Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
The following story is part travelogue and part biography. The interconnected vignettes
chronicle an October 2011 fieldwork trip to western Ukraine where my colleague
Maryann Sivak and I interviewed ethnic Lemkos who were deported from southeastern
Poland in the aftermath of World War II. It was on this journey that we met the Lemko
poet Kateryna Rusyn, who was eight years old when her family was deported from the
eastern Lemko region in the spring of 1946. Pani Kateryna charmed us with her wit and
humor, overwhelmed us with her hospitality, and inspired us with her enduring love for
her culture and homeland. In the few short days we spent with her, she became much
more than a research participant for our project. She became our muse.
Maryann and Richard leveraged their contacts in the Carpatho-Rusyn community to find
Lemko-Rusyns while I directed my outreach efforts to the Ukrainian diaspora
community.3 Thanks to the generous assistance of people from both communities, we
were able to make contact with dozens of Lemkos in Europe who had experienced World
War II and the subsequent deportation campaigns.
With the outreach segment going well, Maryann and I decided to make a fieldwork
excursion to Europe in the autumn of 2011. We planned to visit the Lemko region in
southeastern Poland and then drive from Poland into western Ukraine. Since I am neither
fluent in Lemko nor familiar with driving a vehicle in Poland or Ukraine, Maryann
generously offered to perform triple-duty as a co-researcher, driver, and interpreter.4
She went on to explain that she was active in a Lemko organization based in IvanoFrankivsk and that she and the other members often got together for vatra8 festivals,
cultural concerts, and other events.
Wanting to know more about her life story, we inquired about her age, the year she
had been born, and where she was from in the Lemko region. She told us that she was
born in 1938 in the village of Strubovyska (Strzebowiska) in the Beskydy (Bieczczady)
range of the Carpathian mountains.
There were Lemkos in the Beskydy mountains! My village had about sixty houses.
Most of the houses in Strubovyska had only one room with a stove, but when my father
built the house, he added an extra room. It was beautiful land, and we lived in our
beautiful Beskydy mountains like birds, free and wonderful! When you go to
Lemkivshchyna, you should visit there and see it with your own eyes. I come from a
very exotic land!
I asked what had happened to her family after the war, and she told us that when
she was eight years old, Polish soldiers burned down the village, killed many of the
villagers, and deported the survivors (including her family) the following year.
By that point, we were convinced that she was an excellent interview candidate for
our work, and so Maryann told her that we wished to interview her when we came to
Ukraine.
Of course! Dont worry! She said. I will tell you everything you want to know!
But first tell me, where do you live in America?
Maryann explained that she and I actually lived in different cities. She lives in
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and at that time, I lived in Alabama. Maryann asked Pani
Kateryna if she was familiar with America.
Of course I know America! I have been to America myself!
Her robust voice was
infused with pride. In 1975, I visited my aunt in Pennsylvania, but I also saw New York
City, Washington D.C., and I even walked across the border to Canada!
After discussing our plans to visit Ukraine, she invited us to stay with her at her
daughters house in Dolyna, which had private rooms with a private yard where we
could safely park a car. She explained that her daughter worked in Italy as a nanny and
stayed in the house only when she came home to Ukraine for a sojourn.
This is a modern house with a nice kitchen and a shower. I know how you
Americans like to have your showers!
In the Lemko culture, a vatra is a traditional bonfire festival that celebrates Lemko traditions
and includes dancing and traditional Lemko songs.
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And so it was settled. I asked if she could help us to locate three or four additional
participants for interviews, and Pani Kateryna enthusiastically agreed. We thanked her
and promised to contact her as soon as we arrived in Ukraine.
I will tell everyone that the Americans are coming!
She said. We will treat you
Americans just like you are the President of the United States!
Once a boarding school, the Ruska Bursa in Gorlice now operates as a cultural and educational
center for Lemko youth and also houses a small museum, archive and radio station.
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It seemed more like a tailgate party than a traffic line, as we observed hundreds of
people socializing outside their idling cars and trucks. Joining in the experience, we
decided to stretch our legs and get some air, but were soon caught off guard by a spectacle
that I can only describe as Vehicular Darwinism.
