Zakelj Diary Home Page: http://bbhhs96.dyndns.org/~zakeljdiary/

Second Edition, 8/27/05

STARTING OVER IN AMERICA

By Anton Zakelj, translated and edited by John Zakelj

Translator's note: It's almost 10 years since the Ameriška Domovina began publishing "Starting Over in America." At that time, I translated six months from my father's diary as a gift for my parent's 50^th wedding anniversary. The reaction from most readers was so positive that I continued translating more sections from my father's diary and Jim Debevec was very gracious to continue publishing everything I gave him. Since that initial publication, I have collected additional photos and other information about our first six months in America. Many people have mentioned that, of all the articles that my father and I have published in the Domovina, these first six months in America were among the most interesting. So, I present here a new, improved version. I hope that even those of you who read the original version will find enough new information to make this worth your while.

In Slovenia, my father was the manager for a shoemakers' cooperative, and my mother was a seamstress and lacemaker. In 1943 and 1944, they were drafted at gunpoint to fight for the communists. They escaped, and knowing they would face death or prison if they returned, they left everything and became refugees. In 1946, they were married in a refugee camp in Austria. After their marriage, they waited three more years in refugee camps before they finally received permission to immigrate to America. They had no idea what was waiting for them in a new country. When we arrived in America, I was 16 months old, my mother was 35 years old and my father was 42.

In Wisconsin, a group of Slovenian farmers agreed to be sponsors, to help refugees resettle in a new country and start a new life. Our sponsors were John and Mary Brezic, who were in their sixties and had themselves come to America from Slovenia in 1907 (John) and 1910 (Mary). They created their farm out of a logged over wilderness. They had one adopted daughter, Helen, who was married when we arrived and was living on a nearby farm with her husband. Mr. and Mrs. Brezic did not have any other children, so it was a major change for them to now have a family with a small child sharing their house. Their 80 acre farm barely supported them, but they chose to share what little they had. This translation is dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. Brezic and the good people of Willard, Wisconsin who made it possible for many Slovenians to start a new life in America.

December 20, 1949

We've been on the U.S. Army Transport Ship General Greeley for nine days and 3,520 miles. Today we made 402 miles. New York is 758 miles away. If all goes well, only two more days to go! During the first week on the ship, we were so seasick we thought we would not live to see America.

December 22, 1949

Many of the passengers got up at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. I waited till 5. I put on my best clothes for the first time since we left land.

At 8 o'clock we saw, in the fog, the first outlines of dry land: the New Jersey coast. There were many boats and ships, and hundreds of gulls. I marveled at the unbroken line of cars along the coast. They were all heading south. Was it a huge funeral procession?

At 9 o'clock we entered the New York harbor area, and finally at 10 we saw the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyscrapers. My wife Cilka and son Johnny were with me at the ship's railing. I had to keep a close eye on Johnny, since he would wander off and be very friendly with everyone.

During the last few days on the ship, we've been hungry and thirsty. We would have been so happy to get some milk and bread, but they would not give us any. Today, in the New York harbor, we saw the crew throwing large packages of food overboard.

(Translator's note: Many years later, I asked my mother how she felt when she saw the Statue of Liberty. She said it was wonderful. It was a symbol of the freedom that we had been seeking for so many years. But we were so tired, hungry and thirsty that it didn't quite have the same feeling as you would expect. And the statue was also a symbol of how far we had traveled and the fact that we would probably never be able to go home again. That was very hard for her.)

At 10 o'clock a boat came to the ship with a customs officer and a number of medical officials. There was no need for X-rays, they could see right through our stomachs.

In the afternoon, we stepped on dry land. We didn't stop at Ellis Island - it was just going through decommissioning. They arranged us in alphabetical order and brought each person's baggage.

(Translator's note: Our baggage included two wooden crates which my father had made in the refugee camp. They measured two feet high by two feet wide and three feet long, and were made from boards which my father had obtained from a demolished barracks. Inside we had all our belongings - basically items we had acquired during the past 5 years in various refugee camps - blankets, clothes, pots and pans my father fashioned out of the aluminum skin of a downed warplane, and a large quantity of lacework that my mother had made in the refugee camps. Fifty years later, we still had the crates and most of the things we had brought in them. The Western Reserve Historical Society was very happy to accept them as a donation for a possible future exhibit.)

I was worried I would have to pay customs duties for the lacework. I talked to a priest about this, and he assured me that everything would go smoothly. When the customs officer came to us, the priest sent a pretty young woman to distract him. The customs inspection went well.

There were some Jews who had larger crates filled with valuable paintings by well-known artists. They had to open everything up for the customs officers.

We were greeted by women in grey uniforms - I think they were the Daughters of the Revolution. They served us coffee and donuts. I wished they had not taken the holes out of the donuts! If I hadn't been so embarrassed, I would have gone back in line many times (maybe I did). Later, we saw a man selling food in many languages - an apple, a piece of bread and I think small cups of coffee - for a dollar. I bought food for all three of us and spent as much as I had earned in three days of hard labor in Austria. At these prices, the few dollars that we received from the National Catholic Welfare Conference for the trip will be gone too soon.

It was already night when they put us on busses and drove us through Manhattan to the train station. I looked out from the bus and tried so hard to see the tops of the skyscrapers that I developed quite an ache in my neck. I wondered how the driver could distinguish the stop lights from all the other lights - everything was covered with red, green and blue lights. (We were not used to Christmas lights.)

We had to wait about an hour at the train station. I used this time to look for a loaf of bread for about ten children - ours, Sršen's and Rihtar's. The grownups were hungry, too. But there were no loaves of bread to be found anywhere - just sandwiches, so thin you could see through them and expensive as saffron.

A gentleman walked around us a number of times and looked us over. Finally he came to me and gave me a couple dollars, and suggested I buy some candy for the children. I was grateful, but I would have been much happier with a loaf of bread.

Around 11 p.m. we boarded the train. It was a New York Central train, with large, shiny, new aluminum cars. On the inside end of each car was a large mirror made of ground glass; stenciled on the mirror was a map of the railroad's routes all across America. To us, this train represented the greatness and comfort of America, just as Europe was represented by the old, small wooden cars that brought us from Salzburg to southern Italy.

In spite of our hunger, we soon fell asleep and did not see the first part of our new homeland.

December 23, 1949

With other trains roaring past and many red and green lights everywhere, I did not sleep well. Sršen's and Rihtar's children woke before 6, our Johnny at 7:30. From 7 to 8 a.m., the train waited in Buffalo. There were many factories everywhere. I wondered if they were automobile factories since there were so many cars everywhere. I wondered about all the wood houses. They seemed so poor, not like our stone or brick houses back home. At home, only beggars lived in wood houses. Cars were everywhere, but no people. I noticed some car cemeteries, too. Snow began to fall, whitening everything.

In the morning, the train passed through Cleveland. I'm not sure why this city interested me so much. Maybe because I had read that this was the second largest Slovenian city in the world? (Or did I sense that we would someday make Cleveland our home?)

As we traveled through Indiana, we gazed in awe at the gigantic fields of corn, still unharvested. Next to the fields we saw tiny houses here and there. We compared it to Croatia.

Around noon we became hungry, but we didn't have anything to eat. Sršen and I went to the dining car and asked about lunch. All they had was tomato soup and sandwiches. An older black man served us soup and then brought us sandwiches for the kids. Again, everything was so expensive - soup was 50 cents and a sandwich a dollar.

Four gentlemen were sitting in the same dining car. They became very loud during their meal; they were discussing labor issues and not agreeing with each other. When the discussion became especially heated, one of them said, "Let's stop this and sing Silent Night. It's almost Christmas." And they really did sing it - loudly and clearly. This is much better than Europe, I thought.

We reached Chicago at 5 p.m. There they took us to a different train station, where we boarded an old Soo Line train. After many short stops we reached Marshfield, Wisconsin at 4:30 the next morning. During the trip our friend Sršen asked every passenger and the conductor, in Croatian, "When will we get to the station marked on our envelope?" (In Jugoslavia, we spoke Slovenian, but Serbo-Croatian was the official language.) After every response, we knew less than we did before, because none of us understood what anyone was saying.

In Marshfield, people were waiting for us - Mr. Gosar, Mr. Brezic, Mr. Lamovec, Gosar's brother and others with 4 autos. Brezic recognized me immediately (from a picture I had sent him) and offered me brandy, but I didn't want any. After an hour's drive, we arrived at Frank Gosar's farm, where the Sršen and Rihtar families got off, while we continued on to our new home. When we passed through the town of Loyal, I particularly noticed the Christmas trees, hanging across the road and covered with lights - it was as if they were celebrating our arrival.

These Slovenian-Americans talk a strange mixture of English and Slovenian. For example, all containers are called "boxa" - from small containers of matches to our baggage to the biggest wagons and trucks - they're all "boxa".

At Brezic's house, "Lassie" growled at Johnny when Johnny tried to pet him. Our new "mother" warned Johnny very strictly, "Leave the dog alone - he's not used to children." Then she said, "Since you've come two hours late, all the food has grown cold and I don't have anything to serve you." She was probably thinking we didn't deserve to be served, since we had probably stopped at some bar. I remembered the words of the priest in New York who knew Mr. and Mrs. Brezic: "You will need to be patient; John likes to drink, and Mary can be pretty finicky."

Lassie's barking reminded me of the dreams I had in the refugee camp when we first heard that we had a sponsor in America. When I learned that there are more cows than people in Wisconsin, I imagined a mountainous region, since most cows in Slovenia graze in alpine pastures. In my dreams, I saw a farm high on a mountain. Although the farm was on a mountain, it was divided by a railroad track: even the buildings were divided by the track - the house was on one side and the barn on another. When the train stopped alongside the buildings to unload us, a "Lassie" came to bark at us. Was it the same "Lassie" who growled at us this morning?

By 7 a.m., we had warmed up and drank some coffee, and then went to bed. We assured our new landlady that we were not hungry, just sleepy. Oh, but were we hungry!

When we got to our room, Johnny, who had been sad for weeks, suddenly became so happy and excited that Cilka and I just laughed at him and cried for joy. At last we all fell asleep and slept till 11.

December 24, 1949

In Slovenia, a farmhouse is usually bigger than the barn. Here, the reverse is true. The house seems small, and the barn is large. I asked our host about that. He said, "You don't get anything from a house; you earn your living from the barn."

