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Keeping the Stories of Our Fathers Alive

One was stationed at Pearl Harbor, one spent time in a German labor camp. When they were ready to tell their stories, we made sure to record them.

By Stan Gornicz

At first glance, my father was an everyday guy who dutifully provided for his family. A European immigrant, he sweated in machine shops and never refused overtime. My wife's father also worked hard and fast in a steamy factory while earnestly raising his kids.

An old photo of two older men standing outside. Next Avenue
The author's father Joseph is on the left and his father-in-law Henry is on the right.  |  Credit: Courtesy of Stan Gornicz

As my wife and I grew up we'd each hear snippets of our father's early lives — scant details of how they were unwittingly pulled into the conflict that erupted into World War II. With so little revealed, we'd never connected the dots of their frightening experiences. Until our son and daughter — their grandchildren — started asking them questions years later. Then their stories started flowing, and their personas came alive.

"I'm worried their tales will go untold, and be forgotten," I told my wife.

"Soon the planes were so close, so low, I could see the pilots staring at me. We were all caught by surprise, and nobody had weapons."  

I decided then to keep their rich legacy alive for our family. As they talked, I madly scribbled their words on legal pads, but felt I was missing a lot of the details while I tried to listen.

A Sailor's Story

My father-in-law, Henry, was a sailor stationed at Hickam Field at the U.S. Navy base at Pearl Harbor on the morning America was attacked. He worked as a net tender, controlling the opening of underwater nets to prevent enemy submarines from entering the harbor. In the early hours of December 7, 1941 — two days before his 22nd birthday and one month before his four years of military service were up — he had just left the dining hall after finishing breakfast.

"I was walking back to my barracks, and heard what sounded like explosions," he told my family at my daughter's 10th birthday party. "The blasts grew louder. I saw red circles on the approaching planes, confirming they were Japanese. Soon the planes were so close, so low, I could see the pilots staring at me. We were all caught by surprise, and nobody had weapons."  

From just 75 feet above, the pilots were strafing everyone below with machine guns. One had Henry in his sights. He ran, as bullets just feet away, kicked up the sand all around him, like heavy raindrops ricocheting off puddles.

"I heard the loud pinging of shrapnel hitting metal buoys. It was horrific," he concluded. "So many men I knew died that day."

My wife and I listened, stunned, her hand squeezing mine.

"I just did what they told me to do, stayed silent, and unloaded supplies."

When Henry was under attack, my dad, Joseph — halfway around the world — was just 17 years old when he heard the dreaded knock on the door that took him away from his family.

One of nine children, he grew up on a small farm in a tiny village in southern Poland. All over Europe, young men were being seized by the Nazis to prevent them from forming resistance forces. The Germans threatened to take their mothers to German labor camps if the young men refused to go, leaving them no choice.

'Young and Terrified'

"I was young and terrified," he told me in his thick Polish accent, "and scared that my family wouldn't survive the war." Listening to Dad, I felt afraid, wondering how he had the will to survive.  

He worked for the Germans in Poland for six months, a forced laborer at rail yards and supply depots. He was transferred to Munich for three and a half more years of forced labor. Food was scarce, and when he and his fellow prisoners were hungry, they helped themselves to the red cabbage and chocolate they were unloading.

"I witnessed the beatings of those who disobeyed orders," he told my family, adding, "I just did what they told me to do, stayed silent and unloaded supplies." I stood staring at him, speechless.

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In 1945, when the war ended and American soldiers arrived, he worked for five years as a guard watching over U.S. warehouses and officers' housing.

Although he didn't talk about it with his own children, he wanted his grandchildren to know his history.

"I was given the choice of going to the United States or Australia, and I chose America," he said, flashing a broad smile. He was sponsored by an American tobacco company with the understanding he'd work in their tobacco fields in northern Connecticut for two years, a commitment he kept.

"My proudest achievement was becoming a U.S. citizen in 1956," Dad said. "I studied like hell to learn American history. But, sadly, after the Germans took me away, I never saw my mother, brothers, or sisters again," he added.

It was not the same with Henry. He didn't mention a word about Pearl Harbor to his family. My wife didn't know the details of his Navy life when she was growing up. Not until our daughter asked.

"Grandpa, what was it like being a soldier?" she innocently questioned.

"Yeah, tell us!" my son implored.

As if a faucet opened, the story poured out. A little at first, then in torrents. Although he didn't talk about it with his own children, he wanted his grandchildren to know his history.

In Their Own Words

On our last Thanksgiving together at our house, Dad and Henry, then 78 and 83, sat next to each other talking about the war. My wife had an idea. Instead of writing down what they said, we placed a tiny voice recorder nearby to catch their words. Everyone at the table listened intently, perfectly still.

"I was traumatized by the attack and never fully recovered from that day," Henry admitted, his eyes watering.

"But I'm happy, and relieved, that I finally told you about my Navy days," he said, folding his hands together tightly over his chest and bowing his head.

We understood how our fathers became the strong men we knew because they believed that even under the worst conditions, there was hope.  

Dad confessed his fears, too. "I was afraid the entire time I was in Germany, not knowing what they would do to us at any moment."

"It was important for me to tell you my story. Thank you," he added as his voice cracked and lower lip quivered.

Henry showed us his bright white Navy cap with pride. Dad didn't have any mementos. He had arrived in this country with only one suitcase, made of old tattered yellow fabric with dark brown trim.

Today we have reminders of their hardships. Henry's crisply preserved dress uniform hangs in a closet. And I recently discovered Dad's labor camp record online: it was labeled a "concentration camp." I had chills about the place he was a forced laborer.

Their revelations helped us all. For them, the stories kept unfolding as if it were cleansing for them to talk about and heal from their painful experiences. For us, we understood how our fathers became the strong men we knew because they believed that even under the worst conditions, there was hope.  

I'm grateful to have had the chance to hear their stories, in their own words, while they were with us; my father died in 2004 and Henry died in 2014. It all started with simple questions from their grandchildren, hastily written words in a notebook, and the fear in their voices captured on a digital recorder. All of this to preserve their legacies for future generations.

This year, when we gather to honor the fathers in our family, I'll tap into these stories again, remembering the unassuming heroes under our own roof.

Contributor Stan Gornicz
Stan Gornicz is a writer, husband, and father who lives in Connecticut. His essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post and other publications. He is working on a memoir. Read More
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