Ukrainski?

A friend from college, Bill Courtney, called me about a week before Easter of 2005 to let me know he would be stopping at Chicago’s Midway Airport to change planes on his flight from New York to San Francisco where he lived. He wanted my help: a couple of pounds of Ukrainian wedding kielbasa — in Ukrainian: kielbasa vesillya Ukrainski. Bill was unsure of the word order; his Ukrainian consisted of about ten words. Anna, Bill’s partner for the past thirty-four years, spoke fluent Ukrainian.

Before he arrived, I called Bill, “The Ukrainian Village is a neighborhood west of the Loop. It’s a difficult drive from Oak Park; and I don’t know the neighborhood or its butchers. However, around Midway there are several Polish delis and grocery stores that must carry plenty of kielbasa. I can buy the kielbasa on the way to meet you at Midway; will that work for Anna?”

Bill said, “Anna had bought kielbasa from a butcher — Ukrainian, of course — outside of Detroit where she grew up. The butcher mailed her orders first class, but he passed away a couple of years ago. Ah, so with Polish kielbasa, I’m stepping on thin ice.”

“Poles and Ukrainians don’t get along,” I replied. “When I’ve asked Poles here about Ukrainians, I got answers about ancient disagreements from older people; the younger people can’t recount the history well, or at all. After both world wars, the borders were redrawn; the relationships were tumultuous for both parties.”

Bill said, “Ah, Eastern Europe’s grudges are ferocious and not forgotten. Anna’s family is still flabbergasted that this pope is Polish. Oh, a few things about this kind of kielbasa: the pork is ground coarser than most kielbasa; the seasoning changes according to the sausage maker. We’ll need about two pounds that will be grilled and served as hors d’oeuvres before the endless Easter dinner.”

I would meet him at Midway on Holy Saturday afternoon and hand over the kielbasa. I entered a large Polish grocery store that morning; it was packed with shoppers. Sausages seemed to be the store’s specialty; ropes of kielbasa and other sausages were hanging behind the display cases. Most people were speaking Polish. A gray-eyed woman behind the counter was staring at me.

Approaching the gray-eyed woman, I was uneasy. “Hi, I’m looking for a special type of kielbasa with the coarsely ground pork. Can you help me?”

The woman’s facial expression asked the question: What strange language are you speaking?

So, I reached for my Ukrainian, “Kielbasa vesillya Ukrainski.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Ukrainski?”

The woman standing next to me had been speaking Polish to the counter man and English to her husband. She picked up her order, and I asked her to help me. The woman was expensively dressed and friendly.

I described the kielbasa I was looking for and continued, “The woman helping me does not speak English, or she prefers not to. She thinks that I’m Ukrainian.”

“That’s none of her business,” the woman said and spoke to the lady behind the counter in Polish describing the kielbasa that I wanted. The word Ukrainski kept coming up.

Mary O’ Leary introduced herself; I introduced myself and said, “I sense that the counter lady doesn’t like Ukrainians.”

After a brief conversation in Polish, Mary said, “She thinks you’re Ukrainian. Many Eastern Europeans have light hair and blue eyes. And you said something to her in Ukrainian. If you’re not Ukrainian, she wants to know what you are.”

“I’m an American and damned proud of it.”

“And so am I,” Mary smiled. “We’re lucky to live here.”

“Right. I’m Irish and Welsh.”

“I’m going to tell her that you’re Irish. I don’t know the Polish words for Welsh or Wales; they don’t come up in Polish conversations.” Mary spoke to the woman and turned towards me. “This is getting weirder. Ah, she wants to know if you’re Catholic.”

“What if I told her that I was a German Lutheran? Would she have me thrown out? And furthermore, this questioning is illegal. And I do appreciate your help, but really…”

“Look, she just got off the boat and doesn’t understand,” Mary said. “Some training would have helped. You’re a Catholic, really?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live? She might ask for your parish?”

“I live in Oak Park and attend St. Edmund’s. I go to Mass weekly. If you’re up to it, maybe we can get back to the kielbasa?”

Mary’s Polish contained the words Oak Park and Saint Edmund’s. But they soon focused on kielbasa, and Mary followed the lady as she pointed to various types of kielbasa. Mary and the lady were getting along. Mary’s husband, Dennis O’Leary, approached me; we introduced ourselves. He shook his head and said, “What’s going on? My Polish is nonexistent. Mary likes coming down here to spread her Polish wings and speak the language.”

I explained the problem; Dennis said, “When my great-grandparents arrived in Boston, signs in the shop windows said, ‘No Irish need apply.’ Here it might be, ‘No Ukrainians!’” During our short conversation, Mary returned and handed me two pounds of kielbasa with a note in Polish describing the kielbasa inside.

Mary said. “Next Easter, hand the counter person this note; don’t even try to pronounce it. Oh, Zofi — Sophie in English — the lady behind the counter, thanked you. I gave her a short rundown of American law when it comes to matters of race, ethnicity and religion. I told her that the questions she was asking you were against the law. We wished each other a pleasant Easter and shook hands.

A week afterwards, Bill called and let me know that the kielbasa was a hit. He paused for a moment, “I told Anna that you bought it at a butcher shop in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village. It was a lie — a small one — but easier than the truth to a room full of Ukrainians.”