We arrive at our first stop: the home of Olga Lewinsky. The Rebbetzin knocks gently on Olga’s door, but she isn’t home. “Olga went to the store,” a neighbor informs us.

The “store,” it turns out, is a tiny structure at the edge of the village — a remnant of another era. The Rebbetzin explains, “Most of the villagers buy only two products in the store — bread and milk. It’s their only outing outside of their home.”

While Olga is at the store, we survey her small house. It’s surrounded by a plot of land fenced with wire. At the edge of the yard stands a small wooden shed — the outhouse. In the center is a red‑doored stone structure.

The Rebbetzin uses the time to tell me a little of Olga’s story. “Back in Kyiv, we were looking for a cleaning lady,” she says. “A woman, Ludmilla, applied for the job. When we asked her surname, she answered ‘Lewinsky.’ We were stunned. I told her, ‘That’s a Jewish name!’ Ludmilla said, ‘What are you talking about? I’m not Jewish.’

“We explained that Lewinsky is a Jewish surname, and when she returned to her village to visit her family, we asked her to do some investigating. She returned, very surprised, saying she’d discovered that both her parents were Jewish. They had never spoken of it.

“When she raised the subject with them, they became extremely agitated, and her mother warned her, ‘Don’t talk about this to anyone. When the war broke out and the Germans came to the village, the first thing they did was take the community register, go through the family names, and execute all those who were Jewish. Keep away from other Jews. Being Jewish is dangerous.’ To this day, Olga, Ludmilla’s mother, is afraid to mention that she’s Jewish.”

Olga returns from the grocery store, leaning on a walking stick made of a thick tree branch. She waves to us in greeting, but as she nears the house, she self-consciously whispers something to the Rebbetzin in Ukrainian. “She says she’s embarrassed to invite us in,” the Rebbetzin translates. “She’s renovating the chicken coop in the yard, but it’s not yet ready, so she’s keeping the chickens inside the house.”

Eventually, Olga relents and agrees to let us in, but she first gives us a tour of the yard, showing us the plot of land where, as soon as the snow melts, she’ll plant potatoes, turnips, carrots, beets, and other vegetables.

She takes us to that small red‑doored stone structure in the center of the yard and unlocks the rusty padlock. We peek inside to see stone stairs; they descend two floors underground. There’s a strong smell of mold mixed with preserved food. It’s here that Olga stores her crops and grain, in lieu of a fridge.

Back in her house, Olga proudly shows us a hand‑operated treadle sewing machine, dusty and cobwebbed. Once, she worked as a seamstress. On the bed nearby lies a small wooden puzzle, probably a grandchild’s; on the wall hangs a picture her first‑grade neighbor drew for her. Yes, even small children live in this village.

The Baby From Babi Yar

Olga picks up a handleless straw broom and sweeps away some of the thick dust so we can pass into the inner rooms of her house. In the last room — which serves as both a kitchen and bedroom — we see a box of chicks. I understand why she keeps them in the “kitchen” — there’s a large, wood‑burning stove that spreads heat through the room, warming the chicks like an incubator.

“I’ve lived in this village since I was born. I don’t know any other place,” Olga says as she sits on the bed. She invites us to sit beside her, and begins her chilling life story. “When I was a year old, the Germans came to the village. They forced all the men into a barn and set it on fire… then they took the women and children to Babi Yar in Kyiv, where they were shot and then buried in a mass grave.

“My mother and older brother and I were taken to Babi Yar,” she continues, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “But at the very last moment, before they were shot, a neighbor of ours happened by and pulled me from my mother’s arms, calling to the Germans, ‘Don’t shoot her! She’s my baby, not theirs! They were only watching her for me!’ The Germans believed her because I had light hair and blue eyes.

“My mother and brother are buried in the mass grave at Babi Yar. I even know the exact spot, because the neighbor saw everything, and when I got older, she took me there. Later, gentiles from the village moved all the ashes of the Jews from the barn to Babi Yar, so my father is buried there, too. My whole family is in that holy mass grave, and sometimes I go there, to visit, and pray as best I can.”

