Confessions: To Be Forgiven

By Victor Urban

This is the story of my family and their struggles through a very tough time during WWII and their strength, faith in God, and tenacity during a very dark period in history--a story of a family finding strength and courage to carry on when all was dark. It begins with the birth of my dad and carrying on to the time of new beginnings for my family in America. Enjoy a tale of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889601678

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Confessions

To Be Forgiven

Victor Urban

Copyright © 2024 Victor Urban

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-88960-147-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-167-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To the reader,

I truly hope you enjoy this true and historic account of what my family had to endure in World War II. May this book bring out feelings and emotions that you have never experienced before. This book is not just about World War II but also about love and hate. Forgiving and being unforgiven and the many confessions that were told to me by my father. It is also about fulfilling history and putting the final chapter as too how Mussolini died. This book is also nourishment for the soul. This book will make your body feel alive.

I, the author, suffer from severe depression. This disability helped me write this book from a different perspective, and I truly tried to connect with you, the reader. I will never regret having depression since it helped me to write this book with compassion and understanding not ever felt by another author.

Thank you, reader, for purchasing this book and for choosing to go on a journey that will bond us together. Let us become neighbors!

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

The Final Chapter

Antidotes

To dad, Jerzy (George) Phillip Urban.

About the Author

To the reader,

I truly hope you enjoy this true and historic account of what my family had to endure in World War II. May this book bring out feelings and emotions that you have never experienced before. This book is not just about World War II but also about love and hate. Forgiving and being unforgiven and the many confessions that were told to me by my father. It is also about fulfilling history and putting the final chapter as too how Mussolini died. This book is also nourishment for the soul. This book will make your body feel alive.

I, the author, suffer from severe depression. This disability helped me write this book from a different perspective, and I truly tried to connect with you, the reader. I will never regret having depression since it helped me to write this book with compassion and understanding not ever felt by another author.

Thank you, reader, for purchasing this book and for choosing to go on a journey that will bond us together. Let us become neighbors!

Chapter 1

Dad's Day

In the year of our Lord 1994, my family and I went to visit my dad on Father's Day. While we were visiting my dad, he took me aside and took me to his bedroom and began telling me what he did in World War II. To that day, he always kept things to himself about the war, but for some reason, he felt compelled to tell me his story.

In his bedroom, he kept a twelve-pack of Budweiser on his bed, along with a fifth of Canadian Club whiskey and several packs of Pall Mall cigarettes. When we sat down on his bed, he first took and lit a cigarette. Then he had to breathe in some oxygen through a mask.

Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, Vic, I was an assassin in World War II. My targets were Hitler and Mussolini. I also assassinated several concentration camp commandants in Germany. My greatest achievement was when I shot Mussolini at the Italian-Switzerland border, and you know what happened to Hitler? He committed suicide.

He continued to say that he was one of four men that are like brothers to me. They helped me on my mission to stop WWII from occurring by assassinating Hitler. At that time, I did not know what to say. I just had a blank look on my face, I suppose. He went on by saying that he named me after the last true king of Italy, Victor Henry Emmanuel, who was a very close friend of my grandfather. My grandfather asked me to vindicate King Victor Henry by assassinating Mussolini. He also said that we are descendants of Polish royalty.

At that time, I realized that my dad was dying. He had lung cancer after smoking heavily for thirty-some years. He told me not to tell my brother or my mother of this because they would not be able to handle this kind of truth.

He continued, I also want you to keep in touch with my friends. They are very loyal and compassionate. They are like brothers to me.

He handed me a piece of paper, and on it were names and phone numbers where I could get in touch with them.

My dad said, Do this when you are ready. Now let's go back to the celebration.

My mother had a large feast on the table. We ate and drank and enjoyed the wonderful summer day. We all had several cans of beer and whiskey under our belts. Every time we drank a shot of whiskey, we would say in Polish, Na Zrovya, which means to your health. I had a stupid thought to myself if we drank enough of these shots and told my dad, Na Zrovya, enough times. Maybe he wouldn't die. Boy, did that sound really dumb. I was very young and foolish. I loved my dad very much.

After dessert, my dad explained his wishes and told the family of the contents of his will.

My dad explained how he took a part-time job delivering newspapers so that my brother and I would have equal shares. My brother was to receive the house, land, and furniture, and I was to receive $300,000 in cash. He also added that my brother was to be the executor of his will and to be carried out after the death of my mother. He signed papers, giving my brother power of attorney because he lived with my mother in Port Huron, Michigan.

In an instant, my brother changed. He was given power over me. It seemed that he couldn't wait for my dad to die. All of a sudden, he had his house, his wife, and his money, and he appointed himself head of the family. Everything my dad worked for, all of a sudden, was gone. His wishes were never granted.

