Several months later he returned home. His life was still in danger, as the Germans were in every village of the Ukraine. He joined the Baptist church, where he met a beautiful girl, Maria, and married her. At first, he worked at a grocery store. Later, he became a supervisor of agricultural workers. During evenings he would do wood work and build furniture. Peter also became a pastor of a Pentecostal church in his village. With Maria, they had eleven children. My Mom, Vera, is their third child.
Peter & Maria Lysenko My Mother – Vera Lysenko
Several years later, Peter developed a tumor in his head and almost died. His wife and children prayed for him, and God healed him. Disabled, Peter could no longer work and stayed home with the children.
Maria worked as a nurse to support the family. At that time, to practice one’s Christian faith was unacceptable to the communist government. Because Maria was a Christian, she was sent far from her village to work with disabled patients, so she would not tell people about God. Soon, she lost her job. Peter went to Kiev and talked to the governor. He told him that he defended his country and became disabled. His wife, Maria, the only source of income, lost her job because she was a Christian. Peter asked for help. The governor was not happy about this situation. He promised to write a letter to Maria’s employer. Maria got her job back.
The police actively searched for people practicing their faith. If caught by the government, they were subject to fines, persecution, even imprisonment. The government threatened to take away the children of Christian families, if they kept teaching them about God. In order to worship God together, families had to gather in secret at someone’s house, in the woods, or in another village, where they were less known. Freedom of religion, as we practice it in the United States today, was prohibited. Something as simple as a church building was not allowed to exist. To protect the church and its members, parents strongly encouraged their children to marry within the faith. Therefore, it was important for Christian families to know each other and to rely upon each other. Mom’s and Dad’s families lived thirty minutes apart. They met during church activities.
Christian children were generally not accepted into college. Only those, who had straight A’s and didn’t have to take an exam, were accepted. Still they were always oppressed. My Mom was one of the lucky few, accepted into college and allowed to complete a degree as an Engineer/Technologist. My Dad received his training through college and later through his job, and had professions as a Diesel Locomotive Engineer, Electrician, Welder and Plumber.
…….
My Dad knew and loved my Mom since she was thirteen, but he had never told her. Upon returning from the Soviet Army during 1970’s, at age twenty-one, he asked my Mom to marry him. She agreed, and they have been very happy together. They lived by his parents, who divided their land into four plots and gave a plot to their three oldest children, including my Father. Dad was a machinist at a train station, and Mom supervised a meat company. The first few years of their marriage, with the help of relatives, they built their house, while keeping full-time jobs.
My parents first had two daughters. When time came for me to be born, the doctor and Mom were the first ones to welcome me into this world. At that time, Fathers were not allowed into the delivery room. When Dad came to visit Мom and the baby, the nurse greeted him,
“Congratulations, you have a baby girl!”
“A girl? I really wanted a boy!” responded my Dad.
“It is a girl and you are taking her home!” the nurse answered firmly.
After ten days of hospitalization, Dad brought Mom and me home. They had two weeks to register the name of a newborn child.
“What name should we give to our daughter? Maybe Oksana or Natasha?” my Mom asked my Father.
Dad left to register the name. When he came home in the evening, Mom was surprised to see that the name on the birth certificate was Olga.
“Why did you choose the name Olga?” she asked my Dad.
“It is beautiful and easy to say. It will sound beautiful when she is young and as she gets older,” Dad answered.
The name Olga means “Holy, Blessed and Successful.” I was lucky to be born to parents who loved me, cared for me, gave me values, taught me right from wrong, and provided me with a faith to guide my life. Even today, they continue to provide a point of reference, answer my questions, tell me what they think and give me honest advice. I value their opinion and their love.
When my parents had a fourth child, they were considered a large family, so the government gave Mom a two-year maternity leave. She stayed home, and Dad continued working. One day, while doing a repair at his job, Dad injured his right wrist. It was cracked, became very sore, swollen and infected, and eventually turned into cancer. The doctor told my Father, in order to live, his arm needed to be amputated.
Everyone prayed for our Father. No one thought he deserved it. He was a good Christian and a youth leader in their church. My Father’s parents believed God was powerful to heal their son and tried to talk him out of the surgery. They also worried how he would be able to support his family.
I remember one evening, when our Father sat on a bed and hugged us all, there was a big lump on his right arm. That was the last time I saw him with both arms. He agreed to amputate his right arm above the elbow, so that the infection would not spread to his whole body. His surgery was done on his 30th birthday. My Grandfather could not visit my Father for a whole month. It was too painful for him to see his now disabled son. In addition to pain, the newly acquired disability cost my Father his career.
Both of my Grandmothers had big families and could not help much. So, Great-Aunt Hanna, who never married and loved our Dad since he was a little boy, helped our Mom. She watched the children, while Mom visited Dad at a regional hospital, riding the train two hours each way, three times a week. Hanna stayed with us, cooked meals and washed our laundry. She sent us to school and gave us lots of love.