Olga wipes her eyes and continues her story. She was raised by the neighbor who saved her life. The neighbor reminded her again and again, “You’re not like us. You’re different. You’re Jewish. You can’t eat our meat. Your parents didn’t eat it.” Only as a teenager did Olga learn that this had been her late mother’s request before being murdered: “Tell her she’s Jewish, and I’ll pray for you in Heaven,” she’d told the neighbor.

Even though she knew she was Jewish, Olga almost never spoke of it — it was too dangerous. Her parents’ surname was Lapinsky, and in her youth she was astonished to meet a village boy with a very similar name — Lewinsky. After they discovered they both came from Jewish families, they married and had three daughters. But they never mentioned their heritage until Ludmilla discovered it at the Chabad House.

“I remember the first Shabbos Ludmilla stayed in our home,” Rebbetzin Markovitch says. “She was shocked to see us placing the food on the hotplate and covering it, exclaiming, ‘What, you do that, too?!’ While Olga had no real knowledge of Yiddishkeit, a few practices had survived: covering the oven every Friday before sunset, lighting Shabbos candles, and not doing laundry or cooking on Saturdays. When Ludmilla saw these things at our home, they sparked the same memories of her parents’ home. Later, she told me that her mother always fasted two days a year — once in the summer and once in the early winter — and made special poppyseed cookies each spring.”

Today, thanks to the Rebbetzin’s many visits, Olga knows a little more about Yiddishkeit. “I try to keep what I know,” she says with simple, heart-melting purity. Still, no one around her knows she’s Jewish. She lights her Chanukah candles indoors, never outside. No one even knows her Jewish name — she refuses to tell us, too.

When we leave, she tells me as she embraces me, eyes shining, “I hope that one day I will merit to reach the Land of Israel.”

Back in Time

It’s only about five minutes by car from Olga’s house to Lida Savrich’s home. Judging from the looks we get from passersby, a car like ours is a rare sight here. Very few villagers own cars — and even those mostly stand flat‑tired and dilapidated in their yards.

Lida has a low-rise wooden house with a tiled roof, exactly like the houses kindergarten children draw. To reach it, we walk along a stone path through a small, bare plot of land.

Just before we enter her house, we hear loud barking from the small doghouse at the edge of the yard — as quaint as the house itself — where a little dog is tied. He’s startled at the sight of visitors.

When we approach Lida’s house, I realize that the wooden walls are as thin as the panels of a succah. It’s frightening to think of what Lida endures in the freezing winter months when snow falls and temperatures drop far below zero. It’s almost like living outdoors.

The front door is wide open. Lida is waiting for us inside, sitting on a backless wooden chair in a room no bigger than a modest bathroom in Israel. This is her living room. At the entrance a shoe cabinet holding no fewer than nine pairs of shoes stands. Judging by the range of sizes, they’ve probably served her throughout her life. Some likely belonged to her late husband, who passed away three years ago.

Above the kitchen cabinet is a shelf with a plastic container of murky liquid. It’s filled with sprouting onion bulbs. Next to it are pickled cucumbers in a glass jar. On the wall, there’s a shaky electrical hookup with wires wrapped around it and a dangling bulb, though no one here uses electricity during the day. Behind Lida, on the wall, hang rugs that have seen better days. Some have bald patches — and all covered in a layer of dust. An ancient flyswatter hangs nearby. I wonder when it was last used. To Lida’s right is a pile of pots, and beside them, a metal pail — yes, just like the milkman’s in the shtetl. Like in Olga’s home, there’s a straw broom, but this one has rusty wire twisted around a branch for a handle.

In Ukrainian, our hostess invites us to take the other chair in the room. It’s covered with what looks like a sheepskin. The Rebbetzin sits beside her, and Lida’s face lights up. In a moment, they’re deep in conversation, like lifelong friends.

Lida introduces herself to me. “I’m a widow, and in two months I’ll be eighty,” she says. When I remark that she looks younger — which is true — the Rebbetzin translates, and a smile spreads across Lida’s face. Evidently, some compliments are universal.

“I was born in 1945, near the famous city of Zhytomyr, not far from here. After my marriage, my husband and I moved to live here in the village.” Lida remembers the period after World War II well — the hardships, the tension in the streets. There were hardly any Jews. Many had been murdered by the Nazis. Others left for greener pastures, leaving it spiritually desolate.

