael J. Kopanic Jr)

Michael J. Kopanic Jr is an adjunct professor of history at the University of Maryland Global Campus and the editor of Jednota. He contributes to several publications, works as an academic consultant for Global Slovakia, and sits on the editorial board of the journal Kultúrne dejiny (Cultural History).

Michael J. Kopanic Jr’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.

All of my ancestors hailed from the Spiš area of eastern Slovakia. Like many others, they all came from villages within a stone’s throw from one another. People settled down and started their own families pretty much exactly where they were born. Most of them worked in agriculture and later in the metallurgical factory in Krompachy processing local iron ore, but this was only built at the turn of the 19th century. 

Life was not easy, and the community experienced many hardships. An epidemic of cholera hit the country in the 1830s killing many, but my family survived. As time went by, it was more and more difficult for the men of the household to find work. The main east-west railroad line was built in 1872. Although it connected Silesia and Košice and ran through our region, jobs were scarce. To make matters worse, agricultural earnings were continually falling because of increased mechanization made possible by the industrial revolution.

This eventually pushed my maternal great grandfather Michal to search for opportunity elsewhere, breaking the custom of sticking to the home turf. According to port entry records, he traveled to the USA at age 31 in 1885. He went back and forth between the US and what is now Slovakia, saving money when he worked in the Pennsylvanian mines, and then going back home to buy land. 

This was a common pattern among Slovak immigrants. Historians have called these migrants ‘birds of passage’ who went to America to earn a nest egg and then returned to their native country in order to make a home and live a better life. Michal’s youngest son and my maternal grandfather (dzedo in Spiš dialect), Štefan, was born in 1895, after the family returned to the territory of today’s Slovakia.

I know little about my grandfather’s youth in the territory of present-day Slovakia. He was the son of a farmer who served in the Austro-Hungarian Army when WWI broke out. A leg wound from shrapnel would plague him for the rest of his life. A reminder of the great war. Shortly after returning from war, Michal married my grandmother Helena (baba) in the beautiful 16th century Church of St. Catherine of Alexandria, in the nearby village of Kluknava.  One may assume that since it happened so quickly after the war, the marriage was arranged, like most marriages at the time. Helena was a young bride of only 18. The couple then set up a home of their own in the adjacent village of Richnava, surrounded by forested hills and pastures.

Štefan Susa (source: Courtesy, Michael J. Kopanic Jr)

Helena’s grandfather was the mayor of his village. He had also founded the first school in the village and planted a cherry orchard next to it. Official records listed him as a bricklayer - evidently the position of the leader of the village was not enough for one to survive. Being the mayor was certainly not a walk through a rose garden. A gypsy killed him when he was in a local tavern.

After WWI, Dzedo Štefan found a job at the Krompachy Ironworks. In the early 20th century, the foundry employed about 3,500 employees and ranked among the largest ironworks in the Kingdom of Hungary. But the Ironworks would close following a bloody rebellion in February 1921, known as the Krompachy Uprising. The riot erupted when the company police began beating women and union organizers who were presenting a petition to management to protest the reduction in flour rations for employees.  When their men armed with clubs came to assist them, the officers fired upon unarmed workers. As a result, four were killed, 15 injured, and 57 were jailed. Martial law was declared and many workers across Slovakia announced a general strike in support of their Krompachy colleagues.  After an investigation, the management incurred no penalties, but the factory shut down in 1923, and my dzedo lost his job. 

He barely scraped by to make a living for his family on the meager scattered plots of land he owned. Štefan truly tried his best for three years before deciding to take the trek to America, like his father before him. Dzedo emigrated in 1926. Traveling on the ship Berengaria, he arrived at Ellis Island on December 14. The records listed him as a farmer. All the other passengers on his entry page were also Slovaks from Czechoslovakia, so they surely kept him company on the voyage. 

Štefan started off working in the Pennsylvanian mines, just like his father. Thanks to his cousin, he had a job lined up in Graceton, a small town in Indiana County, Pennsylvania. But Štefan only remained there a year, before moving to Youngstown, Ohio, where other members of the family had found work in the steel mills. And from there his path led to working in the auto industry in Detroit, Michigan and Toledo, Ohio. Then came the Great Depression and Štefan, like many other men, lost his job, so he returned to Youngstown. But not all was right. Dzedo never sent money to bring his family over to America, and there was always resentment in the family back in the old country for this reason. My mother called him an irresponsible ‘good time Charlie’ who had completely abandoned his obligations to the family. 

