They Call Me Vishka

By Vicki Nelson

In her debut novel, the author mixes riveting historical facts, genealogical research and a vivid imagination to create a mostly true story of her grandfather's escape from Poland to America in the early 1900's. As the young immigrant's story unfolds, the reader soon discovers why some ancestors are better left buried and forgotten. Proving that some people really are their own worst enemy, this man continually leaves a trail of shattered lives and broken promises wherever he goes. When he meets his wife, a poor but hardworking German immigrant, the story takes on a dimension of suspense as the reader hopes the scoundrel will straighten up for the sakes of his wife and children.
The reader is treated to a global panorama of riveting scenes that include glimpses of pre-World War I European life, perilous transatlantic crossings, the melting pot of cultures in New York City and the young man's meanderings all over the New Land that invariably land him in hot water.
When the man's son grows up and enters World War II, the reader follows this continuing family saga with the harrowing story of his son's capture and survival in the notorious Prisoner of War camp, Stalag 17.
For a story that will keep readers on the edge of their seats well into the late night hours, this book will cause readers to wonder if secrets lie buried in their own family lines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483598536

Vicki Nelson

Lonnie and Vicki Nelson have had a passion for studying God’s Word since the mid-1970s. In 1981, they moved to Nashville, Tennessee, where they continued teaching God’s awesome truth of salvation by the Lord Jesus Christ and sharing the love of God with His people. They believe that God’s Word is the God-breathed truth and that the Bible is a practical “how-to” book written to help God’s people live the great, abundant life that Jesus Christ promised in John 10:10.

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They Call Me Vishka

They Call Me Vishka

Copyright © 2016 by Vicki Nelson

Published by Square Tree Publishing

www.SquareTreePublishing.com

For bulk orders of 10 books or more, contact Square Tree Publishing at [e-mail]

All Rights Reserved. This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means- electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review for inclusion in a magazine, website, newspaper, podcast, or broadcast. The views and opinions expressed from the writer are not necessarily those of Square Tree Publishing.

Cover Design: Cathy Arkle

Interior Design: Author’s Assembler

To Order: [e-mail]

ISBN 978-0-9903190-6-1

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to all of Grandma Carrie’s family—past, present and future…

Grandma, your fearless spirit and perseverance lives on through us.

Thank you for coming to America, the land we love.

You get what you get and you just thank God for it.

—Elijah Lawrence, 6 years old Grandma Carrie’s great-great grandson

Endorsements

for They Call Me Vishka by Vicki Nelson

They Call Me Vishka is as heartfelt as it is interesting. If you want to read real life stories and get inspired by day-to-day he-roes—this book is for you.

I laughed, cried, and shook my head in disbelief while reading. In the midst of life’s trials, you can learn from persistence, love and a good portion of humor. But on top of that, the author’s research inspired me to do my own family history. So I am very grateful for this work and can only applaud the excellence!

—Debora Kolli, German Revivalist, Home Renovator, River Runner and Book Lover July 2016

With Vicki Nelson’s natural story-telling voice evident from the first paragraph to the last, They Call Me Vishka will draw you in to the struggles and triumphs of early twentieth century immigrants to America. She has created a compelling and intricate story, full of vibrant characters based on real people from her family’s past, and expertly combined them with historical detail that will enlighten and enhance your reading experience. Full of twists and turns, mysteries and revelation, sadness and joy, They Call Me Vishka weaves together a tapestry of lives that culminated in a legacy of love.

—Paula Aiton, Writer, Musician, Artist, Homeschooling Mom, Piano Tuner/Technician, Illustrator of Who Had a Happy Day? and In a Time Before You Were Born, July 2016

Vicki Nelson takes you on an exciting and intriguing journey back in time, as she uncovers the truth about her lineage, and particularly her grandfather, who has only thus far been referred to as The Mystery Man. I do not usually select stories of this genre, so They Call Me Vishka was a refreshing surprise that started me wondering about my own family history. Along the way, her characters come alive in such a way you that you can’t wait to see how it’s all going to end.

—Francine Shaw, Retired Staff Systems Analyst, Avid Reader, Happy Grandmother and Prayer Warrior June 2016

Most of us know who are grandparents are or were because we can go back at least two generations. Even those that have been adopted can now access the adoption files and learn who their birth-parents were. Yet there are those rare cases where a link is missing and the puzzle has remained mysteriously unfinished. The piece must be somewhere. You know this for a fact. Because, like it or not, without that missing piece you do not exist.

