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‘There was no time to sleep’: 4 Jews reflect on a year of helping Ukrainians at war
(JTA) — In the months after Russian tanks rolled into her country last February, the music largely stopped for Elizaveta Sherstuk.
The founder of a Jewish choral ensemble called Aviv in her hometown of Sumy, in the northeastern flank of Ukraine, Sherstuk had to put singing aside in favor of her day job and personal mission: delivering aid to Jews in Sumy.
“There was no time to sleep,” Sherstuk recalled to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency recently. “All my team members worked the same, 24/7.”
A year later, Sherstuk is still hustling as the Sumy director of Hesed, a network of welfare centers serving needy Jews in the former Soviet bloc. But she has also begun teaching music classes again, too — with performances sometimes held in bomb shelters.
Catch up on all of JTA’s Ukraine war coverage from the last year here.
Sherstuk’s story reflects the ways that Russia’s war on Ukraine has affected Jews in Ukraine and beyond. The conflict has killed hundreds of thousands, left even more in peril and fundamentally altered the landscape and population of Ukraine, forcing millions to flee as refugees.
But the war has also mobilized the networks of Jewish aid and welfare groups across Europe, leading to a Jewish organizational response on a massive scale not seen in decades. And Ukrainian Jews who have remained in the country have recalibrated their lives and communities for wartime.
Here are four stories about Jews who stepped in and stepped up to help, and a taste of the on-the-ground situations they found themselves in.
‘I was needed there’
Enrique Ginzburg, second from right, is shown with Ukrainian doctors in Lviv. (Courtesy of Ginzburg)
Since nearly drowning at 23, Dr. Enrique Ginzburg has felt he “had to pay back” for the extra years of life he was granted.
Now 65, the professor of surgery at the University of Miami’s Miller School of Medicine and its trauma division has lent his critical care expertise in Haiti, Argentina, Kurdistan and Iraq, in various emergency situations. But until last year, he had never been to a war zone.
The Cuba native felt drawn to Ukraine because his grandfather is from Kyiv, while his grandmother is from nearby eastern Poland. So early on in the conflict, he called Dr. Aaron Epstein, an old friend and the founder of the nonprofit Global Surgical and Medical Supply Group.
“Get yourself a flak jacket, a helmet, a gas mask and come on over,” Ginzburg said Epstein told him.
He has been to Ukraine twice under the nonprofit’s auspices, last April and July. Ginzburg’s explanation for why he flew across the world to put himself in danger: “I was needed,” he said.
His base was an emergency hospital in Lviv, a city located west enough that it became a major refugee hub. He consulted with front-line Ukrainian physicians, many of them young and inexperienced, and hospital administrators, watching the doctors in action. He also visited patients in hospital wards and helped to treat gunshot wounds and assorted combat injuries.
Ginzburg’s bags were packed with meaningful supplies. Some had been requested by his Ukrainian colleagues for medical use, mostly specialized catheters. But he also brought tefillin, the phylacteries used by Jews in their morning prayers. Ginzburg, who studied in a yeshiva while young but no longer considers himself Orthodox, wrapped them every day while in Ukraine.
Even though Lviv was far from the fighting, he could hear air raid sirens and the explosion of the Russian missiles, sometimes feeling the earth shake. When intelligence reports warned Ginzburg’s medical team of impending missile attacks, they sought refuge in safe houses.
“Today,” he told the Miami Herald last June, “I was calling my life insurance [company] because I have young sons and my wife, so I’m trying to make sure I have good coverage.”
By the end of his trips, Ginzburg lost count of the number of doctors he helped train and the number of patients he saw. “I’m sure it’s hundreds.” He plans to make a third trip sometime this year.
‘This is our new reality’
Karina Sokolowska is the director of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee’s activities in Poland. (Courtesy of the JDC)
As the director of the JDC, or the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, in Poland, Karina Sokolowska has heard countless harrowing stories over the past year. But one sticks out in her memory.
It involved an elderly Ukrainian couple she met at the Poland-Ukraine border in late spring. The husband was in a wheelchair, and Sokolowska helped push him — back towards Ukraine. They had spent three months in a shelter in Poland but eventually “realized we cannot go looking for jobs, we cannot restart our lives. We are too old,” the woman said.
“If they are to die, they’d rather die back home,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a story of hopelessness. They are so vulnerable.”
