The Value of Collateral Lines

 

One way to accomplish an end run around a research "brick wall" is to study the siblings of the ancestor who has us stymied. While this technique will not always provide the answer we'd hoped for, it can sometimes lead to valuable information.

Right now, I'd really like to find more information on the family of my second great-grandfather, Franz Jankowski. I already know that Franz had married Franziska Olejniczak—but I knew this only because of their mention in their daughter Marianna's own marriage record. I have not yet been able to locate their own record—if, indeed, the names were entered (or transcribed) correctly for their daughter's wedding.

Still, from their daughter's record, we can see that Marianna was likely born about 1862, somewhere in Poland. That, however, was the age given for Marianna in the transcription of the church record, which presented her as a seventeen year old bride. Looking to the civil record presents a different picture. In that record, Marianna was listed as being ten years older, which calculates to a year of birth in 1852.

That earlier date might have been a less problematic issue, had I not discovered a collateral line for my great-grandmother. Scouring the marriage transcriptions listed online at the Poznan Project, I discovered another daughter of Franz and Franziska named Stanisława. This daughter, according to her own marriage record, was not married until 1894. According to the civil record, she was born in 1871.

It was encouraging to find a sibling for Marianna, one whom I could—hopefully—trace through the decades to see whether any further mention might be made about her parents and other family members. And that I did, following Stanisława and her husband, Franz Janczak, from their home in Żerków, part of present-day Poland, to a new home in Buffalo, New York—until research stalled with her early death and some puzzles about her children, of which I had already written.

The problem, though, was in some dates. Noticing Marianna's issue with the disagreeing dates of birth—either 1862 or ten years earlier—made me wonder about a sister born almost ten years after that later date, in 1871. Yes, that large a time span could be possible, especially given larger families of that era. It could also hint at a birth order for Marianna's siblings, possibly putting her at the top of the list. It would be helpful to find any indication of other siblings in the family line.

Thus, back to the Poznan Project to see whether I could locate any other marriage transcriptions listing those same two parents for either a bride or a groom. There was one: a woman by the name of Antonie Jankowska, daughter of Franz and Franziska. Even younger than Marianna's sister Stanisława, she was about to become bride of Joseph Karcz in 1898.

Above inserts: transcriptions of marriage records for members of the Jankowski family in Żerków, Poland, courtesy of the Poznan Project.

Disappointing Silence

"Having posted my queries, the wondering genealogist moves on."

That's a lie. You know it is. If I were near my computer, I would have checked every hour to see if my message to a fellow Janczak researcher had received a reply.

Clue: it hasn't. Yet. Nor has there been any answer to a query I posted on a genealogy forum.

Perhaps I'm too impatient. I will refocus my imploring mind by following the trail to a timely announcement I stumbled across yesterday. Timely, that is, because if I ever connect to the people I'm seeking—those researchers who are hopefully more closely related to the Walter Janczak I'm seeking than I am—I'd like to see if they are game to try a DNA test.

Of course, once a DNA test has been submitted, the fun has only begun. There is a lot to do to figure out how some of these matches connect to one's family tree. That's why I was delighted to discover that a new book has—finally—come out to address this precise issue.

Back in May, two genetic genealogy bloggers announced that they had co-authored a book which was due to make its appearance sometime in mid-summer. Back then the book, Genetic Genealogy in Practice, was featured on the blogs of co-authors Blaine Bettinger and Debbie Parker Wayne.

And then, we waited.

It must have been a little bird which told me the book was finally out. I saw something to that effect online yesterday, but can't find who it was that mentioned it. Doesn't matter. All that counts is that the National Genealogical Society's online store is the place to find Genetic Genealogy in Practice. For those who are members, be sure to log in before adding the book to your cart, or you'll pay the full $36.05 price.

Now that the word is out that their book is now available, as co-author Debbie Parker Wayne explained in her own blog, it's a volume aiming to help researchers "use DNA to solve genealogical problems."

I, for one, have lots of those—in particular, my latest puzzle over which Walter Janczak, if either, of the two Buffalo men who are candidates for the relationship to claim as my first cousin twice removed.

Disclaimer: I have no financial interest in promoting this book; my only interest is in bringing this useful volume to the attention of other researchers who may appreciate its content.