The author of this work crawled deep within herself to confront the unknown story of the missing piece of her puzzle. She writes… Family secrets can become like monsters in the closet that everyone is afraid of though no one has ever seen… Funny how folks wind up protecting that monster. That sentence surely describes so many families who have their secrets and keep them buried away.

Vicki Nelson opened that closet door, started pulling everything inside of it out and now shares what she discovered with anyone willing to read about it. I am recommending that you take the opportunity to join with her and take a journey into the fascinating and unknown world that Ms. Nelson dared to enter. The title of this work is They Call Me Vishka.

—Larry Peterson, Author of The Priest and the Peaches and The Demons of Abaddon, and the children’s book Slippery Willie’s Stupid Ugly Shoes, Newpaper Commentator, Catholic/Christian Blogger, Contributor to Aletia, a Catholic Magazine, Dedicated Volunteer for Outreach to the Homeless and the Elderly and Beloved Dad and Grandpa. July 2016.

Did you ever wonder about your family genealogy? Did you ever desire to know the heritage you received from your parents and grandparents? I am sure we have all been curious, yet few of us have taken the time to find out through research. Vicki Nelson’s curiosity and passion led her to find out about her grandfather previously only known to his family as The Mystery Man. She spent years of research before she put it all together in her delightful book, They Call Me Vishka. The author’s creative blending of facts and an exciting imagination caused me to always look forward to what was going to happen next in this enjoyable read. This intriguing story brings to life the struggles of a young man whose life choices affected his family not only in his day, but also for the generations to follow. It is everything that makes a great story—danger, love, war, deceit, and family struggles, all within a paradigm of you reap what you sow. This work should be an inspiration to all of us to find our family heritage through research.

—Mary Lu Konkel, Retired First Grade Teacher, Author of Releasing Heaven’s Blueprint, Teacher, Speaker, and Mentor for Young Women. Beloved Wife, Mother and Grandmother. August 2016.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Perhaps I would have never written this book at all if it were not for my dearly departed father’s desire to wholeheartedly assimilate into our society as a first generation American of immigrant parentage. In withholding information from his children about his heritage, Dad created an insatiable hunger in me to know my family’s background. The secrecy just made the forbidden fruit all the more enticing.

And so, Dad, I thank you. When all is said and done, I think you would have actually liked this story of our family, even though my imagination creatively filled in gaps that none alive today could ever verify as fiction or fact. I diligently remained true to the facts I discovered, so while I categorize this work as historical fiction, this book is based on a true story of real people. You must know by now, Dad, that I was not interested in fabrication half as much as I was motivated to discover the truth.

I would also like to thank my family members who incredulously analyzed each new genealogical discovery about our grandfather, previously known to us only as the Mystery Man. We had the time of our lives bantering back and forth via email about the possible significance of each new clue. Some clues led to dead ends and other clues led to an infinite number of additional questions and conjectures. As time dragged on and the painstaking research proceeded, only three of us remained for the long haul—my two cousins, Danny, and Larry, and me. Some of our communications drew delightfully ridiculous conclusions so I could understand why my sister, Glory, and cousin, Carolyn, lost interest. The two women held out valiantly as long as they could. Like The Three Stooges, we three remaining diehards were beginning to feel as though we had cheerfully checked ourselves into an online insane asylum.

I would like to thank my husband for the many meals he cooked and floors he mopped while I pounded away furiously at my keyboard. Dave sacrificed many nights of sleep as I would sit bolt upright in bed, suddenly inspired to write in the middle of the night. Life with me has always been an adventure anyway, so I appreciate his good humor in putting up with me. He is a honey of a man.

I would like to thank the wonderful folks who have cheered me on and celebrated my writing. This group includes my mom, teachers, bosses, co-workers, my daughter, friends, and of course, my husband. Writing has always been as natural as breathing to me, so their kudos still puzzle me. I always suspected that my parents’ encouragement was an attempt to keep me from getting into trouble. Writing was a safer pursuit than propelling my Barbie off the roof with a parachute made from one of my dad’s handkerchiefs. I was not likely to break any bones while writing at my desk.

One day about seven years ago, I attended a writing seminar when the speaker remarked that we should use what is in our hands. In that moment, I looked and saw a pen in my hand since, as usual, I was taking notes. That seemingly insignificant moment burned deeply into my soul. Several years later I received a beautiful pen engraved with the words, Write History. So here I am—writing history. And for that, I thank the Lord for giving me the desire to write this book and guiding my research.