Last year, about 8 million Ukrainian refugees made their way to Poland, the bordering country that accepted the most refugees. Early on in the conflict, Sokolowska contacted and visited Jewish communities throughout Poland, investigating the availability of places where the soon-to-be-homeless refugees could be housed. She also traveled to some of the border crossings where the Ukrainians entered, to arrange transportation to venues in Poland and to oversee the conditions in which the refugees would begin their new lives.
Later she would help with, among other things: arranging legal advice for the people who arrived with few identification documents; lining up medical care and drugs; finding them short- and long-term housing; connecting them to psychological counseling; providing kosher meals; and even caring for the refugees’ pets (“dogs and cats with no documents”).
According to JDC statistics, the organization “provided essential supplies and care” to 43,000 Jews in Ukraine and “aided 22,000+ people” there with “winter survival needs … more than double the amount served in previous years.” The welfare organization also claimed to provide “life-saving services” to more than 40,000 refugees in Poland, Moldova, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria and other European locations. It also helped evacuate about 13,000 Jews from Ukraine. (Israeli Foreign Minister Eli Cohen recently said 15,000 Ukrainian Jews in total have immigrated to Israel since the start of the war.)
Karina Sokolowska, JDC director for Poland and Scandinavia sits in her office down the hall from a hotline room, in early March 2022. (Toby Axelrod)
At the height of the refugee flood, Sokolowska said her monthly JDC budget ballooned to more than what she previously spent in an entire year. Her office went from having a few employees to over 20. The amount of sleep she got decreased in tandem; she started taking sleeping pills to get rest when she could.
“This is our new reality” in Poland, she says of the JDC work with Ukrainian refugees. “This is our life now.”
Sokolowska, the granddaughter of Yiddish-speaking Holocaust survivors, became active in Jewish life during college, when a classmate heard her pronouncing some German words with a Yiddish accent and persuaded her to lead the Polish Union of Jewish Students. As JDC director for Scandinavian countries in addition to Poland, she typically organizes educational conferences and helps Jewish families learn about traditions they had not learned while growing up in the communist era.
Today, her sense of optimism has been ground down.
“Everything changed when war came to Ukraine — there is less hope,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a totally new everything. Every aspect of our life changed. Our hope for this to be over soon is going down, down, down. Nothing will change.”
‘It could [have been] me’
Tom and Darlynn Fellman volunteered in Krakow in October 2022. (Courtesy of Tom Fellman)
Sometime in the late 1890s, Harry Fellman, about 20 years old, left his home in Ukraine. According to family legend, he was a sharpshooter in the Ukrainian army and was about to be sent into active combat. Instead, he emigrated to the United States and settled in Omaha, Nebraska, where he became a peddler.
His grandson Tom Fellman — whose middle name is Harry — doesn’t know all the 120-year-old details, but he knows that he is grateful that Harry Fellman decided to leave Ukraine when he did.
“It could [have been] me, if my grandparents had not left when they did,” said Fellman, a successful real estate developer and philanthropist in Omaha.
In October, at 78 years old, Fellman made the reverse trip across the Atlantic to pitch in to the relief effort. He also wanted to pay what he sees as a debt to the memory of his late grandfather and to help the current generation of Ukrainian Jews.
He and his wife Darlynn served as volunteers for a week at the Krakow Jewish community center, joining hundreds (possibly thousands) of volunteers from overseas who have gone to Poland and the other nations in the region over the last year to participate in humanitarian programs on behalf of the millions of Ukrainian refugees. Fellman worked nine hours a day with a half-dozen fellow foreign volunteers in the basement of the community center, transferring the contents of “big, big” sacks of items like potatoes and sugar into small containers to be distributed to refugees in the building’s first-floor food pantry. His wife spent her time in an art therapy program that was set up for the refugee mothers and children to raise their spirits.
Fellman is “not particularly religious” but supports “anything Jewish.” In 1986, he accompanied a rescue mission plane of Soviet Jews headed to Israel. “It was the most rewarding experience of my life,” he recalled.
Fellman says he plans to return to Poland, in June, for the JCC’s annual fundraising bike ride from Auschwitz to Krakow.
What did his friends think of his septuagenarian volunteer stint? “They thought it was cool,” he said. “But none of them are going too.”
