My Father, My Puzzle

By Peter Kopac

This is a true story about the author's love-hate relationship with his father. After the family endures one refugee camp after another, the author gradually uncovers his father's secret World War II past. The story also illustrates the difficulties faced by immigrants trying to rebuild their lives in the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Kopac
• Release date: Dec 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301701254

Peter Kopac

Peter Kopac is a retired civil engineer who fell in love with Arizona, where he enjoys the great outdoors including hiking, biking, and swimming.

Book preview

MY FATHER,

MY PUZZLE

by

PETER A. KOPAC

My Father, My Puzzle

Kopac, Peter A.

Copyright © 2018 Peter A. Kopac

All rights reserved.

Second edition

(License notes) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Acknowledgements

Addendum

References

Preface

"Love is eternal, as are the bonds we share." John Edwards

"Life can only be understood backward. But it must be lived forward." Kierkegaard

I owe what I am to my father. He had a tremendous influence on my life. Far from a saint and often closer to a devil, he was not your typical role model as a father. In addition, he had a secret past that haunted him and kept him from leading a normal life.

Early on as a child, I could sense my father was withholding from me much of what he did during World War II. Given that I was born in a prisoner of war camp to Slovenian parents who became refugees after the war, I wondered just what put us in that situation. Slowly over the course of several decades, from stories my father shared with me, conversations I was privy to with his friends, telltale documents and photographs, and some active prodding on my part, I was able to piece together a large part of what I call the puzzle of my father’s war life.

My father’s war life, however, is only part of his story. He had other secrets, formed both before and long after the war, that had to do with the women in his life. As a husband and father, he was demanding, controlling, hot-tempered, violent, and abusive. Still, he had principles and passions that motivated him to take risks in order to find peace and happiness, not only for himself but for his family. Good or bad, my father’s life was definitely intriguing and out of the ordinary.

As my father’s caregiver the last three years of his life, I got to see a side of him that had been mostly missing during my teenage and early adult years. In those three years, my father said to me in Slovenian, enough times that I knew it must have been important to him, "Ne me pozabite or Do not forget me. Each time, I thought How can I possibly forget my own father?" However, soon after his death at age 94, the request took on a larger meaning for me. My father’s story was so remarkable it needed to be told. I felt writing this book was the best way to assure his memory would live on. I wrote it so my father’s descendants would know their heritage and appreciate the sacrifices my parents made.

The love-hate relationship I had with my father as we both struggled in our separate worlds to assimilate in the United States is probably something to which many immigrants can relate. This book will be of special interest to immigrants, particularly those who were World War II refugees, and also to their offspring.

For me, writing this book was a therapeutic exercise; and with each chapter I felt closer to my father. I can’t help but believe my father’s request was intended to do just that.

Chapter 1

The Phone Call

1:56 AM, Thursday, February 5, 1981

The phone rings. Instinctively, I turn and reach for it in the dark. I’m disoriented, but I find it, pick it up, and place it to my ear. There is a momentary hum, then a woman’s voice speaking in Slovenian, or perhaps it’s Serbian. It’s a long distance operator. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but I know it has to do with my father. Another moment, another voice, but this one is garbled. I realize it must be my father talking.

I have to wake myself, I think, so I’m able to understand. I quickly recall another night-time call across a different continent. I was not fully awake, and with an equally poor connection, the call turned out to be an embarrassing disaster. I don’t want a repeat.

Finally, the voice is a little clearer. I’m in prison, Peter. I told you it would happen. It’s definitely my father, speaking in Slovenian. He has my attention.

Why are you in prison?

My father too is having difficulty hearing on his end. There are other voices still audible on our line.

I repeat, Why have you been placed in prison? What did you do, Ata?

You know what it’s about. Now I want you to take care of my apartment 204 rent. Send the check to Mary Ivkovich.

The night lamp is on by now. I grab a piece of paper and a pencil.

Also pay my Metropolitan life insurance.

OK, but I don’t understand what’s going on. What did you do, Ata?

You know…it’s about what I did during the war.

How long are you going to be in prison?

I don’t know. I’m not sure.

How long do you think you’ll be there?

Perhaps four years.

Gulp. I swallow. He just had a birthday two days ago, making him 75 now.

Did you understand about rent and Metropolitan?