Great-Aunt Hanna My Mother and I
Even though we were little, I remember seeing my Mom praying many times and asking God to heal our Father. We prayed with her. Our Father stayed at the hospital for a few months and then came home to complete his recovery. When people came to visit him, some of them encouraged my Mom,
“Stay strong, believe, God will heal him.”
But others didn’t see any hope for the recovery.
“Prepare for the funeral,” they whispered in Mom’s ear.
When Mom’s maternity leave ended, she could not return to her previous job because of ill husband, four small children and cattle to feed. She requested a transfer to a closer location. Mom was offered her a job at the office, but she chose to work as an operator, three shifts: morning, evening, or night. It was a walking distance from our home. She was able to come home during her lunch hour to feed us and the livestock.
Our Mom’s love helped our Father to recover, get up each day and continue living. Great-Aunt Hanna and all the relatives helped us as much as they could. Sometimes we had no money for food. In those times, it seemed people were always willing to help us. We even received a parcel from Germany, from people whom we didn’t know. We accepted it as from the hand of God.
Our Father could no longer be a machinist. With tears in his eyes, he would watch the passing trains near our home. As he became stronger, he started a bee farm and sold honey. Our family grew tulips in a hot house and sold them on March 8
, the International Women’s Day. We also grew produce for our family and lots of radishes, which we sold every season. My Father was creative and did more work than many men with two arms did. Both my parents worked very hard and never complained.
Attending church for the first time after the illness, a very religious member of the church told my Father he had a message for him from God. “What happened to you was My will. Don’t ask why. A long way lies before you. Your feet will step where you have never been before. Your family will always have food and clothes, and I will take care of you.” At that time our parents had no idea what this prophecy meant. It came true eleven years later, when we emigrated from Ukraine to America.
My parents, brothers & sisters. I am the second one on the right.
While Mom worked, we spent time with Dad. We raised produce for food, helped in the garden, picked berries and cared for animals. Dad made work fun. Often, we played with our cousins, swam at the lake or river and played games.
In school we were polite Christian children. We always earned good grades and excelled in art. The Principal often praised us at school assemblies. At the end of her speech, she always added a conclusion, “There is no God. Whoever believes in God will lose a lot in this life.” The school children made fun of us, as Christians. Acts like these were accepted as normal social rules of conduct, never spoken, but always understood.
In the 1980’s only a few people in our village had cars. You had to have cash and be on a waiting list, in order to buy a new car. Because our parents had many children and our Dad was disabled, the government let our family buy a car without being on a waiting list! Amazingly, with one arm Dad was able to drive his car. He frequently helped friends and neighbors with rides. Later, he drove his Father to churches in surrounding villages and supported Christians there. Our Father was a respected man in our community. He was always kind, quiet, helpful, happy and had a heart full of love.
My parents’ religion taught them to have all the children that God would give them. Even though they worried how they would financially support a larger family, they had four more healthy children in Ukraine and were able to provide for our needs. We were a large and happy family, never viewing our Father as disabled. Mom loved him so much! At that time, many individuals having amputations did not survive. Our Dad was among the lucky ones.
2
You never know the importance of freedom
until you don’t have it.
In 1979, because of religious persecution, many Jews and Christians were seeking permission from the Russian government to leave the country. By the late 1980’s, the government began issuing Visas. Our family applied for a Visa to immigrate to America. We traveled to Moscow and stayed there for two weeks, waiting to be interviewed by the American Embassy. After approval by the Russian government, in 1990, we received a Visa that would permit our family, our Uncle Peter, and other relatives to immigrate to America.
We were required to have a sponsor to immigrate. Our sponsor was Jacob Lapin, a person we did not know, even though he had the same last name. Because we did not understand the immigration process, we were afraid to go. Uncle Peter chose to immigrate to America first. A year later, he became our sponsor and sent us a new Visa. This was a difficult decision for our parents. Being in America would allow us to freely practice our religion. If we remained, we would continue to be persecuted. Language would be a barrier and the future unknown.
Our ties to family in Ukraine were difficult to let go. Since Mom’s parents had immigrated to America after Uncle Peter, she really wanted to go. But Father’s parents and Great-Aunt Hanna were still in Ukraine. “I am old and want to spend the rest of my life in my homeland,” Great-Aunt Hanna said. Father’s parents also had no plans to leave their country.
My parents, brothers & sisters. I am the second one on the right.
I was fourteen years old and excited about going to America, but I didn’t know that being in a foreign country, unable to speak the native language, would be so challenging. The freedoms that we would enjoy in America, would allow our family religious, educational and economic opportunities. People who have always had those freedoms, cannot understand what it is like not to have them. We chose freedom.
We sold our house and car and used the money for our immigration. On January 22, 1992, we said good-bye to our family and friends. Our Father kissed the corner of our house, which he had built, knowing he would likely never see it again. We loaded our luggage on a private bus that we rented and drove 600 miles to Moscow International Airport. After thirteen hours of flight, we landed in New York. Six hour later, we boarded another airplane and flew to Portland, Oregon. Because some of our friends and relatives immigrated before us, they were there to greet us. We were excited to see each other.
