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