Please tell us about your background. Were Jewish traditions observed in your family?

In the Soviet Union, speaking openly about traditions was nearly impossible — and at times simply dangerous. The subject was often kept completely hidden, not because people in the family did not remember, but because of the reality of life during that time.

When I was little, my parents were afraid to tell me much. Sometimes I overheard fragments of conversations between the adults — isolated words, names, and mentions of the tribe of Benjamin.

Only later, when I was older and my grandfather and father believed I could be trusted not to speak openly about it, did they begin sharing more with me.

That was when I learned that our family traces its lineage to the tribe of Benjamin, and that we preserved objects connected to ancient history that had been passed down from generation to generation.

Family Legends and Heritage

In the Torah, each of the twelve tribes of Israel is associated with a specific stone. According to our family tradition, the original stone connected to the tribe of Benjamin survived and was preserved within our family line.

After immigrating to Canada, I showed this stone to a rabbi, who carefully examined and measured it. The image of that stone also appears on our family coat of arms, officially registered in Ukraine.

Over time, I became increasingly drawn to the stories connected to our family history. I wrote a book about King Solomon’s ring — not as fiction, but as an attempt to understand a family legend passed through generations.

According to family tradition, one of the silver trumpets cast for Moses eventually came into the possession of King Joseph of the Khazars, and from leftover silver, a ring was created for one of my ancestors.

Another legend tells of an angel named Breton appearing in a dream and instructing my ancestor exactly which symbols should be engraved on the ring and added to the family coat of arms.

Medical Career

I became a doctor not by chance — medicine had been practiced by several generations in our family. I graduated from the Kharkiv Medical Institute after first attending medical college.

After graduating, I worked as a surgeon near Kharkiv before eventually becoming chief physician of a district hospital.

Later, I specialized in urology, a field that fascinated me because it combines surgery, internal medicine, endocrinology, psychology, and sexology.

I completed numerous advanced specializations, defended my dissertation, and eventually worked as a regional urologist.

The Decision to Leave

The decision to leave the Soviet Union was not easy for me. But I have a wife who, when she truly wants something, is impossible to resist. At some point I simply said: “Fine, we’re leaving.”

We began searching for contacts in Israel, trying to understand how the process worked. And then, unexpectedly, an old family story resurfaced.

It turned out that my grandmother had brothers — wealthy men who lived in Berditchev before the October Revolution.

During the Revolution, the family decided to leave Russia. My grandmother traveled with them, but at one station she stepped off the train for only a few minutes.

In that brief moment, the train departed without her.

Her brothers left forever, while she remained behind in what would become the Soviet Union. That single missed train changed the course of our family history.

Decades later, when we ourselves stood at the same crossroads — whether to leave or stay — I often thought about that moment in my grandmother’s life.

Perhaps that was when I understood that there are moments when decisions cannot be postponed.

A Family Shaped by History

My grandmother was a beloshveika — a fine seamstress specializing in delicate white embroidery. She worked with linen, satin thread, lace, and gold trim with extraordinary precision.

In Kharkiv, she met my grandfather. They married, and because she once missed that train, our family line continued there.

After the war, she unexpectedly received a letter from the brothers she had lost contact with decades earlier. But instead of joy, the letter brought danger.

She was summoned to the KGB. At that time, any communication with relatives abroad created suspicion.

She denied everything, and the authorities confiscated the letter and package. That became the final lost connection to her brothers.

Beginning the Immigration Process

My wife Sveta had relatives in Israel, and through distant family connections we eventually obtained a contact number.

At the time, we were both doctors and lived relatively comfortably by Soviet standards.

International phone calls were extremely expensive, but eventually I managed to reach Israel. They promised to send us an invitation.

Because it was too dangerous to share personal information openly, we hid our details inside a rolled bandage and passed it through acquaintances leaving the country.

Somehow the message never arrived. But I never blamed anyone. If one road closes, I always look for another.

Moscow and the Exit Visas

Sveta and I traveled to Moscow, where applications were being processed at the Dutch embassy.

We arrived before dawn and waited anxiously for our turn to submit the documents.

At that point, I resigned from my medical position because I feared arrest. I did not officially work for nearly a year and instead treated patients privately.

Eventually, we received four envelopes containing exit visas.

Inside was a statement declaring that we were citizens deprived of citizenship. We were stripped of everything.

We were also required to repay the cost of our Soviet education — an enormous sum at the time.

I was ordered to surrender all my diplomas and certificates. But instead, I hid them and secretly brought them with me.

I understood that one day, the ability to prove my education would become invaluable.

Leaving the Soviet Union

Usually the most stressful moment before emigrating is going through customs. Was that the case for you as well?

