John was 10 years old when his Uncle Isadoro Lukacsa, his father’s brother, returned home 30 years later reduced to skin and bones. Isadoro’s eyes were sunken with dark circles around them. His chin bones seemed thin as razor blades, and he weighed only 50 pounds.

He looked like he had been eaten by cancer, a fossil of what he once was – a ghastly figure, barely alive. Emotionally dead on the inside. His skin was pale. Once muscular, tall and handsome, he had lost his sense of self.

Isadoro was a prisoner of war captured by the Russians during WWI in 1917 and hauled off to a lead mine in the bowels of Siberia, a place of biting cold – no place to be somebody.

It was dark, dank and dangerous: void of sunshine and fresh air, nothing green or lively about it. He returned home with legs like sticks. Starved. Scarred. Broken. Only God knows what he suffered.

He was only 17 when he was drafted and captured, robbed of his youth, his life, his personhood, his family, the things he loved. Barricaded in the perils of the unfamiliar. Slammed in a dungeon with no way out.

Upon returning home in 1947, Isadoro had forgotten how to speak his native language and only spoke Russian. He could no longer feed himself and wore a diaper.

John’s mother, with a torn heart, fed him and changed him like a baby with tenderness and compassion. “My mother was a strong woman. Her name was Helen.” John admired her deeply.

Isadoro was a counterfeit of what he once was, a stranger to himself and others, useless as a hole in a paper bag, and stripped of human function beyond medical interventions, prayers, miracles and hope. He trembled. He mumbled. His eyes teared. 

He passed away in 1947, two months after returning home. It was a year John would never forget: a year of sadness, pain, tragedy and mental torture, a reminder of the devastation of war and man’s inhumanity to man. 

Isadoro’s condition and death left indelible memories in John’s mind. Two other uncles never returned from WWI, possibly buried in a mass grave without a proper burial, without closure or the family’s final goodbyes. “War. War. War.” John hated it.

During WWII in 1945, John’s father, Carl, went to war and was captured by the Russians. He was put on a train headed to a concentration camp in the Ukraine. His five-year-old sister Elizabeth died of pneumonia that same year.

On the shoulders of his mother’s strength, courage, resolve and faith, she guided the family through dismal times in the absence of John’s father and the loss of his sister Elizabeth. Food was scarce and rations were thin. 

Vouchers were issued for sugar, flour, coffee, canned goods, meats and cheeses. Beans and more beans and rotten potatoes. Cigarette shortages. Overwhelming starvation and grief. War … clouds upon clouds of darkness–more and more trials, troubles and tribulations. 

While John’s father and two other soldiers were being transported by train to a prison camp in the Ukraine, they used a pocketknife to cut a hole in the wooden floor and crawled under the train to escape. As they maneuvered through danger, fate shined favorably on them. 

A Ukrainian family housed them, buried them in the loft of their barn under bales of hay, and fed them for 27 days. They met other extended hands along the way. It took the three escapees a year to find their way home. 

They combated hunger and the elements and skillfully stayed out of harm’s way. Confronted with an intolerable winter, sunshine birthed hope. They had no compass, followed the stars and traveled roads from memory.

If caught, they would be shot on the spot. In 1946, John’s father made it home and brought light into the family. 

However, the Russians won WWII, confiscated the land and Hungary became a satellite state of the Soviet Union. The vineyards, wineries and farmlands of the people, including John’s family, became state-owned property. 

Ironically, families that owned the land were paid by the government to work on it. “Americans know nothing about socialism or communism.” John’s words rang with strong conviction. 

War … an abomination, immense suffering, immeasurable grief, and incalculable loss that turned his family’s and countless others’ worlds upside down.

John Lukasca was born on August 11, 1937, in a lush green village known as Somlovasarhely, south of the Danube, fertile in vineyards on the Pest side of Budapest where the less affluent lived.

His native land is known for thermal baths, storybook castles, and colorful floral gardens. Vineyards were plentiful. When John was seven, his father, Carl, put him to work. Carl owned a vineyard and a winery. He also owned land on the other side of town. 

He taught John how to tie grape leaves to prevent them from falling. John grew up in a close-knit, self-sustaining community. They used horses and mules for transportation and transporting goods. The people raised sheep, goats, cattle and pigs. It was excellent land for grazing and farming.

John’s grandfather Joseph donated land to a priest to build a small Catholic chapel. John has a prized painting on his living room wall of the village where he was born, and his eyes sparkled as he proudly pointed to the small chapel Joseph’s donation made possible.

John said he was a quick learner and a bright student. He spoke two languages: Hungarian and English. At the age of 14, he had the option of going to trade school or high school.

He enrolled in trade school to become a machinist: four hours in the classroom and four hours of workshop, five days a week. After completing the first year and passing the exam, he earned 25% of the master machinist’s pay. After the second year, he earned 50% of the master machinist’s pay. 

Each year, if the criteria of completing the course work and passing the exam were met, the pay increased by 25%. In 1956, John’s life was interrupted and he did not finish the course. 

An uprising led by university students in Budapest against Russian oppression and occupation became a revolution once the masses joined in.

The first two weeks the Hungarians won, but the Russians sent in 2,000 tanks and recaptured the cities. Twenty-five hundred Hungarians and 700 Soviet troops were killed during the conflict, significant casualties on both sides. 

A no-win situation, the ugly facts of war. John was drafted in the Hungarian Army in 1956 and was to report in April 1957. He failed to report and escaped to Austria in January 1957, landing in a refugee camp. 

Over 200,000 Hungarians escaped from Soviet occupation. Over 6,000 people were in the camp. It was overcrowded and people were being shipped to other countries, including the U.S. 