The first two weeks we stayed with our Uncle Vlad’s family in Vancouver, Washington, in his three-bedroom house. One bedroom was for our uncle, his wife and their five children. The second bedroom was for our parents and their two youngest children, and the third bedroom was for us, four older girls. Our two brothers slept on couches in the living room. We slept during the day and were awake at night; it took a few days to adjust to the 12-hour time difference.
When Uncle Vlad drove us to the grocery store for the first time, I could not believe what I saw: ice cream in plastic buckets, and so many different fruits and vegetables! Our food selection in the Ukraine was not even close to what America had to offer. We were happy in Ukraine with what we had because we knew no better. In America, we thanked God for everything: food on the table, a place to live, and warm clothes.
For a while, we found oranges underneath my sister’s pillow. “Why do you keep oranges under your pillow?” we asked. “Because I love oranges so much and worry that I may not have them tomorrow,” answered our sister. She had hard time believing that she was in America and could eat oranges whenever she wanted.
The two weeks passed, and we were ready to move into our own place. It had not been easy to find a space given that there were ten of us and little money. Finally, we found a two-bedroom apartment. It was challenging with one bathroom and a small space, but we were in America! God had blessed us!
At one point the principal of a school came to talk with my parents about my brother’s behavior. When he saw our tiny space and our lack of furniture, he left and came back in one hour with a truck full of used furniture, lamps and other items that would improve our life. We are still grateful for his kindness! It made a difference in our lives.
As I think of it today, I am so thankful to our Uncle Peter, for helping us immigrate to America. I am thankful to Uncle Vlad for letting us stay with his family in a foreign country, even though it wasn’t simple for seventeen people to live together. I also thank God for the good people who helped us, and for the welfare program, which gave us food stamps and cash for living. From the bottom of my heart, I thank this country for accepting us, the Immigrants!
…….
We were happy, excited and ready for a new start in America; then we started missing our old country. It was difficult to make friends. We missed our house and our native language which we understood. Most of Mom’s relatives lived in Vancouver. She seemed to be happy, being close to her family. But our Father missed his family in Ukraine. (He never saw his Mother again, as she died shortly after he left, but he saw his Father ten years later.) Our parents worried about how we were going to live in America. They did not have jobs and language was a barrier. Our Father stayed home with the younger children and received Social Security disability.
English was taught in my Mom’s school, but that had been twenty years before, therefore, she had limited English skills. It was difficult to function in America, and Mom understood that she would need to get a job requiring English. She constantly tried to learn the English language. I remember seeing her often fall asleep with an English/Russian dictionary in her hands.
My Father had learned German in the Ukrainian school as had the rest of the family, so we all had to start learning English. When shopping, Father carried a pencil and paper with him and drew a picture of what he needed. We, three older girls, were placed in ninth grade in the English as a Second Language (ESL) program. At our school many immigrants spoke Russian, so we did not feel lonely.
Our Mom became pregnant with her ninth child. We desperately needed a larger home. My parents looked at a few houses, but no one would rent to such a big family. One day they were buying a newspaper at a gas station and met a lady named Patricia.
“Come back in two hours. I will give you the key to my two-story, three-bedroom rental house,” Patricia said.
“Thank you so much. We see your kind act as help from God,” my Mom answered.
Our new house was in another part of Vancouver, therefore, we had to change schools. Because we knew very few students who spoke Russian, school became more challenging. I could not say in English what I wanted to say; if I said something wrong, I felt embarrassed. Most of the time I just remained quiet.
Making friends was difficult. I prayed to God to send me a good friend. Soon I met Katya, a new immigrant, who also did not speak English. We became friends. That day, I remember, I shared the news with Katya,
“My baby sister was born today. Her name is Vera. She is ninth in our family!”
Since then we are the best friends with Katya until today. It has been 25 years!
The first two years in High School I took English as a Second Language class. As a Junior, I took ninth grade’s Standard English and received my first “A”. I was so proud of myself! Those hard days with the dictionary in my hands finally paid off. During my last year in High School, I completed a Legal/Medical Office Applications program at Clark County Skills Center. After graduating from high school, I started college.
Our school provided us with summer jobs. My first summer in America, I was fournteen and working at a day care center for $4.25 per hour. With my earnings I could buy what I needed and give any extra money to my Father for the family. As children and now as adults, we have always had a great relationship with our parents. They were generous with us and we all shared our resources.
At age sixteen, I completed a traffic safety program at my high school and received my driver’s license! It was not an easy accomplishment for me, but I managed to pass the test. Having a driver’s license enabled me to help my Mom, as she did not drive at that time.
After four years in America, our Mom had her tenth child, our beautiful baby sister, Anna. Parents were praying to God to help them buy a small, affordable house. One day, they just drove around Vancouver and saw a “For Sale” sign on an old and inexpensive house on one acre of land. They had no credit history, no English language, and could only afford a small payment. They met with the owner.
“God tells me to sell this house to this man,” the owner proclaimed pointing at my Father.
