A Special Mitzvah: Hosting Righteous Gentiles in Ukraine

Valentina and Eugenia are older now. But every Saturday, in downtown Odessa, they gather around the table for food, company and a chance to exchange memories with other ladies who share a very noble distinction from their pasts -- they are all Righteous Gentiles.

Gathering at a JDC-supported Warm Home (a communal apartment which allows isolated seniors to meet, eat and socialize) these women share present problems and past glories.

Valentina relates the stories of how her husband and her husband's father saved the lives of dozens of Jewish friends and strangers. Her father in-law, she explains, was a prominent psychiatrist in Odessa when the city was occupied by German and Romanian forces in 1941.

"They would come to the office because they knew or because they had heard the rumors that there was a doctor in town who could save them from the death camps," Valentina relates with excitement. "The Germans and Romanians were sweeping through different districts arresting entire families. Our clinic bordered the Jewish ghetto, so the soldiers were always snooping around. Fortunately, my father in-law, spoke both Romanian and German. He managed to convince the soldiers to leave the clinic alone. If a Jew entered the clinic, my father in-law would forge a new case history for them as though they were psychiatric patients in long standing at the Institute. When the German authorities swept through on routine checks, they never counted the number of old patients, instead, they looked only for newly dated additions to the clinic."

"Meanwhile, my husband would go out looking to clean out basements and attics of Jewish stowaways in different neighborhoods and safeguard them to the Institute." Valentina proudly shows the Yad Vashem certificate of Righteous Gentile for her late husband, but offers, "He died less than a year before they awarded the honor. He would be so proud, and yet modest."

Others around the table nod in acknowledgment of the sacrifice and the risk to life and limb. "I hid our neighbor's child first," offers Olga, a retired schoolteacher. "Then when we sent her successfully to another basement in another town, we took in another 'boarder', she giggles. "And we went on that way for three years," she snickers. "When the hidden person was a child, my mother sent me to take them to the next place. I was positive that we would get caught, but we never did."

One after the other, the women told their stories of bravery and sometimes of loss. Then, a strong voice at the end of the table piped up, "And I'm the only one who doesn't belong at this table!" Eugenia, an elegant woman with a disarming smile continued, "That is because, in the end, I am Jewish!" The other ladies begin to applaud. "No, no, let me tell." she continues.

"My father and mother were part of the famous Briansk partisans, who fought the Nazis from the woods. They took many Jews who were running from the Germans, gave them guns and turned them around to fight the invaders. While some died, many lived and all fought valiantly against a terrible enemy."

"While my father was off fighting one night in May 1943, the Germans surrounded our camp and captured my mother and myself. My mother managed to quickly bury our papers before the Germans could see that we were Jews. After they interrogated us, we were sent to a labor camp inside of Germany, where we worked until May 1945. But whenever the guards would come through with the taunt, 'Throw us your Jews and you'll have what you choose (to eat)', none of our non-Jewish inmates would give us up. Most of them died, but I proudly represent them at this table."

Eugenia belongs to Odessa's Association of Holocaust Survivors, an honored group in today's Jewish community. She says the Jewish community in Odessa was right to create this service for righteous gentiles. "If we're going to honor those Jews who went through hell, we should certainly honor those who risked their own lives and the lives of their children trying to save us from that hell."

When asked whether there were many more like themselves during the war, who saved Jews from death, a long silence was broken when someone uttered, "You wouldn't need another table."