Three Men at War, One Family Keeping Hope Alive

History often speaks in thunderous tones of battles, treaties, and grand strategies. But sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear it whisper. In a modest Brooklyn apartment during World War II, Anna and Vasil Marcisak’s mailbox became an unexpected archive of the war experience. Their mailbox didn’t receive just one soldier’s letters—it received three.

Two sons and a future son-in-law. Scattered across two theaters of war. And they are all writing to the same address, all trying to bridge the unbridgeable distance between the front lines and home. Steve Marcisak, the older son captured in Italy and who became a prisoner of war in Poland and Germany. Paul Marcisak, the Marine fighting island to island across the Pacific. And George Dubinsky, the soldier who fell in love with their daughter Evelyn while trying to find his way home.

Their letters reveal something powerful: war is not just a collection of battles and strategies. It’s lived in the small, human moments—in reassurances to worried parents, in requests for familiar comforts, and in the persistent dream that there would be a home to return to. Here are the lessons their words still teach us.

The Burden of Reassurance

Nearly every letter these three men wrote carried the same deliberate message: “don’t worry.” This was not a single sentiment but a relentless campaign of reassurance, an exhausting pattern of emotional labor performed for loved ones thousands of miles away.

Before shipping overseas, Paul wrote from North Carolina: “And please dont worry about me” (April 23, 1942). From the Pacific, the pleas continued with almost identical phrasing. “Please don’t worry”, “so please don’t worry” (September 16, 1942) and “so pleas dont worry for their nothing to worry about” (November 13, 1942).

The most powerful example comes from one of the most brutal battlegrounds of the Pacific War, a place that became synonymous with suffering and sacrifice.

Dropping you a few lines just to let you know that Im on Guadalcanal, And theirs nothing to worry about, Im still safe and feeling fine, I hope every at home feels the same.
— Paul Marcisak, August 20, 1942

This reveals a profound truth about the soldier’s burden. They carried not just weapons and gear, but the emotional well-being of their families, carefully curating news from the front to protect those they had left behind.

When Information Became a Lifeline

It’s nearly impossible for us to imagine a world without instant communication, but for soldiers in the 1940s, information was a slow, heavily controlled, and precious commodity. Every envelope bearing the “PASSED BY NAVAL CENSOR” stamp was a physical reminder of this reality.

The delays were immense. In September 1942, Paul mentioned finally receiving a letter his parents had written back in July. This profound isolation created a deep hunger for any scrap of news.

I suppose you have read the papers on what is going on down here and their isnt anything to worry about, I only hope we had a few papers down here to read and catch up with the latest news.
— Paul Marcisak, September 11, 1942

For George Dubinsky, stationed stateside at Camp Ellis, Illinois, the mail became something even more intimate. His correspondence with Evelyn became their only true privacy. During his visits to New York, their time was constantly fractured by family interruptions and ringing doorbells. Their most vulnerable conversations could only happen through letters—a public medium that paradoxically became their most private sanctuary.

Then again, this never being alone with you long enough to think of anything but to hold you, kiss you madly before somebody walked in or the doorbell rang.
— George Dubinsky, 1945

The Chaos Behind “Missing in Action”

We often imagine that when a soldier went missing, families received a single, solemn telegram. The reality for the Marcisak family was far more chaotic and emotionally jarring when Steve went missing in Italy.

Their ordeal began on March 14, 1944, not with official word from the War Department, but with a telegram from the Federal Communications Commission. The telegram read that the name “Lieutenant Stephen Martisak” had been mentioned in a German radio broadcast as a prisoner. The name was misspelled—a flicker of hope immediately undercut by doubt.

The next day, a second telegram arrived, quoting an intercepted broadcast: “DEAR PARENTS I AM A PRISONER OF WAR DONT WORRY AM IN GOOD HEALTH LOVE YOUR SON SIGNED STEPHEN MARTISAK.” Again, the misspelled name.

This unofficial news was cruelly contradicted on March 31 when the dreaded official telegram arrived from the War Department, formally reporting him “MISSING IN ACTION SINCE EIGHTEEN FEBRUARY IN ITALY.” This one spelled his name correctly but delivered the worst possible news, and even worse – it was sent to the WRONG address.. the family had moved in July 1943, but someone in Washington didn’t check before sending this very important telegram.

For weeks, the family lived in agonizing uncertainty. It wasn’t until May 8—more than two months after the first word—that official confirmation finally arrived via the International Red Cross that Steve was indeed a prisoner of war. That single misspelled letter painted a vivid picture of the emotional whiplash families on the home front endured.