You know, strangely enough, the funniest part happened earlier — at the military enlistment office. I had gone there to surrender my military ID, and the military commissar said to me, “What are you doing? I’ve just recommended you for promotion to major!”

I was a reserve captain in the medical corps and had treated everyone who worked there. The situation was almost absurd: here was a Jew preparing to emigrate, and they wanted to promote him. I said, “Wait a minute, I’m leaving. What promotion?” We had to figure out a way to have the promotion canceled so it wouldn’t create additional complications. It all took time, nerves, and the kind of ingenuity that, in those days, was essential for getting anything important done.

And then I imagine the real difficulties began?

Yes. The most nerve-racking part was shipping our belongings, especially our family heirlooms. Ever since I was a child, my father had warned me that objects like these could attract unwanted attention. That wasn’t paranoia, it was reality. Taking them out of the country was frightening because there was always the risk that they would simply be confiscated.

But you decided to take them anyway?

Yes, I did. We had custom-made crates built and packed absolutely everything into them — furniture, a piano, household equipment. I even had a VCR, which had cost an enormous amount of money at the time — almost half the price of a house. Back then, it felt like a piece of technology from another world.

Originally, I planned to leave through Moscow. But there was a problem. The route from the train station to Sheremetyevo International Airport was considered dangerous. Jews who were emigrating were often robbed there, and there had even been murders. We asked my wife’s cousin, who lived in Moscow, to help us find a car and driver, but he refused. In the end, we traveled from Kyiv to Budapest through Chop, a journey that came with plenty of adventures of its own.

Did you try to protect yourself somehow?

Of course. I understood that without some extra “insurance,” we were taking a huge risk.

I went to see the head of customs. The conversation was straightforward: I gave him one thousand rubles, hoping it would spare us any problems during the inspection. At the time, that was a great deal of money. He assured me, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

I relaxed... but on the day I arrived with all our belongings, he was nowhere to be found.

Oh no! He took the money and disappeared? What happened then?

I was immediately told, “Move all the crates into the warehouse.” That meant a full inspection. I knew exactly what that meant. They began going through everything. The first things they seized were the items that stood out: rare books. I owned a lifetime edition of Mikhail Lomonosov’s works, paintings, and other valuables. They simply took them. No discussion.

Were you able to save anything?

Yes, some things. I hid part of my rare book collection among ordinary books, and they simply overlooked them. Then, after they had inspected almost everything, one customs officer said, “That’s a nice television you have. You could leave it behind for someone.” It was a very transparent hint.

What did you do?

I didn’t argue. I simply picked up the television, carried it aside, and said, “Then let’s say it was never there.” After that, they let me through immediately.

And your most valuable possessions?

Those I hid inside a sofa. We shipped it as an ordinary piece of furniture. No one thought to cut it open. That’s how I got everything out. It was certainly risky, but I didn’t have another choice.

And then you arrived in Israel...

Yes. Our relatives met us and took us to Hadera. An apartment had been arranged for us through the Jewish Agency for Israel, so on the surface everything seemed organized. But it very quickly became clear that we couldn’t live that way.

Why not?

Because of the feeling of dependence. You constantly had to ask for things, constantly had to rely on someone else. That isn’t who I am. I couldn’t live like that.

So you decided to leave?

Yes. Sveta stayed behind with the children while I went to Jerusalem. I simply arrived and started walking through the city, looking around. I was fortunate. I found an apartment for rent in a religious neighborhood right in the center of Jerusalem, and I moved my family there. I made many friends, people I’m still friends with today.

What was that transition like?

It was a very difficult period. It felt as though I’d been pulled out of one world and dropped into another. Back in the Soviet Union, I could pick up the phone and any problem would be solved. Here, I didn’t know the language. I didn’t understand how anything worked. It was a complete feeling of being alone and having no control over anything.

What helped you get through it?

My wife, Sveta. She’s a hematologist, and she managed to find a job through acquaintances, through people she met, and she succeeded. She was hired by one of the health funds and began working right away. That gave us tremendous support.

And what were you doing during that time?

I focused on learning the language. Then I started thinking about what to do next. In my language classes, I met other people who, like me, were starting over from scratch. We began meeting, talking, and sharing ideas.

Is that how your business began?

Gradually. First, we established a nonprofit organization. Later, we expanded into commercial activities. I opened educational courses and medical clinics, and began working in alternative medicine, which was in great demand at the time.

Did you manage to establish yourself?

Eventually, yes. Articles began appearing about me and my clinics. You could say that I adapted to my new life.

Looking back, what was the most important lesson?

Probably just one thing: never stop moving forward. Even when you have no idea what to do next. You simply have to keep going. Sometimes you’re guessing. Sometimes you’re feeling your way in the dark. But you keep going. Because once you stop, it’s very hard to start moving again.

Thank you for the interview.