When a few cars were finally
permitted to pass through the border gate, alert drivers quickly dove back into their
vehicles, peeled rubber on the asphalt, and cut the line in front of unfortunate rookies
who were absorbed in roadside conversations. Initially, we were caught off guard too, but
it didnt take long for Maryann to evolve.
We sat stubbornly poised to roll with the motley caravan, but despite Maryanns
dont tread on me vigilance, the hours dragged on and we grew increasingly impatient
and thirsty. After a few hours had passed, we were close enough to the front of the line
that I noticed a small building by the guards station. It looked as though it might contain
some type of water fountain, or hopefully a vending machine (or anythinganything at
all!)
Maryann, Im just going to see if they have anything for sale. Maybe I can buy some
bottled water.
Her attention was focused on a Volvo in the next lane which had unscrupulously cut
in line a few minutes earlier.
I really doubt it, but you can try.
As I cautiously approached the building on foot, a young Ukrainian guard standing
on the center median between the lanes was watching me. When I came closer to the
building, I realized that it was no friendly rest stop outpost, but more like an official
administrative center connected with the border police. I decided to head back to the car,
but then froze when a voice called out in a sharp tone.
Hey you! Pani! The border guard shouted in Ukrainian. Give me your passport!
I turned to face him and tried to forced a smile, even though I hate being called
Pani.10
(It makes me feel matronly.)
Sorry, but I dont have my passport on me. I replied in English. Its in the car.
Come over here! I want to talk to you.
Because I sensed that approaching him would be a bad idea, I turned and walked back
to the car hoping that he would assume that I had misunderstood him. From there,
Maryann had seen the entire exchange and observed the guards reaction.
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When you walked away, he said something to the other border guard. I bet they are
going to stop us when we get to the other side.
I hoped that she was wrong about that, but as we got closer to the crossing, the same
guard stopped Maryanns car and allowed other vehicles to go in front of us with no
explanation. This must have gone on for another two hours, since it was well into dusk
by the time we finally reached the front of the line and were signaled to exit the car so that
the customs officer could examine our documents. He stamped them without incident
and exchanged pleasantries with us.
Afterward, I felt momentarily relieved as we drove across the border into Ukraine.
But nightfall was coming on fast, and we still had to make our way to Lviv.
THIS IS A LITTLE BIT CREEPY.
Maryann said. I feel like we are going into the
darkness. Imagine how terrifying it must have been for those Lemkos who were forced
across this border on trains, not knowing where they were going to.
This definitely gave me something to think about in those moments. I shivered
because the idea of this merged with my visceral fears of being a proverbial stranger in a
strange land. Of course, I had been to Ukraine a few times before, but had never crossed
the border on land at night.
A short time later, the dusk had progressed to darkness and the only light was that
from the headlights of the yellow Fiat Panda, which illuminated the severely damaged
road.
Look at that! Maryann gasped. The potholes are bigger than our wheels!
With a white-knuckled grasp on the steering wheel, she swerved left and right to avoid
the craters. Some of them easily measured three to four feet in diameter. It was around
that time that we noticed flashing lights in our rearview mirror.
Oh, no. Maryann sighed. I knew it.
The police car was directly behind us, and Maryann had no choice but to pull over on
the side of the pockmarked road.
Well, maybe we should just give him some money. I suggested, reaching for my
wallet where I had stashed some U.S. currency. But Maryann was adamant and covered
my hand with hers.
Absolutely not! We are Americans. Besides, you can get into trouble for that! You
never know what they will do.
A portly middle-aged Ukrainian policeman approached the drivers side window, and
Maryann straightened her back and smiled at him as though the encounter had been her
idea.
Hi Officer, how are you? I was just wonderingcould you help us? We waited for
five hours at Medyka and now we are lost. Just help us get to where we need to go. We
are hungry and thirsty and we
Just calm down. Its okay. He said. Everything is okay. Where do you want to
go?
We are going to a little village near Lviv and I am not sure exactly which way to go.
Can you please give us some advice?
She was really laying it on thick, and it seemed like he was charmed by her accent and
use of language. He asked her where she was from and she replied that she was from
Slovakia. I couldnt understand everything they were saying in this Ukrainian-Lemko
back and forth dialogue, peppered with some of Maryanns insertions of Czech, Slovak
and Russian words. The next thing I knew, he was happily bantering about someone he
had once known from Slovakia and then began giving her directions, pointing forward
into the indiscernible distance. Of course I wondered how much of this she was really
absorbing and, naturally, when the other shoe was going to drop after my transgression
with the border guard.