The house is made of wood and laid out in a "T" shape. The vertical part of the "T" has a porch on both sides. The porch on one side is used for dirty boots and clothes, but the porch on the other side does not seem used. The house seems of good construction and arranged very practically on the inside. On the first floor is the kitchen, the living room and one bedroom (where the Brezic's sleep); upstairs is our bedroom and the water tank.

Outside, between the house and the barn, is a tall windmill which pumps water from a deep well to the house and barn. The outhouse is far to the back. During the winter, we use a bucket in the basement, but that needs to be carried out every other day.

On the other side of the farmyard is a shed for 100 chickens and an old log cabin. John and Mary Brezic built the log cabin when they first arrived in 1914. For a number of years, they shared the cabin with two cows, some chickens and a pig. When they could afford it, they built their current house and barn. The log cabin is now used mostly for storage.

Today (the day before Christmas) was supposed to be a day for fasting, but we had a good home style dinner. After waiting many weeks, we finally had a satisfying meal.

In the afternoon I rode with John Brezic and his son-in-law Frank Lamovec the 5 miles to Greenwood to buy spark plugs for "our" Ford. We stopped at three bars (two Slovenian); at one, Frank bought me an "egg nog", which I drank for the first time (and probably the last time) in my life - it was good!

At the shoemaker's we bought rubber boots for working in the barnyard and the snow (for $4.75). The shoemaker was also a saddle maker.

John introduced me everywhere: "This is my new man." He told me to only talk in English, and only what was essential. He told everyone that I knew "dutch" (not "deutsch").

At 4 p.m. we returned from Greenwood pretty loaded. I can't believe that I really drank 3 shots of brandy, 1 glass of wine and 1 warm Christmas drink. I talked with Slovenians, Croatians, Americans and Germans, whomever my sponsor John introduced me to, all in their own languages.

When we were alone, Frank said to me, "You will not stay here, you are too smart."

After we returned home, I prepared silage and hay for the animals, and then rode with Helen (Frank's wife) to my friend Karl Erznoznik's. Karl and his family are living in a farmer's chicken coop. We were all happy to see each other again after four months. (Karl and his family had been in the same refugee camp with us.) His two year old daughter Jolanda no longer recognized me. They are very satisfied - or so they said. John invited Karl and his family to dinner for tomorrow noon.

At home a good supper waited for us, then a rosary, and then opening of Christmas gifts. All the Lamovecs came. We got presents, too! A toy car for Johnny, stockings and a scarf for Cilka, and a checkered shirt and warm gloves for me. The others each got 5 or more packages of practical items or toys.

Our sponsors proposed that we call them

"father" and "mother", but we politely refused, because our own parents are still alive (and because we didn't know if they deserved such respectful titles.) We promised that we would call them "Uncle" and "Aunt." I feel badly that I didn't express our sincere gratitude for sponsoring us and making it possible for us to come to America when they didn't even know us.

At 11 p.m., Cilka and Mary rode with the Lamovecs to midnight Mass. John, Johnny and I went to bed.

That night, John said we didn't owe him anything. He had not had any expenses because of us; he had not even had to sign the "affidavit" himself. If things don't work out, he said we could go elsewhere, but he hoped we would stay with them. In the winter, he couldn't pay us anything, because there wasn't much work; come summer, he would pay me $50 a month. But later, he said that he thought a person should work for his sponsor for a year without pay, since a sponsor had to buy additional equipment or plant more fields to provide work for a new person. I was in complete agreement with this idea, since I had expected that I would work on a farm without pay for a year; however, I had also expected that, since we had nothing, our sponsors would cover at least minor medical care. I noticed that the "Farmer's Weekly" also said that every farmer who accepts a D.P. (displaced person) could expect that person to work free for a year.

Weeks later, "Aunt" Mary told me she had not agreed when John promised Father Odilo that we could come. This was not right, since she was half owner of the farm. She did not want to be a sponsor because she was worried I would drink and I would encourage John to drink when he already drank too much. That's why she watched me closely those first few days. Unfortunately, on my first day with them, I gave her cause to worry.

December 25, 1949 - Sunday and Christmas

"Uncle" woke me at 6 to feed the livestock. Then we had breakfast - blood sausage, three pieces of bread and more.

At 8:45 we rode with Uncle to Mass in Willard. I was surprised by the Slovenian singing in the small, but beautiful church. After Mass, we exchanged Christmas greetings and talked with people in front of the church. Then John went to the social hall and bought three cases of beer (!)

At home I cleaned out the cow manure in the stable, then at noon the Lamovec and Erznoznik families arrived. After a plentiful and excellent dinner, they talked and drank beer in the living room till 4. Then Gosar, Sršen and others came. In the evening, I again helped feed the livestock and, for the first time ever, milked cows. At seven we had a good supper, and at 9 we went to bed. John advised me to work in the woods in the winter and with him in the summer. He said someday I could take over his farm.

December 26, 1949

I got up at 5:45 and was in the stable at 6 to feed and milk the cows. There were 16 cows, but we only milked 10. We used a Laval electric milker, but we always had to finish milking each cow by hand. I always washed the udders first with water and Lysol, then I attached the milker until it was done, moved it on to the next cow, and so on. The daily schedule was always the same: get up at 5:45, in the stable at 6, breakfast at 7, then clean the stable and other work; at noon, lunch, then work, back to the stable to milk the cows again at 4. On Sundays, I would clean the stable after returning from church.

A few words about the barn: It's about 150 feet from the house, of very solid construction and quite large. The floor is cement. Each cow is locked in its stall by a harness made of metal pipes. The harness is flexible to allow the animal to turn, stand or lie down. Next to each harness is a watering device: drinking water comes out whenever the cow presses on the latch.

We use sawdust for bedding. Back home, people had to haul their logs to the sawmill; here, they bring the saw to the logs. Whoever needs boards brings their logs into a nearby open area; a person comes with a tractor-driven circular saw and cuts the logs into boards. That sawdust is then used for animal bedding.

The barn has a hand-powered system to move manure outside: a small wagon hangs from a track mounted in the ceiling. I use a chain to lower the wagon, shovel in the manure, then raise the wagon back up. Then I pull it on its track out to the manure pile.

Next to the barn is a tall silo that reaches high above the barn roof. Tall silos are a landmark all across Wisconsin and rural America. Although they are built of various materials, including wood, bricks and cement, they all have shiny aluminum cupolas that reflect sunbeams many miles away. You can tell how large a farm is by the number of silos. Some have as many as five silos. The Brezic farm has one silo.

The fodder inside our silo is mostly chopped corn with cobs. The fodder can be thrown through a hole directly into the stable.

Today, John and I went to church again and visited with Father Odilo after Mass. I thanked him for helping us come to America. He told me to work hard and be patient so that, in some years, I could take over the farm.

At noon, it was just us for lunch and Lamovec's children - 8-year old Judy and 4- year old Jerry. In the afternoon I was free for the first time so I could read the newspaper. Cilka wrote to her mother. The weather outside was beautiful.

December 27, 1949

John advised me to buy an old car from Stamcar, who was hoping to sell it for $150. He said I had to have a car "anyhow", if I wanted to stay here. But where could I get the money for a car? John didn't want to loan it to me. Could we sell that much lace?

December 28, 1949

At 9 a.m. John and I went to Marshfield, where he bought me overalls ($3.39), a shirt and hat ($1.19). Marshfield is a beautiful town with many cars and one-story houses. We returned home at noon. Cilka got a letter from her sister Manica. (We had sent the address to our families earlier.)

All the people of Willard are extremely friendly. Everybody asks me, in Slovenian-American, "Kako lajkaš novo kontro?" (How do you like your new country?) If they see anyone walking, they invite him to come sit and talk, and then they invite him to a saloon and buy him a beer. When people asked me how I liked my new country, I usually replied, "It's nice, but I am not yet here long enough to have an opinion."

December 29, 1949

John drove to Willard to get feed for the livestock and to take us to see Father Odilo, but he wasn't in. I received my first letter from my sister Julka and my mother in Slovenia. They wrote on December 15. In the evening, Cilka and I showed our sponsors her lacework, but they didn't show any interest. Of course, cows and lace do not go well together.

Translator's note: At this point, I think it's worthwhile to interrupt my father's diary to learn more about the history of Willard and its people. John and Mary Brezic were among the first farmers in the area and very much a part of Willard's history. The following is taken from "Spominska Zgodovina - Historical Memories", a collection of writings and photographs assembled for Willard's 75th anniversary in 1982. The following first two paragraphs were written by James M. Cesnik. The next paragraphs were written by Rev. John Novak and translated by Josephine Trunkel.

The Willard area is - and has been since the 20th century was in its teen-age years - the largest farming community of Slovenian-Americans in the United States.

(In 1908,) the area around Willard was a pocket of raw wilderness. It required the most arduous, bone-wearying toil to convert it to farmland. It had been cut over by the N.C. Foster Lumber Co. for its stands of virgin pine and white oak, but was still covered by the stumps and substantial stands of maple, basswood, birch, ironwood and more. It was accessible only by foot, horseback, or horse-drawn vehicle across rudimentary trails or - the best access - via N. C. Foster's Fairchild and Northeastern Railway.

The first settlers paid $4 to $20 per acre, which was rather high considering the additional expenses involved before this land could produce. The brush had to be cut and the roots and stumps dug out, or pulled with horses and sometimes the large and more stubborn roots were blasted with dynamite. Then they had to be hand sawed, piled to dry, and burned.

Not only was this work slow, tedious and difficult, it was also expensive. Many of these farmers said they would not go through this work and suffering again, even if the land had been given to them for free.

Most of the farmers came here with enough money to pay for the land, but the two years or more before an income began to return from it were very difficult for them. Besides the cost of clearing the land, their families had to be fed and clothed. A few had relatives from whom they could borrow, but most of them had to borrow from banks and pay a high interest rate.

However, when the fields were cleared and planted, the soil was very productive. The corn and grain grew tall and yielded well. The grass in the hayfields and pastures was thick and produced ideal feed for milk cows, growing calves and work horses.

Slovenian families now (in 1922) number 110, the average owning 40 - 80 acres of land. They are settled in a five mile radius of Willard. Most of them now have large roomy houses and barns, though many had started with one room log cabins.

(In addition, the Willard memories book has the following about John and Mary Brezic:)

John Brezic was born in Austria in 1884 and came to America in 1907, at the age of 23. His wife Mary Marinsek was born in Austria in 1891 (at that time, all of Slovenia was in Austria). Mary came to America in 1910, when she was 19. John's first stop was at Meadowlands, Pennsylvania where he worked in the coal mines. Mary started in Washington, Pennsylvania, doing housekeeping. From there she went to Milwaukee. In 1912, John came to Milwaukee and later they were married there.