It was a three-hour drive back to my home for me and my wife and three children. On the way home to Ionia, Michigan, I did not say very much. I was accepting the fact that my dad was dying, and I meditated on everything he told me. It was an awful lot to take in. When we got home, I told my wife, Alice, what my dad told me in his bedroom. Shortly after that, I went to the log cabin, a little bar just a short way from home. There, I ordered a beer, and I just thought about everything that my dad had to say.

It was just twelve years ago, on Father's Day, that my dad told me about his brother Matthew. I remember watching the news that someone in Poland stole a Russian MIG fighter plane and defected to West Germany and handed the plane over to the United States. My dad told me that he received a letter from his brother just a couple of days after the newscast. He did not hear from Matthew in several years. In fact, he hadn't seen him since he left Poland in 1933.

In the letter, Mathew was asking my dad to sponsor him in the United States and that the United States would give him amnesty as long as my dad would sponsor him and guarantee him a job. Before he stole the plane and defected to West Germany, he sent his family to Israel so that the Russians would not see repercussions. The reason he sent his wife and two children to Israel was because his wife was a Jew and had relatives in Israel, but he really wanted to live in the United States of America and repair his relationship with my dad. But my mother did not want anything to do with his family, and she forbade my dad to even respond to his letter, leaving Matthew's family wondering if they would be granted political amnesty. She came right out and told me all he wanted was money, and I wouldn't give him any. My dad had no say so in the matter. To keep peace in the family and his own home, he had to submit to the bitch. Yes, indeed, I am the son of a true bitch!

I truly did not know how to respond to this situation. I was only thirty years old. I was brought up Catholic, and I really did not know right from wrong at that time. Now since I was fifty-three years old and had studied the Bible, I would have told her that she was a bitch and she wasn't behaving like a Christian should. As it said, love thy neighbor and love your brother. She put a wedge between them permanently, and my dad could not have a relationship with his one and only brother.

My dad used to receive a letter from his mother about once a year. She tracked him down through the aid of Red Cross and Social Security. My dad knew five languages: Polish, English, German, Italian, and Yiddish. Sometimes the letters were written in Polish or German or even Yiddish. Again, my mother never would allow my dad to respond. Worse yet, she made it appear that my dad did not care to respond to his mother's letters.

My dad seemed happy that his brother turned out to be a colonel. I thought he was glad to hear from him and that he had two children, both being boys. It saddened him to hear he had to live in Israel. One time, I received a phone call from my uncle Matthew's wife. She left a message on the answering machine that he passed away. It was very difficult for me to translate the message and understand it, but it meant the world to me. She left a phone number for me to call her back, but I decided not to. I was sad that I never got to meet my own dad's brother and my aunt and my two cousins on the Urban side of the family. I felt quite confident in my decision not to respond. I felt that the Holy Spirit was telling me not to. I sometimes thought about my two cousins in Israel, and I wondered what they were like and how much richer my life would be if I had known them. As for my mother's relatives, I didn't have much to do with them because I just didn't fit in with them. I didn't really have anything against them.

I remember the day my dad died. The weather was so beautiful—the kind of day a person wanted to live for: not a cloud in the sky, eighty degrees, and just a light wind. It was Labor Day weekend. I was very sad to say that he died all alone. I was a farmer at the time while also going to college to become a corrections officer. We lived on a farm, and I was going bankrupt. Yes, I was broke, to say the least. My health wasn't that good. I was sick with depression, and I had to start a new career. My mother and brother were at home, but they were outside, enjoying the weather while my dad was dying. He had lung cancer and was determined not to be a burden on anyone. He even drove himself for his chemotherapy treatments. He also had severe arthritis and Parkinson's disease. Whenever he poured a shot of whiskey, he would shake terribly. My mother and brother said that he choked to death while he was vomiting blood.

My mother was determined to give him a Polish funeral. She didn't like the priest at her church, so she searched for a Polish priest. She found one, and he carried out my mother's wishes, not my dad's wishes. I wished it would have been in English because my children could not understand Polish. It didn't matter to my dad. A lot of his friends only spoke English, and they ended up not coming to the funeral because everyone spoke Polish.

I was glad my dad's suffering was over and that he was now in heaven. My dad had a lot of love in his heart, not only for his family but for anyone. He was the kind of man that would shake hands with you using both hands. He was a faithful, humble man who served God with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind, and all his strength, loving God and Jesus all the way. He was a devout Catholic and a faithful reader of the Bible. He had to hide the Bible so that my mother, the perfect Catholic, would not take it away from him. He was very compassionate to the homeless, always sharing what he had, including love. For the last ten years of his life, he didn't go to mass because he didn't want to go with my mother to church. Needless to say, my dad and mother did not have a good relationship. He did not go anywhere with her, and she did not go anywhere with him.

At the funeral, I was disgusted with the way my mother's family acted. They mocked my dad and made derogatory comments about him and his past. That was the last time I would see them, including my grandfather, whom I also respected and loved.

