As the war progresses, the geography of the places we can visit with our team in Ukraine is also changing. Every day, people fall victim to Russian missiles. We constantly have to weigh up which trips are responsible and how we can make the most of the time we have. Material hardship is growing, the loneliness in rural areas is heartbreaking, and the hope we can bring with our visits is priceless.
The intense sun shines through the dense foliage of the trees on our way through northern Ukraine. Every now and then, we pass an old, colourfully painted concrete bus stop in Soviet style. A small detour onto an alternate road. Only after we have passed it do I realise that the road has been hit.
I would have loved to visit Sumy again for the first time in a long time. Only once has that been possible so far. That was before the war. Since then, the city near the Russian border has been virtually inaccessible. In the spring, when many believers were on their feet for Easter services, Russian missiles struck the city center, killing dozens of people. The Jewish community leader cried on the phone as she told me about those she knew personally.
I am so grateful for our team in Ukraine, for the loyalty and courage of each of our staff to be where they are needed—and at the same time for our joint decision-making process of what is sensible and possible. And so we decide that we must wait for better times for Sumy. But Chernihiv, located a little further west, is feasible. I haven’t been there for more than three years either.
Pretty Wooden Houses—Deep Loneliness
The further north you go, the more picturesque the villages become, with their traditional wood carvings on the wood-paneled huts. We stop in Priluki, Nezhin, Koselets. In each of those places we have addresses of Holocaust survivors who are even more isolated here in the countryside—and even happier about a visit.
Stanislav hurries over to his garden gate, hobbling, and invites us into his little house. There is no one else there but us. It is quiet, too quiet here. He misses his wife, his great love. “I met her on the bus in Odessa, where I was studying,” Stanislav recalls. “She was the conductor. I accidentally sat in her seat. It turned into a lifelong love.”
This love brought him back to life. He had already lost so much. “Dad was at the front throughout the war,” Stanislav reports. “He grew up in an orphanage—his father was taken away by the Stalinists one day, his mother died early. His sister was shot by the Germans when she was heavily pregnant.”Two Wars and a Little Comfort
His mother went into hiding with Stanislav and his little brother. “Mom had an acquaintance in the police who always informed her when there was a raid. Then we had to go into the basement and be very quiet. I remember the bombings and everything burning.”
Once, they were surprised by three German soldiers. ‘“Children,’ they called out. We were very frightened,” Stanislav recalls. ‘“Don’t be afraid,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘I have three children too. I didn’t want to go to the front, but I had to.’ And then he gave me cookies.”
Stanislav’s father, Isay, actually had his birthday at the end of April. But he always saved the celebration for 9 May, Liberation Day.
Isay is Isaiah in Russian. Like the card I brought for Stanislav: “Fear not… I have called you by name.”
Two years ago, Stanislav’s older son died. He can’t get over it and struggles to hold back his tears. His other son lives in Russia—and is therefore out of reach for him because of the war.
“Don’t bother with flowers for men, they don’t know what to do with them anyway,” I had been advised. But Stanislav is so lonely. And he has a small garden. Two late tulips are still blooming.
I ask him if he likes flowers. “Yes, very much!” says Stanislav. I quickly get the basket of flowers from the car. And Stanislav breaks out into a big smile. That smile alone made the whole trip worthwhile.
Between Damaged Facades & Street Cafés
The last few days have been quiet in Chernihiv. But I don’t sleep much tonight. Although I’ve set my cell phone to silent, I wake up three times to air raid sirens. You should always ask at the reception desk whether there are any military personnel staying at the hotel.
That can be dangerous. There are informants in every war. But in the morning, the sky is clear again before we set off. I order another cup of coffee and pray for an extra dose of strength.
In the city center, we repeatedly pass administrative buildings that have been boarded up with chipboard and some of which have already been provisionally repaired. The district administration has been particularly badly affected. The window openings are still blackened from the fire. “That was at the beginning of the war, when our city was so badly attacked,” says our companion from the Jewish community.
I remember how Vera, the programme manager, told me on the phone at the time: “Our city is under siege! All the bridges are damaged and occupied; no one can get in or out. We go to bed at night not knowing if we will wake up in the morning.”
And I remember how Bassya, a Holocaust survivor, said to me: “Do you remember the hand-knitted shawl you brought me from Germany? I wear it around my shoulders all the time. It gives me a feeling of security.”
Apart from the damaged facades, Chernigov is as beautiful as I remember—and perhaps a bit more. Countless churches that have survived the centuries, restaurants and parks and street cafes. And many Jewish seniors whom we haven’t seen in a long time.
Survived—Then and Now
Seven Holocaust survivors are already waiting for us in the restaurant where we invited them. They have dressed up and give us a big hug. I am speechless: my dear Bassya and my dear Vera, who survived alone with her brother as a child, both around 90, have not changed at all since my last visit. They are in good shape and come to every event, the community leader tells us.
“Many of us survived the war back then because we came from mixed families,” says Bassya. In fact, most Holocaust survivors here in the north spent the war as small children with their non-Jewish relatives in a village cellar hideout, while almost all of their compatriots in the Odessa area ended up in the ghetto or concentration camps. And now they are spending their last years as they did their first—at war.
“One of us, Viktor, died at the beginning of the war,” says Bassya. “We are all in contact with each other. After an attack, I called him. Someone else answered the phone and said, ‘Viktor has passed away. His wife and daughter had thrown themselves on the floor. They survived. Viktor was standing. He was hit by the rocket.’”Our Most Important Gift: Time
Grigory has brought his disabled son with him; he cares for him with great compassion. He also serves as a chauffeur for the ladies. He is originally from near Vinnytsia. “Back then, Mom thought nothing would happen to us. That’s why we stayed. When the Germans came, they beat Mom, even though she was Ukrainian. Someone betrayed her. She then changed my name and showed my new birth certificate. That got her through for the time being. Then we built a kind of cave in the garden and hid there until the end of the war.”
The group is small enough that we can take time for each of the survivors. Including Vera, who remembers our first visit with shining eyes; and Alla, who survived with her grandparents because her grandfather was a respected teacher; and Klara, who as a pretty little girl almost disappeared at the German command post to be put up for adoption.
“You can’t imagine how much your visits mean to the people here!” says Yelena, who has been running the Jewish social welfare organisation Hesed in Chernihiv since the beginning of the war. “When the war broke out, I was in Vinnytsia for a few weeks, managing things here from there. When I came back and saw our people, we just held hands and cried together. And we said to each other: If we survived this, then we still have a job to do. So let’s keep going.
If you would like to make a donation and become an ‘Adopt a Holocaust Survivor’ sponsor, please visit c4israel.com.au/adopt
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