“Jew, Help a Jew”: This Holocaust Survivor and Jointnik Reflects on a Life of Service

Vaclav S. was just a small boy when he fled Ukraine to escape Nazi terror. As an adult, he became a pillar of his local Jewish community, managing a large team of volunteers at the JDC-supported Hesed Bnei Azriel social service center in Kyiv. This International Holocaust Remembrance Day, Vaclav — now 87 and living in hard-hit Irpin — opens up about his lifelong dedication to his fellow Jews and his experience during the earliest days of the crisis in Ukraine.

I have an oak tree I lean against each morning and night. 

My yard is a microclimate. Summers get hot, but step into my garden and you’ll cool down thanks to my huge oak tree. In the middle of this horrible situation, I like to think that Hesed and JDC are like that tree — shading and protecting us Jews against harsh weather, just as they’ve done for decades. 

I should know. I worked at Hesed Bnei Azriel for 15 years, from 1995 to 2010, and I know the ins and outs of the organization. I led a program called Moked and directed a vast team of volunteers — 160 people at its peak. 

You name it, we did it. We assisted the visually- and hearing-impaired, fixed plumbing, renovated apartments, did laundry, repaired phones and blood pressure monitors, and more. I’d constantly receive calls — “Vaclav, please fix my sofa,” “Vaclav, my shoes need repairing,” — and other seemingly random tasks that were vitally important to the people asking. 

My team was dedicated, wonderful, and kind. I managed 12 hairdressers, 90 consulting doctors, and served 600 people a month. I had agreements with three shoe-repair shops to serve 100 clients. I repaired hundreds of watches and more. Indeed, we were truly a one-stop shop for the Jews of Kyiv.

Hesed’s mandate was fueled by a commitment to three core values — ​​community, Yiddishkeit (Jewishness), and volunteerism. That’s why I made a slogan from foam letters reading, “Jew, help a Jew,” and hung it right above the entrance to the Moked office. 

I was lucky. I didn’t dread getting up for work in the morning — when I arrived at Hesed, I truly lived there. People would come to me, and I always had a flow of visitors. I don’t mean to brag, but I was truly loved by the people we were so privileged to serve. You see, I cared for them, and they cared for me, too. I was even invited to speak on TV about our work — a morning program. After that, people even greeted me in the subway.

A volunteer is someone who deserves respect, someone to be cherished and encouraged. For every Jewish holiday — Rosh Hashanah, Passover, Purim, and so many others — we organized gatherings for the volunteers, bringing together 200 to 300 people in restaurants we’d rent out. We also organized excursions to museums, cultural experiences, and more. 

Our Hesed director used to say, “When a volunteer comes in and closes the window, that’s their contribution.” He meant that even the smallest actions on the part of volunteers were an incredible mitzvah — volunteers give freely of themselves for other Jews. 

Volunteers and clients looked different back then. About 90% of them were born in the 1920s and early 1930s, meaning that many of them were Nazi victims — they came of age under catastrophic circumstances, and because of that, had a fierce commitment to supporting their fellow Jews.

For instance, a 70-year old man would come to my office. We’d talk and he’d ask, “When can I start volunteering?” I’d reply, “Whenever you like, even tomorrow.” Without fail, he’d be there the next day.

I see that same unbreakable Jewish spirit right now, as we endure this utter, unending nightmare.

Everyone has their conflict story — for me, it was absolute chaos. I held on for a couple weeks after February 24, 2022, but by early March, the situation in Irpin was unlivable: rockets, shelling, and widespread panic. 

Nowhere was safe. Planes flew overhead, explosions happened all around, and there was blood everywhere. It was terrifying. I went to the cellar constantly — going up and down the narrow stairs, which is difficult at my age — and went above ground only to grab food.  Sometimes, I’d just look at the photos on my wall, images of my wife who passed on seven years ago, and think of more peaceful times. 

On March 4, a loud bang erupted, and all my windows shattered. A bomb had fallen near my house. I covered the windows with blankets because it was still freezing cold outside. The next day, Hesed helped me seal them with plastic wrap. 

We covered the last window, and then my niece ran into the house: “You have 30 minutes to gather your things — we need to leave immediately.” We grabbed everything we could, and within half an hour, we rushed out of there. 

I left behind a life’s worth of valuables and memories — documents, photos, money, my late wife’s ring, and even my own wedding band. ​​If we’d left just an hour or two later, I can’t imagine how it would’ve ended.

This horrific episode brought back difficult childhood memories. This wasn’t the first time I’d fled home. When the Nazis invaded Ukraine,  I evacuated with my family and made the long, arduous journey to Tashkent. There, we lived in barracks, in sub-zero temperatures. We had meager rations — there was never enough to eat. We waited out the rest of the Second World War there. 

Irpin was just a small town when my family returned to Ukraine in 1946. After we unloaded our belongings from a freight train at the railway station, our vehicle was a massive ox with large horns. I built a life here and only looked toward the future. 

Back on my way out of Irpin in 2022, the means of transportation had changed — but the fear, chaos, and uncertainty, all of these things evoked that time. I never thought I’d have to flee again.

I went to Rivne and stayed there for two months. I worried about what remained back home, whether anything was damaged, burned, or stolen. JDC stayed in constant touch, offering to help me evacuate. But at my age, where would I go? I’d become so accustomed to the solitude of being at home within my own walls. I’d built my entire life there — leaving permanently felt impossible. 

Evacuated or not, JDC and Hesed made sure I’d have a home to return to. My homecare worker came to my house each day and kept an eye on things — my belongings, my garden. I felt secure just knowing they were watching out for me, even when I wasn’t there.

This horrific episode brought back difficult childhood memories. This wasn’t the first time I’d fled home.

Still, some damage was unavoidable. When I arrived in the evening, traveling along the Zhytomyr highway, what we saw was horrific. Along the road, everything was ruined — houses, stores, and more. We drove into Irpin and we saw more destroyed houses. 

I opened my gate and stepped inside my home. The ceiling had collapsed. All of the windows were blown out. The glass, which I hadn’t managed to remove the day I left, was scattered everywhere. The kitchen window was completely gone, water was leaking in, and everything was in ruins. 

What could I do?

The damage cost thousands of U.S. dollars, but thank G-d, JDC and the Claims Conference paid for so many things I needed to move forward. No one survives alone, and I never doubted they would be there for me, just as I was there for my fellow Jews all those years ago, when I led my team of volunteers at Hesed. 

I hope life will continue when this turmoil ends. It must, and it does for me. Come visit, step through my gate, and see my garden. I plant cucumbers and tomatoes with my homecare workers. And when the heat gets too intense, we find safety beneath the wide, outstretched branches of that sheltering oak. 

Vaclav S., 87, is a Holocaust survivor and JDC client living in Irpin, Ukraine.

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