In 1914 they purchased their forested farm five miles northeast of Willard. They did their trading and attended church in Willard, although Greenwood (located to the east) was a half mile closer.

The farm was woods, brush and stones, so it took many years to develop, but through hard work and much sweat it became a modern farm. After purchasing their first few cows, they carried their milk to the Gemeke corner which was about a half mile. This chore lasted about a year, then they bought a horse.

The Brezics bought their first Model T Ford in 1922. Their adopted daughter Helen came into their life in 1923 at the age of 14 months. She was met at the railroad depot in Owen, Wisconsin with horse and buggy. They often walked to church which was five miles away.

(And now back to the diary.)

December 30, 1949

We took a saw to Frank and a letter for my father to the post office. Stamps were 40 cents - they wouldn't take the international postal coupons I had bought in Austria. Mrs. Oman gave me three old coats. In the evening we showed some lace to Helen. She marveled at its beauty and gratefully accepted three pieces as a gift.

December 31, 1949

In the morning, I cleaned the cows, then the stable. In the evening, we went to confession in Willard. At night it rained. At 11 p.m. we went to midnight Mass for New Year's and communion.

During this past year, our deepest wishes have come true: we found a new homeland and we became members of a family where we can live without fear of persecution, torture or forceful death. We didn't come here to get rich but to find work to take care of ourselves and to be nobody's burden.

I'm worried about the relationship between our sponsors. They sometimes do not get along well with each other.

Could I do something to bring them closer, or am I causing some of their problems? May God give me the grace to know what to do!

January 1, 1950

A new year began today - hopefully the beginning of a new life in a new country.

I woke before 6 as usual and went to the stable. Cilka went to Mass at 11. I tried to sleep, but Johnny cried so much that neither I nor Mary were able to comfort him. It was warm outside.

In the afternoon, I tried to sleep again, without success. I felt sick and didn't eat supper.

In the evening, I explained to our sponsors our predicament during the war. Cilka and I were opposed to communism, but they drafted us at gunpoint. After we escaped, the communists considered us to be deserters. When they gained control of the country, we had no choice but to leave.

It was 10:30 when I finished our story. I started feeling better, but John fell asleep and Cilka was angry.

According to the Holy Family Parish annual report for 1949 there are 37 refugees in the Willard area:

1. Dusan Surman, sponsored by Mr. Anton Debevec, Sr.

2. Frank Brodar, sponsored by Mr.Anton Debevec, Jr.

3. Anton Kocjan, sponsored by Mr. Frank Perovsek

4. Alex Metlikovic, sponsored by Mr. Rev. Bernard Ambrozic

5. William Kuntera, sponsored by Mr. Alphonse Volovsek

6. & 7. Jakob and Martina Boznik, sponsored by Mr. Frank Volovsek, Sr.

8, 9 & 10. Karl, Marija and Jolanda Erznoznik, sponsored by Mr. Frank Volovsek, Sr.

11. Anton Asl, sponsored by Mrs. Mary Snedic

12, 13 & 14. Ivan, Branimira and Marija Berlec, sponsored by Mr. Ivan Ruzich

15, 16 & 17. Anton, Cecilija and Janez Zakelj, sponsored by Mr. John Brezic

18, 19, 20, 21 and 22. Miha, Katarina, Anton, Marijanca and Katarina Srsen, sponsored by Mr. Frank Artac

23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 and 31. Franc, Kristina, Franc, Milan, Janez, Miha, Marija, Pavla and Marija Rihtar, sponsored by Mr. John Kutzler

32. Janez Mrzlikar, sponsored by Rev. John Novak

33 and 34. Marija and Joze Androjna, sponsored by Mrs. Justina Volarich

35, 36 and 37. Marija, Stanka and France Brecelj, sponsored by Mr. Anton Debevec, Sr.

January 2, 1950

The snow disappeared and in the evening it started to rain. John and I worked on the water tank.

John went to cook brandy from dry plums and sugar, which he had bought in Marshfield on Dec. 28. John knew how to make his brandy so it would look just like the commercial kind. He roasted powdered sugar in a skillet until it became golden brown; then he shook that into the bottles to make the brandy look just right.

January 3, 1950

John wanted to buy me Stamcar's 17 year old car for $150, but I wasn't able to promise repayment and "Aunt Mary" was against it: "You can buy an old car anytime you want," she said.

Eight cm. of snow fell today.

January 4, 1950

In the morning I froze part of my left ear when I was hauling manure outside. There was a strong, cutting wind. In the afternoon, we went to Karl's and to the post office.

In the post office I wondered about the pictures of black men on the wall, with the large word WANTED under each picture. What had they done to be so desired?

There are no black people in Willard. All of us new arrivals refer to Africans as black people. The local people laugh at us when we say that. The locals refer to them as coloreds or niggers.

There is one Indian family in Willard. They live in a wooden hut outside of town. I've been told that about half of the family died of tuberculosis some years ago. They have a son who is a priest who is also sick. Farmers hire other members of the family at harvest time. I have heard that they work for beer, but people are not allowed to give alcohol to Indians.

January 5, 1950

It was -20F in the morning, 10 above in the afternoon. In the evening I wrote to Mire, Cene, Vinko, and Frank in Canada and to Paul in New York.

January 6, 1950

Today is the feast of the Three Holy Kings, but there is no holiday on the farm. The temperature is again -20F in the morning and 10F in the afternoon, 0F in the evening. I wrote to Jernej Zupan and Jernej Kopac. All together I finished 7 letters.

January 8, 1950

Johnny has a cold and probably getting a new tooth again. At 8:30 I went to Mass, then cleaned the stable. Mr. Podobnik, who was in Goricia as an American soldier, came to fix the well. He told me how he was arrested in Jugoslavia when he crossed the border.

Mr. Zagozen, the auto dealer from Greenwood came offering Stamcar's car for $125. John thinks I should buy it. It has only 24,000 miles on it, since no one used it after their father died. Our Model A Ford truck has 72,000 miles - it's the tallest and the dirtiest vehicle in the line in front of the church, but John won't let anyone wash it. Today, "Aunt" Mary is not opposed to my buying the car either, but I don't have any money and I don't know when I'll earn any. John already told me that he can't pay me anything now when there isn't any work, but he'll give me $50 a month in the summer.

Karl invited me to his place for dinner. John turned down his request to borrow the brandy cooker. Aunt won't allow it.

In the morning it was +6F, then +45F and windy.

January 9, 1950

In the afternoon, Karl's wife Mici and their daughter Jolanda visited us and invited us to come visit on Sunday. The post office sent me a letter and 20 cents, since I had paid them too much on Jan. 7 (they had finally accepted my international postal coupons). I helped John balance his checkbook. The weather was warm.

In the evening, John, Frank (his son-in-law), Mary and I went to Loyal to watch the film "Lion".

January 10, 1950

A snowstorm today. We were unable to go into the woods to get firewood for the church.

Mr. Zagozen came again to sell Stamcar's car. In the afternoon, John and I went to Greenwood to fix the Ford. I sold 6 pieces of lace for $14.50, which means we made 10 cents an hour for the labor and nothing for the materials. I promised to buy the car if I could sell enough lace. Mrs. Zagozen and another woman agreed to come look at our lacework.

January 12, 1950

At 9 a.m. John and I went to the location of a future resort, where they were cutting firewood for the church. About 20 men came, all with their own cars. They cut the trees with power saws and tractor-driven circular saws. At noon I chipped a tooth eating dried meat.

January 14, 1950

Snowdrifts blocked the roads and made them impassable. The mail didn't come. Frank was going to come slaughter a cow, but he didn't make it either.

January 15, 1950, Sunday

No one went to Mass today. It's 5 miles to Willard in one direction and 5 miles to Greenwood in the other direction - too far in this kind of weather. John and I fixed the tracks that help run the manure wagon out from the stable.

Earlier, I wrote to Karl, telling him we would come visit today, but now we can't. Even so, later in the day, I rode with John to Greenwood to see Mr. Ford for help with the income tax forms. Mr. Ford showed us his ten-year project - a miniature railroad with 5 - 7 tracks and as many trains - all electric.

January 16, 1950

Johnny is getting his second eyetooth.

January 17, 1950

My father (back in Slovenia) is 71 years old today. We had chicken and other good food today - I wonder what he had? In his first letter to me in America, he wrote that he would be very grateful for some flour, if we have any extra. Unfortunately, I am not able to help him.

January 19, 1950

I spent all morning cleaning the stable. I felt tired, angry and unappreciated.

In the afternoon I split enough wood to heat the house for two days, like I did every day. It was not good firewood (aspen and birch), so we needed a lot for our four stoves (in the kitchen, the living room, the basement and chicken coop).

Helen brought Mici to visit.

January 20, 1950

We received our "Identification Cards." In the afternoon we visited Father Odilo. He advised me to stay as a hired man at Brezic's, so I could someday take over the farm. Father Odilo said the country is heading towards another Depression and terrible unemployment. At the post office, I exchanged 4 English, 10 Austrian, and 13 American postal coupons for $1.35 and, later, an additional 10 cents.

January 21, 1950

In the morning I washed the cows. Again, I felt tired and dirty. In the afternoon I made a new part for the horse-drawn wagon since the old one was broken. I also worked on new handles for the ax, the pick and other tools. John doesn't have woodworking tools and isn't interested in woodworking.

January 22, 1950, Sunday

At 9 a.m. I went to Mass, then John and Mary went at 10:30. After Mass I went to visit Karl. His sponsors let him live in an empty chicken coop. They let him clean it and paint it. They give him a quart of milk a day for helping with the livestock feeding and milking. This is hardly enough to support his family of three. We stayed for dinner (soup, potatoes, fried chicken, lettuce, apples and pastry.) At 1, Mr. Rihtar and Mr. Sršen also came to visit. Karl proposed that we all go work in the cement factory, or highway work, or construction.

I will stay at Brezic's, even though I know I won't earn much: I'm interested in farming and I owe my sponsors thanks for helping my immigration. Karl hopes he will earn 80 - 90 cents an hour and work 10 hours a day 9 months a year. The cement factory would provide housing, too. He doesn't want to stay at his sponsor's because he doesn't like working in the barn. Rihtar hopes he'll start building houses, and he'll need workers.

