john guzlowski

john guzlowski
Danville, Virginia, USA
June 22
I was born in a refugee camp in Germany after World War II, and came with my Polish Catholic parents Jan and Tekla and my sister Donna to the United States as Displaced Persons in 1951. My parents had been slave laborers in Nazi Germany. Growing up in the immigrant and DP neighborhoods around Humboldt Park in Chicago, I met Jewish hardware store clerks with Auschwitz tattoos on their wrists, Polish cavalry officers who still mourned for their dead horses, and women who walked from Siberia to Iran to escape the Russians. I write about these people.


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FEBRUARY 12, 2013 1:49PM

Valentine's Day: A Holocaust Love Story

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My parents met in a concentration camp in Germany toward the end of World War II.


My mom had been brought to Germany by the Nazis to work in a slave labor camp. The day she was captured she saw her mom and her sister and her sister's baby killed by German soldiers. My mom was crying so much when she got to the camp that one of the guards said if she didn't stop crying they would shoot her.


Near the end of the war, my dad and some other slave laborers were brought to my mom's camp by German guards who were escaping the Russians. The Germans left him there and fled toward the American lines. When my mom saw my dad, he was a scarecrow in rags. He weighed about 70 pounds and had only one eye. He had lost the other when a guard clubbed him for begging for food.


She was 23, he was 25. She had been a slave for 2 years, he had been one for 4.


They met in that camp, and after liberation they did what a lot of people did. First, they had something to eat, and then they got married.


It was a hell of a marriage. They fought and argued for the next 50 years -- even on Sunday mornings -- and even on Christmas Day.


It got so bad at times that -- after we came to America -- my sister and I would plead with my parents to get a divorce.


They never did. When my dad died in 1997, they were still married. 52 years.


When I was about 57 or 58, I started wondering why they didn't get a divorce, why they stayed together through all the misery they put each other through. The answer to that question became a poem in my book about them, Lightning and Ashes. The poem is called "Why My Mother Stayed with My Father."


Why My Mother Stayed with My Father


She knew he was worthless the first time

she saw him in the camps: his blind eye,

his small size, the way his clothes carried

the smell of the dead men who wore them before.


In America she learned he couldn’t fix a leak

or drive a nail straight. He knew nothing

about the world, the way the planets moved,

the tides. The moon was just a hole in the sky,


electricity a mystery as great as death.

The first time lightning shorted the fuses,

he fell to his knees and prayed to Blessed Mary

to bring back the miracle of light and lamps.


He was a drunk too. Some Fridays he drank

his check away as soon as he left work.

When she’d see him stagger, she’d knock him down

and kick him till he wept. He wouldn’t crawl away.


He was too embarrassed. Sober, he’d beg

in the bars on Division for food or rent

till even the drunks and bartenders

took pity on this dumb polack.


My father was like that, but he stayed

with her through her madness in the camps

when she searched among the dead for her sister,

and he stayed when it came back in America.


Maybe this was why my mother stayed.

She knew only a man worthless as mud,

worthless as a broken dog would suffer

with her through all of her sorrow.




If you want to read more about my parents, you can check out a couple of the blogs here that talk mostly about them. One is called DPs in the Polish Triangle about what my mom and dad were like when they got to America. Another is called The Wooden Trunk We Carried With Us From Germany. There's also The Day My Mother Died.  


Just click on the above titles, and it will take you right to them.


My book about my parents is called Lightning and Ashes, and it's available from Amazon

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Touching story, and one helluva couple. Thank you so much for sharing it with us.
I think of:
Robert H. Deluty.
His Life is similiar.
I Love his poems.
I Learn from this.
Life is Suffering.
Humans can be:
Lowly. Debased.
Depraved. Hubris.
Dead Folk Walking.
Spirit is already Dead.
There's No Inner Life.
Inner Darness Reigns.
It wise to Examine Self.
I need to call R.F. Deluty.
Thanks. I gonna get quick.
'Other Salon' gets Blocked.
I am told it is a Social Site.
We need Perpetual Insight.
Yes, one helluva couple. Well said. So sad. I cried and felt so sorry for your father. Some people have tons of luck and others nothing.
Mai I add that he is in heaven now.l
Thank you all for reading about my parents.
Your stories are quite good, but that white on black in your blog is hell on the eyes. I have a friend who doesn't even know what country his father's family came from. His grandmother would only say, "Bad people, bad times." They were Jews.
Sometimes, you can only love those who can understand the deepest, darkest regions of your soul. Often, this requires a shared experience, often denied to everybody else.