I also thank the kind folks at Square Tree Publishing who helped me polish up my project for presentation to the public. Their guidance and fortitude reminds me of the stamina required to housebreak a puppy. They are incredible cheerleaders and professionals whose belief in my project was quite remarkable to me. I consider them among my cherished friends.

Finally, I thank my readers. Thank you for taking time from your day to participate in a task that does not require a battery or a Wi-Fi connection. Snuggle into your favorite chair with a cup of coffee and a cookie, and enjoy some quiet time. I am honored that you would read my book and I hope you enjoy my story.

PREFACE

The subject was off limits. Period. As far as we Catholic kids knew there was only one Virgin birth, yet Grandma had a grown daughter and a grown son and her husband, the Mystery Man as my cousins called him, was never mentioned. Ever. Our grandfather’s existence was lied about, denied, repressed and eventually any mention of him receded into an abyss of dark family secrets. Without fuel to fire our curiosity, this secret died a slow death and most abandoned the search for answers. Except for one of us.

Yeah, you guessed it. That would be me. I was that kid who just had to know the rest of the story. Usually, I was fairly easygoing, but when it came to our family background I could tell my questions gave my dad a real pain in the neck, but I could not help it. Something had been deliberately withheld from me and I perceived the secrecy as grossly unfair. I was like an obsessed hound dog who had picked up the faint scent of the trail and I knew my quarry was right around the corner. Everyone else in my elementary school knew where they came from; who they were. Mary Ann was Irish, Daria was Italian, Peter was Polish, Christina was Greek and Irish. Pressing my father for details only elicited his anger as he reminded me for the umpteenth time "You’re an American! That’s what you are! I fought in World War II for you and for all of us Americans. Forget it and let it be! I gotta pay the bills. As I got older I finally realized my father would never reveal the secrets I so desperately wanted to hear. But I would not fuhgeddaboutit" as we liked to say in New Jersey.

Many years had come and gone since then and I was now retired, living in Northern California, when a most unusual thing happened. As I was walking down the hallway in my home one day, out of the blue, the name Carolyn Lindeman popped into my head. Being dialed in to the spiritual realm, I am alert to the thousands of ways the Lord uses to get my attention. Carolyn is my cousin and I had not thought about her for decades. The most remarkable thing is that her married name popped into my mind instead of her more familiar maiden name of Peterson. I barely knew her husband, for in those days I was just another brainless teenager—possessed by boys, the Beatles and seeing how short I could wear my skirt without being dragged to the vice-principal’s office. The unexpected introduction of her name in my otherwise routine day immediately grabbed my attention. My curiosity was revived since I had been recently thinking about my family tree with its pitifully few branches. In my mind, my family tree resembled Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. With that one name dropping into my head from nowhere, all that was about to change.

I had not heard from any of my cousins from the Bronx in forty years so we were all well-seasoned by this time. I brilliantly (or moronically) decided to track down Carolyn through that dearly loved and hated venue of social media—Facebook. I pulled up Carolyn’s Facebook page and there she was looking at me just like I remembered. It was unbelievable. Her profile photo reflected the same hair color, same blue eyes, and same face that did not betray the passage of so many years.

Many people radically change with age. Not Carolyn. Some people are recognizable from cradle to grave, like Winston Churchill, for instance (although Carolyn is definitely much prettier than Churchill.) I sent her a message and waited. And waited. And waited. I realized that some golden-agers’ children set up their parents’ Facebook pages thinking it is a great way for their parents to connect with their friends. These kids forget we have successfully used telephones attached to the wall, snail mail (letters with stamps) and had actual lunch dates (real face time) way before they were born. Carolyn apparently still preferred those methods. I decided to see if I would recognize anyone else listed as her friends, namely her brothers (my cousins). I saw a familiar looking name so I took a chance and went to his page. This cousin looked very different from my memory of him.

After reading the lengthy personal description on his time-line I was convinced that he was indeed my cousin—the one I remembered from my childhood. I was ecstatic! My dad’s namesake, he used to call my dad Unk his shortened version of Uncle. I decided to message him. My persistence was rewarded a couple of days later by sheer happenstance. As it turns out, he received my message by a fluke since he did not even know how to retrieve Facebook messages. He was trying to execute some other FB function and my message to him just popped up out of the blue. In spite of our lack of Internet savvy, my cousin and I were deliriously happy to reconnect and began swapping family facts with some of our other siblings as I proceeded with my genealogical research. This particular set of cousins lived with our dear Grandma Carrie. Carrie was my dad’s mom and their mom’s mom. Some may claim our unlikely re-connections were no more than a series of coincidences. As for me and a few others, we believe the Lord was enjoying Himself as He directed our steps. We were like kids in a candy store.