Mici showed us many clothes that good people had given her for free. Sršen said people actually bring him too much meat. At 4 p.m. John and Frank came to get us; after 5 hours of visiting it was time to go.

January 23, 1950

The temperature was about +25F. Frank Lamovec came to slaughter a cow this morning. In the afternoon, John took the meat to the locker in Greenwood. They threw the hide in the snow for the foxes and gave most of the fat to the cats. At Cilka's urging, they saved at least a little of the fat to make soap. In the evening we cut up part of the backbone for meals at home.

John promised he would pay me something for my work on the farm, after I told him about my conversation with Karl and Rihtar.

January 24, 1950

A snowstorm today. In the morning, John and I tried to get to the barber in Greenwood, but we had to turn back after half a kilometer. There were impassable drifts on the road.

January 25, 1950

Heavy snow. I cleaned the chicken coop.

January 27, 1950

In the afternoon in Greenwood, I dropped off a letter at the post office for Milo Huber and went to the barber for my first haircut in America. Haircuts cost 60 cents. In the Farmers' Store, they promised to buy some lace.

January 28, 1950

In the afternoon John and I took the horses into the woods to get firewood. The horses were strong, but they still had to strain to pull the heavy wagon!

A man came in the evening and invited me to go work with him in the woods. He would pay me $50 and necessities for one month of hard labor. My wife could help in the kitchen to earn food for herself and my son. How could I work in the woods in this kind of weather, with the clothes I have ? I would freeze. (Later I learned that he had also invited others - unsuccessfully, and that his workers are fed poorly and they have to do additional saw work at the house after they return from the woods.)

When he left the room, I said to John, "If I have to be a slave somewhere, I'd rather do it with you than with someone I don't know and to whom I don't owe anything." But quietly to myself, I wished God would give America another Lincoln.

January 29, 1950

Stormy. At 9:30 the others went to church: John, Mary and Cilka. Johnny and I stayed home. Our old Model A is a small truck; there's room in the cab for two, maybe three people at the most; if anyone else comes along, they have to sit in the open wind in the back.

January 30, 1950

In the evening, John, Mary and Cilka went to the wake for Mrs. Gosar's father. In the morning it was -38F: ideal for splitting wood. You just let the axe fall onto the wood and the wood explodes, because it's frozen. But I had to warm myself up inside the house first by exercising so I would not freeze outside.

The silage was frozen up to a foot in from the silo walls. It had to be crushed and spread in the stable to thaw out and dry. Wet silage is dangerous for animals.

January 31, 1950

I went to the wake with John in the evening from 8 to 11.

February 1, 1950

At 10 a.m. we went to the funeral for Mrs. Gosar's father. John and I came back at 2. They had to use explosives to dig the deeply frozen ground for the grave.

February 2, 1950

At 9 everyone except Cilka went to church. In the afternoon I fixed the broken flooring for the horses.

February 3, 1950

Nice weather. For the first time, "Aunt" Mary cooked "štruklje" at my request. They were very good, with eggs and butter, but John didn't eat any. "I don't feel good," he said.

During our first weeks on the farm, Cilka often brought me a piece of bread when I was working in the barn or the chicken coop. (I had set up a workshop in the chicken coop.) When "Aunt" became convinced that I didn't drink, she said, "Tony, since you don't drink, you can take milk, bread, oranges or apples from the icebox whenever you want!" I gratefully took advantage of her offer - whenever I was really hungry.

In the afternoon John and I went to Greenwood. I sold $5.65 worth of lace at the Farmers' Store. When will I have enough for a car?

February 4, 1950

At 11, I went to Neillsville for the first time. At the courthouse they told me what I had to do to get my "first citizenship paper". An old clerk named Frantz knew less than I did. I think he filled out the wrong form. At the farmers' store I wasn't able to sell a single piece of lace.

February 5, 1950

Nice weather. At 10:30 we went to church, then from 1 to 3 at Stamcar's. They have 48 head of cattle, many pieces of equipment and plenty of everything. They are the sponsors for Paula Rihtar, but she isn't happy. Mrs. Štancar said "It isn't anything hard! Nothing more than serving two boys; I don't know what's wrong." They served us candy, beer, brandy, klobasa, bread, potica and coffee.

In the evening our sponsors went to play cards and we went to bed. Our sponsors played cards at home sometimes, but they would tell me, "You take care of your child, since you don't know how to play cards." Johnny usually played by himself and I read. When I interrupted his playing once, he said, "Don't bother me!" Where did he learn to talk like that?

February 6, 1950

"Uncle" sold a three-week old calf at 20 cents a pound for 97 pounds. Then we immediately got a new one. What a fortunate birth! In the afternoon we hauled a wagonload of wood from the woods.

February 7, 1950

In the morning we hauled in three wagonloads of wood, and in the afternoon we hauled the first of four large birch trees. Tiring work!

February 8, 1950

I fixed the manger for the horses.

Back in Slovenia, life must be harder than it was in America during the Depression. "Aunt" Mary received a letter from a relative, begging her for a bag of white flour. "Uncle" did not agree, so Mary did not send the flour.

We have received other kinds of requests from Slovenia as well. "Uncle" received a letter from a relative, a young girl, who asked him to send her a pair of eyeglasses with golden frames. I advised him to ask her to send him

a prescription written by an optometrist. He did, and the young lady responded, "No prescription is necessary. The quality of the lenses is not important; the only important thing is the golden frame." "Uncle" did not fill that request either.

February 9, 1950

Split wood.

February 10, 1950

I made a new floor by the door and new "bridges" (across the manure ditch) for three cows. Another calf born.

February 11, 1950

I cleaned the cows from 10 till 4. John told me he had an argument with his wife.

February 12, 1950

At 8:15 Cilka and Johnny went to church. Mary told me about her argument with John. She wants us to stay because we're a good influence on her husband. He's been more peaceful and sober since we arrived.

Will we be able to live together? I am having doubts about that. John never seems satisfied with my work. I can milk the way he tells me today, but tomorrow he'll want it done differently.

Sometimes I'm feeling hopeless. "Aunt" noticed this right away and asked John, "What was the problem with you and Tony, why is he so sad?" John didn't answer.

February 13, 1950

I received a bill from the National Catholic Welfare Conference for the train fare from New York to Marshfield - $101.32. Where will I get that?

February 17, 1950

The first half of February was nice and warm. around +20F in the morning and +40 to 50F in the afternoon.

February 18, 1950

At night cow number 9 gave birth to a healthy calf. Since John's been cooking brandy, I have to feed and milk the cows myself. John and Mary drove to Greenwood this morning and didn't return till 1 because of the snowed in roads. "Aunt" Mary bought Johnny a shirt, underwear and pants. For Cilka she bought cloth for a dress and apron.

February 19, 1950

+20F in the morning, +40F in the afternoon. We all rode together to church. After church we went to Lamovec's for dinner, which was like a wedding banquet. After dinner we went to Karl's and brought him back with us. Everybody except me played cards; I read till 3:30. After a snack, Helen took Karl back home.

February 21, 1950

I cleaned the manger in the morning, then split wood. It's Mardi Gras, so we had pastry and fancier bread this morning. The Lamovec family came to visit in the evening. While the others played "crazy" and pinochle, I played "old maid" with Judy and Jerry (Lamovec's kids.) Although I was sleepy, I felt I had to keep the children company till 11:30. Not a happy Mardi Gras!

February 22, 1950

Cilka woke me at 6 - John was already milking, but he wasn't mad that I was late.

February 23, 1950

A light snow fell; colder.

February 24, 1950

-25F. Even though it was storming, I went out and split wood. The colder it is, the better the wood splits.

February 25, 1950

-22F. I fixed a wheelbarrow and cleaned the cows in the morning. In the afternoon I read till 2, then I split wood. John is drinking less and is friendlier to his wife and to me, and is not smoking.

February 26, 1950

I woke up at 5:20 and started milking at 5:30. John came later. He and Mary went to church at 8, then we went at 10. Mary stayed with Helen, who is sick. Father Odilo Hajnšek said his farewells; he's going to Lemont. We're very sad about that! He did a lot of good things for us. Today, on the first Sunday in Lent, he called on the farmers to not let the refugees suffer, to serve them the same food as they serve their own families. Now we'll get a new priest, Father Augustin Svete, who probably will not understand us.

Sršen and Rihtar came with their kids in the afternoon - they're the only people around here who get around on foot. They stayed till 4:30. Cilka treated them to gingerbread, which they ate a lot of.

In the evening, John drove to a card party in the church hall, while I wrote and kept watch on a cow who was due to calve. I watched till 10:30, but no calf.

February 27, 1950

John woke me at 2 in the morning, to come help him in the barn. At 3, cow number 4 gave birth to a white calf. I didn't go back to sleep. In the morning, I kept watch on number 5, who gave birth at 11 with some difficulty. The calf barely stayed alive.

After a birth, we wash each cow with Lysol and water. In the afternoon I split wood to stay awake.

February 28, 1950

This morning we took a calf to Volovšek's. John received $25 for the 110 pound calf. At the same time, we bought a 200 lb. pig.

The Volovšek farm has separate little huts for each pig, spread out across the farmyard. In front of each hut is a long wooden trough made from hollowed out tree trunks. The troughs have corncobs and warm dishwater in them. Today, the pigs were running freely around the farmyard. John chose a pig and tried to lasso him, but the pig took refuge in his hut. John went into the hut after him, but the pig ran out. Somehow John finally caught the pig and got him into a pigpen, which we then hoisted onto the truck. The pig weighed about 200 pounds and cost $35.

On the way back, our truck slipped into a ditch and barely stayed upright. Kranjc's tractor and four men pulled it out.

In spite of the strong wind and blowing snow we came home safely. After we arrived back home, we had an argument about cleaning the parking area.

In the evening there was a farewell for Father Odilo, but I didn't go.

March 1, 1950

0F and it feels colder with the wind.

Aunt said she likes me and she hopes we will stay. She is willing to do whatever she can to help us stay. She asked me to just tell her what I would like to eat and she'll cook it for me. John is drinking less now and is easier to get along with.

March 2, 1950

The mail didn't come today due to high snowdrifts.

March 3, 1950

I used the woodworking tools to make a new part for the wagon.

March 4, 1950

The weather has changed from the south; it's become warmer.

March 5, 1950, Sunday

I woke at 3 a.m. and didn't go back to sleep. At 5:30 I went to the barn and worked for two hours. John is criticizing me more and more often when I am not at fault. I ate a little cornflakes for breakfast and went back to the barn. At 8 the others drove to church while Johnny and I stayed home. We went in the barn, where I cleaned and brought silage from the silo. At 10 John drove me and Johnny to church.

