The Tale of Anton and Raisie

Zuberbach, in Burgenland, Austria used to be known as Szabar, Hungary. There, in a little area full of Hungarians, Austrians, Slavs, and Romanes, my great-grandfather Anton Joseph was born in 1874. By 1904, he was traveling into Austria for work. A day’s ride in, work all week, and a day’s ride home. Even the ziguener baron had to make a living, and Vienna had plenty of work—and one very beautiful woman. Teresia, or Raisie, as Anton always called her, worked in a beer garden in working-class Meidling. Day after day he pursued his beer maiden. One day, she said to her mother, “He followed me home. Can I keep him?”

Anton, Teresa, and family (including an uncle or two)

Anton and Raisie were married in 1906, in Vienna. As they traveled to his hometown so his family could meet his new bride, Raisie began to see a curious sight. Along the road the horse and buggy followed, she started to see fellow travelers. At least, she though they were travelers. But they were acting oddly. They would stand on the shoulder, as if to let the buggy pass. But she couldn’t recall having seen them on the road in front of them. And they would give a little wave, or salute, or simply stare as the buggy passed. And Anton would give a little nod, and drive on.

The Burgenland-Roma had turned out to welcome their baron home, in their own little way. Raisie had never seen so many “dark” little men in her life, but she was now family, one of their own, and would soon get used to the sight.

Not long after they were married, they joined the large wave of Germanic emigrants on their journey to America. Taking their newborn daughter with them was not an option. Instead, she lived with her grandmother in Vienna. Anton and Raisie crossed Europe, crossed the Atlantic, crossed through Ellis Island, and half a continent before settling in Chicago. My dad said he could almost see the scene at Ellis that day, as so many hopefuls piled off the boat, and looked to see their futures. Long lines queued up at booths. “Come. Come, Raisie. This is our line,” Anton would say, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, Raisie. This is our ride.”

Dad says they left the Old World to escape taxation. If that was their intent, it only worked for seven years before the U.S. brought back the income tax. Whatever their reasons, it likely saved their lives. Two World Wars would run over the region. During the Second, the Roma people were almost wiped out. Less than 200 remain in the District Anton called home.

Mom says it wasn’t taxes or prescience that sent across the hemisphere. She says they probably needed to make their own life. It cannot have been easy for Anton to bring home a Gadże wife. Even if the Burgenland-Roma were fairly settled, and somewhat assimilated to their cultural surroundings, it would have been a responsibility to marry within the tribe. On the flip side, I’m pretty sure that Raisie’s family were less than delighted with a Roma son-in-law. Of course, she was four months pregnant when they got married, so there wasn’t much their families could say. And they did love each other.

Anton and Raisie were married for 62 years, and died within months of each other. Together, they produced six children and numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Between them, they spoke 10 languages. While he ran a successful business, employing many a transplanted Roma, she kept a neat home filled with the aroma of delicious foods, and spoiled her grandchildren. From beer gardens in Vienna, to a third-floor walk-up in Chicago, their relationship was the stable core of their lives. 

Grandpa Jack's New Car

According to my aunt Donna, the older my dad gets, the more he resembles his grandfather, Jack. Jack—otherwise known as John Caleb Loomis—was born in 1885, in Macon, Illinois. He was, in his early adulthood, a club fighter. Not quite bare-knuckled, but nevertheless a thin and scrappy, take-on-all-comers, club fighter. Dad remembers him with heavy eyebrows, a “pug” nose—meaning broken and battered from his pugilistic efforts—cauliflower ears, false teeth to fill in the gaps from the ones that had been knocked out. 

Tony, looking more like Jack every day.

After he’d been knocked around enough, Jack moved on to the carnie, helping raise and lower the tents with a team of horses. That gave him experience enough to work on construction sites, using a team of horses to raise construction materials to upper floors. After horses were phased out, he changed over to iron and steel work.

It was at this point in his working life that World War II broke out. He was now too old for duty (and probably too beat up), and was at any rate needed at the big Ford factory to carry on the war effort. Because of the war, security at the plant was heightened. As you drove off the lot, you would have to stop and let the guards inspect your vehicle for any suspicious items, or scrap metal you were trying to sneak off with—every piece of scrap was needed, after all, for planes and munitions and armor and the general war effort.

After one long day at work at the plant in 1942, the line of cars waiting to be inspected before they could head home was enormous, and growing by the second. This plant, like others, was no longer making cars, but war machinery. Grandpa Jack had bought a brand new car just before the U.S. joined the Allies, and was proud of how well he was keeping it maintained.

As they inched along, car length by car length, tempers smoldered. The car ahead of Jack moved, but Jack didn’t immediately put his foot to the gas, and the car behind him bumped into him, just a little. Irritated, Jack just moved his car forward the few feet available to him, and waited. Another car finished inspection, and the line moved forward, and once again, the car behind him bumped into him. Jack put the car in park, and walked back to talk to his fellow plant worker.

Attempting to be reasonable, Grandpa Jack (who at this point was indeed a grandfather of three whoops--two. Thanks, Aunt Donna!) explained that as this car was fairly new, and there would be no new cars until after the war, and goodness only knew when that would be, so he would like to keep this one in good shape. And would the gentleman mind, please, not hitting it?

The gentleman did mind. He was so irritated by this, he hopped out of his car to stare down Jack. Well, hopped isn’t quite the word. Unfolded, maybe. He pulled his 6-foot-2-inch, well-muscled 230 lbs. frame out of car, and stared down at little Jack, who was maybe 5’7”, maybe 125 lbs.