“As a child,” Lida says, “I knew I was Jewish, but we kept it an absolute secret. No one formally taught me about mitzvos or Yamim Tovim. I kept what I saw my mother and grandmother keep. To this day, I don’t cook or do laundry on Saturday.”

The Rebbetzin tells Lida that I’ve come from Eretz Yisrael, and Lida’s eyes light up. “My husband’s family came from Berditchev. They also kept mitzvos,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “They were part of the Jewish community there before the Holocaust. They were among the few Jews there who survived the Nazis. His parents were very religious. When I visited them after the wedding, I saw how they kept Shabbos, how careful they were to separate milk and meat.

“I remember Pesach in their home.” A spark of longing shines in her eyes. “We ate matzah there, drank wine….”

Throughout our conversation with Lida, I notice a younger woman moving through the inner part of the house. Because of the dim light in the rooms (remember — electricity only at night!), it’s hard to make out her features. Lida explains that since her husband died she’s begun renting out one room in her house (tiny as it is) to another woman to help support herself.

When Lida realizes we’re curious to see the rest of her home, she urges us inside. In the hallway, we pass what Lida calls her “wonder contraption,” a sink with a plastic container hanging above it, filled with water drawn from the well. A string keeps the container closed so that the water flows into the sink only when she needs it.

The main inner room of the house is both Lida’s bedroom and kitchen. The wood-fire brick stove also gives off heat, and the only way to keep warm in the freezing winter is to sleep right beside it.

To the right of the bed is a dining table cluttered with cups and plates of every type — plastic, porcelain, various metals — all with food remnants stuck to them. Lida doesn’t wash them after every use, because drawing water just for dishwashing is too hard. “I’m weak and ill,” she sighs. “We have a doctor in the village who comes only if we pay him. Medicine costs money, as does an ambulance to the hospital. Medical care here is very complicated. Even if your situation is dire, and the weather is below freezing, the doctor won’t take you if you can’t pay. Since most of the people here have no money, we don’t see the doctor. When we’re ill, we just drink water instead.

“In general,” Lida tells me, “I try not to follow the news. It only saddens and stresses me, and I have no way to influence events, so what would it achieve? Better to pray to the Creator. The Rebbetzin herself told me I can pray even if I was never taught how.”

Before we leave, she shows us a metal menorah on a shelf beside a box of candles. “The Rebbetzin gave these to me when she came here on Chanukah,” she says. When the Rebbetzin asks why she didn’t light them, she recoils. “No, no, you don’t light them, they’re holy. I don’t want them to run out.” She strokes the menorah and puts it back on the shelf.

As we turn to go, the Rebbetzin warmly clasps Lida’s hand. It’s clear Lida is sorry the visit is over. “Come again,” she says to the Rebbetzin.

The Oldest Woman in Vesele

Even if we wandered the village for days, we couldn’t visit all the “grandmothers,” as the Rebbetzin affectionately calls them. But she continues to show me around the village and tells me about 98-year-old Chana, one of Vesele’s oldest residents.

“Our acquaintance began on one of our visits here,” the Rebbetzin says. “Chana wanted to speak to me, and cautiously, making sure no one was listening, she whispered, ‘My name is Tatiana, but I’m really Chana.’ She told me she was Jewish, and that she remembers when the Germans came to the village. Of course, everyone hid from them.

“To lure the Jews out of hiding, the Germans projected a color film onto the wall of a central building. Since the villagers had never seen ‘moving pictures’ before, they were fascinated. The film, she said, showed the wonders of Brazil, with stunning footage of parrots and forests. ‘The Jewish youth couldn’t resist and came out of hiding one by one — and so they fell into the hands of the Germans,’ Chana told me. ‘But though I was only a little girl, I forced myself to resist my curiosity and stay hidden. I told myself that if I survived, I’d find another opportunity to see interesting things. But if I left my hiding place, my fate would be certain death. So here I am — living proof of a miracle.’”

The Rebbetzin notes that about 20 years ago, Chana went outside at night to use her outhouse, fell, and broke numerous bones. “She had no money to pay for an ambulance, so no one treated her. The fractures healed crookedly. Since then, she’s been completely bedridden, and we’re the only ones who visit and care for her.”