In the afternoon Mrs. Stamcar and her son Tony came to visit. Cilka, Johnny and I went to our room upstairs. It's +36F outside and the snow is melting fast.

At 3:30 Stamcars left and Frank Lamovec arrived. He called to us to come down, but I was writing a letter to my sister Mici and brother Joseph in Slovenia.

Frank and I had an argument a few days ago. He said that Bishop Rozman personally executed many thousands of people. I was very angry to hear him repeating such lies and I corrected him. Bishop Rozman was a hero to the people who fought against the communists in Slovenia. Helen chided Frank and said "Tony knows what really happened - he was there."

Someone has been spreading lies about Bishop Rozman and all of us refugees - saying that we collaborated with the Germans. Many Americans believe those lies. In the long winter evenings, I often talk with John and Mary about all the suffering caused by the communists and how we had all fought the Germans. John always listens without much interest, and then he says, "And did you have to flee because you supported Hitler?" It doesn't help when I explain to him that I was in danger from both the Germans and the communists. In fact, the Germans held me hostage and threatened to kill me.

When John accuses me of supporting Hitler, Mary looks at him angrily and says "John, you're crazy!" She has a brother who is a priest in Rome and who writes to her often. He provides her with a better understanding of what happened during the war.

Later this evening, John tried to take back the angry words he had said to me that morning. I kept quiet. I can see I just can't work with him. I would take another job immediately if I only could.

March 6, 1950

At every opportunity John tells me he is sorry. He says we can live and work together nicely, since we think alike. I only reply "Yes, in some areas."

March 7, 1950

Our sponsors had a very serious argument at breakfast. Mary is angry that John offended me. She's threatening a separation.

John promised I would be paid from now on if we would stay. I told him that I still didn't know what we would do. If we can get along, I'd like to stay, but never if we'll continue arguing. "I'd rather starve than live in a constant dispute." I told him that we would both have to be patient and let some things go quietly, including him, not just Mary.

I wrote to Jernej Zupan in Cleveland and sent him lace worth 58.70 shillings for books from Mohorjevo publishing. I asked him to find a job for me.

John and I went to Willard in the morning. In the afternoon we had a downpour and water in the barn. I cleaned out the water and spread sawdust on the floor.

John is scrupulous about cleanliness in the barn: there is always a pile of lime next to the door. Anyone who wants to step into the stable area has to wipe his shoes in the lime first. "Lime kills germs", John says. I often have to spread this pile of lime across the entire length of the stable and then sweep it back into a pile.

March 8, 1950

John said he'd rather just leave now than have another argument with Mary.

March 9, 1950

Milica Zonta wrote from Neelyville, Missouri. She and Rafko are in the same situation we are: lots of work and no pay.

John became sick yesterday. Mary and I are milking the cows.

Today I split wood for four hours.

March 10, 1950

John has a stomach ache and the flu.

John advised me to write to Rev. Wolfe, the pastor in Bangor regarding the bill for the train fare from New York to Wisconsin. He gave me a check for $50 (to send in) and suggested I ask for a delay or reduction on the remaining $51.32.

This Monday we started using two milking machines to milk 13 cows. Milking takes about an hour. When we used one miler, we milked fewer cows. When we've filled 5 big cans (about 200 liters), I'm soaked with sweat, even with the help of the milking machines.

March 11, 1950

John went to see the doctor in Greenwood. Dr. Olsen told him that he was sick because he's holding his anger inside and not letting it out like he usually does.

Rihtar and Sršen went with John to get letters brought by Milica from Austria. They are also working without pay at their sponsor's farm.

John felt better after he came back from the doctor. Now Mary is starting to feel sick.

March 12, 1950

Mary stayed in bed. Johnny is sick, too. John and I went to church, but we got there late because we tried - unsuccessfully - to help Helen get her car out of the snow on the way there. Lamovec's came to dinner.

In the afternoon, Frank took me and Helen to Greenwood. Helen went to ask the doctor about Mary, while Frank took me to see a bar and bowling alley and drink beer. We returned home at 1:30, and then Frank took me to the northwest across a hill to a Slovenian restaurant, which was modern but in the middle of nowhere. They had an automatic record player with 20 records.

People at the restaurant talked about an old man who died recently. He worked as a farmhand all his life. His master gave him his daily bread and a bed with the animals in the stable, but never a penny. People were upset about this and criticized the farmer. The farmer promised to buy the man a tombstone. Is the same destiny waiting for me?

At 3:30 we returned. From 3:30 to 7:30, I worked in the barn as usual. Frank promised to teach me to operate a tractor. He is becoming quite friendly.

March 13, 1950

"Aunt" Mary and Johnny are healthy again.

Instead of a tractor, the Brezic's have two strong horses. All winter they only went out a few times to haul wood or to smooth the road. They were inside so much they grew very long hooves. John had to set the hooves on a chopping block and cut them back with an axe.

One of the horses likes to kick and bite. If anyone gets close to him without warning, he immediately kicks. Once I was working at the other end of the barn when I heard a horse neighing at the end by the doors. I looked and saw little Johnny next to the horse. I called out to him and told him to stay completely still. I ran over, patted the horse gently and pulled Johnny away. It's a mystery to me how a year and a half-old boy could have opened the heavy barn door and come in by the horses.

March 14, 1950

Johnny cried out last night: "Mama, no!" Helen drove to the doctor and asked about Cilka, who is now two and a half months pregnant and is bleeding. The doctor said Cilka needed to go to the hospital immediately. At 12:30 in the afternoon, Helen took her to Marshfield. Helen came back at 9 in the evening. She said Cilka was operated on immediately. Cilka feels better, but she's lost the baby.

It's been many years since I've cried as much as I did today; my head hurts from the crying.

March 15, 1950

I slept poorly. John woke me at 5 and told me I could stay in bed; he said he would feed and milk the cows. I woke at 6, heated some coffee and fried some eggs. At 7:30 John came to clean the sink and I went to clean the stable. Mary came back from Lamovec's, where she had stayed the night. Around 11, Helen drove me to Marshfield. Cilka is feeling well and will come home tomorrow. Mary sent oranges for her, Helen bought her chocolate, candy and a comb. We stayed in the hospital till 3 p.m.

It's only now, when Cilka's sick, that I realize how much I love her. What would I do by myself? A slave on a farm till I die! And our Johnny will be a slave, too. I will want to send him to schools, so he won't have to suffer like I have, but I won't have the money to pay for his schooling.

Helen, Frank, John and Mary all tried to comfort me. They said Cilka was not in danger and would be home soon, completely healthy. But I kept thinking about the worst things that could happen. I went to the barn and cried.

March 16, 1950

Helen went to Marshfield in the morning to get Cilka. She brought her home at 3:30 p.m. The bill for two days in the hospital was $29.25, but they reduced that to $20.95. In addition, the operation was $50, anesthesia $10 and John paid Helen $15 for transporting us; therefore, $95.95 total, or two months of work on the farm.

March 18, 1950

Warm. I worked in the barn in the morning. John and I went to church for confession in the afternoon.

March 19, 1950, Sunday

I got all my work done in the barn by 7:30, then went to church with John and Mary. More than 100 men received Holy Communion, as members of the Holy Family Society.

After Mass, we had breakfast in the church hall: coffee, potica, donuts, cookies, sausage, meat (both pork and chicken) and more. Those who could afford it, paid; others who could not, ate for free - just like in the early years of the Christians!

The women's society members brought homemade potica and cakes to be sold for the society. If a piece didn't attract a buyer, the woman who made it bought it herself to prevent embarrassment.

In the afternoon we had visitors: Ludvik Artac and his parents, then Malci Jeras with two kids and Karl with his family, then the Lamovec family and finally Sršen's. Sršen and Karl want to find work elsewhere as soon as possible, preferably together. Sršen asked me to help him answer an ad for work at a Shoe Service. He gave me 20 cents for helping him, the first two dimes I earned in America.

March 21, 1950

It's the first day of spring, but it snowed all day. Yesterday I moved 100 bushels of oats and 12 sacks of fertilizer. Today I split wood. John is usually milking by himself. Since I never seem to do things right as far as he's concerned, I try to not work with him. I am becoming more ill-humored, quiet and withdrawn. This can't go on much longer.

March 22, 1950

About 5 - 6 inches of wet new snow fell today. In the morning, I went to Greenwood with John to buy leather, but the shoemaker only had pieces of horse leather that were about 30 inches square. On the way back, we saw Sršen, who said that Rihtar got a job in Cleveland as a carpenter at $3 an hour. He will go to Cleveland this Saturday.

March 23, 1950

I wrote the Marshfield Clinic and asked them to reduce the bill for Cilka's operation.

Lamovec brought 25 sacks of potatoes from Stevens Point. They cost $10, or less than a penny a pound. Since the potato harvest was plentiful last year, they are selling potatoes for animal feed, with government support.

In the evening, Mrs. Rakovec visited with her son Ciril and his wife and daughter. Ciril made a very positive impression on me. Although we had not met before, he suggested that we each get a week's vacation this summer: when one goes on vacation, the other takes care of his chores. Ciril knows John well. He worked for him as a hired man for a few months and understands that he's impossible to work with. If we were staying here, I would become best friends with Ciril. But since I hope to move elsewhere before too long, I kept quiet and went to bed at 9:30, while the others talked till 11. (+60F)

March 24, 1950

John went to Marshfield with Frank, but they weren't able to get the right kind of leather there, either. I worked on the bull's stall. It's a waste to have a bull for 16 cows; the bull and the two horses eat more feed than 4 cows, and don't provide any benefit. It would be cheaper if, instead of the bull, we used artificial insemination, and instead of the horses, asked Frank to help with his tractor.

After three months in America, we have nothing and are $200 in debt.

March 25, 1950

I cleaned the cows in the morning. The Marshfield Clinic responded to my letter; the bill for Cilka has been reduced from $85 to $60, but this must be paid immediately.

March 26, 1950, Sunday

At 10 o'clock, we went to church. On the way to church, we got stuck in deep snow and mud. When I was pushing the truck to get it unstuck, John stepped on the gas and sent mud flying all over me. I had to go back and change clothes.