Small Comforts in Epic Turmoil

While stationed in some of the most consequential locations of the Pacific War, Paul’s thoughts often turned to the simple things he missed from home. His requests grounded the epic narrative of war in relatable human desires:

• A camera and film to capture his new life at Parris Island (September 25, 1941)
• “Kolbasi” sausage—”the real stuff”—and a quality travel kit from North Carolina (May 11, 1942)
• A good shaving brush, because overseas ones were inferior (February 20, 1943)
• Cigars, newspapers, and magazines to catch up on news and enjoy relaxation

These requests remind us that soldiers weren’t just cogs in a war machine. They were individuals who, in the midst of historic turmoil, still craved a good shave and a taste of home.

When Steve was a POW at Stalag VII A and Oflag 64, his care package requests revealed something deeper—a psychological battle against despair fought by clinging to small comforts. He asked for “a pipe, razor blades, shoe polish, and ‘oodles’ of chocolate,” later requesting “leather soles and heels” to repair his shoes and even “a roll of toilet paper.”

These weren’t just comforts. They were tools for preserving identity. A pipe for ritual and contemplation. Shoe polish for maintaining a soldierly appearance—a subtle form of resistance. Toilet paper for fundamental human dignity. In captivity, these everyday items became profoundly important in the fight to remain human.

Hope in the Face of Uncertainty

On June 6, 1944, the world’s attention fixed on the beaches of Normandy. As Allied forces stormed ashore in history’s largest seaborne invasion, a world away in the Pacific, Corporal Paul Marcisak—a veteran of Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester—was conducting a quiet, profoundly optimistic act. Unaware of D-Day’s specifics, he sat down to handle his finances.

I saved up quit a bit of money and Im sending four hundred dollars now… I know its hard to believe that Im sending all that money home, I didnt get paid for a few months and my money piled up and I drew four hundred and I still have about two hundred on the books…

Sending home $400 (equivalent to over $7,000 today) on that particular day creates staggering dramatic irony. While history was being made with unimaginable violence in Europe, this Marine focused on a future he refused to believe he wouldn’t see. It was tangible belief that there would be a “home” to return to and a life worth saving for.

For George, hope looked different. Despite having accumulated 91 points—well above the 85 needed for discharge—he found himself trapped by his own competence. He was repeatedly declared “essential” and couldn’t be discharged until a replacement was found. Getting home wasn’t just a matter of the fighting ending; it became its own battle against military bureaucracy.

Conclusion: The Human Scale of History

Three soldiers. One family. Hundreds of letters crossing oceans and continents, each one a lifeline connecting the unimaginable reality of war to the ordinary comfort of home. Steve, Paul, and George’s correspondence offers a powerful reminder that history is ultimately a human story, written not only in grand movements of armies but in small, quiet moments.

In their requests for shaving brushes and sausages, in their reassurances to worried parents, in their careful management of hope during impossible circumstances, these men reveal war’s true weight. Their letters pull history from the abstract and place it in our hands, where we can feel what it meant to live through it.

As we remember the great events of the past, what do we gain when we listen to the quiet, personal voices of those who lived them? And what unexpected histories might be waiting in our own family’s attics, ready to tell us truths we never imagined?

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This post is part of the #52Ancestors challenge. Steve Marcisak returned home after liberation from POW camps in 1945. Paul Marcisak survived the Pacific campaign and came home to Brooklyn. George Dubinsky eventually received his discharge and married Evelyn Marcisak. Their letters remain a testament to one family’s experience of a world at war.

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1. Paul Marcisak to Anna and Vasil Marcisak [parents], letter, Guadalcanal, 20 August 1942; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
2. Paul Marcisak to Anna and Vasil Marcisak [parents], letter, [Pacific Theater], 11 September 1942; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025 ↩︎
3. George Dubinsky to Evelyn Marcisak, letter, [location], 1945; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025 ↩︎
4. Intelligence Service, Federal Communications Commission, telegram to Mr. and Mrs. C. Martisak [Marcisak], 14 March 1944, regarding German broadcast mentioning “Lieutenant Stephen Martisak”; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
5. Gullion Provost Marshal General to Mr. & Mrs. (Catrill?) Martisak [Marcisak], POW message from Stephen Marcisak, 15 March 1944, quoting intercepted German broadcast from “Stephen Martisak”; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
6. Dunlop Acting The Adjutant General, telegram to Anna Marcisak, 31 March 1944, reporting Stephen Marcisak “Missing in Action since eighteen February in Italy”; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
7. Provost Marshal General Dunlop Acting The Adjutant General, telegram to Anna Marcisak, 8 May 1944, confirming Stephen Marcisak as prisoner of war; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
8. Paul Marcisak to Anna and Vasil Marcisak [parents], letter, [Pacific Theater], 6 June 1944; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎
9. JLIO Adj General, telegram to Anna Marcisak, 30 May 1945, confirming Stephen Marcisak back in the United States; Marcisak Family Letters, World War II Collection, privately held by Kirsten M. Max-Douglas, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2025. ↩︎