“In Memory’s Light”: On Yom HaShoah, This Holocaust Survivor Tells His Story

“Catastrophe, catastrophe/You haunt the Jew, you bring him woe,” Alexander Kogan writes in his poem, “The Wandering Jew.” Kogan, 88, knows catastrophe all too well. He was just a young boy when his family fled the Nazis, and though he survived, he’s carried difficult memories from that time ever since. On Yom HaShoah, Kogan — who lives in Tiraspol, Moldova — recounts his arduous story and describes how JDC allows Holocaust survivors like himself to live full Jewish lives.   

When the Nazis invaded Ukraine in July, 1941, many Jews remained in our shtetl. They said, “No way! The Nazis won’t hurt us.” But as soon as the Nazis arrived, they fenced the Jews behind barbed wire, and surrounded them with guards and German shepherds. Three days later, the mass executions began. The massacre lasted from February 19-22, 1942.

They dug pits in the center of the shtetl. Some locals, following the Nazis’ orders, forced people to strip naked. In groups of 20 — men, women, and children separated — they went into the snow, into the frost. I remember one Nazi going up to a mother holding her baby and saying, “Look what we’re going to do to your child.” 

He grabbed the baby and hit its head on his knee. Then he threw the baby into the pit. He said to the mother, “Now, look at me. I’m going to shoot you.” And he did. 

This evil lasted three days.

Some stories were equal parts tragic and hopeful. One girl, Riva Tashlitskaya, threw herself into the pit while she was still alive. Witnesses said they saw the earth breathing for three days because Riva managed to crawl out of the pit and into somebody’s yard. Someone set a dog on her, but she narrowly escaped and fled to the neighboring village. 

Eventually, she found refuge with a family who hid her in a sack in their barn for three years. At night, they’d let her out to breathe fresh air and have food, and then she’d return to hide again. When her father returned from the front, he took her home. She eventually got married, and she and her father invited her other “mother and father” to the wedding — that’s what she called the people who saved her life. 

My family’s story, though more typical, was no less grueling. 

After we heard the Nazis were approaching, my grandfather hid all of our belongings in the basement and bricked it up. Everyone thought we’d be able to return in two or three weeks. So, we tied our cow to a cart and set off.

We had to make some awful choices. As we were leaving, our nanny Lukiya begged us to take her along, but there was simply no space. We’d hardly made our way out of the shtetl when she broke into our basement, pulled out all our things, and took them to her village. We only learned about this on our journey and had to sell some of our precious livestock as a result. 

There were four families on our cart. When the bombing would begin, my mother would lay us on the cart floor and cover us with a shawl. 

We traveled for 23 days — through shelling and swamps and forests — while the Nazis advanced towards us.

Tashkent — in present-day Uzbekistan — was our final destination. There, we lived in one of five barracks assembled around a courtyard. When it rained, all the water from the clay roof poured into our beds. The beds were narrow, barely wider than my walker, with iron mesh covered by a thin mattress.

Bleak though my surroundings were, I survived. 

I wrote this poem, titled “The Fate of the Jew,” about the Holocaust:

Catastrophe, catastrophe,
You haunt the Jew, you bring him woe.
Upon his path, like Golgotha’s hill,
No joy in life he seems to know.

He roams the world in restless chase, yearning only for some peace,
Yet all he finds in time and place — pain and sorrow never cease.

And when he leaves behind his gain, forsaking all he’s built with care,
At night he cannot sleep for pain — nostalgia lingers in the air.

Why is suffering his fate,
Why does anguish mark his way?
Is it that he shaped the world, brick by brick, from ancient days?

Is it that he writes and dreams, weaves new stories, builds anew?
Or that in courts, with subtle schemes, he defends both false and true?

Is it that in art and song,
He’s a master, none deny,
Or in science stands so strong, mocking envy, reaching high?

But enough — no need to guess,
Never will we understand,
Why a villain’s path is blessed,
Yet the Jew must bear this brand.

My family and I had wandered, yearning for peace. But my life wasn’t just one catastrophe after another. Somehow, as if by a miracle, time marched forward — I left Tashkent, grew up, and earned my medical degree. 

