There were many post-war homecomings, one stands out for me.
My cousin, Alice Yurich, was one of my favorite people when I was young. Not that I knew her all that well. My mother had worked for Alice’s mother, Tete Mary, as an au pair when my mother was in high school. There was a unique relationship between my mother and Tete since she was a friend before she became a sister-in-law. Tete was more like an older sister to my mother, and Alice was much like a younger sister. The relationship with Tete’s family was the closest one my mother had with my father’s siblings.
Alice’s birthday, in 1945 was a most memorable one. We were helping Tete get ready for the party. She had spent considerable time baking in preparation.
I don’t remember anything exceptional about the meals I ate at Tete’s, and they were numerous. Perhaps that was because her baking overshadowed her cooking. This is not meant to demean her cooking; she was a good cook. Her husband, Uncle Ralph, was a butcher, and in those days of rationing, it meant that she was likely cooking with better cuts of meat than most people. But what remains in memory was her baking. It was a treat to visit, for it usually meant the house smelled of baked goods, and there was always a cookie, pie or something sweet to eat. For Alice’s birthday she outdid herself.
I really don’t remember which birthday it was, but is was special. The end of the war meant that Alice’s sweetheart, Eli Terzich, was no longer in danger, and would be coming home soon.
We had celebrated VE Day and VJ Day; now the anticipation of “the boys” coming home added excitement to every day.
I always felt I was lucky to grow up when I did. Today children are shown heroes and role models that are created by public relations firms, selling a football player for the Heisman Trophy, creating a media sensation out of someone whose greatest attribute is that he was gifted with exceptional physical abilities.
My heroes were of a different sort. Not that we didn’t have our sport favorites. Stan Musial was one of ours. He was a Pittsburgh boy, Donora really, who had made it big; he was one of baseball’s biggest stars. To me he was that, a great baseball player; he generated awe with his ability. He wasn’t my hero.
That was reserved for people I considered real heroes, local heroes. We had many, every town had many, every street had many. They went when their country called; maybe they didn’t volunteer; maybe they were drafted. They went. A hero is someone who, in extraordinary circumstances, does what has to be done. My heroes did that.
The extraordinary circumstance was World War II, and they served. I was in awe of each of them; my uncle Nick was one of them; Joseph Nicholas Begg was his name, but, as he had a cousin named Joe Begg, the family called him Nick. Roy Johnson and Kippy Kramer were neighbors and friends of the family who also served.
In later years, when I saw their feet of clay, they were still my heroes. Maybe even more so. At the top of this group was Eli Terzich. He was the first to go, and saw action in Africa, Sicily, Italy, France and Germany. Many years later (1960) was the only time I ever heard him talk about the war. Like the rest, he rarely, if ever, talked about the war.
At a graduation party a group of us were talking about the battles of WWII, and Eli briefly interrupted to correct some things that were said. He then dropped out of the conversation.
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But, on that fall night in 1945, this was all well into the future. When we arrived for the party, I entered, ready for the culinary delights within. Alice opened the door, and I felt the pride I always did when I saw
her. I was proud that someone so beautiful was my cousin. She was also a beautiful person on the inside. Alice remains a favorite of our family.
It was a family birthday party, I can’t remember who all was there. Tete realized that she had forgotten something; candles, I think. The general store was only a block or two away, at the corner of Braddock Avenue and Woodstock Street. As she left for the store, Tete commented “the only thing that would make this better would be Eli being here.”
I stood on the porch and watched her walk to the store. Why they didn’t send me, I don’t know. At about the time Tete got to the store a New York City cab pulled up and stopped in front of the house. (Eli and two other GIs had pooled resources and hired the cab to bring them to Pittsburgh.)
Out stepped Eli. In his uniform he looked to me like Commando Kelly and Dwight Eisenhower wrapped into one. Here was THE hero. I have always thought it funny how women comment on how well a man looks in a uniform, but looking of pictures taken that night, I have to agree.
I remember moving to greet him, but he wasn’t looking for me. Alice swept by me, as she floated down the stairs. The scene was better than any Frank Capra, or anyone, ever recreated for the movies.
Tete came home overjoyed and furious. She had called the shot and wasn’t there to see it. The party went on but I don’t remember any more of it. The clarity of that moment of homecoming will never leave me.
Eli and Alice married and had three children, two boys and a girl. They had normal lives with normal joys and normal problems. Eli grappled with his experiences from the war. Today we call it post traumatic stress syndrome. Then, we welcomed them home and assumed it was all behind them.
I see Alice at weddings and other family gatherings, but for me she will always be my beautiful cousin with her hero sweetheart, performing in a scene that is etched so deeply in my memory that, while more recent memories fade, this one remains without losing any of its luster.
A footnote to this story is that Uncle Ralph was lucky to even get to America. The ship he
came over on, caught fire in the middle of the Atlantic. There were not enough life boats so he, like others, had to fend for himself. He would tell how he stripped to his underwear and found something with which to grease his body. Luckily he was a good swimmer. Others around him, not only kept on all their clothes, but added clothes that others had discarded. As he leapt over the side along with others, those who had added clothing never surfaced. He spent some time in the water, using the overturned ship as a place of safety, hanging on for a while, then swimming for a while to keep as warm as possible.
Luckily they were picked up by rescue boats from a passing liner. The Lusitania. It was traveling from England to America. This was also a break, as rescuing ships would take those they rescued to the ships destination. He arrived in America without papers, without anything. He was listed among the dead in the report of the fire. |He was truly an immigrant who arrived in America seeking a better life, who arrived with nothing. This was in 1913, the Lusitania was sunk on a return trip to England in 1915.
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