The roads here are hopeless, like nowhere in Europe. They're just sand, pushed in from each side. When melting snow soaks the sand, cars swim in mud up to their axles. When the ruts on the nearby road get too deep, John sometimes goes out to level the road. He uses his team of horses hitched to a kind of harrow made of six 8-foot long tree trunks bound together with chains. Of course, this lasts only for a couple cars.

After Mass, John took Karl back to his home. Sršen and I decided to look for work in Marshfield, maybe in the shoe factory.

In the afternoon and evening, I wrote to my brother John and my mother in Slovenia, and to Jesenko's in Cleveland. Outside, it was windy, rainy and muddy.

March 27, 1950

John woke me at 5 a.m. to help with the birth of a calf which was already 10 days overdue.

In the afternoon, I cleaned the area around the well. The farm has a windmill which pumps water and sends it to the kitchen and the stable. Large sheet metal water tanks are located all around the farmstead.

Helen and Cilka worked on a quilt they are making from 1,000 pieces of cloth. While they sewed, Mary talked about how it was when they first bought their land around 1910. There were no roads nearby. Mary and John bought 80 acres that had never been farmed - the big pines had been logged off earlier, so when they got the land, it was mostly brush and aspen. They built a log cabin, really more like a shed. Although there were a number of other Slovenian families that also bought land in the general area, there were no other houses nearby. After John and Mary bought their first cow, the cow slept in the cabin with them.

Mary said life was alright in the summers in those early years. But, during the winters, John would go work in Chicago because they needed the income. She was alone all winter in that little cabin. She didn't have horses or a car, so she had no way to travel anywhere. On rare occasions, the neighbor came to visit; or even less often, John would come visit from Chicago. He would take the train to Marshfield and walk from there to the cabin, which was almost 20 miles away. There were no busses.

Mary said there was a stranger that came to her cabin one winter's day. He was either lost or on a long trip. She was very afraid of him, but she fed him supper and let him stay overnight. The next day he moved on and she never heard from him again.

Over the years, John and Mary gradually cleared more land for farming. They planted potatoes. Things got better and better. They built a nicer house and converted the log cabin into a barn.

March 28, 1950

Sršen and Karl went to Marshfield to look for work.

April 2, 1950, Palm Sunday

At 8 am, we all went to church. I rode in the open back of the truck, freezing. At church they had palm branches, not "butare" like we used to have in Slovenia.

Karl and Sršen will begin work in the Marshfield shoe factory at the end of the month.

I wrote to Jakob Kopac in Chicago. He is a distant relative who might be able to help me get a job.

April 5, 1950

Jernej Zupan sent me a check for $33 for the lace I had sent him; he writes that he will find work and housing for me in Cleveland. I wrote back to him in the evening. I also wrote to my brother-in-law, Mire, in Canada, asking him for money.

April 6, 1950

In the morning, John asked me "Did you hear how sadly a deer cried last night?" I said, "No, I didn't." We went out to the road to see what had happened. We found some bloody spots only partly covered by sand and deer hair. We decided that a hunter must have used his car lights to attract the deer. The deer paid for its trust with its life.

In the afternoon, John and I burned brush in the pasture. Even though there's water everywhere, the brush still burns.

April 7, 1950, Good Friday

This afternoon we all went to church. From 2 - 3 pm, we listened to the passion of Christ and prayed the Stations of the Cross.

The weather was warm and beautiful.

April 9, 1950, Easter Sunday

I finished my work in the barn by 7:40. At 8 a.m., we all went to church together. Cilka and I sat in the open back of the truck; it was a cold five miles to Willard. When we returned, we ate the blessed food. In the afternoon, the Lamovec family came for dinner - good and plentiful! Then Helen took me to Sršen's. Sršen is going to Cleveland tomorrow to look for work. I don't know what happened to the plans for work in Marshfield.

April 10, 1950

It rained all day, and the snow on the ground turned to ice. In the morning, John and I turned the hay, and then cleaned the granary.

I think about how we used to celebrate back home on the Monday after Easter and I feel sad. (Easter Sunday and Monday were both celebrated as holidays in Slovenia.)

April 11, 1950

I finished my work in the barn by 9 a.m. John took oats to the mill. I was free and bored till 4 p.m. And yesterday we had so much work.

April 12, 1950

John had often mentioned that we would need to fix the horse's leather harness. It was never oiled and was broken. I was worried how we would do that without the right tools. But we managed to fix it with rivets. We also fixed the manure wagon.

April 13, 1950

Our sponsors had another argument this morning. Mary was helping John in the barn when the argument started. She said she would never come in the barn again. John was mad all day. Angry, he used a hammer to smash three wheels on the manure wagon and the chain we use to lift the wagon. Now it's all useless.

In the evening, I wrote to the university in Madison. They had advertised a free correspondence course in veterinary science. I was excited about this and hoped I could help myself and others with this knowledge.

April 14, 1950

I worked all day to make a wheelbarrow to replace the manure wagon..

At 10 a.m., Frank came to slaughter the pig. In two hours, the pig was beheaded and cleaned. The pig had grown almost 100 lbs. in 45 days, eating nothing but corn. He weighed almost 300 lbs.

It was a beautiful spring day.

April 15, 1950

In the morning, I took care of Johnny while Cilka helped to cut up the pig. In the afternoon, I split wood till I got too hot.

In the morning we ate blood sausage, then pig roast for lunch and supper.

April 16, 1950

At 8:10 we all went to church. Johnny stayed in the back with me and slept. After Mass, Malci Jeras took us to Karl's. In the afternoon, we went with Karl to a 100 foot high observation tower. From the top of the tower we could see for 20 miles all around. The observer in the tower showed us his instruments, binoculars and map. By chance I embarrassed the observer by noticing some smoke before he did. He determined the location, called a nearby farm and learned that it was a grass fire.

April 17, 1950

Hot. My right eye hurts.

I told John that Americans don't understand the value of manure: they let it dry out, or they let it run down to the creek. I suggested that we build a manure pit behind the barn and cover it with small logs. "Oh, that's not worth it," he replied. "That's done by people who have no money for fertilizer. Besides, don't you see that the cows don't eat the grass that grows on the manure?"

In the afternoon we went into the woods. We were not able to cut up a large aspen. We tired ourselves out using a dull saw and axe. If I had had a file, I would have tried to sharpen them, but I didn't.

In the forest, I noticed a coffin-like shape, about 30 feet long and covered with moss. I uncovered the moss at one end and found a pine trunk with red healthy wood inside. Not far away, there were visible remnants of a narrow track railroad. John told me that it used to be the railroad used by Swedes to transport freshly cut lumber from the pine forest.

Cilka cleaned the garden today. John sold a 118 lb. calf for $28. They say that it's not worth it to raise cattle, so they feed the calves artificial feed for two or three weeks and sell them.

April 18, 1950

My entire head hurts from the pains in my right eye. Uncle John and Aunt Mary are arguing about taking me to the doctor. Aunt thinks I should go, but Uncle doesn't believe it's anything serious - it doesn't look bad! We stayed at home and worked on the harness.

April 19, 1950

I did not make it to the barn this morning - the first time since we arrived. My eye was hurting too much. Later in the morning, John finally agreed to drive me to Greenwood, though Mary was now opposed to my going. We finally left without her, still arguing. Dr. Olson gave me medicine for an eye infection and charged 75 cents. John didn't offer to help pay. He still thought the whole trip was not necessary.

In the evening John and Mary milked the cows themselves and did it faster than if I had been helping. It seems I'm not needed.

April 20, 1950

I stayed in bed till 6:30. Yesterday it snowed, today the wind is howling. I'm washing my eye with warm water and boric acid every three hours and adding 5 drops of medicine. The eye is redder, but my head doesn't hurt as much. Johnny wants to be with me all day; he falls asleep quickly in my arms.

The Marshfield Clinic told us that Cilka does not have uterine cancer.

April 22, 1950

This morning John drove us all to Greenwood to see Dr. Olson. He examined us for insurance with KSKJ. Cilka and I will get 20-year life insurance and health insurance covering $500 of surgical and hospital costs for each of us for $5.50 a month. We will also sign up Johnny for $30 worth of life insurance at a cost of 15 cents a month. (Translator's note: They wanted to be sure there would be enough money for a funeral in case one of us died; and they believed in KSKJ, a Slovenian fraternal organization.)

We need insurance, but how can I afford it? Earlier, John had said that a "new person" should work for his sponsor without pay for a year. I agree, but then the sponsor should cover what the person needs during that year - not just room and board, but health needs, too. It hit me hard that he was not even willing to pay 75 cents for a doctor visit.

April 23, 1950, Sunday

Lamovec's visited us in the afternoon. The others played cards - I played with Johnny, since I don't know how to even shuffle the cards.

April 24, 1950

John and I picked up rocks in the fields today. John had warned me about this work all winter: "It's nice now, when there's no work! It'll be different when we go pick up rocks." John led the horses today while I ran behind and brought rocks to the wagon. Soon after we started, John asked, "What are you doing?" "I'm picking up rocks." "I don't see anything - if it's not at least 4 inches wide, leave it alone!" When we came to a larger boulder, he didn't want to help me. Mary had warned me about this and advised me to not pick up larger rocks by myself. Instead of helping me, he preferred to lift the boulder by himself, saying, "This is nothing."

I received a letter from my brother John in Slovenia. He's feeling hopeless about his illness: he's having heart problems. Even so, he wants to help me.

April 25, 1950

My friend Frank Kokelj in Canada wrote and sent me $5. He promised he'll send me $100 or $200. Yesterday sad news, today happy.

In the afternoon we cut down about 15 aspen trees in the woods. It started to snow.

April 26, 1950

The snow turned everything white. It blew in the wind and felt like needles hitting my cheeks.

In the afternoon I rebelled for the first time - I refused to go in the woods with John. I told him I'm not earning enough to pay for the doctor. He knew the doctor had told me to stay out of the wind. He said, "You can find yourself a different job!" "Yes, I'll have to." "Your eye isn't the reason you don't want to work." "My health comes first!" "Then I'll go by myself" said John, ending the argument. He soon came back and asked if I wanted to clean the pigsty and the chicken coop. I said, "Yes, anything except go out in the wind." If I had refused that, too, he would probably have thrown me out. He went to cut wood, I went to clean the pigsty by myself, and then did the chicken coop with Mary. When he returned at four, he was friendlier, but I didn't want to talk. My eye is again hurting more.

