Polish Heritage Month Tributes Continue in Chicago
Growing up in Chicago in the 1970s, I was aware that my parents were Polish immigrants. My father, William Krzos, was an engineer at GTE -- I was intrigued by his vague remarks about being in a German labor camp. My mother, Bernice Migut Krzos, worked in a Chicago bakery and it was actually the vivid tales that she, and her brothers and sister, shared that truly fascinated me.
They were relayed to me once a month, on Saturday nights, when my parents arranged a festive get-together for their Polish friends and my mother's siblings. En masse they arrived at our house on Altgeld Street. These folks were stylishly dressed and impeccably proud. They sat on the edges of our foam-cushioned sofas and chairs from Sears as Kent cigarettes made repeated trips to and from their lips. Full ashtrays collected around the house. Empty highball glasses begged to be refilled. And attention almost always fell upon my gregarious father, who, after just one Scotch and soda, could recite a rhyming Polish joke and have the guests howling with laughter.
These Poles were loud. They were expressive. They were joyous... on the outside.
But beneath the surface lurked stories -- both dark and menacing -- I was too young to fully grasp at the time. When I became an adult, the blinding truth could not be avoided.
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