There’s also Shoshana, known locally as Suzanna. “When I was five,” she tells the Rebbetzin in a trembling voice, “I was playing with a non‑Jewish friend. Suddenly, my friend whispered, ‘Hide, they’re coming!’ We hid behind a large stone and saw the Germans arrive, line up my mother, my brother, and my father, and shoot them dead.

“My friend, who was a little older than me, clamped her hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out and run to them. To this day, I remember the exact spot where my parents were murdered. A few years after their deaths, I planted a grapevine there as a memorial. To this day, when I pass that vine, I think of my family — and even at times when I was truly hungry, I never ate from its grapes. I couldn’t, it’s my parents’ grave.”

We leave the village before dark — and that’s a good thing. “In general, the villagers believe that ‘nothing good comes out of the night,’” the Rebbetzin explains. “And they don’t have reliable electricity, anyway. Life here stops when the sun sets and starts again with sunrise.”

The Center of It All

The bulk of the Markovitches’ endeavors are centered in Kyiv itself, where they care for the Jews who have remained in the city.

“Before the war, we had a huge community here, about three thousand young people — most of them Israelis,” the Rebbetzin says. “We arranged many events for them for Shabbos and Yamim Tovim. But when the war began, they all disappeared. Many of the young Ukrainian population were drafted, while the Israelis returned to Israel. Sadly, there are quite a few Jewish soldiers among the dead and wounded in this war.

“When the war broke out, there was terror in the streets. The Russians came right up to the city gates, and it was clear we were all in serious danger,” the Rebbetzin recounts. The Markovitches were evacuated by the Ukrainian secret service, but less than two weeks later, they returned. “Very quickly, we reached the conclusion that our job was to stay in the city and serve the Jewish community, now more than ever. If we abandoned them, they’d die — many of the elderly residents don’t have the bare minimum to care for themselves. Our son, Rabbi Ariel, also returned, and together with his devoted wife, Rebbetzin Cheri, they keep in touch with many of the city’s young people.”

Their mission is different now. “Our work is focused on one goal — to make sure the elderly members of Jewish community survive. The elderly — some Holocaust survivors — all stayed in Kyiv. They’re worn out from life’s hardships and lack the strength to start over in another country, and are even more needy now,” the Rebbetzin explains. “Food and medicine prices have risen dramatically, and the old‑age pension dropped from $150 a month to $60. And it’s not easy. In wartime, we have few resources, and local donors can no longer financially support the community like they used to. Many businesses collapsed since the war began, and unfortunately, the number of poor has grown sharply. Only faith in the Creator remains to sustain us all.”

Each day, dozens of seniors are hosted on rotation in the Chabad House’s dining hall. “Unfortunately,” says the Rebbetzin, “we can’t feed everyone every day. The list of people requesting help is huge, and the kitchen — which functions from morning until night — can only provide full meals for 150 people daily.”

On Shabbos, hundreds from the community come to eat there. The men are well‑dressed and the women are well‑groomed, many wearing jewelry. “Don’t let that mislead you,” the Rebbetzin explains, pointing out that many diners wrap leftovers in a napkin and slip them into their pockets to take home. “They have nothing. But their self‑respect won’t let them feel like beggars. Many were doing well before the war, some even owned businesses, but when everything collapsed, they were left with no choice but to take help.”

One of the unique skills Rabbi and Rebbetzin Markovitch have is their ability to make the people they help feel dignified. To that end, they involve them directly in volunteer work. Once a week, everyone gathers for a few hours to pack food and clothing for Jewish soldiers at the front and Jewish prisoners being held in the Ukraine.

Valentina, the enthusiastic woman who coordinates the volunteers, tells me, “We prepare these packages because it’s a privilege to help Jews in distress. We pack everything in the most organized and efficient way we can, and we also add warm socks we knit ourselves. Every time I pack a box, I think to myself that some Jewish soldier out there, cold in the trenches or snow, will open the package and see that someone thought about him. It will surely help him feel he’s not alone — and maybe it will also connect him to the Creator.”

Her eyes shine with emotion. “These aren’t just food packages. We put our hearts in here.”

