As a young girl, one of our pre-Memorial Day rituals, headed-up by my father Ben, was a trip to Saint Joseph Cemetery on South Bend’s west side to plant red geraniums on the graves of our family members, especially the veterans. The west-side Memorial Day parade concluded in that cemetery, and even though the parade no longer exists, west-siders still tend to the graves of their loved ones, clearing out detritus from last season before planting fresh flowers to bloom all summer.
It’s a peaceful, verdant place where my dad, an Army veteran of the Korean war, was laid to rest when he passed away in October 2011. After I lost him, I’d often stop by that cemetery to reflect and take a walk on my way home from work, even if it was already dark outside. I’ve never been afraid of walking in a cemetery in the dark. I am a west-sider, after all. Wandering in cemeteries isn’t new to me either. They’re full of rich history and stories that set my imagination wondering. The older the headstones, the deeper and more personal the information about the decedent is, I’ve noticed. A walk becomes a lesson in both history and memory.
On a fall trip to Staunton, Virginia last year, I wandered through a cemetery adjacent to a lovely church in the Shenandoah Valley, leaves crunching underfoot, while perusing headstones over 200 years old. There, I discovered John Davidson (1801-1879), his headstone inscribed: “Here awaiting the blissful resurrection of the just reposes.” In repose next to him is his only daughter, Mary, who died eight years earlier. Then I knelt by a tiny headstone, adorned with a lamb, of the infant son of D.W. and A.A. Speck, who died on November 24, 1887, at age five months, 13 days, and who lies nameless next to his parents. I tell myself stories about their lives, the quiet, collective grief of those they left behind, of what the young ones would’ve become if they’d lived. Such lost potential saddens me, although sentiments like that were probably uncommon in the late 1800s.
My most astounding discoveries so far are two headstones, also in Saint Joseph Cemetery, not far from where my dad rests. The fates of these young men, forever 21 and 22, break my heart. Their names are Irvin, with and “I” and Ervin with and “E”, and both of their graves are empty. A portrait of each soldier and brief remembrance is on the headstones of their long-deceased parents. The first young man, PFC Irvin Nowicki, born in 1924 and died in 1945, stares back at me with the inscription “Lost in action on Iwo Jima Island in defense of our righteous cause.” Pvt. Ervin Siarkowski is only a few steps away from Irvin Nowicki, and his fate took a lot more digging for me to discover. His remembrance simply states “Lost at sea, November 27, 1943. He gave his life in freedom’s cause.”
When I searched his name along with the date and the term “lost at sea,” numerous reports surfaced of the bombings of a 24-ship convoy off the coast of Algeria on November 25, 1943, including the HMT Rohna, which Ervin was aboard. The stories are heartbreaking and steeped in controversy. Ervin’s parents, who died in 1965 and 1970, never learned his true fate before their own deaths because the story remained classified by the U.S. government until 1993, when the late CBS reporter Charles Osgood told the story on Veteran’s Day following its declassification through the Freedom of Information Act.
On that fateful night, according to the website Military.com, a German, radio-guided glide bomb hit the Rohna, killing 1150 passengers and crew members aboard. Thirty-five additional soliders later died of their injuries. Not wanting to incite fear in the Allied troops when preparations for D-Day were well under way, the U.S. government classified the attack, threatening survivors with court martial if they discussed it. Filmmaker Jack Ballo, producer of the documentary Rohna Classified, stated in the article, “Most of the bodies of the soldiers were never recovered; there were no funeral services or burials — the boys just never came home.” Ervin Siarkowski is one of those young men.
The west side of South Bend is small, and the Polish Catholic community is tight knit, especially back then. Irvin and Ervin were only a few years older than my dad. I wonder if they ever crossed paths; in school or at church, at the bowling alleys, or among the many corner taverns that dotted the neighborhoods in those days.
I wonder what would’ve become of those two handsome young men had they lived and returned home. Would they have found great careers, married their sweethearts, started families, and become fathers and grandfathers like my dad did? I grieve for the families they left behind. It must have been devastating to deal with such heartbreak and profound loss. Since discovering their headstones, I pay my respects to them whenever I visit my dad. Quietly, I tell them, “Thank you for my freedom. I cherish it.” Now I owe them a debt. It’s one in which I must do all I’m able to ensure the freedoms that they laid down their lives for are extended to all, no matter their race, gender, identification, age, ability, or status. Let’s honor the collective sacrifices of the millions who gave all for “freedom’s righteous cause.”
