The second winter of war in Ukraine is approaching. For more than 20 months, fierce fighting has raged in the east and southeast of the country. But cities in the interior are also repeatedly subjected to Russian rocket fire, including Odessa – a Black Sea city traditionally a holiday destination. Around 100 Holocaust survivors and elderly Jewish residents live there, supported by a sponsorship program run by Christians who stand with Israel . They did not join the influx of refugees at the beginning of the war and hope to remain in their familiar homes.
Summer has lingered. In early October, the outdoor seating areas of restaurants in the popular port city of Odessa are still packed. The scent of the sea hangs in the air. Grateful for a day spent visiting survivors, I return to the hotel with my Ukrainian colleague, Alina, and organize my things for the next day: addresses, waffle hearts, knitted gifts. Finally, I can calmly process the day's experiences. Then, the siren jolts me from my thoughts. A shrill alarm, lasting two minutes. Here, it reminds us almost daily of the reality of war.
But today it's not Shahed drones being launched en masse toward Ukraine. A long, dull rumble, then a loud thunderclap—the missile was shot down in mid-air, thank God. Then another one. The inhabitants are already "used to" a lot, because life has to go on somehow. But this time I hurry down to the basement. At least now I have time to write.
Painting against fear
Galina doesn't have the strength to get up when we enter her living room. "Look at me!" she calls out to us. "It was in August when they bombed the shopping mall in town. I couldn't fall asleep, so I went into the kitchen at night. I had the windows open. Suddenly, the impact. The shockwave knocked me over. I couldn't get up. Eventually, I crawled into the living room and called an ambulance. Since then, everything hurts." Galina experienced a war as a toddler, a war that robbed her of her parents and her childhood. She grew up with her grandmother; a large part of her family was murdered. The walls of her sparsely furnished living room are covered with pictures. "I painted them. It distracts me a little. My granddaughter buys me the templates and the paints, and then I paint. For hours. It's my therapy."
We make as many visits as possible every day – to Vladimir, who has been bedridden by a stroke and has been asking for weeks if we're coming today; to Feyga, who will soon be 100; to Rosalia, who fled here from Mykolaiv and weeps as she recounts how she never had the strength to hear her mother's story of survival. "Your help is supernatural for us," she exclaims. "That you came now of all times and found us here, it's like a miracle!"
Doubly persecuted
Right next to the Jewish social welfare organization Chesed, Roman Schwarzman has his office. He survived the ghetto in his hometown of Bershad as a five-year-old and heads the Association of Holocaust Survivors in Odessa. Roman proudly points to a framed picture on the wall. It shows him with Federal President Frank-Walter Steinmeier on the occasion of receiving the Federal Cross of Merit. On Holocaust Remembrance Day, January 27, he spoke in the Bundestag: "I told them: Hitler wanted to kill me back then because I'm Jewish; today Putin wants to kill me because I'm Ukrainian!" He tirelessly advocates for a dignified Holocaust commemoration in Ukraine. Roman also has a long list of survivors with whom he is in contact. "How many addresses do you want?" he asks.
"I don't even have a photo of Dad"
Dionysia lives in a typical two-story house from the pre-revolutionary era, the kind that makes Odessa so special: high ceilings, ornate staircases, worn parquet floors. She is 93 and went blind two years ago. "My father, Meir, was a tailor," she begins her story. "He had a Singer sewing machine. He spoke almost no Russian. At home, we only spoke Yiddish." When she was one year old, her mother died; when she was eleven, the Wehrmacht marched in.
“The hunt for the Jews began immediately,” Dionysia recounts. “But Papa said, ‘Why should I hide? I haven’t done anything to anyone!’” A comrade from the Komsomol betrayed him. At first, the SS wasn’t interested in him. But the executioners returned—in the form of the local auxiliary police. “They took Papa to the commandant’s office,” Dionysia says. “The next day, Papa’s sister went to bring him some food. That’s when she saw him standing at the window, bloodied and beaten. ‘We’re being taken to be shot now,’ he told her. They drove them barefoot through the snow and shot them, one after the other, Papa last.” Dionysia can barely speak through her tears, but she wants to share her story.
“I had to go to an orphanage. On my papers, they wrote: ‘Father unknown.’ On the first day of school, the teacher went through the class list. Every child was called, but my name wasn’t on the list, and so I wasn’t allowed to go to school anymore.” Dionysia is again shaken by a fit of sobbing. “After the war came the years of hunger. I had to work as a housekeeper for strangers. I don’t even have a photo of my father, just a small passport picture.” Dionysia’s tearful gaze is fixed on the distance. “I was completely alone,” she says again in a laborious attempt to put her indescribable pain into words. “I was always an outsider. I didn’t belong anywhere. I didn’t even know my birthday.” My tears mingle with hers.
Finally coming home
Later, Dionysia moved to Odessa. It wasn't until the end of the Soviet Union that her life took a turn. "Only when Chesed was founded in Odessa did life truly begin for me. For the first time, I felt welcome! Suddenly, I had a family, a Jewish one! When Roman first wished me a happy birthday, I cried—it was as if I were hearing my father's voice!"
There's chai, candied orange slices, and the chocolate hearts we brought. And a hot water bottle to warm Dionysia's heart and soul. Now she's laughing. A wonderful gift in these high, cold rooms, she thinks. The day's reading from Isaiah 30 seems to have been written for Dionysia: "The moon's radiance will be like the sun's radiance, and the sun's radiance will be seven times brighter, when the Lord binds up the injury of his people and heals their wounds."
Violin music and piroshki for the survivors
Viktoria can no longer walk. But she can still play the violin! She studied at the conservatory and worked for many years in Irkutsk, Siberia, where Jews were less harassed because of their nationality than elsewhere. Her husband has long since passed away, and her son is at the front. Today she is playing for us. We have invited about 40 elderly Jewish people. I recognize some faces immediately, others are new, and two have fled from neighboring Nikolayev. Many are already seated before we have even finished setting the table: fruit and piroshki, juice and sweets. There is a bar of Israeli chocolate at each place setting.
The sounds of Victoria's violin rise above the many life stories, above this Babi Yar commemoration, on which the Jews of Kyiv were murdered 82 years ago. Here sits Israil, there Riweka, whose father lost his entire extended family in the Łódź Ghetto. "Grandfather's brothers were visiting Kyiv at the time," Inga tells me. "Suddenly they told us to pack our things and report to the outskirts of the city the next day. They were all shot." Inga has just been released from the hospital after a heart attack. Today she is wearing her finest dress; she desperately wanted to be here.
There are hugs, words, and tears of gratitude. When I convey greetings from Germany and explain how each person's life story found its way to a specific sponsor and is valued there, a murmur ripples through the rows; tissues are produced. It is so miraculous to these people that they are important to someone. Many survivors and children of the post-war generation are still waiting for a sponsor. Perhaps for you?
This article first appeared in our newspaper "Israelaktuell," issue 135. You can order the newspaper here . We would also be happy to send you several copies for distribution.
You can find more information about our sponsorship program for Holocaust survivors here..
