WHY NOT? LET'S TALK (11/26/06)

WHY NOT? LET'S TALK

by Yaro Bihun

Remembering veterans, and others

I had not gone to see a war movie for more than a quarter century - not since "The Deer Hunter," which came out in 1978, and "Apocalypse Now," a year later. The story and setting of the first drew me in, being about the effect of the Vietnam War on a group of Carpatho-Rusyns (could be Ukrainians) living in a coal-mining town near Pittsburgh, but with a lot of the filming done in Cleveland, where I grew up, including the wedding reception in Lemko Hall, not unlike the Ukrainian American wedding receptions I attended there in the 1950s-1960s.

After "Apocalypse," I stopped for some reason, and I've missed a number of first-rate films of that genre since then: "Platoon," "Full Metal Jacket," "We Were Soldiers," to name a few about Vietnam, and, more recently, "Saving Private Ryan," about World War II.

On November 14, however, I went to see "Flags of Our Fathers," based on the book of the same title about the flag-raising on Iwo Jima written by James Bradley, one of the soldiers in the famous photograph of that event.

I had no intention of breaking my long war-movie fast until this past Saturday, when, at the invitation of Washington area School of Ukrainian Studies Deputy Director Roman Ponos, I had a session with its students about the Ukrainian immigration experience in America. I brought along some family documents and photographs I had written about in Ukrainian Weekly articles on the subject over the years.

Among them was a letter from my aunt, Maria Fedorka, written in 1945 from Colver, a small coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, to our family, then refugees in Germany, when she first got the news that at least some members of the family she left in Ukraine in 1913 had survived World War II. She also described her war years here - a widow, with both of her sons and only daughter's husband serving in the military overseas.

I'm sure that the experiences and feelings expressed in her letter were not unique to our family; in many respects they were shared by hundreds, if not thousands, of Ukrainian American mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles at that time.

Here are some excerpts, translated from the original Ukrainian:

* * *

Colver, August 5, 1945

My dearest brothers, sisters, brothers- and sisters-in-law, children.

You cannot imagine the boundless joy I feel today. I was beginning to fear that one day I would die, not knowing whether any of you were still alive. In December of last year I gave the Red Cross, which was searching for relatives in the old country, Hanka's (sister Anna Jesersky) and Olena's (sister Olena Dub) address. In April, I was told that they could not locate you. Then I lost all hope.

My sons also went to war: Ivan (John Fedorka) two years ago in April, and Stefan (Steve Fedorka) two years ago in May. Ivan spent a year in England and France. In October he returned to America and spent a month at home. He was here until July 1, when he left for Japan. Stefan, who hadn't been home for a year in June, returned home yesterday for five days. Today he went to the Post Office and returned with your letter.

My dearest, you cannot imagine my happiness over these two days - to see my son and to receive your letter.

Stefan serves on a ship, sometimes not seeing land for a few months at a time. He's been everywhere. His ship transports men and food to these places and returns with the wounded and prisoners. Ivan, too, doesn't serve on the front lines where there is still fighting; his unit comes in to rebuild everything. But even then the enemy sometimes attacks.

I'm left alone on the farm, weary and in ill health. I also care for Hanka's (daughter Ann McKavish) 6-year-old boy. For the past two years Hanka has been working as a cook in a hospital, and her husband is in the military, too. ...

Our mother's (Anastasia Bihun) sufferings are finally over; she had more than her share. May the earth be as soft as down feathers for her. ...

Where is Stefka (sister Stefania) and her husband? I received a letter from her back in 1939 and responded, but have heard nothing in return. And I haven't heard from Hanka or Olena. ...

I'm sorry for all of the smudges in the letter. As I write, the teardrops keep falling on the paper, smudging the ink. ...

May God keep you in his care.

Please write.

Your Maria Fedorka

* * *

Rereading Aunt Maria's letter later that same Saturday evening - which happened to be Veterans Day - I decided that I would have to see "Flags of Our Fathers." Maybe it would help me feel how they felt, those who went to war and those who stayed behind. I think it did. It's a good, serious film. But I don't think it cured me of the strange phobia I have about seeing Vietnam War movies.

I did see a documentary about Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, "The Fog of War," when it came out about three years ago, and in one scene it confirmed what I suspected was at the root of my "problem." As they were discussing the passage of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution by Congress, which allowed the president, without any declaration of war, "to take all necessary steps, including the use of armed force ..." in that region, the date came up on the screen: August 7, 1964.

I knew I was very lucky to have served in the Army just before the Vietnam War started full force, but I didn't realize exactly how lucky until then: my enlistment ended on August 8, 1964.

"There but for the grace of God ..." I thought almost out loud in the theater. And that's how I characterize my "problem" with Vietnam, which since then has spread to our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in the form of my feeling compelled to acknowledge and honor every American soldier killed there by reading every single one of their names when they are listed every other day or so in the newspaper and repeated periodically on combined multi-page layouts along with their photos.

Maria Fedorka's sons and son-in-law came home alive from World War II. Indeed, our extended family, both here and in Ukraine, lost only one member to that war - my mother's brother, Volodymyr Kubrak, who perished in Auschwitz in 1942 - and none in wars since then.

God must have heard Aunt Maria and kept us in His care, as she implored in that old letter. And I thank her for that.

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