As I began to unearth more family secrets, I fought the temptation to succumb to sensationalism with tales of a life filled with sinister motives that in reality began unfolding more as a life haphazardly lived. Perhaps the two are related. There is a saying that if a person does not choose his life’s path, others will choose one for him. In the Mystery Man’s case, his choices seemed to be reactionary much of the time. When he did plan, he must have asked the Three Stooges for advice. I did not want my story to pander to society’s morbid penchant for glorifying troublemakers nor was I seeking a scapegoat to blame for all the family troubles. Peeling back the layers of this previously hidden ancestor subtly revealed the true heroes in my quest for truth—the ones who valiantly put up with grandfather’s shenanigans and overcame incredible hardships with bulldog resiliency. You know the types; they developed backbones of steel while retaining soft hearts. The very ones who shaped and molded us—my grandmother and her children—our parents—became amazing, beloved, productive people in spite of dealing with a scoundrel, hell-bent on ruining his life and everyone else around him. Some of my dear friends suggested that perhaps my story could redeem my grandfather due to their beautiful belief that there is good in everyone. Grandfather’s choice to immigrate to America did inadvertently benefit future generations. Personally, I embraced and delighted in the Jewish blood that flows through my veins and that I inherited from him. I could not celebrate that if it were not for him. Perhaps the delivery system was flawed but the end product was beautiful!

I believe the Lord intervened on behalf of Grandfather’s future offspring. And why wouldn’t He? He intervenes in the affairs of men all the time, especially the ones who acknowledge Him as Lord and pray to Him for guidance and help. Other than this one desperate act of emigration, I found scant evidence to salvage his character. His actions indicated he always looked out for Number One. Any redemption was between my grandfather and God and hopefully he took care of that business before he breathed his final breath.

I hope that my story introduces a perspective that can eventually dissolve the stigma of shame that has silently plagued my family for decades. My research and discovery delighted me on so many levels and never once did I feel an iota of shame. Instead, I experienced a feeling of gratitude and respect for my family members who persevered against incredible odds. My quest was fueled in part by societal prejudice against immigrants whose perpetrators also ironically descended from immigrants. These cowardly antagonists divide society with a manipulative contest of us versus them. To me, this prejudice is the real villain in this story. Focusing on human worth determined by nationality, race or background is just a smokescreen. It fosters a false notion that we can look at them so we do not have to examine us too closely. Adding to the burden, first generation Americans sought to distance themselves from their parents’ original homeland so they could assimilate completely in the land of their birth.

My dad was a patriot who loved America. When post—World War II horrors were revealed publicly, my dad understandably would have sought to bury forever that part of his heritage that had brought pain to so many innocent victims of Hitler’s lunacy. His original intent evolved to protect his children, not merely withhold information about his own father. Fear also motivated my grandmother who began claiming her heritage as Austrian, not German, in the early 1940’s to avoid the displacement into internment camps in our country during World War II. Over 11,000 German civilians were housed in these camps. Sadly, Ellis Island was utilized as a camp for this dark purpose. Our family secret became like a monster in the closet that everyone is afraid of but succeeding generations had never seen. Funny, how folks wind up protecting that monster. But the secrecy backfired by producing a vague disquiet that we were somehow less than we should have been and this affected all of us to varying degrees. We seemed powerless over the history we carried in our bloodline. When an elementary schoolmate asked what I was and I sheepishly replied American, my response received an exasperated Oh-please-you-know-what-I-meant, stupid. As a child, this secret made me feel ashamed of who I was without knowing why. As an adult, the secrecy baffled and irritated me.

As a researcher, I now have a gentler understanding of why my family withheld information from us. Still, I can no longer perpetuate the secret and choose to reveal the truth of our background, for too many lies and half-truths surfaced that may have seemed like the only option at the time. Yet, within these same bloodlines exists an incredible capacity to forge ahead when all hope seems lost. Most of us would eagerly embrace that desirable trait. Some of my beloved family may refute or dismiss my perspective and I have no argument with them. We each see what we see. My personal aim was to uncover the source of that hidden something, resurrect it, put it into perspective and finally give it a decent burial. For those interested souls, maybe this book can open that closet door, replace the lightbulb and sweep out all the junk. There is no monster, just one measly, squished rat way over in the corner.

