After two and a half years of war, our staff in Ukraine continue their tireless work, visiting Holocaust survivors and children of the postwar generation in Jewish communities. For them, loneliness weighs even more heavily than the daily struggle for survival, more than inflation and power outages. Years later, the survivors still remember their last encounter with gratitude – and hope for the next. But organizing a meeting in the current situation is no easy task.
Even though the war in Vinnytsia is geographically far away, its effects are felt everywhere. There are tank barriers at every intersection; sirens that wail almost daily; and then, suddenly, the power goes out. The country is conserving resources so that, after the extensive destruction of infrastructure by Russian missiles, there will still be enough left.
Luckily, the summer dusk is just beginning to fall, and I can still get my bearings after arriving. Generators are whirring at the restaurants, but our trusty old hotel doesn't have that luxury. The whole building is now dark. After returning from my evening stroll in search of a power outlet to charge my phone, and finding my room again with my phone's flashlight, the lights suddenly come back on.
Now I can prepare a bit more and use my photo collection to practice the names of the guests from the mentoring program whom we've invited for the following day. I haven't seen most of them in so long that I don't expect them to recognize me. Fortunately, my colleague Alina has stayed in touch with many of them.
Down to the basement
When the mobile warning app displays "increased danger," even in the now-hardened Ukraine, one should seek shelter, a local colleague explains to me. As we arrive at the restaurant, the driver's phone blares, displaying the "increased danger" warning. What to do? Is our carefully planned meeting ruined? But the bustling life of the city continues unabated. Most residents don't have a shelter anyway, and taking the elevator down to the basement during frequent power outages in one of the apartment blocks is also risky. People are trying to live with the constant threat somehow. And we, with almost all of our guests arriving, are doing the best we can: We head to the basement of a restaurant that has been reserved especially for us.
"If my father had lived to see this"
Klara, one of the first survivors we included in our program, arrived half an hour early. "Of course I remember you—what a question!" she exclaimed. "I was a teacher; my mind still works quite well! You know, I've often thought about it: your grandfather was in the war, my father was in the war. Neither of them wanted to be there. So many terrible things happened back then. I didn't have a single cousin; so many in my family died. And now we're meeting here! If my father could have seen this—that Germans and Jews are together in friendship!"
And then they come, one after the other, hug us, press boxes of chocolates into my hands; they're happy I've come back. "I'm not leaving the house at all anymore!" says Emira, accompanied by her son, the only relative she has left. "I only came because of you! Because I wanted to see you so badly!"
Encounters with "other Germans"
Anna doesn't want to let me go. She tells me about Stalingrad and how she hated the Germans and everything German for so long. "And then I met Germans who were different. That changed everything," Anna says. "You can't imagine what it means to us that you're coming to us now, in these difficult times! May God reward you many times over for what you do for us!"
At the last minute, Alina found a musician to add a touch of culture to our culinary program. While Juri, who himself learned Yiddish from his great-grandmother, takes us on a musical tour of Jewish cuisine, the meal is served. I tell stories from the past, about the people in my village who, even back in East German times, understood that the Jewish people are loved and chosen by God; and about all the doors God has opened since then.
A day of celebration amidst the everyday realities of war
“I wore my prettiest dress today – it’s a special day for us!” says Larisa. “That you came despite all the dangers to do something nice for us, that’s balm for the soul,” says Valentina.
The atmosphere is overwhelming. I would fight back tears if I had time to think. But I try to seize every moment: shaking someone's hand here, asking a question there, giving someone a hug. We haven't done anything special, I think; we're simply there for these lonely Jewish seniors for a few hours, offering them a little company. It moves me how much this simple presence means to them.
“Greetings to the wonderful people who made this festive gathering possible today,” said Vladimir, whom our driver had picked up along with other guests from the neighboring village. “We bow to you for everything you do for us!”
Nadjeschda – a lifetime of mourning
At the end of a long day visiting Holocaust survivors in the surrounding villages, we still had a floral arrangement left and decided to drive by Nadezhda's house. She hadn't been with us at our meeting; her sister Sofia told us her story; Nadezhda was difficult to communicate with.
As we enter Nadjeschda's living room and present her with the flowers, tears immediately stream down her face. "I'm all alone now," she says. "Eight years ago, my only daughter died of cancer, and shortly afterward, my only granddaughter." Nadjeschda has been grieving for eight years. In fact, for eight decades, her entire life.
Her Jewish father was taken prisoner by the Germans, managed to escape, and hid in the village for a long time. Then he was betrayed by a neighbor. Ten days later, he was dead. Then the Germans came again to take away her eldest daughter, Tatiana, who had run after her father. She was deported to Regensburg for forced labor. Tatiana searched for her family for a long time. Since all contact with foreign countries was forbidden in the Soviet Union, the sisters never saw each other again.
Nadezhda has been a widow for a long time. Only her 83-year-old sister Sofia remains. "I don't want to live anymore. I've been begging God for a long time to take me where my daughter and granddaughter are!" Nadezhda says through tears.
A ray of hope
We search for words that can bring Nadezhda hope. We don't have to look far. The name Nadezhda means nothing other than "hope"! "If God has kept you on earth, then he still needs you here," says my colleague Alina, who herself lost her in-laws in the current war. "Then he still has a task for you!" We read the card to Nadezhda: "Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." God's words bring Nadezhda peace.
I still have an intricately crafted scarf from the Ore Mountains with me. It's black, and I've been wondering who to give it to. Now I know. But it's not completely black: it has a light gray border. I put it around Nadjeschda's neck and tell her there's a bright strip on the horizon. Now Nadjeschda's tears have dried. Gratitude washes over her—for all the help; for not leaving her alone. We ask if we should print the photos we just took for her. "Of course, gladly! That is, if I'm still here then!" "Then you'll just have to stay until then. Your task now is to stay in good shape until we come back with the photos!" Nadjeschda promises.
You are welcome to sponsor a first- or second-generation Holocaust survivor. One-time donations are also appreciated. Our staff will ensure that the aid reaches its destination and that the message of love from Germany, Austria, and Switzerland is conveyed through personal visits.
You can find out more about our sponsorship program for Holocaust survivors here.
This article first appeared in our newspaper "Israelaktuell," issue 138. You can order the newspaper here . We would also be happy to send you several copies for distribution.
