MAYA VOLIS
would like to tell you a little about my father, Valery Volis, who now lives in Israel. During the war, his father, my grandfather, died heroically, and my grandmother Riva was left a widow with her four-year-old son, Vilya.
In 1945, on Victory Day, they, like the families of many of the bereaved, received buns. They decided to exchange this treasure at the bazaar for potatoes. Instead, they were seized by a policeman who ate the buns in front of little Vilya. Vilya thought to himself: “Jerk, give me my buns!”, while my grandmother prayed: "Glory to G‑d, in 1919 during the pogroms it was much worse…”
In 1952, Vilya came to visit his grandfather and grandmother in Kiev. My grandfather had three sons, all of whom died at the front. The youngest, a seventeen-year-old volunteer, was hanged at the gate by a policeman called by his neighbors. My father, who was then eleven, became aware of this story and that the policeman lived nearby. Every night in his sleep, Vilya would aim a pistol at him.
Once, at the height of the antisemitic Doctors’ plot campaign, Vilya was late for school. He enters the classroom, and everyone turns to him. There is a painful silence. The boy froze. The teacher said: “Children, it is not his fault. His father died at the front, as a hero.” In response, there was a whisper: “They are all traitors, they fought in Tashkent…”
My father’s mother and grandmother, who lived very meagerly, nonetheless tried to give Vilya a higher education at any cost. His graduation essay was written without a single mistake, yet he was given a lower grade in order not to be granted a medal.
At the age of twenty-nine, after graduation, my father was drafted into the Soviet army. One time there was a quarrel with the new company commander, who said to my father, “You, lieutenant, are a Jew's face!” My father wanted to reach for a pistol, but stopped himself in time, instead saying to one of the other soldiers: “Sergeant, you are a witness. I am filing a complaint with the political department.” The witness refused to testify, but the company commander was still replaced.
After the army, my father got a job as an electrical engineer at the Gorky aircraft plant which employs 30,000 people. My father was very proud of his position. In 1966, the aircraft plant transferred MIG aircraft to India. My father was responsible for the construction of the chassis test stand, and he had a 2-3 month business trip to India! Day and night he was immersed in his work. A week before the commissioning of the stand, a local understudy suddenly appeared. My father turned to his superiors. He was told that because of him they had already been reprimanded. My father replied, “I will reach Brezhnev. My father is a hero. I am clean before the country and the party!" Of course, a Russian replacement was dispatched.
In 1991, my father left for Israel. Upon arrival at the airport, he was asked, “Why did you emigrate? We know that you are a communist, you made MIG planes, you are a tank officer.” My father replied, “It seemed to me that things were heading for a new Holocaust, and I am unarmed... Will you give me a machine gun?”
So, my father, an engineer, started everything from scratch at the age of fifty plus in Israel. A year of study in engineering followed, and the study of the specialty in two languages – Hebrew and English. He studied for nine hours every day. Most people of his age could not stand such hard work. And in the end my father got a job as an engineer! My father is made of that Bolshevik mix: “Nails would be made of these people - there would not be stronger nails in the world!”
In 2002, at the age of 61, he underwent heart surgery. The doctor said: “Don’t dream about going back to work!” A month later, he returned to work. In 2016, at the age of 75, he was diagnosed with cancer, followed by serious operations. From work, they brought him drawings to review at the hospital, and he discovered an error in the plans. He was taken to the air base, and the error was corrected. Five months later, he returned to work, where he works to this day.
My mother supports her husband in everything – as they say that behind every successful man is a strong woman. My father always remains a frontline soldier, and we are all very proud of him. I will end with the words: “And the fight continues again, and my heart is anxious in my chest. My dad is so young and always rushes ahead!”
