The Immigrants' Reality

Epilogue

In September of 1929, Mary and Stephan received a letter from

the Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Voloshin,

 

We regret to inform you that Anna K. Voloshin is no

longer a patient in our facility.  The Hospital caught

fire two weeks ago.  There were no casualties.  

However, during the evacuation of the inmates your

daughter left the grounds.  It is possible that she was

accompanied by a male patient, James H. Farrell. 

Their whereabouts are unknown.

The Voloshins reeled in horror at Anna’s disappearance. Their

whereabouts are unknown; the words resounded over and over again. 

They knew nothing about a James Farrell.   Anna had never mentioned a

companion.  They had no idea where he could have taken her, if indeed

she was with him.  The loss of their daughter left an oozing wound in Mary

and Stephan’s hearts.

There was no word from Anna for many years, until one day an envelope

without a return address arrived from Florida. It contained a brief note and

a photograph:

Here is a picture of my children.  Love, Anna.

 

Three young children, two girls and a boy sat on a sofa. The Voloshin

family could see their genes in each of the children in that small photograph. 

Anna’s children—they didn’t even know their names.

December of 1961 brought another letter from Anna, now age fifty. 

The letter had a return address and a telephone number.  It was an

incoherent account of Anna’s life that described her tumultuous, brief

marriage to James, their on and off relationship resulting in the children,

their admissions and discharges into various mental institutions, and

the seizing of their children by the state.  Anna wrote that she was alone

in a world that she didn’t want to live in anymore.

Mary immediately called the telephone number Anna gave, but the number

had been disconnected.  Frantic, Stephan and Mary called John and

Matthew, both married with children and grandchildren.  They left for

Florida that day, taking turns driving until they found the address on

the envelope.

Anna was alone in the cluttered, dirty apartment.  The electricity had been

turned off.  She didn’t recognize either of her brothers.  It had been so many

years since they had last seen her they barely recognized her as well.  Yet

no matter what the brothers said, no matter how many times they told her

they were there to help her, she kept screaming and screaming. 

History repeated itself.  John and Matthew forced Anna into the car, one of

the brothers sitting guard next to her, the other driving until they reached their

parents’ New Jersey farmhouse.

It was Christmas day.  Mary and Stephan hosted a huge family gathering

at the farmhouse with their children and their spouses, their grandchildren

and great grandchildren. They were overjoyed to have Anna with them at last. 

The happy Christmas was anything but, for Anna was a stranger. She was

visibly agitated in the presence of her parents and siblings. She seemed

more comfortable with the small children, calling them by her own lost

children’s names.  She was unable to eat anything, her gaunt pinched face

bringing back painful memories.  Anna refused to leave the kitchen.  

She would not go near the parlor or the bedroom.

Fearful that Anna would escape into the cold winter elements, John

and Matthew guarded the doors all night, their wives and children

going home without them.  The next morning, her brothers drove her

to the Marlboro State Psychiatric Hospital of New Jersey. 

In 1966, the Voloshins received word that their daughter had left the

premises: “her whereabouts are unknown. “

Mary and Stephan both lived into old age.  Though Stephan remained

plagued with the headaches that occurred with any strenuous exertion,

his enjoyment of reading English secured his employment at the public

library in town.  Mary was a loving wife, mother, grandmother and great

grandmother, the backbone of her family.  The loss of their eldest

daughter was a gaping wound the Voloshins carried to their deaths.