Was he going to search our car? Confiscate our audio and video equipment? Give
us a fine? How did that even work over here? Maybe I would have to call the embassy
Dyakuyeme vam! Thank you! Maryann suddenly exclaimed. Wait, wait! I want
to give you something.
Rummaging through her handbag, she retrieved several packs of Wrigleys Spearmint
Chewing Gum and handed it to the policeman. He looked rather pleased, thanked her,
and walked back to his car whistling. I watched in disbelief as his police car passed by us
into the darkness.
Did you seriously just bribe that cop with chewing gum? I asked as Maryann pulled
back onto the road.
She gave me a tired smile. It wasnt a bribe, Corinna. It was a thank you. Like I said,
we are Americans.
JUST AS I SUSPECTED, Maryann had been too nervous to completely absorb the
policemans directions, and the road signs along the route were also unfamiliar and
confusing. Somewhere near the city center of Lviv, we became hopelessly lost and
Maryann decided to pull the car into the parking lot of a supermarket. I dialed the number
of my relatives on my travel cell phone, and after some ill-fated attempts to communicate
directions in Ukrainian, they graciously agreed to meet us at the supermarket.
To kill time, Maryann and I decided to go into the store where we bought two very
important things. A cheese pizza (it had a hot foods bar!) and a bottle of red wine which
we intended to enjoy later. Since the pizza hadnt been cut, we tore it into messy pieces
and munched on it in the parking lot as we awaited my relatives arrival. It was the first
thing we had to eat since that morning, and it was either fairly good or we just didnt care
at that point. (I still cant remember exactly.)
Approximately an hour later, my cousin Anya and her husband Mykhailo arrived in
the parking lot and we made quick greetings. Afterward, Maryann followed Mykhailos
van back to their village of Yampil, where Anya prepared us some tea and a snack and
talked with us about our travels that day. Since it was late, we kept our conversation brief
and Mykhailo showed us to the room where we would be sleeping.
There was, however, one thing I had been looking forward to.
Maryann, I have that bottle of wine in my suitcase. I insist that we drink it right
now!
Okay, how will we open it?
Since I knew that my relatives were very religious and refrained from alcohol, I knew
it wasnt likely that they would have a wine opener.
Thats okay, She said. Well open it the hunky way.
At her instruction, I retrieved two glasses and a butter knife from the kitchen.
Maryann used the base of the knife to push the cork into the wine bottle and then poured
the wine into the glasses. It was a well-deserved nightcap - wine with bits of floating cork
and we happily toasted the fact that we had made it to Yampil free and alive.
Wow. I said. That was quite a day. I wonder what lies ahead?
Probably more potholes. Maryann quipped.
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After Maryann parked and we exited the car, I spotted a heavy-set woman
enthusiastically waving to us from the walkway near the side door. She motioned for us
to come toward her through the gate.
Slava Isusu Khrystu!
Maryann greeted her with the customary Old Church Slavonic
expression meaning Glory to Jesus Christ!
Slava Na Viky! Pani Kateryna replied without missing a beat. (Glory Forever!)
After we made our brief introductions in the walkway, she invited us inside and led
us to a nicely appointed living room with built-in bookcases and a variety of Ukrainian
artwork on the wall. I took a seat on the sofa next to Maryann, who began recounting our
trip from Yampil to Dolyna that morning.
Pani Kateryna listened intently as Maryann spoke in Lemko, and then responded in
Ukrainian. You speak beautifully! This is the way my mother used to talk. I have not
heard it spoken this way in many years.
Can you understand me? Maryann asked her.
Yes, Prekrasno! But you speak Lemko much better than I do. I speak the literary
language, but you speak dialect. You must speak slower.
Then you will have to speak slower too! Maryann laughed. Im trying to adjust
to the Ukrainian dialect!
As the conversation progressed, Pani Kateryna attempted to adjust to the way that
Maryann speaks, occasionally throwing in Lemko words although she was clearly more
comfortable with standard Ukrainian. The most endearing aspect of their interactions,
however, was how she struggled to decide how she should address Maryann. Perhaps it
was because she was unclear about how to style the diminutive form given the fact that
Maryann is Rusyn rather than Ukrainian or Russian. Some of her early variations
included Maria, Marychka, and "Marina," (Maryann attempted to correct this to "Pani
Marianka to no avail.) At some point, she finally settled on what became my personal
favorite.