Just to the side of the roadway was a little rise of land. Jack turned his back to the hill, and continued to argue his point. With every exchange of words, the electrician would take a menacing step towards Jack, and Jack would back a step up the hill. Finally, when Jack could look the man in the eye, he hauled back and gave him a black eye, hitting him so hard it knocked him head over heels, back down the hill. Jack watched him go, them trotted back down to his car, got in, and drove home, problem solved.

The next day, when Jack clocked in, there was a message waiting for him, to go and see one of the big bosses. Already dressed for his tasks, he dropped off his lunch pail, and headed to the plant’s office. Now, you need to understand something about Jack’s work clothes. When you worked with the iron crew, you wore a particular outfit. It had to be trimmed to fit you, so that nothing would get caught in the works. Instead of boxy tops and wide legged pants over low-topped shoes, the pants were slim fit, and cuffs rolled up to hit the tops of calf-high lace-up boots. Instead of heavy, boxy shirts, the tops were nipped in to follow the outline of your body, so much so, that if they didn’t fit right, it was off to the tailor for a custom fit. Anything else could be hazardous.

As Jack stepped in to the waiting area, the boss was informed that Loomis was reporting as ordered. Jack knew he hadn’t been summoned to be granted a day’s holiday. No, instead, inside was the man he had knocked down the hill. He had gone with his black eye and his complaint, to try and get Jack labelled a problem, and out of a job. “That’s him! That’s him!” he cried, pointing to Jack.

Of course, once the manager saw who it was this giant guy was filing a complaint against, he started to laugh. “That’s him?” he scoffed.

“Yeah! That’s the one!”

“You let this little guy get the best of you? He’s the one that knocked you stiff? That little guy did something to you, and you want me to do something to him? Get out! Get out of my office right now! Don’t you ever let me hear anything so stupid again!”  And laughing, the manager showed the giant the door. “And you,” he said, pointing to Jack, “get back to work.”

Jack, hat in hand, just bowed his way out the door, never having said a word. When he got home that night, he shared the tale, acting it out for the pleasure of his grandkids, with a bump here, and a swing there, and a foreman and a laugh. Never mess with a former boxer, children. Even a featherweight can bring down a giant, if he has no fear, a hill at his back, and a smart right jab. 

Tall Tales, Short Tales, and Everything Inbetween

My father is a storyteller.

Pop tells stories at the drop of a hat.

No, not as his profession. For one tour of duty, he was a U.S. Navy mechanic, keeping the planes flying. He spent most of his adult life in construction--a profession chosen for him by his father--first in pipe-fitting, them onward and upward through the ranks over the years until he ran large industrial projects, like power plants. When those began to take their toll, he switched to commercial projects. Finally, when it was past time to retire, he worked for my sister, marketing her business. As he traveled, he picked up more stories, and told his own to ever more people.  

My father is a storyteller.

In his 80 years of life, he has spent a lot of time talking, conversing, and telling stories. And he’s quite good at it. He can make you swallow the most outrageous lies embroideries, exaggerations, and legends. He comes by it honestly, I suppose. If science can prove that we pass along fear memories in our DNA, then certainly other cultural memories and traits can be passed through the generations. And if that is true, then my great grandparents gave my dad no choice but to be a storyteller.

Telling stories to a captive audience: the grandkids.

You see,Tony, my dad, is an intriguing mix. His father’s father was Hungarian Romane—Gypsies, you know, with their legendary entertainment skills, and abilities to win any argument, bargaining, or tall-tale swap. Forget what you’ve seen on TV, or run into in railway stations across Europe. Romanticize them, if you please—roaming at will, not tied down to any land or king, living off wits and talent.

His mother’s father was Irish. Blarney, anyone? A tradition of epic tales told around the hearth to keep out the cold, and stories, that grew in the telling, of leprechauns and other magical creatures tricked by a glib human tongue. Many a myth and legend and fairy tale were birthed here.

You see? Dad had no choice. Stories are in his blood.

Of course, stories are in everyone’s blood. If the human machine developed to record, store, create, share, and re-create stories, we cannot possible escape the need to do so. Sociologists will tell you this is how we form our culture and communities—through shared stories that pass along values and ideals.

Psychologists say we create our sense of identity through the stories we tell and those we keep inside. The tales we tell let others know who we think we are, even as they allow our listeners to better understand who they themselves are, what they believe and believe in, where they stand, and what they stand for.

There's always a story.

Story scholars will teach you that stories change. They change in the telling, as we choose the words or experiences to share, find the exact words to create the impression we strive for. They change through the telling, as the listener absorbs the meaning and filters it through their own experiences and memories. They change with the telling, be it oral, written, danced, or drawn, for each art imparts its own glow of interpretation. And they change those who tell it and hear it, in ways often hard to measure.

My father is a storyteller.

I am a storyteller, too, but here I am just the scribe. He has 80 years’ worth of stories. And he loves to share them. I invite you to listen, lest they be lost, but be forewarned. He, like most of us, is a product of his ancestry. 

  

These are tall tales, or “based on a true story,” whatever that really means. But what is the truth, after all? It’s often found only in our perception of it. While I firmly believe that there are Absolute Truths in this life, these stories seldom encounter those, but instead dance around true memories, lifting a corner here, a fragment there, twirling it around, and giving it new life. In other words, don’t take these tales as anyone’s Truth but Tony’s.

Enjoy, be entertained, and while away a moment with me. Wend your way through the Tall Tales of Tony Trock. See if they change you. And maybe, while you’re here, you can share a story with me.

It's hard to find a picture with his mouth closed. This one comes close.