May 9th remains a major holiday for people in the successor republics of the Soviet Union. The day, which marks the end of World War II in the Russian calendar, meant the end of an existential threat for the Jews who had survived until then. For most of them, however, the war had already ended a good year earlier, when the Wehrmacht troops, retreating westward, were forced to surrender one city after another to the advancing Red Army. We asked Holocaust survivors about their memories of those pivotal days.
By Anemone Rüger
Spring has arrived in Odessa – even though the windows of many buildings near the port are boarded up. The city's residents are out and about, almost carefree in this summery weather, even though every other restaurant remains dark. In the dimly lit side streets of the famous Black Sea city, private detectives offer their services, and law firms have hung their signs in the trees. Excursions are offered: Odessa by night, criminal Odessa, Jewish Odessa.
Antisemitism hasn't officially come back into fashion here. But the statue of Catherine the Great has disappeared. In its place are flags and photos of fallen Ukrainian soldiers. Right on cue at bedtime, the siren wails. For a full 20 minutes, a hail of Russian drones, made in Iran, rains down on the city. The air defenses do what they can.
The last war
“I was so sure back then, when I came out of the ghetto, that this was the last war humanity had ever seen, and that lasting peace was now coming,” says Arkadij, whom we visit in Odessa. He survived the ghetto and concentration camps with his mother and sister and remembers the many gallows on the wide boulevard by the opera house, where the first Jews were hanged immediately after the invasion.
“I managed to get myself into prison when I was only eleven!” Arkady said. “Because of my nationality.” During the Odessa pogrom of 1905, his grandfather, a famous architect, had already been murdered by a mob. From the terror of 1937 onward, his father, Josef, was imprisoned under Stalin. “In 1941, the Germans marched into Odessa together with the Romanians, on October 16th,” Arkady recalled. “The Jews were summoned by posters to report to the prison. We went too—my parents, my sister, and I. When we were released, there was a sign on our apartment door: ‘Ludmilla lives here, Russian Orthodox.’ She was in for the shock of her life when we stood at the door. ‘What? You’re not dead?!’ she asked, completely bewildered.”
Then the Chasin family's true ordeal began. They spent the winter in the ghetto in the Odessa district of Slobodka, while many around them died of cold and hunger. A courageous Armenian woman provided for the family. "In May 1942, many were taken to be shot. But we had typhus, and the Romanians were afraid of typhus. That's how we survived." Shortly afterward, Arkady's father succumbed to the disease. Arkady, along with his mother and sister, was deported to the notorious Domanevka concentration camp, 150 kilometers to the north. This meant two years of backbreaking labor on road construction with minimal provisions.
“Of course I remember the end of the war!” says Arkady. “For me, it was March 28, 1944 – the day our Soviet soldiers arrived. It was an indescribable feeling of happiness for us to suddenly be free. We walked the 150 kilometers back to Odessa. The women in the villages along the way asked my mother, ‘Are these your children?’ Then they gave us food.”
Valentina: Hidden in the catacombs of Odessa
When Valentina greets us in her small Soviet-era apartment, we remember that we've visited her before. Back then, she sat on the bench in front of the large, gray apartment building, and her story was told in two sentences, with references to her age and poor memory. But now, in the living room, Valentina's memories unfold, sentence after sentence, and we realize that one doesn't tell stories from the past in the courtyard—who knows who might be listening?.
“My father was Jewish. His name was Boris Mordkovich Nejman,” Valentina recounts. “We lived in a courtyard where many Jews lived. I was blond, but the neighbors knew us. When the war began, the children called me a Jew. So my mother cut my hair and had me baptized right away. My father had to go to the front. I remember it very well. He held me in his arms one last time and kissed me goodbye. Then a car came and took him away. That was it. We never saw him again. There was an entrance to the catacombs under our house. All of Odessa is hollowed out underground by the old quarries. That’s where we hid.”
Valentina, of course, remembers the end of the war. “Our city was liberated on April 10, 1944. The Germans and the Romanians were gone. There was a vinegar factory in our courtyard, and German cavalry was quartered there. When they left, they blew up the factory. I still remember the vinegar running into the streets. I remember that in the early morning hours, the sky was still red from the bombing. But at 5 a.m., there was suddenly silence. Then there was a knock at our gate. The neighbors shouted, ‘They’re ours! Our soldiers are here!’ It was such a happy day, April 10th! I can still see the image before me of our soldiers riding into the city on horseback. The people greeted them with flowers.”
Reunion in Uman
Our six-hour journey north takes us through Uman. We can't bring ourselves not to stop there. Flowers for the ladies, brandy chocolates for the gentlemen. And another bag of savory treats for everyone. We just want to make sure everyone gets the same! Those sitting at the head of the long table are practically crammed into the wall. Every square inch of the small Soviet-era apartment, which serves as a meeting place for the elderly Jewish community, is utilized.
Ludmila won't let me go. She's crying with joy. "I was so hoping to see you again!" Shenya comes in, and Borya, Mikhail, and Olga. Even Sofia arrives. She can barely walk anymore. But she wants to be here, so she struggles upstairs, step by step. Somehow, the experienced women from the kitchen manage to fit about 20 guests into the small room—almost all Holocaust survivors. There are sandwiches and Alla's unique honey cake, and a small glass of strong schnapps to toast 80 years since the end of the war and to our Jewish-German friendship.
Galina: Rescue from extreme danger
“Dad wasn’t with us anymore; the Stalinists had taken him away in 1937,” Galina recounts. “On March 10, 1944, my brother went outside. ‘A plane! With the red star! So close!’ he shouted. Then Uman was bombed again. The bridge was burning. The Germans had to retreat. Suddenly, two SS men were standing in our living room. They were looking for something. When they saw our extensive library, they hesitated and left again. A miracle! God saved our lives once more!”
Shortly after midnight on May 9, 1945, the last signature was placed on the ratifying instrument of the Wehrmacht's surrender in Berlin. The surviving Jews emerged from their hiding places, returning as soldiers from the front or as war refugees from the Far East.
“Of course I remember May 9th,” Arkadij exclaims. “It was the day I was born for the second time. It’s the greatest celebration for me—the day my life was given to me anew!” There wasn’t much to celebrate, and food was only available with ration cards. “But people hugged each other in the streets and celebrated the victory together. That was true happiness, what we experienced back then!” After that, Arkadij says, it was back to hunger.
He was married for 63 years to his wife, whom he met at a dance. The now-widowed Arkadij still writes for the newspaper "Abendliches Odessa" (Evening Odessa). He has also published his memoirs in German: "Rückkehr aus Golgotha" (Return from Golgotha).
Radio announcer Levitan announces the victory
“One day, Papa’s brother came back from the front,” Galina recalls. “He had a radio. Nobody else had one; it had all been confiscated by the German occupation forces. And now we could listen live as the ‘Soviet Informbyuro’ with announcer Levitan declared victory. Then there were gun salutes. Everyone went outside and celebrated. Even though there was nothing to eat—a ration of 300 grams of bread on a ration card, and not even every day.”
Hunger is history
Valentina also remembers that happy moment, radio announcer Levitan – and the hunger that followed. Finally, deeply moved, Valentina says: “I have never lived like this! I have never had much. I have been familiar with scarcity and hunger my whole life. My husband later became an alcoholic; he didn't give me any money for the household. There was a time when I collected bottles. I am not ashamed to say that. And now – now I no longer suffer hardship! I have enough to eat, and I owe that to you!”
This article first appeared in our newspaper "Israelaktuell," issue 141. You can order the newspaper here . We would also be happy to send you several copies for distribution.
