My Uncle

 Such a simple phrase that just does not do justice to the amazing man the world lost yesterday.

When I was little my Dad talked about his family in Slovakia to me. They didn't have names, he just said "my sisters", "my brother" and "my parents" and so I didn't gain a connection to them, they weren't mine, they were his. He never spoke of my uncle, aunts or grandparents. I find that sad now.  At the same time I understand why he claimed them as his. He  missed them and missed them terribly.  

Dad left home as a child really to be a Partisan fighter during World War 2. The family were in a situation that movies are made of and books are written about. Life was so challenging. One of my aunts died just after that war, and for most of it both Dad and my Uncle were presumed dead. I feel my Grandmother's pain to this day. It's called inherited grief.

So, my Uncle was a prisoner in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. He survived that - somehow. He was sentenced to death for another reason, but they didn't succeed.  He changed his name from our family name to a new one as a protective measure for his own future. While I regret changing mine when I got married and conforming to society's standards, I totally understand his motives and reasons.  I do not judge. I regret it as I was the last person born with that surname in my family line. 

My Dad came to Australia with one life with one wife and one step-daughter. Then he started a new life when he married his second wife and then I was born. Safe to say, even if a bit pretentious that my Dad adored me. I love that. Dad had his challenges though. He had survivor guilt for leaving his family and friends and life behind in another country and not knowing their outcomes. He had mental health issues, a lack of formal education and he was essentially homesick.  I inherited some of those emotions.

On Dad's birthday when I was 9, July 15th 1975, a letter arrived for him from the Red Cross International. His wife thought it was a circular, or a request for money and opened it. She was shocked at the contents, and then so was he when he read it when he got home from work.

The letter asked "Are you the same Peter Haas who lived in Collie, and in Fremantle in 1950's, 1960's? If so, then his brother was searching for him.  Dad had taught himself to believe that every member of the family was dead, and it was an accurate and reasonable assumption to make too.  But here it was in black and white stating that someone, his big brother was looking for him. It was almost 25 years since he had arrived in Australia, and more than 25 since he had last heard or spoken to that man.

I remember it so clearly because I saw my Dad cry. I didn't see that happen again. They wrote to one another, and cleared some old issues from their respective minds. They spoke occasionally on the phone, and gifts were exchanged.

I still have the letter written to me in the November of 1975 when I was 10.  My Uncle said "It is sad that we will never meet".  This was when Czechoslovakia was a closed country and it was reasonable to assume this was true.

In 1996 Dad died. He had always wanted to return home to see his family and home but was either too poor or too ill to achieve this dream. In February 1998, I made the journey. I had never travelled overseas, or even interstate alone before. I was massively overweight, I was completely out of my depth and I was travelling to a country where I knew nobody other than 3 men who I had written to for 20 years or so. Sheer madness. What would I find?

What I found was my people. I described it as being akin to an adopted person meeting their biological family for the first time. Finding a deep, and spiritual connection that confounded all the realms of reality. Connections of humour, intellect, opinion, love, taste, and heritage.

My Uncle took such a keen interest in every aspect of my life. He gave advice, sometimes without being asked, sometimes asked for, and always given with love and respect. He amazed me at his knowledge, his ability to adapt to change and technology, to just be such an open person.

After spending 2 weeks with him in 1998, I took my husband and children to meet him in 2001. Three little boys aged 6, 8 and 10 who are in his arms in every photo taken. He had adopted his brother's daughter and grandsons as his own. He was the last surviving child, the oldest child of his parents for almost 24 years after his youngest brother died. Nobody with that shared knowledge of childhood or family.

In 2015, I went back again with my husband, this time taking Dads ashes and scattering them at the family grave. My grandparents, and aunts are all together.  My uncle told me that he would one day be there with them. It seemed the only way I could take Dad home. We scattered his ashes, and it felt amazing. I felt like I had given Dad the greatest gift I could possibly give him, a place with his own family. 

In 2019, I returned again with my husband and youngest son. We saw a physically frail, mentally incomparable 97 year old man who could barely sit up from his bed. We had afternoon teas in his room around the table next to his bed. We sat on the floor so he could hug us. We laughed and shared and his love for all of us having travelled to see him once again was boundless. These were special moments for all of us as we really did know deep down we wouldn't see him again.  Later in the year another son went to visit him. They shared their deepest thoughts and moments in three hours when they hadn't seen each other in over 17 years. The last visits my sons made were as children, and here they were connecting as men with this great patriarch of the tribe. Memories forever for both young and old.

Yesterday My Uncle died. Due to Covid19 it is impossible for me to travel to be with my family which I didn't realise was going to feel quite so utterly devastating. I feel very alone not having him alive any more. Such a strange feeling. I didn't know I had an uncle until I was 9, but then he became an uncle of monumental proportions, of the deepest connection and love. 

My Uncle's last email was only 3 weeks ago, yes aged 99, and written in beautiful English. It told me of his Wikipedia page which was now in English, German, Slovak and Czech. It poured out his love for his wife, and for me, my children and grandchildren.  I will keep it forever as it is my last contact with the great man in that way.

My Uncle could have chosen not to contact my Dad, to not be part of my life, or to be hardened by his life's experiences. He chose life, love, family, connection, survival and to be my Uncle.

Ujo was indeed one of the most special and amazing men in the world, but above all, forever and always in my heart, he is My Uncle

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