This Yom HaShoah, My Dream of a World Without Antisemitism

Boris Karalnik was just 6 years old when the Second World War began. Though he survived the Holocaust, he still encountered antisemitism throughout his career as a scientist in Soviet-era Almaty, Kazakhstan. On Yom HaShoah, Boris, now 91, recounts these difficult experiences and the long road that led him to JDC.

Here’s his story.

I was once caught in a snowstorm during a work trip. I fell and was buried in the snow. A driver found me on the ice-covered road, dug me out, and brought me home. I developed pancarditis — an inflammation of all three layers of the heart — and was treated at the hospital in Karaganda. If it weren’t for that attentive passerby and the doctor’s skilled hand, I would’ve died. 

I tell you this story not to prove the power of miracles, but to say that in the face of my own annihilation — something I first experienced at a young age — it was always the courage and generosity of others that pulled me back from the edge. 

I was only 6 when the Second World War began, and my mother and I managed to flee our home — Kharkiv, Ukraine. None of the Jews who stayed survived. They were shot on the orders of the Nazis, executed one by one. 

We would have taken my great-grandmother with us, but she refused: “I won’t make it and I don’t want to burden you,” she said. She was 90 and kept her dignity until the very end. 

It was winter when she locked herself inside a wooden barn. Rather than being led to her death at the tractor factory, where all of our city’s Jews were shot, she left this earth on her own terms — she froze in that barn where the Nazis couldn’t reach her. 

Perhaps at the very moment this catastrophe unfolded, my life was just beginning. While evacuating with my mother, I looked out at the fields of taiga, and in the remotest of places and at the unlikeliest of times, I found my life’s purpose. 

In other words, I discovered botany. I didn’t even know what it was called then, but I cherished the ancient botanical atlas my mother had purchased for me. She spent the last of her money on books like The Life of Plants, a two-volume set, and the thrilling Microbe Hunters. Such books were expensive, but my mother knew that this was more important to me than food.

After the war ended, I brought this passion back home to our city, where the war had eviscerated any trace of Jewish life. By the time I entered university, I had already worked through microbiology textbooks. I gave presentations at student research conferences across the Soviet Union and was far ahead of my classmates.

When I graduated from college, seven medical school departments accepted me for postgraduate studies simultaneously. This was the first time that had happened in nearly 160 years, but our school’s director, a staunch antisemite, had other plans for me. “Never. No way,” he said.  

He called in the head of each department one by one and mocked them. Five of the seven department heads were forced to resign. 

My hard-earned success was denied me, all because I was Jewish. 

I couldn’t let that antisemite win. I contacted everyone I knew and said I’d work anywhere, so long as I could be placed in a bacteriological lab. Thanks to my many publications, including papers in high-impact journals, all the microbiologists who knew me were looking for a job for me.

They found me a position in Karaganda, Kazakhstan, and I was immediately appointed head of the bacteriological lab department. 

I was a successful scientist for decades, but like so many other people my age, I’ve been left with a meager pension that fails to cover food or other basic necessities. With my health problems — the heart issues, hypertension, and a terrible bout of COVID-19 — I need medication, but it’s prohibitely expensive. Prices are ridiculous and they rise each day. 

The only reason I’ve reached the age of 91 is because of JDC and the Claims Conference — the organization’s partner in caring for Holocaust survivors like me.

It’s an understatement to say they’re an enormous help. When I was able to walk easily, I’d always attend Friday lunches and Shabbat celebrations at the JDC-supported Hesed Polina social service center here in Almaty. These relaxed gatherings gave me a place to spend time with other Jews and embrace a part of my identity I’d always had to hide during Soviet times.

Today it’s difficult for me to leave home. My wife died 20 years ago, and I’ve been alone ever since. But JDC and the Claims Conference ensure I don’t feel abandoned. 

My homecare worker, Alexandra, is right by my side five days a week, from morning until evening. She brings me food, medicine, helps with household tasks, and simply keeps me company. 

JDC gives me what I need to live with dignity and sometimes even joy.

I don’t just receive the basics. JDC gives me what I need to live with dignity and sometimes even joy. Sometimes it’s small things. Alexandra uses my bank card to buy me the instant coffee I like, and each Passover, fish from the nearby synagogue — two things I’d never be able to afford on my own.  

At other moments, their assistance drastically changes my life for the better. I’m thinking of the time when JDC bought me a gas stove, replaced my washing machine when my old one broke, and purchased a new refrigerator. I wouldn’t have been able to afford any of this if they hadn’t stepped in. 

They never forget us Holocaust survivors or any Jew in need, and I think their life-sustaining support is perhaps the best way one could honor the memory of those we lost. 

There is a museum in Jerusalem that lists many of the names of those who died in the Shoah. Six million perished, too many for any one person to list. Though we will never know every individual who was taken from us, we must still do the impossible — we must hold each one in our hearts and bear the weight of their names. 

At the same time, we must dream the impossible, too: We must work toward a future when antisemitism disappears from the earth. Those of us who survived are here because some courageous souls took seriously the belief that all Jews are responsible for each other. But this isn’t just a belief — it’s a duty, one that JDC and its generous supporters fulfill time and again.

Boris Karalnik, 91, is a JDC client in Almaty, Kazakhstan.

Previous JDC Blog PostTogether in Motion, Together in Strength: One Israeli F …

Next JDC Blog PostWorld Bee Day 2026: Building Resilience, Community, and …