When the Ask Has to Wait for The Answer

Hurry up and wait is the hardest position for an impatient genealogist to be in. I want to be able to ask—ask for information from close family members, especially to pop the question about willingness to participate in a DNA test—but all those questions will do no good until I receive an answer to an all-encompassing question.

The question? Is the Walter Janczak who died in Buffalo, New York, in 1972, the same one who was born Władysław Janczak in Poland around 1903?

I'd really like to meet some of Walter's descendants. If they descend from the right people—particularly, Władysław's mother Stanisława Jankowska—that would mean I've just managed to find some cousins I never knew I had.

The link is fairly straightforward: Stanisława was sister to Marianna, my paternal grandmother's mother. Though she never mentioned his family—at least, that I'm aware—that would mean my grandmother Sophie was cousin to this "Walter," as he came to be known in Buffalo. Walter's children and my parents' generation would have been second cousins. His grandchildren would be my third cousins.

Wherever those grandchildren might be...

I just know they've got to be out there. Granted, that's a thought buoyed up by a lot of faith—and not much else. But I do have the 1940 census to go by. Though it throws me that curve of his birthplace being listed as New Jersey—not the Poland it was supposed to be—it does reveal two daughters born just before 1930, and a much younger son who just might have been the Walter I found in some of the more recent newspaper articles I found while searching archives online. Surely, at least one of these children of Walter and his wife Celia would give them the grandchildren they'd want to brighten up their golden years.

On one hand, I would love to find them. On the other hand, that would mean the time has come for the ask—that big question about willingness to participate in a DNA test.

That can be an awfully personal question, I've come to find out. Some genealogy enthusiasts can't imagine anyone being hesitant to jump right in and participate. I'm so glad my brother sprang at the opportunity when I asked him; not everyone does. I have a third cousin by marriage—whom I met only by virtue of our mutual fascination with our family history—who had presumed the same thing when she asked one of her relatives to test. He, on the other hand, didn't see quite eye to eye with her enthusiasm.

Everybody has their own reasons for jumping right in and testing, thanks to this new way of verifying our ancestry. Likewise, there are apparently many reasons why others hesitate—or adamantly refuse. I've since discussed this surprising mindset with several people. It's a point of view we researchers need to respect, as frustrating as we may find it.

So, I find myself playing the waiting game, impatient to find a way to make connections with total strangers, chomping at the bit to blurt out, "Hey, guess what—we're family!" And yet, at the same time, envisioning all the ways the scene can unfold in unexpected ways. Some of them not the happily anticipated outcome I'd hoped for. Getting to "the ask" can be fraught with so many jagged imaginations.

Above: "Rozmowa" (Conversation), 1894 painting by Polish artist Władysław Podkowiński; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Letting the Newspapers Answer the Question

Still stymied by the possibility of selecting the wrong "Walter" Janczak of Buffalo to reside on that new branch in my father's family tree, I followed my own advice yesterday. I sent a message to fellow Janczak researchers via that handy communications device at Ancestry.com, asking if my Walter and theirs might be one and the same. Now, all that's left is the wait.

Meanwhile, I can't just sit still, leaving my answer to fate. I've posted a query to a genealogy forum, and if the silence is deafening in the next few days, I'll send an email to the library in Buffalo to see if anyone can help locate the other Walter Janczak's obituary. One way or another, I'd like to sort these Walters out. Only one of them can be the right candidate to fit in my family tree. May as well do my due diligence to make sure it's the right one.

In the meantime, I decided to keep searching through newspaper archives to see if I could find any other hints.

The reason I need to keep searching is that the one obituary I found already—the one for the Walter who died in 1967—was missing one vital ingredient: the names of his parents. Oh, how much easier it would have made things for me if that November 7, 1967, edition of the Buffalo Courier Express had thought to include those names.

Another thing missing from that obituary was Walter's age. I already knew my Walter was born around 1903 in Poland. But this Walter? No idea.

So here's what the article did say about Walter. Even if this doesn't turn out to be mine, perhaps posting it here will help someone else find a missing ancestor.

JANCZAK—Walter of Clarence Ave., Nov. 5, 1967, beloved husband of the late Victoria, (nee Krasnicka) dear father of Francis (Myrtle), Veronica Zielinski and the late Casmer; grandfather of seven grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren. Funeral Wednesday at 9:30 a.m. from Kocol Funeral Home Inc., 1972 Genessee St. and in Queen of Peace Church at 10 a.m. Interment in St. Stanislaus Cemetery. Relatives and friends invited. Family will be present from 2-5 and 7-10 p.m.

