Florida Catholic | Thanksgiving

‘Every day is Thanksgiving’ for Ukrainian immigrant

BETTY ANN WEBER | FLORIDA CATHOLIC CORRESPONDENT

Published: 11.23.07

Taissa Meleshko poses with a hand-carved, inlaid, wooden candleholder with decorative bells made by a Ukrainian craftsman from the Carpathian Mountains. It is used during the Epiphany (blessing of water), the feast of the Jordan River.
CAROL FERRAZZANO | FC

APOPKA | Taissa Meleshko revels in the tranquility of her Apopka home. Tranquility — something she longed for in her youth.

“I remember the trenches. We ran from the barracks and crouched there, praying to be safe. Bombs exploding everywhere,” said Meleshko, 79.

The barracks were but one stop in this woman’s World War II odyssey. First there was the 1939 Nazi bombardment of Warsaw.

“It’s always been God’s will that we come here. For me, every day is Thanksgiving.”

A Ukrainian Catholic in Poland, Meleshko, then Taissa Osinska, was 11 when the assault began near her home. She and her father, a civil engineer, stood for hours in the cold, waiting to buy bread and milk to share with her mother and two younger sisters. Her father became seriously ill and, hoping to save his life, the family accepted an uncle’s invitation to come to the Carpathian Mountains where the air was fresh and food plentiful.

“When my father died in 1940,” she recalled in a voice echoing her native tongue, “we were afraid of the advancing Russian Army, so we packed a horse and buggy and headed for the Slovak border. But we were turned away.”

German soldiers found them. “They put us on a train to Austria and a forced labor camp near Vienna. We lived in barracks and made parts to ignite bombs. When the factory closed, some friendly Germans steered us to the post office barracks. Mother and I sorted military mail. She worked at night and I took the day shift so my sisters were never alone. An uncle, a priest, was with us and could celebrate Mass. But even when he couldn’t, no one went to sleep without a prayer.”

When the war ended and the bombing stopped, it was permissible to go home again. “But many had no homes to return to,” she said, “or, like us, feared going back to a communist country.”

Then there were moves into renamed “displaced persons” camps. Single people lived in army barracks; families, in the privacy of a small room. Everyone shared a communal kitchen and bathroom.

Activities were initiated to keep everyone occupied, including primary and secondary schooling. “I hoped to work at the United Nations one day, so I took crash courses and was accepted into the University of Heidelberg (Germany), majoring in languages.”

In 1948 — in a camp in Manheim — she married Wolodymyr Decyk. In the same year the U.S. Displaced Persons Act was passed, allowing immigration into this country. A Munich facility was the processing center for paperwork, inoculations and medical and psychological testing. And there was a quota.

“As camps closed and people moved out, we were relocated again and again,” she said. “It took a year; finally we were accepted.”

Catholic Relief Services, founded by the U.S. bishops in 1945, paved the way. “On Jan. 1, 1952, we boarded a troop ship in Bremerhaven and 10 days later — bypassing Ellis Island — arrived at Pier 22 in New York. For three hours we waited on deck in the icy wind. My husband and I were each handed a green card and $10. It was up to us to find work.”

Since her mother and sisters moved to Newark, N.J., a year before, they were assured of housing. “My mother had a small apartment over a dance studio, took in sewing and made costumes for the dancers.

“It was sink or swim,” she said, shrugging. “So you know what you do? You swim! Today people talk about their terrible childhoods. We never thought about that. We were just glad to be alive.”

Her college credits were not accepted here, so she became an inspector in the Wiss Scissor factory. Her husband, a doctor, took hospital courses. In 1956, they moved to Massachusetts where he began work in the pathology lab at Franklin County Hospital. With five children, they moved into an old farmhouse in Colrain. “Beautiful country, just like the Carpathians,” she said. “My sons earned scholarships at Mount Herman Prep School and graduated with honors; then to Amherst (Massachusetts). Victor earned a Ph.D in physics from UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles) and Julian in law from Harvard (Cambridge, Mass.).”

“All my five children did well in school,’’ she said. “God gave them the brains and guided them.”

When Wolodymyr Decyk suffered a stroke and died in 1978, Matthew Meleshko, an old friend from Ukraine read the obituary in a Boston newspaper and came to give condolences. Five years later, he and Taissa married.

He wanted to move to Florida and both shared a desire for access to a Ukrainian church and community. Apopka filled the bill.

Today, Taissa Meleshko is volunteer secretary for St. Mary Protectoress Ukrainian Catholic Church, a small but spiritual place of worship. Attrition has reduced membership to four: the pastor, Father Ivan Kubishyn; his sister and the Meleshkos. “But God sends us worshippers,” she said, “from around the states and other countries. He must want us to be here. As Father Ivan says,” — she indicates the pictures lining the church walls — “we’re not alone. We’re surrounded by all the saints.”

Embraced by memories and memorabilia of Ukraine in her Apopka home, Meleshko drew a line on a map connecting all the nightmare camps the past won’t let her forget.

“Believers sometimes feel abandoned,” she said, “but something comes up. There’s no bad thing that won’t work out as a good thing. It’s always been God’s will that we come here. For me, every day is Thanksgiving.”

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