‘Everything was a risk’
Elizaveta Sherstuk runs a branch of Hesed, a network of welfare centers, in Sumy, Ukraine. (Courtesy of Sherstuk)
Sherstuk’s parents would have sent their daughter to a Jewish school in her early years if they had had the option. But Jewish education was not permitted In Sumy during the final years of communist rule in the Soviet republic. Sherstuk was exposed to Jewish life only at home.
Her parents infused her with a Jewish identity, she said, and her grandparents used to talk and sing songs in Yiddish. That inspired Sherstuk’s first career as a singer and a music teacher, during which she founded Aviv and took it on tour throughout the region singing traditional Jewish songs. Later, she became the director of Sumy’s branch of the JDC-funded Hesed network.
Sumy, an industrial city with a population of 300,000 before the war situated only 30 miles from the Russian border, was one of Russia’s first targets. In the days before the pending invasion, Sherstuk stockpiled food, which was certain to become scarce in case of war, and arranged bus transportation to safer parts of the country for hundreds of vulnerable civilians, mostly the elderly and disabled. The bus plan fell through for safety issues.
As the bombing started, it became dangerous for members of the local 1,000-member Jewish community, many of them elderly, to venture outside of their apartments. Sherstuk, working out of a bomb shelter, assisted by a Hesed network of volunteers, coordinated food and medicine deliveries.
The situation grew more dire, and she coordinated the Jewish community’s participation in a brief humanitarian corridor evacuation of vulnerable civilians that the Russians permitted. She communicated with Sumy residents mostly by smartphones provided by the JDC — the Russian attacks had cut the landlines — and accompanied the busloads of Sumy Jews to western Ukraine. Some of them eventually moved on to Israel, Germany, or other nearby countries, she said.
Sherstuk stayed in western Ukraine for a while (“The humanitarian corridors are only for one-way trips,” she noted), moving from place to place, keeping in touch with the Jews of Sumy and waiting for Ukraine’s army to make the trip back safe. But Sumy, like many Ukrainian cities, has come under frequent Russian rocket attack.
“Everything was a risk,” she said. “We were following whatever our hearts told us to do. We had to save people. I was the one who had to do it.”
Last May, Sherstuk was among 12 men and women (and the sole one from the Diaspora) who lit a torch at the start of Israel’s Independence Day in a government ceremony on Mount Herzl. During two weeks in Israel, she spent some time with members of her family, and held a series of meetings with JDC officials, government ministers and donors. “It was not a vacation,” she said.
After going back to Sumy, at the suggestions of her choral group members and fellow Sumy residents, she organized concerts in Hebrew, Yiddish, Ukrainian and Russian — some in person, some in a bomb shelter in the city’s central square, some online. She has now resumed her music classes, too, and it has all boosted morale. “I [teach] all the time,” she said.
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The post ‘There was no time to sleep’: 4 Jews reflect on a year of helping Ukrainians at war appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Remembering Siskel and Ebert’s great debate: Mel Brooks or Woody Allen?
Of the great debates in film history, a few dominate. How much of Citizen Kane did Orson Welles really write? Is the auteur a film’s true author? And, the one that will never be resolved, can we separate the art from the artist?
In 1980, Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert devoted an episode of their PBS review series Sneak Previews to the following question: Who’s funnier, Mel Brooks or Woody Allen?
The camps fall out as one might expect. Ebert, the Pulitzer Prize-winning critic for the Chicago Sun Times, whose work spoke to the everyman, preferred Brooks.
“Mel Brooks satirizes old movies, he plays off of our own shared sense of movie history because we know these cliches and stereotypes as well as he does,” Ebert, who died in 2013, argued. “That’s part of the fun, we’re in on the joke.”
He laid out his evidence in the form of his favorite gags: A man punches a horse (Blazing Saddles); Gene Wilder gets smooshed in a revolving book case (Young Frankenstein); and Burt Reynolds is lathered up by Brooks, Marty Feldman and Dom DeLuise (Silent Movie).
Siskel, the stuffier, Ivy-educated writer for the Chicago Tribune, championed Allen’s films, praising the filmmaker’s perennial theme of “his difficulty, every man’s difficulty, in establishing a long-lasting relationship with a woman.” (Siskel died in 1999, the year of Sweet and Lowdown, Allen’s jazz-inflected riff on La Strada.)
He made the case that Allen’s oeuvre, from Take the Money and Run through to Annie Hall, showed a personal and artistic evolution. “Watch how he grows more competent as a lover, and as a filmmaker.”
It’s a kind of odd proposition for considering comedy, and, depending on your views of Allen, may give you pause today.