There it is, telling me all about this Walter's descendants, and nothing about his ancestors. Frustrating.

I kept searching. Eventually, I ran into something which might help, at least indirectly. Remember how there were two men in Buffalo by the name Walter Janczak? Well, I found a newspaper article that might tell me more about this same Walter, no matter who he turns out to be.

It was a small insert on the twenty-eighth page of the same newspaper, the Buffalo Courier Express. Only this one was published on March 6, 1959. While it didn't tell me much, directly, about this Walter, it did provide enough for me to make inferences.

An elderly man was injured late yesterday afternoon when the car in which he was riding struck a tree in Kehr St. near Genesee St. Walter Janczak, 70, of 161 Clarence St., was taken to Emergency Hospital with lacerations. The driver was Charles Szafarczyk, 50, of 32 Parkridge Ave.

While the article referred to Walter's address as Clarence Street instead of Clarence Avenue, I'm sure it was one and the same location. Chalk it up to another slip of the copy editor. No matter what the street designation was, we are apparently talking about the same Walter as had been mourned in the obituary found in 1967.

Even though the article doesn't present us with any overt genealogical material, it does tell us something about this Walter Janczak. Now, with this other article about his unfortunate injury in 1959, we can calculate this Walter's date of birth to be approximately 1889—too early to be our Walter, whose census records pinpointed his date of birth to be 1900 or a few years afterwards.

Of course, just as newspapers make reporting mistakes and other minor errors, the hospital or a police report could have listed this Walter's age in error. There are any number of mistakes that could have delivered the end product to us with details leading us to make the wrong conclusions.

But for now, I'm betting on the other Walter—the one dying in 1972, likely the husband of Celia—being our family's man.


Images of newspaper excerpts courtesy of the website Old Fulton New York Post Cards.

Looking For Not-Walter

Someone I'm seeking, in my quest to find my Polish roots, is not named Walter. But that is apparently the name he went by, once he came of age in this country.

Of course, I don't know that for sure. This is a story from a hundred years ago—the kind that can get horribly mangled in the repeated retelling of it.

The man I'm seeking was born Władysław Janczak, somewhere around Żerków in the old Province of Poznań, now part of Poland. He was son of my grandmother Sophie's aunt Stanisława Jankowska and her husband, Franz Janczak. Depending on which document you believe, Władysław was either born about 1903 or 1900. In any case, it was before the Janczak family arrived in the United States around 1907.

Whether this confusion can be blamed on a census enumerator's mistake or the common habit of adapting one's hopelessly-foreign-sounding given name to better fit in with the crowd in a new hometown, Władysław may have turned out to be known as Walter.

Walter was not his real name, of course. But our not-Walter may have spent the rest of his life being called exactly that: Walter Janczak.

Since the family settled in the vicinity of Buffalo, New York, I looked through all the documents I could find online for Janczak descendants in Buffalo. And though that was not his name, you know I had to include not-Walter in my searches, too.

The problem was, by the time our not-Walter became an adult, in a city of by then over five hundred thousand people, even a surname like Janczak might yield more than one person by the same name. Yes, even not-Walter Janczak might have a double.

Sure enough, pulling up a city directory at random—in this case, the 1933 directory, courtesy of Ancestry.com—there were two Walter Janczaks. One was a moulder for the Richardson & Boynton Company. Living on Rogers Avenue, he was married with his wife listed in the directory as Victoria J. The other entry for a Walter Janczak was for a day laborer residing on Clinton Street with his wife, Cecelia.

This information would turn out to be helpful in the quest to identify my not-Walter, but not soon enough to assuage my impatience. As it so happened, only one of those Walters from the 1933 city directory would show up in the 1940 census—at least as far as I can tell. That Walter, though no longer living on Clinton Street, was the one with wife Celia. Now in a house on Willet Street, he was head of a family including children Mary, Rose and Walter.

Walter, husband of Victoria, had apparently shuffled off from Buffalo before the taking of that 1940 census, doing absolutely nothing to help my research cause.

If you are beginning to think this, in itself, would resolve my dilemma, think again. Remember the obituary I mentioned finding yesterday? The one for the Walter who died in November, 1967? It stated he was "beloved husband of the late Victoria." So he couldn't have left Buffalo behind for too long. It could very well be he still was in the running to be my not-Walter.