Rusnachka!
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AS MARYANN AND I followed Pani Kateryna to the spacious gathering room on the
second floor of Roznyativs community center, we soon discovered that she had a surprise
waiting for us. Standing near an upright piano along the back wall were approximately
twelve elderly men and women dressed in traditional clothing.
The Americans are here!
Pani Kateryna announced, and then wandered off to
socialize with her contemporaries.
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Maryann leaned in toward me. I thought you asked her to find three or four people?
Yes yes I did.
A middle-aged man was setting up a camera on a tripod near a large, O-shaped
conference table situated in the middle of the room. A small crowd had congregated
around him, chattering animatedly amongst themselves. Beaming proudly, Kateryna
made her way over to the table and motioned for us to walk with her.
Pani Corinna! Pani Rusnachka! Please come here!
She introduced us to several of her Lemko contemporaries, including one of her
sisters, and I noticed that all of them were nicely dressed in traditional clothing. I glanced
down at the rumpled tee-shirt that I was wearing and wished that I was better dressed.
Of course, I never imagined that our fieldwork would bring this type of diplomatic
reception.
A short while later, Maryann whispered that the dark-haired man sitting at the
conference table was the mayor of the village, and that some type of ceremony was about
to ensue. Additionally, the man with the camera and tripod was a local reporter.
So, let me see if I understand thiswere going to meet with the mayor and be in the
local paper?
Yes, said Maryann. This how it is with these Lemkos. We had a plan, but then they
made their own plans.
We took our seats and the photographer began snapping photographs as the mayor
addressed us. After welcoming us to Roznyativ and thanking Pani Kateryna for organizing
the event, he shared his thoughts on the Lemkos in Ukraine, paraphrased here:
For much of my life, I was not aware of what had happened to the Lemkos in Poland.
Now I understand that the Lemkos here are living in a foreign land, not in their
native lands. They do not wish to separate themselves from the Ukrainian nation.
There is no need to divide because we are the same people. The Lemkos have a right
to live as an ethnic minority on the territory of Ukraine, enriching our country with
their unique culture and traditions.
As the mayor wrapped up his comments, he invited me to speak and encouraged me
to ask questions. After ad-libbing my first speech as an unofficial American diplomat, I
asked if he had any advice for Americans who were interested in researching Ukraine
and its ethnic groups.
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Exchange ideas. Exchange information so that we can learn from one another.
There are a lot of Ukrainian organizations in Brazil, Argentina and in the U.S. and
Canada and we would like to have this cooperation with all the countries to cooperate
and exchange information.
Following the mayors talk and a folk sing-a-long with Pani Kateryna and the other
Lemkos, we finally proceeded with our interviews with a quickly improvised question
list that now had to be scaled down in the interest of time. Most of the participants had
experienced resettlement actions carried out by the Soviet and Polish communist
authorities in the years between 1945-1946 and had either been forcibly deported from
their native villages or induced to voluntarily relocate as the result of the growing
frequency and severity of raids on Ukrainian villages. (Their individual stories will be
the subject of future publications.)
When the interviews had finally concluded, we accompanied Pani Kateryna back to
Dolyna and everyone retired early, exhausted after what had been a long, chaotic and
extraordinary day.
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16
17
18
The weeks and months of waiting eventually turned into years, and the Lazoryshyn
family gradually accepted the fact that they would never return to their beloved Beskydy
mountains. The children eventually matured to adulthood and established their own
families. Katerynas father built homes in Roznyativ for himself and his wife, and
eventually, built houses for all three of his daughters. Kateryna excelled in school and
went on to complete a university degree. A born intellectual, she achieved her dream of
becoming a teacher, but was forced to join the communist party in order to practice her
profession.
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The Emissary
ON OUR LAST EVENING in Dolyna, Pani Kateryna showed us a copy of her book,
Oberehy Beskydiv (Charms of the Beskids").17 Maryann and I were sitting with her in
her living room, drinking tea and browsing through her book. We noticed that it
contained information about the history of Strubovyska and the Lemko families who had
lived there, and there was also a section that focused on Pani Katerynas 1975 trip to
America.