April 27, 1950

At breakfast, "Uncle" John asked, "We didn't fall out yesterday, did we?" Then we talked openly for a long time, sometimes quite sharply. Cilka said John had told her we should go if we're not happy. John chided her, saying she was lying. "As far as I'm concerned, you can stay here one, two or five years, if you want," he said. He also said he would pay for my insurance. He promised to pay me $50 for April, even though I had not worked much in the fields. I said I would like to work more, but I'd rather rest if I'm always doing everything wrong. Every day he wants things done differently so I can never satisfy him. He said he's not "petty", like Mary says. I said Mary's right.

Later I wrote to Karl and asked him to find work and housing for me; I asked the mailman to get the letter to Karl right away.

April 28, 1950

I slept very poorly because of a headache. In the morning, I asked John to take me to the doctor. He agreed, reluctantly. Dr. Olson looked at my eye for a long time and finally found an infected abscess with a white spot on the inside of my eyelid. He lanced the white spot to drain the pus. It was very painful. Again, he only charged 75 cents. John finally believed that my eye really hurt.

At home I put warm cloths soaked in sage on my eye for 15 minutes every hour. John wouldn't leave me alone, so I went to work in the barn even though the doctor had told me to stop working for a while.

April 29, 1950

I'm back to a regular work schedule. Helen came and advised me to always tell Mary if things are not going right.

April 30, 1950

Karl invited me to come live with him and his family. A month ago, the farmer that had been allowing Karl to live in a chicken coop told him he would have to move because the farmer wanted to use the chicken coop for chickens again. Karl fortunately found much better housing with Anton Debevec and his family. Karl said Mr. Debevec would take us in as well. But Cilka said we should stay until we get the main work done in the spring.

In the afternoon I got a .22 rifle from Stamcar.

May 1, 1950

A beautiful morning, but then a cloudy day. I worked in the barn without a bandage on my eye. I split wood and cleaned the barn and yard all day. I received a letter from Silvia Hoja in California and from James Debevec, who sent a check for $105.95 from Frank Kokelj in Canada. After lunch, John offered $75 ($25 for March and $50 for April), which I used to pay the hospital bill for Cilka, and $15 towards the train fare. Now I still owe John $35 and I owe Rev. Wolfe $50 for the train fare.

I received a response from the University of Wisconsin to my letter regarding the veterinary course. It seems they only want to sell books.

In the afternoon John and I tried out the rifle. I hit the target well at 7, 10 and 20 meters. John did poorly.

May 2, 1950

Cilka and Johnny rode with Mary and Helen to Neillsville to buy 150 chicks.

May 3, 1950

Warm, rain in the afternoon. The rifle is turning out to be a good way to get rid of the sparrows that have been causing problems in the barn.

In the evening, I thought I heard nightingales singing in the ditches along the road. Curious, I went to investigate and find out what kind of nightingales they were. When I approached the singers, they jumped into the ditch one by one. I realized they were frogs. Twenty years ago, I was in the Jugoslav army in Bosnia. When I had night watch duty, I heard real nightingales that sounded just like these frogs.

Other things sound different in America, too. American ravens bark like Slovenian dogs, and the dogs here yelp "wow, wow", not "hov, hov" like the dogs back home. The train here roars like a bull, or rings a bell when it's shuffling cars in the station.

Jernej Zupan sent me $17 for the lace I sent him. He writes that it's hard to find housing in Cleveland.

May 4, 1950

John and I planted five apple trees and two grape vines. When I asked him if we would follow the planting instructions, he said "I've planted more trees than the fellow who wrote the instructions." After some more arguing, he said "I'm not saying you're wrong, but we're going to plant my way." His planting and pruning methods are awful!

In the afternoon John's son-in-law Frank came with his tractor to run the harrow in the fields. He invited me on the tractor and taught me how to run it.

May 5, 1950

The wind was howling all day. It knocked over the meat drying rack and almost knocked over the incubator for the chickens. It's impossible to work in this weather.

May 6, 1950

It was quieter and cooler today. I fixed the wind damage, including the fence around the yard. John didn't believe me that 17 fenceposts were rotten.

My brother-in-law Mire wrote from Canada and sent $60. Now we have more than $200 - enough to move to Cleveland.

The first swallow arrived today.

May 7, 1950, Sunday

At 8 we all went to church. After Mass we went to a meeting in the church hall. I paid my first monthly insurance premium - exactly $3.

May 8, 1950

Frank worked in the fields with the tractor, John with the horses. Frank got stuck in the lowest part of the field. John used his horses to pull the tractor out of the mud.

May 9, 1950

There was a heavy rain and thunder at night. Water is standing in the fields. John and I pounded in a large post near the entrance to the yard.

May 10, 1950

I finally finished splitting all the firewood.

John is 67 years old today. For breakfast we had sausage, eggs and coffee. For lunch we had soup, chicken, potatoes, cake, pie, coffee and dandelions. For supper we had rice, coffee and pie. Lamovec's visited in the evening.

On this day, the farmers usually let the cows out to pasture, but this year spring is almost a month late. There is no grass yet.

May 14, 1950

Karl Erznoznik is leaving for Cleveland next Wednesday. We can have his housing, his work and his furniture.

Back in the refugee camp, I promised my friends I would write to them about being a farmer in America. I never did. They knew that meant I didn't like it. I wonder if Karl will write from Cleveland.

May 15, 1950

Frank worked with the tractor, planting oats in the field behind the garage. The garage used to be the house where John and Mary lived with two cows and a pig.

May 16, 1950

Again we picked up two wagonloads of rocks from the fields. Cilka helped, too. They usually took the rocks to a pile in the pasture. Now, at my suggestion, we used the rocks to fill the holes and ruts in the path.

Erznoznik's came to say good-bye and leave for Cleveland.

May 18, 1950

In the morning John and I picked up a wagonload of rocks. In the afternoon Cilka and Helen's children, Judy and Jerry, helped us pick up two wagonloads. John was constantly teaching us "Don't be too 'petty'". We had to leave a lot of rocks in the fields.

May 20, 1950

John asked me if we should let the cows out to pasture. "There is no grass," I said. He said "But we're already 10 days late. What do you think, should we let the heifers (the one year-old cows) out, too?" I replied, "I have no experience, do whatever you think is right." So he let all the cows out. The heifers became wild and broke out through the barbed wire fence. For a while, they ran around in the meadow, but when they got tired, they returned to the herd, just the way young people do. (Human heifers sometimes return from the wilderness with scratched backs from the barbed wire of life.)

Then the older cows led the younger ones down the road to the pasture. They remembered the way from last year and were very disciplined. The heifers stayed close to the biggest Holstein cow.

May 21, 1950, Sunday

John took us on a Sunday drive. He showed us a big round structure, like a tent, with a roof but no walls. The inside was fenced off and full of cattle. They moved around freely and ate hay from the pile in the middle of the structure whenever they wanted. John said "That's the barn of a learned man." The owner was a teacher.

The next curiosity was a small, almost new house in the middle of nowhere. There was no path to it, no garden around it, nothing. John explained that this house was built hundreds of yards away. On a hot day, a tornado rushed by, lifted the house from its base and transferred it via air to its new location, undamaged.

May 24, 1950

In the morning Frank plowed a field for corn. John used the horses to smooth the field, while I turned the furrows. At 3 o'clock we rested; it was too hot.

John and Aunt suggested that Cilka could plant her own beans to make some money.

May 26, 1950

I'm anxiously waiting for Karl's letter. He promised he would tell me about his new job and housing in Cleveland.

When I was home alone this afternoon, two young men came to our house. One of them said, "We will cut off the cows' horns." I told them that John wasn't home, but they said they had talked to him. They went directly to the barn, bound two heifers with ropes and led them out. In the farmyard, one heifer became wild, but one of the men pulled the ropes tighter around her snout and between her hind and front legs. When the animal fell down, the other man sawed off her horns. It happened in seconds. When they had finished with the other heifer, the men led them back into the stable. The wounds were bleeding profusely. For a couple days after, those heifers lost their appetite, but when their wounds healed, they started to eat and drink again. I decided I was glad I wasn't taking the veterinarian correspondence course.

May 28, 1950, Sunday

Today was Pentecost, a very important holiday in Slovenia. In the morning John went down to the pasture to check on the heifers. He noticed that they had left through the barbed wire and across the creek which forms the boundary between our farm and the neighbor's. It was time to go to church, so we couldn't look for the heifers right away. After we returned from church, we went back to the pasture and found that the heifers had returned to the herd by themselves. So John said, "Since we don't have to do anything with the heifers, let's go to the field to pick up rocks." I replied, "Today on such a holiday? Back home we celebrated not only Pentecost Sunday, but the Monday after as well." But he said, "This needs to be done today, tomorrow we'll have something else." So I worked on Pentecost Sunday for the first time in my life.

May 29, 1950

Karl's letter finally arrived. He writes that this is the best time to get work in Cleveland. If I'm going to come, I should come immediately.

In the afternoon I worked with Frank and asked him what he thought about my leaving the farm. "If you don't help yourself, nobody will," he said.

In the evening I walked to where Sršen was living. He wasn't there, but his family agreed that we should all leave together next Wednesday. At 9:30 I returned home and told Mary we would be leaving.

May 30, 1950

It's Decoration Day (Memorial Day), but we're not observing it. There's too much work to do.

John promised to drive our belongings to Greenwood tomorrow, even if it takes 5 trips. I packed all morning and then helped load "junk" in the afternoon.

At night I dreamed that only Johnny and I were moving. I dreamed I was carrying him through a swamp, and I saw a church with two steeples in the distance. (Later, after we moved, I realized that the church in my dream looked a lot like St. Vitus Church in Cleveland.) Cilka was not with us, so I became worried what would become of her.

May 31, 1950

When I was milking the cows, John started telling me how to do it, as he usually did. Mary said that wasn't necessary, since we were leaving. A heated argument followed, worse than the one three months ago. Mary threatened to leave him.

At 9 o'clock we took 2 crates and one bag to Greenwood. We left the crates at the train station (478 lbs.). These are the same crates that I built in the refugee camp in Austria. We used them to pack all our belongings, including the pots and pans that we made out of downed warplanes in Austria.

Cilka has been feeling sick, so we took her to the doctor. He said her bleeding was not dangerous, gave her 12 brown pills for three days, and said we could go to Cleveland. But if the bleeding doesn't improve, she'll need to go to the hospital. I wrote to Karl and told him we would come in three days.

In the afternoon, John and I pounded 9 fenceposts around the garden. In the evening I pruned the linden tree. Cilka is in bed, not feeling any better.