The day after the funeral was a terrifying experience. I was home with my family. It was a quiet summer day, but at my mother's house, that was another story. The house that my dad lived in for twenty years was haunted by my dad's spirit. My mother was home alone, and my brother was at work. I received a phone call from my mother, who was calling from the neighbor's house. She was so terrified that she ran from the house and called me and told me that my dad's bedroom door was closed and that it was shaking violently, and bright lights were flashing through the bottom of the door. Then she called my brother and had him come to the neighbor's house immediately. My brother went to the house right away, and he confirmed what my mom spoke.

My mother would not enter that house for several weeks. She took time off work and lived with my grandfather's brother for almost a month. My brother stayed living in the house by himself. He did not seem to be afraid of my dad's spirit. After a month, my mother simply moved back in and accepted the fact that the house was haunted. You see, after the coroner took my dad's body, my mother was angry about all the blood my dad vomited all over the carpeting. My mother was a neat freak. She poured excessive amounts of Pine-Sol all over the room, then closed the door, and she wanted the door permanently closed. My mother and brother discovered that if they left the bedroom door open, the door would quite shake, and the bright lights would not flash.

I suggested to my mother that she should talk to a priest about what was going on, but she refused and simply accepted the fact that the house was haunted. A few months later, on Christmas Eve, I and my family visited them. I was thankful nothing happened while we were there. I did not want my kids to be afraid. That was the last time I saw my mother. She lived there in fear and turmoil for three more years.

My brother told me over the phone that the haunting stopped when my mother was told she was dying of pancreatic cancer. The haunting stopped on Father's Day.

My mother wanted a new house most of her life. My dad could never make her happy. He did give her a new house, which she could barely afford. It never felt like home. It was just a building with no love. My mother tried many times to kick my dad out, but she failed. He stuck to his marriage vows right to the time he died. Agnes was her name, and she left me a letter that she wrote on her deathbed. It was mean, nasty, and cruel. Agnes wanted revenge against me. That letter haunted me for many years till I started to study the Bible. I tried to commit suicide because of that letter and what it stood for, but because of that letter and because of it, I found God. I would read the Bible for two to three days straight with no sleep or food. I found peace when I forgave her. I still suffer from severe depression, but the Bible helped a lot.

Shortly after my dad died, I got in touch with my dad's friend Freda. He lived in the suburbs north of Chicago. We arranged a meeting so I could meet my dad's loyal friends and band of brothers. There were three of them. They all served the Lord with my dad during the war, and they stuck together till they all passed on. They were all loyal and devout Catholics. I remember when I went to meet them, I was very nervous. Freda told me that they simply wanted to get together with me so that they could explain what they all did in the war.

My dad did not like to talk about himself or the things that happened to him because he was very humble. Their names were Jacque, Freda, and Frank. They called my dad George, but his real name was Jerzy. That was what they liked to be called. They did not like to use their real names, nor do I know their real names because, during the war, they had to protect their identities and families.

We met at a hotel, and there, they greeted me with great love and admiration. They all knew me, but I did not know them at all. When my mom and dad lived in England, my dad would have them over, but my mother would become enraged and say that they were not welcome. All they did was sit and drink and eat, and she did not want to hear about what my dad did in the war. So my dad had to meet them by himself, usually at a tavern or an inn. They kept that tradition with me and said that they didn't want to put a strain on my marriage so we always met in private.

When my dad told me of these things, he said, You could be king of Poland because he was a descendant of royalty. So when I first met Freda, Jaqui, and Frank, they jokingly said, Here is King Victor. I did not know how to respond. I just had a blank look on my face, so they explained everything to me. That would not happen—first of all, because my dad's mother was a Jew, and they simply just don't have a royal family in Poland anymore, not since 1792.

My dad's friends taught me a lot of things. I felt that every time we met that I learned more about my dad. They even taught me about the history of World Wars I and II. They all felt that WWII was a continuation of WWI, mostly because of the Treaty of Versailles. They told me many things in great detail about how my dad tried to assassinate Hitler and Mussolini. We would always drink and eat very well. We would stop when we were too drunk to walk and sleep it off in a motel. They all drank and smoked heavily and ended up dying, not because of the war but because of excessive smoking and drinking beer and shots of whiskey.

One time, I contacted Freda's four children who were staying in the ship ports in Seattle, Washington. I was a truck driver, and I took my son Paul with me. I had a load going to Seattle, and I really wanted to see them. We met in a bar, and I drank a lot of beer. We spoke in Polish, so nobody knew what we were talking about. I really enjoyed the visit. We talked about what our fathers went through in the war. They had to grow up fast with the onset of WWII. I looked at my son Paul, and I told them how thankful I was to the Lord that he protected our fathers so that there would be future generations brought up in freedom in the United States of America. They gave us a ride back to my truck, and we parted ways. I told them that there really was no reason for us to keep meeting, and we should let the past go and move on with our lives.