However, if you are getting ready to throw in the towel on this search for what became of Władysław Janczak, there was one other complicating factor. The other Walter really was still somewhere in or around Buffalo, for in the Social Security Death Index, there is a listing for a Walter Janczak who died in Buffalo—not in 1967, as we had already seen for that obituary entry, but in 1972.

Don't be tempted to assume my not-Walter was not-dead in 1967. Apparently, there still were two Walter Janczaks in Buffalo before that point. This second one—I'm presuming he would be the husband of Celia—was born in 1901. His death was in August, 1972.

It would have helped somewhat if I could have found an obituary for this second Walter, but try as I might, I couldn't locate one—not in the free resources I often mention, not in the two for which I hold subscriptions. This is one of those instances in which I wish I could instantly transport myself to Buffalo and back—just long enough to look up that missing obituary and snap a photo of his headstone for Find A Grave.

Of course, there are still a few old-fashioned options open to us for determining which one of these men—if either—might have been my not-Walter Janczak. For one thing, I can post a query on a genealogy forum for Erie County, New York. I can email the local library, in hopes they provide a lookup service. And I can look up family trees posted online which might include a Walter Janczak.

In fact, there is one already resident in the collection at Ancestry.com. All I have to do is send a message, sit back, and hope for a quick reply from a careful researcher who can provide lots of documentation. This may be a faster route to meeting a cousin than I had imagined. And an answer to my question of whatever became of my not-Walter. Or a brief discussion with someone who is not related in the least—in any way other than to share that fascinating obsession with genealogical research.

Above: Buffalo from the Erie Basin in 1911; photograph by W. H. Brandel; courtesy United States Library of Congress via Wikipedia; in the public domain.

How Common is Your Uncommon Surname?

In searching for an uncommon surname, I'll grant you it is indeed tempting to assume yours is the only one out there—thus providing that needed justification to snag the first viable search result that comes up. If you were searching for a surname like Olejniczak, wouldn't you feel the same way?

Since that turned out to be the maiden name of the mother of my father's maternal grandmother, I decided to see just how many people carried that name, here in the United States. In Poland, I can understand seeing more of that surname than here—and according to Herby, the count of Polish people with that surname was nearly twenty thousand around 1990, with a good many of them still living in the region once considered part of the historic Province of Posen, where my father's family originated.

Still, I guess I wasn't convinced, so I went to Ancestry.com and entered one word in their universal search engine: Olejniczak. I checked "exact" to make sure that was all I would get in the results—although it was no guarantee of surname purity—and sat back to peruse the twenty some-odd thousand results which were served up.

Judging by the many whose records sported that surname in the 1940 census, there are Olejniczak descendants in Ohio, Illinois, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Minnesota and New York—all the usual spots for northern Europeans to congregate. But there were also results showing for places like California, as well. Iowa, Indiana, even Massachusetts claimed Olejniczak descendants. I was beginning to think I had discovered the new Smith.

If a name like Olejniczak had seduced me into thinking any search result would deserve being claimed as mine, it would have been just the same for the surname I was puzzling over yesterday—Janczak. After all, I had never run into such a surname in all my life. Surely, there couldn't be too many of those. Right?

Finding out what a struggle it was to trace the descendants of my grandmother Sophie's cousins, the children of Sophie's aunt Stanisława Jankowska and her husband Franz Janczak, it was indeed tempting to claim any name which was the same as, say, their son Władysław Janczak, and call it mine.

Researching Władysław Janczak did back me into a tempting corner. First of all, the approximation of his birth year in the two census records I could find wasn't exactly helpful. The 1910 federal census estimated he was born in "Germany" in 1903. The New York State census in 1915 marked him down as having been born in 1900. Which one to believe?

It didn't help that the state census documented his name as Walter. Of course, I can understand the possibility. Picture this scenario:

• Enumerator shows up at the Janczaks' door and asks for names in the household.
• The likely only adult at home at the time—housewife Stanisława—gives her husband's name as the American-as-apple-pie "Frank" and provides a perky "Stella" for her own name.
• Enumerator asks, "Anyone else?"
• Stanisława names her firstborn son, Leon—an easy-to-transcribe name.
• She proceeds to her second-born, telling the enumerator, "Władysław."
• Enumerator, "Wha--???"
• Stanisława: "Władysław."
• Enumerator: "Spell that?"
• Stanisława: "W-"
• Enumerator: "Walter?"
• Stanisława: "Yeah..."

