This year marks the 70th anniversary of the end of the WWII. This symbolic date is marked on different days in different parts of the world. It is a date that is recorded differently in the psyche of the nations that see themselves as participants of that massive conflict. Most likely there will be little to mark this occasion in the American and British media this spring. In Britain, it is Remembrance Day (11/11) that is widely used to commemorate the lives lost in the sacrifices of that generation. In United States, you may hear a reference to WWII around Memorial Day. The Nazi Germany capitulated on April 30, 1945, and in many history books this day marks the end of the war with Germany. Of course, the conflict continued in the Pacific until the fall of 1945, but for most Europeans, this was the end of the war.
The former Soviet Union marks the victory day on May 9th, the day when the first victory parade was held in Moscow in Red Square in 1945. Every year as a child when I would watch the veterans walk down the central street of my city, I would greet them with flowers and listen to their stories. I would think what it would be like to have my grandfathers in my life, sharing stories about the war on that day…
I never met either of my grandfathers, Shmuil Farbman and Yakov Chernov. In fact, my parents don’t really remember their fathers either – they were one and two years old when their fathers kissed their families goodbye, put them on trains headed east and marched into the conscription office to volunteer to go to the front… Neither one came back alive, and we do not even know where they were buried – or if they were buried at all… In those days, “lost in action” (the military term in Russian is actually “lost without a trace”) was all too common, especially in the first days and months of the war, which claimed millions of lives of Soviet soldiers and civilians – close to 40 million total losses estimated. My uncle turned 18 during the war and was drafted, never to return home. He, too, was lost without a trace: no date of death, no grave to visit, no stone to erect.
May 9th was always about three things for me: the parade of the veterans in my town, the big military parade in Red Square (that I would watch on TV sometimes) and the quiet family gatherings, somber in spirit. The sadness of that day belonged to everyone – the many songs that were written and performed on that day spoke about ‘happiness with tears of sadness in your eyes.’ This was the only day when we could mourn and remember my grandfathers.
When I moved to England to attend rabbinical school, there weren’t any commemorations on May 9th, and the military parades in Red Square looked so strange and out of place from a distance… As a young man, I didn’t pay too much attention to this. In fact, I developed a healthy, skeptical view of the way Russians marked that victory. When the iron curtain fell it became painfully obvious that the victors were in much worse shape than the country they defeated, and so I began to question the entire idea of the annual celebration, as did many others. When we returned to Russia in 2004 I was dismayed to find the country spending millions on military parades while often failing to provide the basic needs for the very few remaining veterans of that war… I was angry at the system, but I would also get caught up in the spirit of the day and think of the war and my grandfathers and my uncle Moses, whose name I carry as my Hebrew name (Moshe).
For the last seven years I have largely ignored the day here in America. I would call my parents, mostly because I knew they needed to receive that call from me. This year, on the 70th anniversary of that first parade, things will be different. I will take my parents to a special concert in New York on May 8th, and I will talk about the day and what it means that evening at Shabbat services. I will talk to the veterans I know, who somehow survived that devastating war. I will remember my grandfathers and my uncle, people I have never met but whose DNA I carry. I will ignore the parade on the Red Square and all the political madness that surrounds it. I will work hard not to allow the Russian propaganda machine upset me. I will reclaim the part of that day I remember from childhood – honor for the living and memory of the fallen… This year, I will mark the 70th anniversary of this victory in the most personal way I know: by lighting a yizkor candle and by telling my children why the sacrifices of my grandfathers mattered. May their memory endure for a blessing…