Back in Slovakia, baba had to make ends meet with the little she possessed, but at least they owned a stucco house. It was a long dwelling with the living quarters in the front, and as was typical of many Slovak homes, a section for storage and animals in the rear. The house had dirt floors, and all had to sleep on uncomfortable beds stuffed with straw. Baba kept chickens, geese, and a few cows in addition to cultivating a large garden and fruit trees. Like other Slovaks, she canned fruits and vegetables and baked so the family would have enough to eat. Meat was rare, to be enjoyed maybe once a month, but they always had eggs and milk, and soup on the stove was a staple. 

Baba was alone for 10 years and had to find a way to survive and support her two daughters without her husband. My mother and her sister Mary experienced a tough life as children. They never possessed the material things so many of us take for granted. There were no toys and very few comforts. My mother only tasted an orange once in her childhood, and that was for Christmas. And her sister Mary dropped the only ice cream cone she had ever tasted. For them, life was all about working. They had to if they wanted to survive. 

My mother vividly described to me her typical morning in the heart of Europe. Up at 5:00, she had to walk a 12km round trip every day to sell milk and eggs in a nearby town, only to obtain a few crowns which the three of them desperately needed to make ends meet. Mother would lift her dress as she waded across the river, ever faithful to do her duty, just as she did all her life. Then she had to hurry back home to attend school. A school day started with a prayer and a tribute to Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, the first president of the Czechoslovak Republic. When she came home, she had to then take the cows to pasture.

Baba pulled her out of school a number of times to help with work at home, and the truant officer eventually came after her. For repeatedly not sending my mother to school, baba would have to serve time in jail every spring because she could not pay the fine for violating the law. But my mother managed to finish the eight grades of schooling that were required. But not without troubles.

Baba was loving but also very strict with her daughters. Punishments for infractions were swift and painful. One day, my mother accidentally poked out the eyes of a newborn gosling as the eggs were hatching. Baba became so angry that out of fear of a lashing, my mother hid in the woods for several days before showing her face again.

But there was also time for play and celebration. However short, it was always savored to the last moment. At Christmas, the family would have ham and nut or poppy seed rolls. They would select a small tree from the woods they owned and decorate it with candles and apples. During Shrovetide before the Lenten fast, baba would make fried doughnuts (čeregy) and sprinkle them with sugar, a tradition my mother would later carry on in America.  

Marriages offered one of the few chances to celebrate, and I have a photo of my mother and her sister at a wedding dressed in their traditional village kroj which baba sewed in the wintertime. Baba also made her own feather quilts (periny) and pillows from goose feathers, and she took some of these as well as the cherished folk costumes to America. I still use one of those pillows to this day. I treasure it every night.  

Throughout the throes of the Depression that also hit Czechoslovakia, baba saved money and planned to emigrate when she could. But how could she save enough for a journey with no real job? Since her husband was not sending funds home for the family, the answer must lie with relatives. Baba had three sisters, all of whom had previously immigrated to the United States. They sent her what little money they could muster so that she too could eventually journey to the New World, particularly her sister Anna Vareščák, the mother of my godfather.

And that finally happened in 1936, the year baba and her two daughters arrived in the United States. My mother never really wanted to come to America because she had a boyfriend and a best friend in Slovakia, but alas, she had no choice.

The family traveled with all their earthly possessions to Prague in August, where they obtained their passports, and then took a train to Bremen, Germany, to board the ocean liner Columbus. The ship manifest showed mainly Slovaks on the page displaying our family’s entry. Perhaps they could offer sound advice and conversation on the journey. The ladies arrived at Ellis Island on September 2, 1936. It must have been a wondrous scene for them to see the skyscrapers of New York City and the Statue of Liberty welcoming them as they approached the shores of their new home. 

The family settled on the west side of Youngstown, Ohio where many other Slovaks lived. At least dzedo had saved some money to put a down payment on a house. They also kept a boarder to get an extra income. Every penny counted. 

Garceton, Pennsylvania. Left to right: Anna Vareščak, Mary Ann Kriss, Elizabeth Jánošík, Helen Susa (source: Courtesy, Michael J. Kopanic Jr)

Dzedo worked as a scarfer at the US Steel Brier Hill Works, grinding and removing imperfections from steel surfaces with torches. He regularly smoked Camel unfiltered cigarettes and always received whiskey as a present at Christmas. While stern, gruff, and demanding of his family, he also worked hard around his yard, kept bees for honey, and he knew how to grow and graft fruit trees. He was so proud of his delicious fruit brandy!

Every morning at 6:00, for as long as she was still able to walk, baba attended mass at Holy Name of Jesus Slovak Church, which Slovak-Americans had built in 1916. Her life centered around the church where she interacted with other ladies, who had also emigrated from Slovakia, in the Holy Rosary Society. They had so much in common and therefore many pieces of advice to share with one another.