Yes, Alvin Starkwell’s reliance on voiceover to express his feelings for a love interest is different from Love and Death’s Boris, who is different from Alvy Singer and his assertive request that Annie Hall kiss him now to “get it over with and then we’ll go eat.”
The scenes Siskel curates by way of argument are not the funniest moments, but taken together they signal what is most unsettling in some of the films. That is to say, they are uncomfortable, or to borrow a term from Claire Dederer, “urpy,” because Allen casts himself as a mostly hapless lover, who only aspires to possess, in the words of his later character from Manhattan, where these problematic glimmers become plot, the “coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.”
1980 was an inflection point in the careers of both Brooks and Allen. Brooks, following the rave response to Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, had more measured — if not quite tepid — notices for Silent Movie and his Hitchcock sendup, High Anxiety.
Allen’s previous two films were Interiors, his attempt at a serious picture in the mode of Ingmar Bergman, and Manhattan.
Both Ebert and Siskel saw “danger signs” ahead in these artists’ filmographies.
Siskel thought Brooks was repeating himself and straying to a more niche mode of parody.
He was right, and after High Anxiety, Brooks could be said to have officially entered his flop era with History of the World Part I. Siskel also diagnosed a generally-agreed-upon development in the work to come: Brooks giving himself starring roles, and the proportional decline in quality corresponding to his screentime.
But it’s Ebert’s view of Allen that seems most prescient, however unwittingly.
Ebert likens Brooks and Allen to Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. In Keaton he sees a man who remained true to himself and the persona he sought to perfect — this, one infers, is analogous to Brooks. In Chaplin, come The Great Dictator, there was a “creeping seriousness.”
I have to say, I stopped listening after “creep,” aware, as I am, that Chaplin, at age 54, married Oona O’Neill, a month after her 18th birthday.
Manhattan, and later Allen’s relationship with his now wife Soon-Yi Previn, echoes such an age gap. But Ebert’s issue with Manhattan, and he is not alone in this indulgence, isn’t with the film’s tacit approval of Isaac Davis’ relationship with a 17-year-old (played by a 16-year-old), it’s with its pretensions.
Out is Alvy Singer’s relatable, late-night campaign against a spider in his ex-girlfriend’s bathroom. In is black-and-white film stock and Isaac’s defense of Bergman as “the only genius in cinema today.”
“You can see Woody Allen there slipping away from his all-purpose comic persona that he developed in those other movies and into a character who might be a lot closer to life, but he’s also a lot less funny,” Ebert said.
Ebert’s forecast was astute. As Allen became ever more a caricature of himself, there have been both bright spots — Hannah and Her Sisters, Zelig — and diminishing returns — the run from, say, 2009 to the present, where actors including Larry David and Wallace Shawn have served as his surrogate.
Running through the discussion is a subtext of Jewish particularism. Allen’s voice is so personal, so dialed in to New York neuroses, that his departure to WASPs in Interiors sounded a symphony of false notes. In contrast is Mel Brooks, who brands his comedy not as Jewish, but “New York humor,” and whose main inspiration has always been the wider province of popular culture.
That Siskel, a Jew with a snobbish streak, should favor Allen and Ebert, a Catholic and the real film lover of the pair, Brooks, perhaps says it all.
But baked into everything is the unspoken question of legacy — who would fare better in the long-term. In a way it’s a tossup. So many of Brooks’ references were locked in place and time, even as they parodied older films. A young viewer today may need footnotes to get the joke behind the profusion of Johnsons (Howard, Olsen and Van) in Rock Ridge.
In this formulation, Allen skews (mostly) evergreen. Except when he doesn’t because of where the culture, and his reputation, is now.
For their closing arguments, Ebert and Siskel each selected a scene from their preferred filmmaker. One of them holds up today.
Ebert brought a scene from The Producers, where Leo Bloom has a meltdown over Max Bialystock’s suggestion they break the law. While this timid CPA is hyperventilating, Bialystock crosses the room to get him a glass of water — and douses him with it. Leo: “I’m hysterical and I’m wet.”
It’s timeless.
Siskel’s pick is from Annie Hall. It’s when Alvy Singer recalls his second-grade classroom.
“In 1942,” he says, “I had already discovered women,” a curious word choice for what follows. Alvy, 6, kisses a classmate (definitively a girl).