Etched Into Their Hearts

Besides caring for the elderly, Kyiv’s Chabad Center runs the Jewish school and kindergarten, which educate close to 100 Jewish children from local families. Many of the children’s fathers are now drafted into the Ukrainian army, and the families are struggling financially due to the political and economic collapse. But when you walk into the school building, the tension and heavy atmosphere outside seem to disappear. You’re drawn into a bubble of calm, warmth, and extraordinary dedication.

Chava, the woman in charge of Hebrew studies at the school, leads us on a tour of the classrooms. “Here’s first grade.” She opens the door wide to ten adorable children singing in Hebrew about the days of the week, ending with Shabbos when “Am Yisrael rests.” It’s impossible not to be moved, knowing that many of these children had never heard anything about Yiddishkeit at home, and some didn’t even know they were Jewish until they started at the school.

In the third-grade classroom, the teacher, Helena, tells us the children prepared a special project about flowers in Eretz Yisrael. One student, Sophia, steps forward confidently and recites, “Who am I? I’m the Anemone Coronaria. My colors are red, purple, pink, white, and even yellowish. In my center I have black stamens. I have a pleasant scent. My Hebrew name ‘kalanit’ comes from the word ‘kallah’ — bride — because of the flower’s beauty.”

The atmosphere in the preschool classes and in the school is warm. The children are here from 8:30 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., and the staff clearly does everything to make the children’s time here pleasant. They also prov ide them with three hot meals a day. The school has a dairy kitchen, a meat kitchen, and a bakery. “We know that many of these children have no food at home, and after they return from school, they don’t eat anything until the next day,” the Rebbetzin explains with pain in her voice.

The school and preschool also ensure the children have a proper rest period in properly made beds. “Even school‑age children need a nap so they’ll have the energy to continue learning and developing,” Chava explains.

It’s clear the children are so happy at school. They’re very well-behaved: They stay seated at the table, clear their dishes, and speak only when permitted by the teacher. “They can’t imagine acting otherwise,” says the Rebbetzin with a smile.

“My own children also studied here in this school. When we came to Israel for occasional visits, we made arrangements with Israeli schools to take them in temporarily. Time and again, we discovered that our kids were at a very high level in terms of learning. Once, when an inspector came to test the cheder children in Israel, the principal chose my son to represent them. Of course, he didn’t tell them he was a shaliach from Ukraine,” she says with a grin.

“Our main goal is to teach the children Hebrew and about the Yamim Tovim,” says Chava. “We start teaching Hebrew in first grade alongside Ukrainian, and they learn to read in both languages. We teach them brachos and how to daven, tell them about the Yamim Tovim, about Eretz Yisrael and the Beis Hamikdash. They leave here with a great deal of knowledge — that’s our goal. We don’t know where life will take each of them, but what a child learns young is engraved in their heart and will never be erased.”

Chava has seen this in action. “For the first two months of the war, the school was closed and lessons took place online. Our students had scattered all over the world — England, Israel, Poland, Romania, even Turkish Cyprus. One boy in Cyprus was sent to a local Muslim school, and he told us over Zoom, ‘They make a blessing on the food, but not like ours.’ When we asked him, ‘What did you do?’ he answered, ‘I made the brachah I know — Baruch Atah… melech ha’olam…’ He’s only in third grade — his bravery was so moving.”

Despite the staff’s best efforts, there’s no escaping the brutal reality of wartime. “Sometimes there are air-raid sirens, one after another, and we spend hours down in the bomb shelter,” Chava tells us. “Once, a missile landed just a few meters from the yard where our children had just been playing. There are power outages that disrupt learning, but we continue. The parents need us for practical reasons, but even more than that, every child’s soul needs us. And we know we simply can’t abandon them.” Ff

The Jewish Justice Warrior

A gleaming black limousine glides silently up to the Chabad House. Moments later, out steps a poised woman, impeccably dressed, radiating quiet strength. She’s Iryna Mudra, who in recent years has transformed from senior banking consultant to Ukraine’s legal advocate at the International Court of Justice, and one of President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s closest associates.

There’s another detail to Iryna’s identity: She’s Jewish, from a deeply rooted Ukrainian-Jewish family. And this is far from a side note in her life. She’s proud of it, and it guides her wherever she turns.

“How are you? How is Israel?” she asks me in Hebrew.