June 1, 1950

John tried to convince me that it would be better if we stayed. When I refused, he went looking for another hired man, but he came back drunk. Frank disced the field for corn and started planting in the afternoon; but the planter crushed the seed instead of planting it. John smelled of alcohol like never before.

Cilka is bleeding more. Mary prepared some food for our trip to Cleveland, but it looks like we're not going. Johnny was so upset tonight, we didn't get to sleep till midnight.

June 2, 1950

Cilka just isn't getting any better. Helen talked with the doctor by phone. At 9 a.m., Helen drove Cilka to the doctor. When they didn't return at noon, we knew they had gone to the hospital in Marshfield. That means we can't go to Cleveland.

John is drinking. Mary cried again this morning. Mary asked Helen and me, what should she do? Should she leave John for a while or forever? She can't live with him alone.

John promised to buy me a tractor and pay me $50 a month even during the winter. I decided to leave even if he gives me the whole farm. It was a hard decision, but after I made it, I was not willing to reconsider. John said we can stay here weeks, months or years. He suggested I demand that the packages I had sent to Cleveland be returned. I asked him if there was enough income from the farm to support two families. He told me exactly what he paid for fertilizer, seed, taxes, etc.; but he didn't say anything about income. He proposed we run the farm 50:50.

John told me that, if he sold me the farm, he would still retain the right to manage it. I said I would be thankful for his advice, but quietly to myself, I was thinking that, if I owned the farm, the final decisions would be mine.

Earlier, I had sought advice from a highly respected person about buying the farm. He told me the Brezic farm was far too small to support two families. I did consider it very seriously, but I always came to the same conclusion - the annual income would hardly cover necessities, with nothing left for savings. The longer I waited to move, the worse it would be. With every passing year, I would be less able to move and obtain work in a factory or a mine. Meanwhile, people are starving back home in Slovenia and expecting me to send help. Even so, my father still has his sense of humor - he wrote to me recently, "If you see a bag of flour lying by the road, pick it up and send it to us. But you don't need to send us a yacht until you have one yourself."

It rained this morning. I cleaned our room upstairs. John drove with Johnny to Willard. He was drunk, but I knew he would be offended if I didn't let him.

In the afternoon I sawed firewood and sharpened the ends of logs to use as fenceposts.

Helen returned from Marshfield at 5 p.m. Cilka had another operation. It was successful, but she's weak and has lost a lot of blood. I'm worried about her and feel that I'm partly to blame.

June 3, 1950

John is sick. Frank came to plant corn.

June 4, 1950

Helen and I went to Marshfield to get Cilka. I paid $20 (reduced from $24.60) for two days in the hospital.

June 5, 1950

I cleaned the barn all day, then helped John slaughter a 5-week old calf for veal.

June 6, 1950, Tuesday

Worked in the barn all day again. Mrs. Rihtar came to tell me that her husband bought a house in Cleveland. We decided that, if Cilka will be feeling strong enough to travel, we'll leave for Cleveland next Monday. "Uncle" John and "Aunt" Mary want us to stay at least till June 20, to participate in a silver wedding in Sheboygan.

June 7, 1950

John and I both cleaned the barn today. We used strong water pressure to wash all the walls and floor, then a knife to scratch off every little black spot on the walls.

The cows are out in the pasture night and day, regardless of the weather. In the morning, we just have to whistle and the cows come in to be milked. Each cow has to leave the barn as soon as it's milked. If a cow craps in the barn, it gets whacked on the back. We cleaned the silo, the drains and other areas with a broom and a wire brush. Although I like cleanliness, it all seems overdone to me. When it became clear to me that we were really not cleaning for cleanliness, that John was really just harassing me, I told him he would make a good sergeant in the Jugoslavian army.

I had read about people with double personalities, but I didn't believe they really existed. Now I believe that John is such a person. Sometimes he's a good man and very cordial, but in the next moment, he seems to enjoy harassing people. I often think about him and I have come to the conclusion that he became embittered because his wife didn't give him the son that he so dearly wanted.

Mici Erznoznik wrote from Cleveland that we'll be able to live in Rihtar's house. She wants us to bring the kids' wagon.

June 8, 1950

It's hot. In the morning, John and I rode on the horse-drawn wagon to get ten small trees from the woods to make a grape trellis. John sat in front and held the horses' reins. Helen's daughter Judy sat next to him and I was in back. As we rode along, the back wheel of the wagon struck a sapling, bending it forward. In an instant, the sapling snapped in two; one part hit John on the back of his head and threw him off the wagon. Blood started streaming from his head. When Judy saw the blood, she jumped from the wagon and ran back home. John stared at me with an icy glare, as if saying "For God's sake, don't kill me!" He was convinced I had hit him on the head from behind with a fencepost. He must have realized from the look on my face that he was mistaken. He quietly let me wipe the blood from his face. We rode back home, where they already knew that we had had a fight and that I had hurt him. How would I have proved my innocence if the sapling had killed him?

John rested that afternoon, while I continued to work on the fenceposts.

June 9, 1950

There was a heavy rain with thunder last night. In the morning we cleaned the barn again. It seems like a lot of unnecessary work, but John says it has to be done to prepare for whitewashing.

Debevec brought the kids' wagon for Mici.

June 10, 1950

I cleaned the barn again. Since I couldn't get anything right, I argued with John and then left. He didn't ask me to do anything else, so I looked for something myself. After these kinds of situations, he usually says, in English, "I appreciate that you yourself know what is to be done." But he's so mad when I don't obey him that he can't even eat. In the afternoon, John and I worked together again.

June 11, 1950, Sunday

At 8:30 a.m., we went to Mass and the Corpus Christi procession. We knew this might be our last service in this church, so it was very sad.

In the afternoon, the others went fishing at 1 o'clock, Johnny and I went at 3. We had planned this trip for some time. "Aunt" Mary prepared herself thoroughly: she put on pants, covered her head with a straw hat, and brought fishing gear and a picnic basket. We caught 28 small fish. Mary ate most of them herself. We caught them in the creek at the end of the pasture. The boundary with the neighbor's land runs along the creek; a fence made of barbed wire runs down the middle of the creek.

Willard is known as a paradise for hunters. All kinds of wildlife are plentiful. A hunter can shoot 10 rabbits a day and one deer, regardless of its age or gender. The deer cause a lot of damage to the crops. There are three kinds of rabbits here: small ones, bigger ones like we had in Slovenia, and "snowrabbits." The snowrabbits are completely white except that when you see them jumping in the snow, you can see some black under the tail. There are wolves here, too. I saw one that had been killed by a deer hunter. It wasn't wolf season yet, so the hunter buried it in the snow and presented it to the authorities for a reward a few days later.

June 12, 1950

I woke at 5:15 and went to the pasture to get the cows. I got done milking by 7. Then John drove me to the house where the Rihtars have been living to help them pack. At 9:30 I walked back. John asked me to help him fix the horses' stable (everything was old and broke frequently), but I needed to get things ready for our departure.

We had lunch at 11:30. Then Helen came to pick us up. We left with her at 12:15. It was hard to leave the farm. It had been my first hope for independence. It was especially hard to leave "Aunt" Mary, who had initially greeted us with dissatisfaction and distrust, but had then tried everything she could to ease our fate. I know that things will now again be worse for her, but I can't help her. Frank had said, "Help your own self." He knew what it was like to work with John.

Riding with us were "Aunt" Mary, Judy and Jerry. Mici and her mother joined us at Artac's. Then we drove through Willard, Woodland and Merillan. After waiting an hour, we got our train tickets.

Back on the farm, John had asked me how much he owed me for 10 days work in June. He gave me a check for $17. At the train station, I gave that to Helen for driving us there, but she gave me $12 back.

We all weighed ourselves at the train station: Cilka weighed 156 lbs., Johnny 34 and me 147.

Mary and Helen had tears in their eyes. Helen gave me a birthday present. The present included an undershirt, pants and socks. I thanked them with the words "We owe you the most." We boarded the train and left at 2:31.

We reached Milwaukee at 4 p.m. and saw many factories and many Negroes. At 7 we reached the Soo Line station in Chicago, then took a cab to the New York Central station. At 11 p.m., we left for Cleveland.

June 13, 1950

It's my 43rd birthday. I slept well on the train. We reached Cleveland at 7 a.m. Mr. Rihtar was waiting for us at the station. We took a taxi to his house at 990 East 63rd St. I gave the driver $4 for all six of us.

Rihtar's house is close to a horribly noisy factory. It cost $6,000, including a washing machine and a refrigerator. He borrowed the money from a storekeeper, Sušnik, whom he had known from the old country.

Our "apartment" is in the attic. It consists of two rooms with overlaid wooden boards on the walls. It doesn't have water or a bathroom and, since it hasn't been cleaned for a long time, is hopelessly dusty. Mr. Rihtar promised to install a water pipe; for the time being, we'll carry it from downstairs. We'll use their bathroom and their refrigerator. Someone gave us an old gas stove, though there is no gas pipe. We'll use our shipping crate for a dining table. Someone also gave us part of an old bed. The only entrance to our apartment is from the kitchen below. The entire apartment has two light bulbs. We need water and gas, so we can do our own cooking.

In the afternoon I washed the walls and the floor: everything was so black! Oh, Willard was much more beautiful! But at least this apartment is better than the tent in Vetrinje (where we spent our first nights as refugees.)

When we were in Wisconsin, Karl (who had left before us) had agreed to write and tell us about Cleveland. Now I know why he wrote so little: he didn't want to say anything bad, and didn't have anything good to say. Here too, America is not the America we saw from Europe.

The Sršens, Zupans and Erznozniks visited us today. In the evening we had supper with Ani Hudoklin, where the Erznozniks are staying. They call her place the D.P. (displaced persons) hotel, since Mr. Joe Grdina brings all the new refugees there if they have nowhere else to stay.

After a good supper, Cilka and I had two glasses of beer. My dark disposition began to fade away.

Translator's closing note:

For the next three years, the Rihtar family shared their small house with us. During those three years, my mother had two more sons, Tony and Joe. My father got a job in a factory at $1 an hour. He saved half of what he earned. In three years, he saved enough for a down payment on two houses. Ten years after my parents fled their homes in Slovenia, they finally had a home of their own.

A few years after we left, Mr. and Mrs. Brezic sold their farm and moved into Greenwood. John died in 1962, but Mary lived into her 90's. Before she died, my mother and father traveled to Slovenia with her, to visit the "old country."

Zakelj Diary Home Page: http://bbhhs96.dyndns.org/~zakeljdiary/