So, I've ended up with Władysław Janczak, alias Walter Janczak. Do I try to trace the man using his given name? Or his assumed name?

This kind of question becomes important when faced with the challenge of coming up empty-handed, despite computer searches. Do I snag the obituary—the only one I could find in Buffalo—for a Walter Janczak, died November 5, 1967, and buried in the same New York cemetery in Cheektowaga as my Walter's mother? Or was this just the coincidental juxtaposition of name and location of one of the thousands of Janczaks who are surely out there?

Or should I jump on the hints so handily served up for me by Ancestry.com's search algorithms? How tempting it was, seeing four hints for a Władysław who happened to be born in Poland in 1905. After all, that birth year seemed to be a roving number, based on the impression I got from the two records in which I found him. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to move that year of birth a couple notches in the other direction.

Taking a closer look, however, I got the feeling maybe this was too good a match to be true. This Władysław died in Bristol, Connecticut. Although it is not unusual for Americans to move from their hometown to some place new in adulthood, it left me with the choice of Władysław in Connecticut or Walter back home in Buffalo.

There was a naturalization record, which would make sense, seeing our man came here as a young boy from his native Poland. But there was one more detail: a 1944 entry in a record book from a concentration camp in France. I began to mull over the possibility that our Janczak man had either returned to live in his homeland in Poland as had Sophie's Gramlewicz cousins—or that, regardless of nearing middle age, he had enlisted in the U.S. military and subsequently was captured while fighting in Europe.

Somehow, neither of those possibilities seemed plausible to me.

While going back to the original page of hints at Ancestry, I just stared and stared at all these options until finally, one detail popped out for me. It was one single letter. And that one letter—a "y"—told me I was looking at records for a man who was, yes, named Władysław, but whose surname was spelled Janczyk. Not Janczak.

Granted, government officials sometimes get the spelling all messed up when dealing with foreign-sounding names, but I don't think this was merely a case of spelling error. Whether the Walter in Buffalo ends up being my man or not, I'm pretty sure whoever Stanisława's second-born son turns out to be, it won't be the one who kept the name his mother gave him.

Above: "At the Piano," 1904 painting by Polish artist Konrad Krzyżanowski; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Cautious Progress

When encountering immigrants' surnames which sound so foreign to the American ear, it is tempting to assume we have found the only one when searching for a name like Olejniczak—or even Janczak.

When I found what I thought might be the Polish sister of my great grandmother, Marianna Jankowska, married and living near Buffalo, New York, I tried as best I could to verify everything possible on her family. Of course, as I mentioned yesterday, even with what seem to be unusual surnames, the path to convincing verification can have its twists and turns.

For one thing, despite finding what I think was Marianna's sister by virtue of their mother's unusual maiden name—Olejniczak—there is the possibility that, even in a town as small as Żerków, there might be another mother by the exact same name.

Assuming, for the moment, that Marianna and Stanisława Jankowska were sisters, that would mean that my great grandmother's brother in law was Franz Janczak. Of course, that was still pressing it to assume that the Frank and Stanisława Janczak in Buffalo were one and the same as Franz and Stanisława in Żerków—though Frank's Social Security application managed to reveal almost exactly the same spelling for both parents as I had found on his marriage record in Poland.

However, that didn't guarantee that there was only one Frank Janczak in Buffalo. Having gone round and round, flipping from one city directory to another, my head is in a dizzy state of doubtfulness.  Granted, city directories don't give ages—and in some cases, don't list the name of a spouse—but with the several addresses for the same name, I wonder if they all belong to just one person.

It does appear that, after losing his wife Stanisława, our Frank may have married again. If this 1930 census record leads me to the right Frank, his second wife—apparently a widow, herself—was named Agnes. Though the Find a Grave entry doesn't include a photograph of the headstone, it looks like our Frank died in 1956—if this is the entry for the right Frank. I have to remember the possibility that there may be more than one, especially in a Polish magnet like the city of Buffalo.