She seemed pleased when we finally asked her to tell us the story about her journey, and
began by explaining that her paternal aunt Magdalene (her fathers sister) had emigrated
to the United States before the deportations. After coming to America, she also married
a man with the surname Rusyn, perhaps a distant relative of Katerynas own husband.
Magdalene Rusyn was very smart. She prepared papers so that my father and I
could come to America, and the papers came here (to Ukraine.) But my father
suffered from asthma and worried that he would not be able to breathe if he
traveled, and so everyone decided that I would travel alone. Of course, the KGB was
investigating me, but they said that if I was free from illness and still had all my
teeth, I could go. For a whole year, they called me for interviews. I even had to fill
out papers attesting that if became sick, I would have enough money to take care of
myself.
My aunt was so detailed in submitting those papers that the Soviet government
could not refuse to let me go, but because they were investigating and checking on
me so thoroughly for a whole year, I finally told them that I didnt want to go. But
the KGB said that I had to go because otherwise, the Americans would claim that
they had prevented me from traveling there. They said that when I came back, I
had to tell them everything that had happened. They warned me, You have to say
everything positive about the Soviet Unionabout our government.
At that time, the cost of a plane ticket was $3000, and for that amount, you could
buy a car. If my aunt would have tried to pay for the trip, the government would
not have allowed me to go. They said, "You must pay for your own way." My family
came up with a collection and I traveled to America in 1975 and stayed for a whole
month. I was afraid to go by myself because I had never traveled that far before.
At first, my plane flew to Newark, and from there I flew to Pittsburgh.
My travel papers stated that I could only venture 25 miles from the town where I
would be residing. My grand nephew Freddie Kowalczyk was a big capitalist, and
he took those papers to read them over. He said, If you stay within a 25-mile
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radius, you're not going to see anybody except for us. The family is spread out all
over. So then Freddie called the American embassy, and he told me that they
laughed so hard that they were dying from laughing. They told him, "You tell your
aunt that she can travel all over America! It is only in the Soviet Union that you
cannot travel!"
So then my family started taking me around and showing me America because they
wanted to prove to me that life in America was not like it was in the Soviet Union.
It was so interesting to see everything and I was lucky to have seen it! I went to the
Capitol building in Washington, D.C. when Congress was in session. I went to New
York City and saw those two towers.
Then I wanted to go to Canada, so they took me to the border and gave them (the
border guards) my passport. They looked at my Red passport and kept it for a long
while. Eventually they returned and said, Well, we can let you through, but we
would have to mark the passport and this might cause difficulties." I didnt want
that to happen, but still I pleaded with them to allow me to walk around on the other
side. They allowed it, and so I walked there for about half an hour so that I could
say that I was in Canada.
I asked why her book did not contain photographs of her travels to the places that
she visited when she came to the U.S., and then she told us a story that explained it.
My American family was very surprised and couldn't understand how I came to
America without a camera and not even having sunglasses. Then they asked me if
I had a telephone at home and I told them that I did not. So they (jokingly)
suggested that I had come there as a spy to spread Communist propaganda since I
had paid my own way, but had neither sunglasses nor a cameranot even money
for a telephone at home.
Because her relatives had shown such kindness by bringing her to places that they
had not yet seen for themselves, Kateryna wanted to do something special for them.
On the fourth of May, it was Easter and they gathered everyone together and all of
the relatives came. That was when I realized how great America is. There was a
nicely organized table with a variety of foods served buffet-style. It was beautiful.
I had prepared a speech for them, which I had written in English. They just stared
at me when I read this speech, because it was in that moment that they knew
something more about who I was.18
18
She implies here that her relatives recognized that she was an intellectual.
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We asked what had happened when she finally returned to Soviet Ukraine, and
whether or not the authorities had interrogated her on her whereabouts and
experiences.
When I returned, they didn't ask too many questions. Somehow, they already
knew where I had been and who I had seen because they had people checking, but
they required me to teach a lecture series. I was supposed to talk about how the
Soviet Union was better than America. So I told my students, It is better to live in
the Soviet Union because you can drink horylka19 and live, but in America you
must work hard to live."20
Was it painful for you to see see how people lived freely, and then return to the
reality of communism? I asked.