Most of all, it is fascinating and fun to finally know who I am and from which point on the planet my family originated. That is where the name, Vishka came from. Upon celebrating our surprising Jewish ancestry, a cousin nick-named me Vishka, which sounded Jewish and German and Polish and which everyone else picked up. I love it! I have been called Wicki by my German Grandma Carrie who could not pronounce the V and Bicki by my first childhood friend, the two-year-old Jewish boy next door. I like my new nickname. You can call me Vishka, if you want. I hope you will enjoy the journey through time as much as I did.

Table of Contents

PREFACE

Part 1: THE MYSTERY MAN

Chapter 1           Isidore Israel Irving Schul

Chapter 2           The Voyage

Chapter 3           America

Chapter 4           The Midwest

Chapter 5           Getting Caught

Chapter 6           Doing Time

Chapter 7           The Pen Pal

Chapter 8           Another Chance

Part 2: CARRIE’S STORY

Chapter 9           Leaving the Homeland

Chapter 10        The Letter

Chapter 11        Preparing for the Unknown

Chapter 12        The Immigration Bureau

Chapter 13        Orphans in the New Land

Chapter 14        Mr. Right

Chapter 15        Family Matters

Chapter 16        Carrie and Minnie

Chapter 17        Mr. Wrong

Chapter 18        First Generation Americans

Chapter 19        The Call to Duty—World War II

Chapter 20        Life After the War

EPILOGUE

Part 1

THE MYSTERY MAN

1

ISIDORE ISRAEL

IRVING SCHUL

SIMON S CHUL HAD NEARLY TORN HIS HAIR OUT TRYING TO REASON with his second son, Isidore, but his words fell on deaf ears once again. Born on December 18, 1889, in Krakow, Austria (soon after to become part of Poland), the small, wiry, seventeen-yearold with the brilliant blue eyes and fine, coal-black hair, defiantly shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He had learned long ago to ignore his father’s tirades which lately seemed to be their only form of communication. This blatant disrespect infuriated the senior Schul who found himself one day all alone in the room yelling at the four walls. What could he do but console himself with a good stiff belt of Schnapps and lament his misfortune as the parent of an unrepentant prodigal son? He would shake his head in bewilderment that his belligerent son was actually as Jewish as he was.

The boy was a mystery to him; Jewish children did not act like this. In the days of Moses, Isidore would have been stoned for such a rebellious attitude, the harried father considered and he was then instantly consumed with guilt over even having such a thought. Isidore should be grateful we live in 1906 and not ancient times, but now I know why Jews bang their heads against the wall when we pray he muttered aloud.

Ever since reaching adolescence, the strong-willed boy had been a handful and nothing his parents said or did seemed to make an iota of difference. To keep some semblance of peace in the family, the Schuls eventually gave up and let the boy have his own way. From time to time, however, the frustrated Simon would explode and predict that Isidore would bring disaster on the entire family. Isidore felt just as angry and frustrated. Could things ever get much worse? He scornfully wondered. For all his parents’ pious and self-righteous talk, neither religion nor morals seemed to bring anything good into their family’s miserable lives. They were often cold, exhausted, and hungry with little hope of a better future.

Although as Jews the family experienced the community of shtetl¹ life, the Schuls were still considered newcomers to this area even though they had lived in this city of Rogasen, in the province of Posen in the Prussian Empire for six years. Newcomers were assigned to live in the worst section of town, so the Schuls were never sure of who they could trust, even among their own neighbors. In tumultuous times throughout the centuries, Jews had always been singled out as scapegoats and none of Rogasen’s shtetl dwellers knew when the next wave of violence would come.

Although Simon tried in vain to shield his family from news of the worsening political climate, the discussions at the men’s gathering in that year of 1906 were becoming more alarming by the day. The fear was seeping into their women’s kitchen and garden conversations like a foul stench. The winds of change were blowing once again and they were not gentle breezes. In a few years the town would again revert to the Kingdom of Poland due to the region’s chronic instability, but, most people retained their Polish allegiance regardless of how many times conniving neighboring countries partitioned and redistributed their land. The brutal Russians were pushing in from the east, threatening to absorb Poland as usual, but the freedom-loving Poles fought back fiercely and with some success, even though they were grossly outnumbered. A series of pogroms², in Russia in 1905-1906 had spilled over into Poland but when the Russians tried to blame Poland for the horrific