Still, it was encouraging to find what seemed to be the one constant in any of those later records of Frank Janczak—the possibility of his daughter, eventually married and with at least one child. The 1940 census showed a "father-in-law" entry for a man named Frank Janczak in the home of Edward Dux of Buffalo. Along with this Janczak father-in-law was the entry for Edward's wife and son, Eugene. Edward's wife's name was Frances—the very name of the youngest child in our Frank's family. According to the 1940 census, she was born about 1912, close enough to the 1910 reported in the 1915 state census to be within reason.

And with that one son, Eugene Dux, it turns out his mother Frances became the grandmother of at least three. It looks like I just might have some Polish cousins in this country, after all.

Above: "The Girl at the Piano," 1907 painting by Polish artist Konrad Krzyżanowski; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

If One Side Doesn't Work, Try the Other Side

Puzzled by the apparent disappearance of the Giernatowskis from any records after the 1925 New York State census, I decided to switch tracks. After all, some progress is better than none. I always like to keep moving. Besides, I've learned that, in genealogy, patience is often rewarded; those surnames presenting an impenetrable front today may greet me with arms wide open sometime in the future. It's just a matter of someone eventually uploading digitized documents in a place where the general public may find them.

I mentioned yesterday that I discovered another possible immigrant in my grandmother Sophie's extended family from Poland. This was the perfect time, I thought, to try my hand at finding anything out about another branch of the family.

To check out this immigrant's place in the family constellation, we have to take a step back in time to the preceding generation. Instead of searching for someone on Sophie's father's side of the family—her father Anton Laskowski's sister Agnes and her husband Ignatz Giernatowski—this time, we'll be looking at Anton's in-laws on his wife's side of the family.

Anton married Marianna Jankowska in Żerków, part of the old Province of Poznań, as we've already seen. Thanks to the volunteer transcription work at the Poznań Project, we can see from their civil registry that Marianna's parents were Franz Jankowski and Franziska Olejniczak. (This was new information for me, since the only other record I had been able to obtain on Marianna's parents included what was provided by her husband on her death certificate in New York; that record included a mistaken report on the maiden name of her mother.)

From that point, it was a simple matter of putting the search engine at the Poznań Project through its paces once again—this time, in search of any other couples whose parents names were Franz Jankowski and Franziska Olejniczak.

There was one other record—for an apparent sister of Marianna named Stanisława. In 1894, both a Catholic parish record and a civil registry indicated that Stanisława was married to someone named Franz Janczak.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I entered that surname in the search engine at Ancestry.com and discovered there was indeed a couple by that name in America—in fact, showing in the 1910 census. They weren't, however, in Brooklyn where Sophie's other aunts and uncles had settled, but much farther north, near Buffalo. And not only had Franz and Stanisława emigrated from Poland, but they brought their two young sons—Leon and Władysław—with them as well.

The census indicated that the family had arrived in New York in 1907. While Sophie's family and other relatives had landed in New York City early enough to have their passenger records processed through Castle Garden, with Ellis Island operational by 1892, the Janczaks' arrival in 1907 would have put them squarely within the domain of Ellis Island.

And yet—you knew this would be the case—when I went looking for their passenger records among the Ellis Island holdings, I couldn't find any possibilities. Any possibilities other than that of a gross spelling error keeping their identity well concealed, that is.

Undeterred, I figured I could keep looking where I had managed to find them once: up near Buffalo in a town in Erie County called Cheektowaga. Yet, just as had happened when I tried to trace the Giernatowski family through time, I could only locate the Janczaks through the 1915 New York State census.

Not long after that, a marker at the Saint Stanislaus Roman Catholic Cemetery told the story on a simple stone written in Polish. Stanisława Janczak had died on January 26, 1919, at the age of forty seven.

As for the rest of the family, some changes from the 1915 census provided clues. Franz had Americanized his name to the predictable Frank—and by 1938 had filled out an application for his Social Security benefits, revealing his parents' names to be exactly the same as those found in his marriage record back in Żerków.

Leon had either followed suit, just like his dad, changing his name to Leo in that 1915 census—or had been a victim of sloppy enumeration efforts. It was, however, not at all on account of record-keeping mistakes that Władysław chose to report his name as Walter—wouldn't you, if you were a fifteen year old high school freshman in a new country?

But there was one other detail I spied in the 1915 census: the Janczaks had added another member to their immediate family tree: a daughter had arrived in 1911, whom they named Frances.

It turns out Frances was the only one of the three children I was able to trace through to the next generation—if, that is, I have my assumptions correct.


The above record transcription is courtesy of the Poznań Project.