Once in America, the hard work continued, and this included the children. They too had jobs and responsibilities, both around the house and in the community as domestic servants. The two daughters usually found work helping in Jewish households. Any money they earned had to be turned over to their father. One time, dzedo found one hundred dollars that my mother had hidden behind a picture. She was saving it to buy pretty new clothes. He became so angry and gave her a whooping she never forgot. 

The children of immigrants had no right to their earnings until they turned 21 or married. So my mother considered it a Godsend when she met my father, Michael Kopanic, Sr., at a Ukrainian church hall dance in late 1941. They married six months later.   

It was common for many second-generation Slovaks to marry other Slovaks, or at least other Slavs or Hungarians who were of the same faith. Since my paternal family also came from Spiš, my father spoke a dialect similar to my mother, and he could easily communicate with his new in-laws.

Having a man in the family would be an asset to his immigrant in-laws who had three girls. But my father’s family opposed the marriage and wanted the young couple to wait until Michael returned from the war. Why? Because they would not receive my father’s army pay or an insurance payment if he was killed in action. Instead, his pay would go to my mother. There was little room for romantic notions in those tough times. 

At long last, a wedding was held, but the marital bliss was short-lived. My father was sent overseas to North Africa to fight in WWII with the 39th Combat Infantry Division. While he was fighting in a desert with General Patton’s army against the famed German General Rommel, his wife started to save a nest egg in anticipation of starting their own family once Michael returned in one piece. Like many other women in the war, she took a factory job as a welder of airplane parts at General Fireproofing.

While at war, my father wrote to my mother every day. He even sang songs about her. One of his favorites was Naša Anička (Our dear Anna). In order to read my father’s letters, my mother attended night school to better understand the English language. Luckily, he survived the war albeit wounded, but he did return home to his young wife to begin a new life.   

The couple lived with my father’s Slovak parents at first, but that did not work out well because of the clash of a wife and a mother-in-law. Then for a while they stayed at the home of a Jewish family where my mother worked as a domestic servant and my father as a part-time chauffeur. They eventually bought a trailer, and then in 1948, a house just north of Youngstown. Like many Slovak-Americans, my father was handy. He learned carpentry by watching others and started his own business on the side, building garages which many people needed after the war.  He even built a new house for his in-laws.

My parents had four children; three boys and a girl. At home, we spoke English, even though my mother had an accent when I was younger and always had trouble pronouncing “the”. Slovak could also be heard at home, but my parents only spoke it to each other when they did not want us children to know what they were talking about. But on Sundays, we gathered at my grandparents’ house and all the adults spoke Slovak. We children did not understand very much. 

Baba used to call me “malý Michal” (little Michal) and I always thought it was spelled like the name “Molly.” On holidays, we heard Slovak music on the phonograph, so I became familiar with some Slovak tunes. I remember my dzedo was so happy when he used to sing Ja parobek z Kapušan, one of the most popular Slovak-American songs.

The Kopanic family, circa 1941. Back row: Mary, Helen Susam Ann Susa. Front row (left to right): two unknown men, Štefan Susa holding his daughter Helen. (source: Courtesy, Michael J. Kopanic Jr)

I never learned to speak Slovak from my parents, but I was always curious about the language. My mother taught us to do the Sign of the Cross in Slovak, and we learned a few basic words such as dobre (good), šaleny (crazy), dziva (wild), and zbohom, our way of saying goodbye in reverence to the Lord. It was this experience of hearing the language and stories about the Old Country that aroused my interest in wanting to know more about Slovak history. Then I realized that knowing the language was the key to unlocking the past and getting to know my own parents better. The quest unleashed a lifelong desire to pursue Slovak studies when I was in college, and it continues to this day. The learning never ends, and I do not want it to. It is a connection with my ancestors and the land they lived in – my Slovakia.  

Barley Soup

1 cup dried baby lima beans, soaked overnight

¼ cup barley

1 large onion, chopped

Ham pieces (to taste, but enough to add flavor and create a broth; also a ham bone, if possible)

1 tsp salt

Pepper, to taste

2 cups sliced carrots

5-6 medium potatoes, peeled and chopped  

1 cup chopped celery (include as many leaves as you can)

Fresh parsley, finely chopped

Bring the beans to a boil in 12 cups of water, in a large pot. After 30 minutes, add the barley and onion. Simmer for 90 minutes.

In the meantime, boil the ham and the bone (if using), to clean the meat. Discard this water after 15 minutes.

Add the ham/bone to the bean and barley mixture. Add salt if the ham isn’t salty enough, then add pepper, to taste. Cook for 30 minutes on low to medium heat.

Add the carrots, potatoes, and celery, then cover and cook over medium heat for a further 30-45 minutes, until the vegetables are soft.

Serve sprinkled with fresh parsley.

Read more: https://spectator.sme.sk/opinion/c/the-immigrant-story-we-don-t-like-to-tell