Chapter 2

Jerzy P. Urban (George) was born near Sobibor, Poland, on December 24, 1915. His mother's name was Ludwika, and his father's name was Pavel (Paul). Ludwika was a Jew but not an ordinary Jew. She believed in Jesus and accepted him as the Messiah. Paul was a Catholic, and he taught Ludwika the New Testament of the Bible. They were very wealthy and had possession of about five hundred acres of very good earth. When George was born, Sobibor was occupied by Russia, and the border was west of Sobibor.

George was homeschooled by his mother, and his dad was a civil engineer. His dad was not around very much because he was busy rebuilding Europe after World War I. He was raised by his mother and his grandfather, whose name was Stephan. He learned Polish, Yiddish, and German from Ludwika and English and Italian from Stephan. He did very well in all his lessons and knew the five languages very well. He was fluent and also could read and write just as well. He spoke without an accent in all five languages.

Stephan taught him how to shoot a gun and noticed how good of a shot he really was. He became so proficient that he could hit a bucket one mile away with the aid of a scope. He also noticed that George had a special gift from God when it came to animals. One time, George found a wolf pup in the woods and decided to keep it and raise it up. That wolf would always protect my dad. If anyone lifted a finger or an arm against him, the wolf would threaten that person. George got into trouble one day, and his grandfather was coming at him with a belt. He took off running and went into the kennel with his wolf. The wolf looked rabid when his grandfather came after him. Stephan thought that George was going to be attacked by the wolf, but the wolf was just protecting George. Stephan had to shoot the wolf.

George also had a natural ability to train horses and homing pigeons. His grandfather had pigeons and after WWI when he used to send messages on the pigeon's leg. This ability will help George in the coming war against Germany. George also had the ability to train and brake horses for the Polish Cavalry. It appeared that the wilder the horse was, he broke that horse twice as fast.

When George was fifteen years old, his grandfather purchased a farm tractor from the United States. It was the first tractor that anybody purchased in Poland. His grandfather was a man of great vision for the future. He predicted that Hitler would become chancellor of Germany and that he would probably invade Poland someday. Hitler despised the Polish people as badly as his hatred for the Jews. He felt very strongly that Poland should progress along with the rest of the world to prepare themselves for war. Stephan took great pleasure in owning the only tractor in Poland. They used the tractor mostly for running a grain thatcher.

The Urban family was truly blessed by God. During this time, all of Poland was trying to modernize the whole country. The economy was strong and growing.

Stephan, a descendant of Polish royalty, had friends who were also of royalty. His closest friend was the king of Italy, Victor Henry Emmanuel. Every summer, they would take a trip to Rome to visit King Victor, or King Victor would come to visit Poland. That had to stop when Hitler was made chancellor of Germany in 1933. Stephan and King Victor Henry were very concerned about the future of Europe. They did keep in touch by mail for a year or two. On the last visit, they had King Victor tell how Mussolini took power away from him. Mussolini overthrew King Victor and showed that he wanted to join up with Hitler. At that time, Stephan volunteered George to help assassinate both Hitler and Mussolini.

My grandfather Paul was so proud of his wife for turning into a Catholic. She took lessons from a priest during her conversion. When she was baptized and took her first communion, Stephan threw one heck of a party. At that time in Poland, such events as weddings, and such would last five days. Being farmers, they would care for the livestock early in the morning, then return to the festivals. Stephan started to prepare for the party months ahead of time. In Poland, they fed the hogs a mash that contained milk and corn. Being milk-fed, the hogs would have less fat, and the hams were low in fat and salt. Polish ham was probably the best ham in the world, so Stephan had two hogs that were roasted over an open fire especially fed just for the feast. Polish ham was probably the best ham in the world. Still to this day, Polish ham was still imported to the United States. The food was amazing.

On the last day of the celebration, Stephan, who was ninety-three years old, collapsed at the party. He was playing the accordion and singing and dancing. It took two days to get a doctor to come to Sobibor, and Stephan lay on his back in bed, never blinking an eye or even moving a muscle. The doctor said he had a massive stroke and that he was in a vegetative state and that he would probably die very soon. Stephan's wife died twenty years earlier of severe rheumatoid arthritis. Ludwika immediately started funeral arrangements, and he died that day. Stephan was buried three days later in the family plot.

Ludwika beat herself up pretty bad after the funeral. She blamed herself for Stephan dying. She became very depressed. After a couple of months, she went to see a priest for counseling at Paul's request. It took several months before Ludwika recovered. By the grace of God, she avoided being put in a sanitorium.

At Stephan's funeral, George was quite taken by the priest. The priest read from the Bible the Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me in quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head