I worked as an anesthesiologist for 40 years. My job was basically to put people to sleep — but I myself didn’t know what sleep was for those four decades. I only knew when my workday began, but never when it ended. 

I was a pioneer in the field and watched it evolve over the years. But the job also had its hazards. I inhaled toxic substances, like ether, that eventually poisoned my heart. I also had to get my right lung removed. 

Despite my celebrated career — and the sacrifices I made in terms of my time and my health — I’ve ended up with a pension that can barely cover the basic necessities of life. 

That’s why JDC and the Claims Conference have been a lifeline for me. Without their help, I would no longer be alive.

Their assistance is nothing short of impressive. I get food, medicine, holiday packages, help with utilities and household repairs, a mobile phone for participation in Jewish life from home, a walker, a winter coat, clothes, and shoes — all essential to my well-being!

My beloved wife recently passed away, and I now live alone. But JDC and the Claims Conference provide me with homecare workers who stay with me from morning until night. I’m homebound, so I can’t really go out anymore. But thanks to the homecare workers, I never feel lonely. They go shopping for me, clean, wash, cook, take me for walks — I can’t express how grateful I am.

One of my homecare workers, Alexandra, has been working with me for nine years already. She does everything — she’s like a mother to me. There is nothing she doesn’t help me with, putting in even more energy than she would if she were doing it for herself.

And even in those rare moments when I am alone, I never despair — my Jewish community is literally always at my fingertips.

That’s because of JDC’s JOINTECH initiative, a program that distributes specially designed smartphones so that homebound Jewish seniors like me across the former Soviet Union can join in vibrant online Jewish life. I pay close attention to the programming schedule each day, and by the time the club or seminar starts, I’m already waiting with my phone. The programs are always captivating, and I get to speak with my friends, learn something new, and celebrate my Jewish identity. 

I appreciate everything they prepare for us. Thanks to JOINTECH, I’ve made many friends, and on my birthday, the phone doesn’t stop ringing. I typically receive 50-60 birthday phone calls. 

I wrote a poem to illustrate this:

Phones kept ringing, loud and steady,

The internet was full as well.

Birthday boy could barely manage

To reply to all who yelled.

When I say that JDC and the Claims Conference bring me warmth, I mean that literally. This past winter, few of us here had fuel for heat, hot water, or gas. 

How did we manage? It felt like we were barely living. I had five layers of clothes on — and on top of that, I wore a jacket and warm boots. I dressed like that day and night. My feet turned blue. 

At night, my cat warmed me up. He was a source of companionship and heat during those horrendous months. I dressed him in a warm sweater, a knitted hat on top of that, a winter hat on top of that hat, and a warm jacket buttoned up to his chin. I also tied a scarf on his neck, but he refused to wear it. His feet also freeze due to heart issues, so I dressed him in socks. 

It was thanks to JDC and the Claims Conference that I didn’t freeze. I received blankets, heat, winter clothes, and yes, the warmth of knowing that I had my homecare workers and JOINTECH to keep me company. 

I’ll end with a poem I wrote, titled “Separation”:

Our farewell is nearing, uncharted in its length,
And sorrow weighs heavy, suppressing my strength.
The anguish so fierce, like a wolf I could cry,
Oh, fate, cruel fate — tell me, why? Tell me, why?

You shattered our home, left us broken and torn,
Through partings and losses, in sorrow we’re worn.
Scattered like leaves, both the living and dead,
No justice to call, though to saints we have pled.

Yet hope we shall cherish, our hearts won’t resign,
Someday we shall meet past the limits of time.
Our love for our kin shall not wither nor fade,
In memory’s light, ever bright it is laid.

I cherish hope. And I believe it’s in the telling of my story — in keeping the memory of what happened to me and millions of other Jews during the Holocaust — that we’ll create a livable, joyful future for those who will follow.

That work is happening now, here in Tiraspol and around the world, with your help. I lack words to express my gratitude to those who support this vital organization. May God bless you all. 

Alexander Kogan, 88, is a JDC client living in Tiraspol, Moldova.

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