The girl cries out for the teacher, who scolds Alvy for his precocious sex drive. “6-year-old-boys don’t have girls on their minds.”
In comes the adult Alvy, cramped in a child-sized desk, to insist he had no latency period. He then gets the child actors to report on where they are a few decades later. The boys name their careers, and in one case, addictions. One girl, in glasses and a Peter Pan collar, simply says “I’m into leather.”
Is it funny? Such things are subjective, in the end. Given what we know now of Allen, the allegations of sexual abuse against him by his daughter Dylan Farrow (which he denies) and his proven and unrepentant association with Jeffrey Epstein, it’s harder to watch.
Without knowing it, Siskel chose the exact wrong clip.
As for Brooks, the baggage, and the ambition, may seem lesser, but in fact point to something unimpeachable.
“I think what Mel Brooks wants, when he walks past a theater that has one of his movies playing into it, is the sound of laughter coming from inside,” Ebert said. “That’s what I want when I go to a Brooks movie is to laugh. I can defend his career on that basis. That he wants to amuse me, that’s enough. I’m satisfied.”
To that, I say, Dayenu.
The post Remembering Siskel and Ebert’s great debate: Mel Brooks or Woody Allen? appeared first on The Forward.
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A Jewish gun club teams up with the NRA, in pursuit of self-defense
Capitalizing on heightened anxieties and surging Jewish interest in gun ownership, the National Rifle Association this week announced a partnership with a national Jewish gun club, in a move the mega gun lobby group says will help in the fight against antisemitism.
“People are scared,” said Gayle Pearlstein, the Chicago firearms instructor who launched Lox & Loaded, the Jewish group the NRA is teaming with. “You can see it in their faces. People see history repeating itself.”
The arrangement will give Lox & Loaded access to NRA resources — and give the NRA a foothold in a burgeoning demographic as its core membership wanes. It is the first partnership of its kind between the NRA and a Jewish group.
“When people think of the NRA, they don’t necessarily think of Jewish populations, right?” Justin Davis, director of public affairs for the NRA, said. “To help bridge that gap between never having touched a firearm, getting world class training, comfortability and proficiency in firearms, I think it’s a great opportunity for the community.”
Lox & Loaded, a for-profit company founded last March, is one of several Jewish gun groups that has emerged in the U.S. since the Hamas attacks in Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, with many targeting first-time gun owners. Pearlstein says it has attracted more than 1,000 members and established 49 local chapters nationwide.
The rising Jewish interest in gun ownership is also prompting concerns, and not just among gun violence experts who stress risks to gun owners. Security experts working with Jewish institutions are also forced to plan for unpredictable scenarios involving concealed weapons.
A national brand
After the Hamas-led attacks of Oct. 7, Pearlstein started offering discounted pistol lessons to the Chicago Jewish community. “I really wanted to do something to help the community,” she said, “and I didn’t want to just give tzedaka (charity) or just send money over to Israel.” Then she started giving concealed carry classes through the Chicago Jewish Alliance, a local pro-Israel group.
Eventually she joined forces with a similar group in Cleveland to form Lox & Loaded,whose members pay $118 a year for training, monthly shooting practice and other events.
Many of those members, she said, are seniors — and quite a few are longtime gun skeptics turning to firearms for self-defense after personally experiencing antisemitism.
The partnership comes amid an uptick in antisemitic violence and in the wake of multiple high-profile antisemitic terrorist attacks that were both carried out and stopped with guns. In the Temple Israel attack in West Bloomfield, Michigan, last month, a man armed with a rifle rammed a truck loaded with explosives into the synagogue before he was shot dead by a security guard.
And it points to a spillover effect from the increased focus on security — a developing interest in firearms not just in synagogues, but also in domestic life.
Historically, American Jews have among the lowest rates of gun ownership in the country. Just 10% of Jews owned guns according to a 2005 report, compared to 26% nationwide at the time; in 2018, a survey found 70% of American Jews said gun control was more important than protecting gun rights.
But newer data points to a change in tune; for example, NYPD reports show a spike in concealed carry permit applications after October 2023. Whether an increase in Jewish gun ownership actually makes American Jews safer, however, is hotly contested.
Pearlstein, who is a longtime NRA member, said the partnership came about after she introduced herself to the organization’s executives at a national trade show in January.
Davis, who was one of the people she met that day, said the NRA had been paying attention to the rise in antisemitic attacks and was eager to help.