John had relatives in America, an uncle who had a beer bar and a grocery store in Detroit and a grandfather who worked in a coal mine in Pennsylvania. He had hope.

He went to the U.S. Embassy and was told he would be granted a visa to America if he volunteered to join the military for five years. He accepted the deal and received his visa in October 1957. 

He landed in New York on October 17, 1957. It was his ticket out of the refugee camp, his escape from communism. John joined the U.S. Army and did his basic training at Fort Jackson in South Carolina for 16 weeks. 

This included heavy weapons training with 50-caliber mortars and scorpion tank maneuvering. He went to North Korea in 1958 as a Private First Class E-3. 

While in North Korea, John developed appendicitis and didn’t know it. He almost died. He couldn’t eat. An Army physician gave him some pills and told him to return to the frontline. 

He had dropped from 156 to 112 pounds. Three days later, he had emergency surgery in Japan that saved his life. The physician who gave him the pills was removed from duty. John spent 39 days in the hospital.

When John returned to the States in 1960, after two years in North Korea, he was stationed at Fort Louis in Washington and received a Specialist E-4 rank as a squad leader. In 1962, he became an E-5 and was a platoon sergeant. 

He took a test to earn the rank. That same year, John passed the test to become a U.S. citizen. During his five years in the military, John took correspondence courses. “I’d do anything to get the rank. I’d clean the toilets, if necessary.”

 In 1963, the U.S. military needed advisors to go to Vietnam and John volunteered. In order to become an advisor, he had to take special training, and his paperwork was sent to the Pentagon for approval. 

A month later, he received notice he was rejected because his parents lived in a communist country. His parents were interviewed by the Pentagon in Hungary. John met with his commanding officer and was told he was not approved. 

However, the commander encouraged John to stay in the Army. He advised John to join the Green Berets. “I told him ‘adios’.” On May 8, 1963, John received an honorable discharge from the U.S. Army. 

He lived in Detroit for a while and in other places in the States, eventually finding his way to California.

John attended Compton College and Cerritos College and also a technical institute in Rosemead for ultrasonic x-ray, isotope and magnetic rays. His resume includes working for Rockwell, Boeing and Aerojet. 

He worked on the Apollo program, a GPS satellite program for five years, and a nuclear project for 12 years. John had Department of Energy and Secret clearances. Although he didn’t earn a college degree, John was grandfathered in as an engineer.

He has been married for 56 years and has two sons. One son is an emergency room physician assistant in Florida and the other is an executive in marketing in Irvine, California. 

He has four grandchildren. Lauren graduated from Cal Poly Pomona. She is an office administrator. Gavin is studying at Fullerton College and is an outstanding soccer player. 

Dylan will be completing high school in 2021 and is in a gifted program. He received the top student academic award for the state of Florida and a letter of congratulations from the Governor. 

His goal is to become a physician. Katrina is a sophomore in high school and has been a ballerina since she was five years old.

John and his wife, Renee, knew each other only two months before they were married. She laughed as she told the story about their wedding, while showing me their wedding pictures. 

One of the church member’s daughter was married two months before and graciously loaned Renee her daughter’s wedding dress. John had black hair and was in an elegant black and white tuxedo with military spit-shined black shoes. 

Renee looked pristine with a flowing veil and a flowing white gown tailored to her body. (I never would have guessed that the gown was borrowed.) Renee commented, “I think that wedding dress was a blessing to more than me. 

“We were so poor we couldn’t afford to pay for the wedding dinner.” An uncle gave them the wedding dinner as a gift.

John and Renee have lived the American dream and are grateful to be Americans. I am proud to have them as my neighbors.

In 2013, when John and Renee first moved next door, John extended his hand to me while introducing himself. He volunteered to cut a branch off my persimmon tree, which was hanging over my brick wall into public space.

He seems to always be volunteering for something. “If you need help or anything, let me know.”

Recently, for his 83rd birthday, John bought himself a new car. I asked him what his APR was. He smiled. “I paid cash. I can’t take it with me when I die. I might as well spend some of it.”

Later, I thought, “What a foolish question to ask. I know John’s got bank.”

John rides his bike, patrolling the neighborhood and keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. He picks up trash and cleans up fallen leaves from my sidewalk. He helped me get rid of an opossum. 

I had ten skunks in my backyard. John spotted them and informed me. He graciously volunteered to call our councilwoman to ask if the city of La Palma could assist me in getting them off my property. 

He also provided me with her phone number. Surprisingly, the councilwoman knocked on my door weeks later. That was kind of her, but I had researched and knew the city wouldn’t do anything, and the skunks had already been removed. 

John and Renee offered to split the cost of getting rid of them. However, I cordially declined. I felt strongly that it was my responsibility to get rid of the skunks. I appreciated their offer.

On hot days, John gives bottles of cold water to the postal workers who drop off the mail. He proudly displays the American flag every day. He keeps his vegetable and floral gardens manicured and does the work himself. 

He has assisted me charging my battery in Miss Daisy, my 1988 Fleetwood Cadillac, and helped me in my vegetable garden. Renee says he looks for my bedroom light to be sure I’m home and safe at night. 

When he doesn’t see me for several days, he worries. Just recently, when John didn’t see me turning the corner for several days waving and saying, “Hey John, how’s it going?”, nor my bedroom light, I received a message from him (with a thick accent) on my answering machine. 

“Hi, Vickie, this is John, your neighbor. I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Are you alright?”–typical John. I called John right away to reassure him that I was okay.

I’ve not only grown to appreciate John’s skills at cultivating yellow and red roses and purple and magenta gladiolus in his manicured flower beds, but I appreciate his people skills at cultivating friendships. I am blessed to call him my neighbor and my dear friend.

Vickie Williams is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.