Yes, but I was very happy to go to America because at that time, very few people
got permission to leave. What I learned in America in one month, I could not have
learned in the Soviet Union. I saw the contrast and observed that there was more
freedom in America. Americans had the freedom to speak without being afraid that the
KGB might contact them.
Alcohol, usually some type of moonshine or vodka.
The original Ukrainian expression was a play on words. Her point was that in the USSR, a
person could drink every day and not work because the socialist system would take care of
people. This was not the case in the U.S., and people had to work hard to have the means to live
and progress through life.
19
20
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,
,
!
,
,
!
As I break out in song, I don't know how to sing it
Bless us God and help us
and Rusnachka Maryann!
As I break out in song, like a lily in the woods
Bless us God and help us
and Lemkynia Corinna too!
With that, she thanked us for visiting her and then told us something that we
probably should have guessed, but had not realized.
You were my first American house guests!
21
See www.lemky.com
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Epilogue
PANI KATERYNA PASSED AWAY approximately a month after we visited her. When we
heard the heartbreaking news, we called her twin sister Galina who lives in Roznyativ.
Galina told us that Pani Katerynas funeral had drawn mourners from miles around,
which wasnt surprising since she had contributed so much to her community and
inspired so many to celebrate their Lemko heritage.
For American researchers, her gift of poetic expression provided a glimpse into the
Lemko soul in a way that Richard Garbera aptly describes as astonishingly poetic, with
a knack for expressing simple ideas in a very beautiful way.22
During our visit, we captured one of her most poetic and beautiful quotes when she
was discussing her feelings about her homeland:
In the Beskyds, our people lived a simple life. They worked hard, but living in the
mountains gives a person the wings of a bird. The mountains gave the people the
wisdom to ask themselves: Who am I? Why am I living here in this land, what am
I meant to do? For those who are living in the mountains, any mountains, this is
different from living in the lowlands. You think about things that are holy and good,
not about fighting and murder. You are closer to the sky, to the clouds, and to the
sun and to the stars. You experience the smell of the grass and the high meadows
(polonyna). The waterfalls of the streams envelop you with understanding and
goodness and connect you closer to God so that you can do some good.
Perhaps among Lemkos, the poetic spirit passes through the generations. Pani
Kateryna is the author of Prayer of a Lemko Woman, a prayer inspired by her mother,
who frequently recited a similar prayer in the tumultuous period after deportations. The
following is an English translation:
Richard attributed this quality to Kateryna Rusyn and many of the Lemkos that we
interviewed.
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O God, give me the strength to live through this day and help me to survive in this
foreign land where they have brought me and my children.
Lord, I pray and beseech Thee, let me not perish, nor my family, nor my people, who
were late to sow the holy grain; for the corn will ripen in the summer and they know
not when or how it will be gathered.
Oh Merciful God, may the sun rise and set each day, so that it brings light and sets
at night in the same way it sets far away in the Beskyd Mountains, in my native hills
and valleys; and may rye and every kind of seed grow for us, so that by winter we
all have bread and hay and grain to feed the people, the birds and the cattle.
Almighty Lord, let us not forget - not today, tomorrow, nor ever - and help us to
keep alive in our memories the beauty of our land and our mountains, and the rich,
healing and pure waters in our rivers: the Bystry, the Poprad, and the Sian (San);
and let us also remember the fair and lovely country with the high pastures and
woodland paths through the hills; let us not forget the places of plenty in the forest
where the mushrooms grow, and the fragrant strawberries, blackberries,
blueberries and raspberries, and the woodland meadows where the cattle graze.
Oh God, let us not forget our customs, the lilt of our mother tongue, our stories and
our songs, our dances and our evenings together on holy days and workdays.
Lord, give my children the wisdom to find their way back to the native land of their
grandfathers and great-grandfathers and to honor their ancestors graves, their
churches and their faith.
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*Many thanks to Richard Garbera, Stephen Rapawy, Maryann Sivak, Jon Coulter,
Maxine Bruhns and Cecilia Woloch for peer reviewing this article. Thanks also to my
friend John Senick for finding the Twain quote. For more information about The
Lemko Project:
Visit our blog at www.lemkoproject.blogspot.com
Follow us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/lemkoproject
Copyright 2015 /All Rights Reserved
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