“Meeting with folks from Lox & Loaded has been incredibly eye-opening,” Davis said, “to see the transformation that’s happening — the community of folks who are realizing that they have to take their safety into their own hands.”
That newfound Jewish enthusiasm comes at a ripe moment for the NRA, which has been beset in recent years by government efforts to break it up and declining revenue overall. Its former chief executive was found guilty of financial misconduct. And the organization filed for bankruptcy, only for a judge to block its petition.
For Pearlstein, the benefits were clear: the NRA still has the resources to throw behind additional training and club recruitment, as well as safety courses that are considered the industry standard. Pearlstein emphasized that Lox & Loaded “does not push guns in people’s faces.”
A promotional video released by the NRA about the new partnership highlights Jewish vulnerability. In the two-minute spot, news coverage of the Temple Israel attack rolls on screen — including an image of the suspect brandishing a rifle — followed by video of college protesters chanting “globalize the intifada.”
“Today, Jewish families face unprecedented threats, simply for who they are,” a voiceover intones. “Many thought they’d never need to defend themselves — until now.”
Through the scope
Pearlstein’s club is part of a “material increase” in Jewish gun groups since Oct. 7, many catering to first-time gun owners, according to Michael Masters, national director of the Secure Community Network, an organization that provides safety guidance to hundreds of Jewish institutions. Some of those groups now provide neighborhood patrols, first response and armed security outside synagogues.
But it’s unclear what safety benefits come from the prospect of increased Jewish gun ownership itself — and some say the trend introduces new safety concerns.
Lately, Masters has been fielding lots of questions from synagogues whose members want to bring their guns to services. Last year his organization released a white paper detailing best practices for concealed carry in houses of worship.
Complicating the picture is that Jewish gun groups, like gun groups in general, vary in their adherence to standardized training curriculums or certification requirements — meaning not everyone who joins them comes away equally prepared.
“Those distinctions between different groups can result in inconsistencies for the community,” Masters said, “all of which can have significant impacts on life, safety and liability.”
Gun violence researchers also point to ripple effects that accompany gun ownership.
Deborah Azrael, director of research of the Harvard Injury Control Research Center, said that decades of studies have consistently shown that access to guns is associated with substantially increased risk of suicide for both a gun owner and their family.
“There isn’t really any compelling evidence of a countervailing benefit in terms of homicide reduction,” Azrael said. “And on the contrary, there’s evidence that you increase your risk of dying, and the people you love dying, if you bring a gun into the home.”
Davis, the NRA spokesperson, said that if someone wants to harm themselves, they will do it whether they have a gun or not. The bigger issue, he said, was a national mental health crisis that had gone unaddressed — and which factored into the violent threat American Jews now face.
“It’s an old adage, but when the seconds count, police are minutes away,” Davis said. “You have to be able to be your own first responders.”
Azrael said research undercut the notion that armed crime victims could reliably help themselves. When guns are used in self-defense, she said, the people who use them aren’t significantly less likely to be injured or to lose property than people who fight back in other ways, or run.
And she was suspicious of the idea that firearms training would prepare an amateur to act in a worst-case scenario. “You’re asking people to take on a role that police officers often don’t do that well,” she said.
Masters, too, was conscious of a possible disconnect between firearm ownership and capacity to respond safely in those scenarios. Lately, he said, he has begun advising law enforcement that active threat scenarios in Jewish spaces may feature armed civilians trying to help.
And he was also aware that not everyone in a synagogue felt comfortable or safe with more guns around them.
“This is perhaps a transition for many members of the community in how they feel about this issue, but it’s a reality that people have an option and are exercising it,” Masters said. “As security professionals, we have to deal with that reality.”
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How a young woman smuggled weapons into the Warsaw Ghetto
This is a revised version of the original article in Yiddish which you can read here.
On Both Sides of the Wall
Vladka Meed and Steven D. Meed
Citadel Press, 448 pages, $29.00.
“But surely by this morning we will learn something.” It was a sentiment that was going around the Warsaw Ghetto, overheard among the groups of Jews huddled on street corners. On occasion someone would muster up some hopeful words: “Jews, have no fear! You will all see. With God’s help, once more we shall survive the evil decree!” It was July 22, 1942: the first day of the Great Deportation. Any optimism was unfounded: On that day, the Germans led roughly 250,000 Jews to the death camps.