Yes, I understand. But where are you? How can I reach you?

I’m in Yugoslavia. You’ll be getting two letters from Štefka.

OK, but what’s your phone number?

You’d have to go through the mayor’s office.

I still don’t understand. What are you charged with?

I can’t talk, Peter…I gotta get off. You’re going to get a large phone bill as it is…Goodnight.

Bye, Ata. I hang up.

Shit! I cry out. Cathy is wide awake at this point. I check my watch. It’s 1:59 AM.

Peter, what was that all about?

I explain that my father is in prison in Yugoslavia for what he did during the war. He asked me to pay his rent. Apparently, I’m his one allowed phone call.

Trying to calm me, she touches my hand. There is nothing I can do right now. And how can one go back to sleep after this? So we talk about it for a while.

He’s always taking chances, Peter.

What’s that mean? He’s going to try to escape?

No, Peter. That’s the kind of person he is. That’s what he wanted.

Right, Cathy. My tone is sarcastic as I immediately think that’s ridiculous.

You know… maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe he needed to get caught.

That’s Cathy. My wife, the spare-time psychoanalyst doing her analysis thing. But she does make sense, and she might be right on here. My father was afraid enough of this that it really bothered him for a long time, and now maybe he’ll be able to rest.

You know, Cathy, I didn’t even get a chance to tell him happy birthday.

Chapter 2

The Bike

With a hard push, my father released his hold of my bicycle seat. Suddenly, I was by myself, balanced on two wheels. I immediately felt surprise and joy, followed a few seconds later by fear as I contemplated my dismount. Somehow, I managed not to fall, slowing down then simultaneously sliding forward from the seat while stepping off the pedals.

In a moment, my father was by my side. He looked straight at me as he placed his large hands on my shoulders and said, "Dobro, Peter...Good, Peter. But from now on, make sure you’re very careful and that you take good care of this bike. Don’t damage it. I don’t have money for another." With that, having accomplished a perennial rite of parental passage, he headed home, leaving me to enjoy my new skill.

I use the word skill loosely. For the very next day, and probably less than 400 meters up the road, I was flying downhill around a mild bend when I lost control. I had been going too fast considering my level of experience, and I could not make the left turn. Instead, my bike and I continued straight ahead onto a small patch of gravel and crashed into a rusty, wire cyclone fence.

I knew I was in trouble as I extricated myself from between the bike and the fence. Miraculously, the bike did not appear to be damaged. I on the other hand had cuts all over my face—positive proof of the irresponsibility I knew could not be kept hidden from my father.

As I think back now, my father probably punished me, and in his usual manner. I say probably because I can’t remember actually receiving a punishment. However, my offense fell under the lack of good judgment category, a category I myself eventually created and deduced it held all offenses for which my father consistently punished me. There was really no need for another category.

Because many acts can be construed as being due to lack of good judgment, in the interest of fairness, only those acts that provided a yes answer to any of three questions were grounds for a punishment from my father. The three questions, in order of increasing severity of punishment, were: did my lack of good judgment put me at an unnecessary risk? Did it put others at risk? And did it put both me and others at risk? In my father’s eyes, running your bike into a wire fence clearly merited a level 1 punishment as it elicited a yes response to at least the first question.

As for the type of punishment, it was probably the belt. The belt was my father’s weapon of choice for me. After a few cuss words—his favorite being hudič (devil) preceded by various adjectives—he would unbuckle his belt, pull it through the loops in his pants, fold it in half, and with his free hand wedge me against his knee while administering a few well-placed lashes across my butt.

It’s interesting that I clearly remember this form of punishment, but I can’t with absolute certainty tie it to the above bike-crashing, or any other, specific offense. I guess it’s because there was so little variability in my father’s belt routine and just as little variability within my classification scheme. Thus, in my mind, my father’s punishments have now all become lumped together into a generic image that pairs my lack of good judgment with the belt as a consequence.

Yet I do recall another and far worse consequence of crashing into the fence that day; and that was I had to live for a couple of weeks with the diamond-shaped imprints the fence left on my face. For the first few days, my mother applied some greasy ointment to keep the scabs moist for better healing, but while I appreciated her concern, I felt it drew even more attention to my face.

In no time, however, I was back on my bike, just as the best possible news