She waits seriously for me to answer, not to make small talk — she doesn’t have time for that; her schedule is packed and even coordinating a meeting with her was complicated — but because she’s genuinely excited to meet visitors from Israel and wants to hear how we’re doing and about the political situation.

“I love Israel very much and have visited several times,” she says. “I have relatives who live in Rishon LeZion.”

Iryna is also strongly tied to the Jewish community in the US from the time she spent studying in New York. She has supporters across the political spectrum in the American Jewish community. They admire her exceptional professionalism, to the point that many in the US Jewish community hoped she would become Ukraine’s ambassador to the United States.

“America is a superpower that loves Jews,” she observes, clearly speaking from personal experience. “It’s no secret that Trump is surrounded by Jews or people connected to Jews. And when I meet US government representatives, I feel like they respect Judaism. When they hear I’m Jewish, they welcome me with open arms. There’s a deep inner connection and brotherhood between us.”

Later, I hear that she is indeed a candidate for the ambassadorship, and if plans move forward, she may take the position soon.

“I deal with various important tasks related to Ukraine’s legal operations,” Iryna explains. “But my highest calling is suing Russia for the war crimes it has committed in Ukraine. Our ultimate goal is to make them bear the cost of the damage we’ve suffered so that can help Ukraine rebuild after the war.”

Even someone without a legal background can sense the complexity of the task. “It’s really not simple,” Iryna agrees. “There’s no precedent. Russia has never before been sued for such sums, certainly not by Ukraine. To do this for the first time, we need to create new legal precedents, expose war crimes, document them concretely, and demand compensation.

“What people in the world often don’t realize is that when Russian forces advanced to Kyiv at the start of the war, they stopped in nearby villages and committed horrific massacres, just like Hamas terrorists did on Simchas Torah. As Ukraine’s representative at the International Court of Justice, I’m using my position to file these claims against Russia’s attacks.”

This fight isn’t about money, it’s about having the world recognize the war crimes committed in Ukraine. That recognition alone can make an enormous difference in Ukraine’s future and for their inevitable future confrontations with Russia.

“The secondary aspect of the battle is about the actual compensation — making Russia pay. Getting them to shoulder the war’s financial damage is something the world has never seen. It’s not just suing any country — it’s suing a superpower, and for sums that the World Bank has calculated at over $500 billion.”

Iryna believes this case will ultimately be successful because they’re not asking Russia to pull cash from their treasury. They’re requesting, under international law, to seize Russian assets frozen abroad, mostly in G7 countries, and use those to cover part of their debt to Ukraine.

“Once we prove war crimes, individuals will be able to file claims. At that point, a special war crimes and damages committee will be established, with subcommittees and categories, so every citizen can file a simple claim and receive compensation. But we’re not at that stage yet; we’re still building the legal framework.

“I believe in justice, and more than anything, in the Creator of the world. Ultimately, Russia will have to pay for its crimes. We have the world’s best international legal experts on our side.” She pauses, then adds, “Looking at the war in Israel, I think Israel, too, should use similar tactics. I’m not familiar with Israeli law, but clearly, severe war crimes have been committed there. Those responsible must pay. Israel should demand what it’s owed — it will strengthen not only itself, but global justice as well.”

“There are no words to describe Ukraine’s pain,” she says sadly. “So much death, destruction, loss. I’m doing all I can to halt it, speaking with influential figures in countries that can make a difference.”

“I feel Hashem with me all the time,” she adds with emotion. “And I thank Him for the past year. Despite all the hardships, both in Ukraine and in Israel, there were also moments of light, and we mustn’t overlook them. The greatest light in my life is my connection to Hashem, thanks to Rabbi and Rebbetzin Markovitch. I draw strength from their words and encouragement. I might operate within the highest echelons in the president’s office, but my spiritual guidance comes from them. Thanks to them, there’s even a mezuzah in the president’s office — and every time I kiss it, I feel Hashem with me.”

When it comes to personal challenges, she’s candid. “My greatest personal challenge is finding balance — between work, spending time with my husband and seven-year-old son, and my spiritual growth. As a Jewish woman, I know I must invest in my family and my Yiddishkeit while representing my country with dignity. With Hashem’s help, I’ll succeed.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 959)