Thus begins the opening scene of On Both Sides of the Wall, Vladka Meed’s memoir of her life in Warsaw during World War II. Her story originally appeared in installments in the Forward shortly after her arrival in America, in 1946, under her real name, Feygele Peytel Miedzyrecki. A book-length edition was published by the educational committee of the Workers Circle in 1948.
In 1977, an English translation came out, with an introduction by Elie Wiesel. Now Meed’s memoir is available in an expanded edition, complete with an introduction from the historian Samuel Kassow and a foreword by the translator, Steven (Shloyme) Meed, Vladka’s son.
Vladka Meed takes the reader into the heart of the Warsaw Ghetto, with its charged atmosphere of hope, terror and despair. She summons the cacophony of those last ten, tragic months of the Ghetto; we hear the voices of Jews, Germans and their Ukrainian accomplices.
Fortunately, Vladka managed to avoid the daily aktsyes (deportation campaigns) when the mundir forces (“Jewish police,” in the ghetto vernacular) would capture Jews for deportation. Vladka soon found herself alone: “My mother, brother, and sister have all been taken from me to some unimaginable fate,” she writes. Vladka was lucky to find a job in one of the workshops that served the Germans.
Following the second selektsye (separation of fit and unfit Jewish laborers) in September 1942, the Jews that remained in the ghetto began preparing for an uprising. Vladka remembers their calls: “If we are to die, anyway, let us die with dignity!” “The enemy must pay a heavy price for our lives!”
As a young girl, Vladka was active in the Jewish Labor Bund, an affiliation that helped keep her alive during the Holocaust. She spoke Polish well without a trace of a Yiddish accent, and had “good Aryan looks.” The leadership of the ghetto’s Bundist underground suggested that she become a courier between the ghetto and the Aryan side. That’s how the young Jewish girl, Feygele Peltel, was transformed into a Polish woman by the name of Wladislawa Kowalska, or simply — Vladka.
Step by step, she integrated into “normal life” among Christian Poles. At first she had high hopes. “I had expected to encounter a strong interest among our Polish neighbors about life within the ghetto,” she writes. But she soon realized that her neighbors preferred very much not to know what was happening on the other side of the ghetto wall.
Vladka and her comrades on the Aryan side were charged with obtaining weapons for the ghetto. But their relations with members of the Polish underground army were poor, and little came of their interactions: “As we travel about the city, trying and failing to get arms…we beg them: ‘Help us to obtain weapons. We are willing to pay well for them!’”
Most of their requests fell on deaf ears. Often they’d hand over payment and receive nothing in return — or worse, their Polish contacts would betray them to the Germans. Even when the Jewish ghetto fighters managed to get their hands on a revolver, another challenge remained: smuggling it into the ghetto.
The book is a gripping read. Vladka Meed is a skillful narrator, and she gives a detailed accounting of her dangerous missions. Any day could have been her last: she never knew if she’d live to see the evening. Vladka had many more failures than successes, and in many cases she was saved by a fateful coincidence.
Kassow’s introduction describes the greater historical context of that period, while Steven Meed provides personal details about his mother’s life before the Holocaust, based on her interviews in the American press.
In his translation, Meed includes bracketed phrases that provide brief, helpful contextual notes. He has also chosen to preserve Yiddish words from the so-called “ghetto language”, like aktsye (action), mundirn (police forces), and blokade (blockade). The choice to keep such vocabulary gives the text an authentic feel, even as Meed’s strategy occasionally raises questions. Why, for example, did he ‘translate’ the word kristin (Christian woman) in the Yiddish as “shikse” (an often pejorative term for a gentile girl) in the English? In general, his translations in the book occasionally veer far from the original.
In the United States, Vladka Meed dedicated her life to Holocaust education. This newest edition of her book carries this mission forward, and constitutes a significant addition to the ever-growing library of documents and research on the Warsaw Ghetto.
Unfortunately, the history of Jewish resistance to German occupation still hasn’t been properly integrated into American Holocaust education, even in Jewish day schools. At the University of Michigan, when I discuss the Warsaw Ghetto uprising with students in my course on the history of the Jews in Eastern Europe, I often get this response: “Why didn’t anyone tell us about this in our Holocaust education classes? It’s so important!”
To this day we often view the history of the Holocaust with a focus on mass murder. Vladka Meed’s book, writes Kassow, “demonstrates [that] this battle to stay alive, against all odds, refuted the oft-made claim that Jews went passively to their deaths.”
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