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PAPA and MISHA
I don't know why I called my stepfather "Papa." It was
probably because that's what my daughter started calling him as
a child and the name stuck. Before, I'd always called him Stanley,
the Americanized version of his Lithuanian name, Stanislaus.
He came to America as a child of four with his parents and younger
brother, gaining entry through Ellis Island before the end of World
War I. They moved to northwest Iowa, where, I suppose, the winters
weren't any great shock, and where prosperity--compared to what
they'd left behind--could be found in the meat-packing industry
of the Midwest.
When my sister and I were eleven, Stanley married our mother. He
was renowned for his skill in using a boning knife in the meat-packing
plants that had made Sioux City a thriving town. We saw our stepfather
as a strict, hard man. Certainly, we never imagined he'd be the
sort who would love and care for a tiny cat.
Long after my daughter, my husband, and I left Iowa, a neighbor
approached my mother and Papa, as I'd come to call him by then.
She had a litter of kittens and was trying her best to get rid of
them. Somehow, a child had gotten hold of one and squeezed its neck
so hard that the poor thing couldn't make a sound. The mute kitty
was the runt of the litter. No one would take a puny kitten who
couldn't even purr. The woman didn't want to kill the little thing,
and wondered if Mama and Papa would consider giving her a home.
"No," my mother said at the same time Papa said, "Sure."
Misha went home with Papa, starting a love affair that extended
into old age.
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