“Proceed to the nearest shelter.” At least Luke – I mean Mark Hamill, who donated his voice to the Ukrainian government – seemed calm. “Don’t be careless. Your overconfidence is your weakness.” I certainly wanted to be careful and was feeling remarkably underconfident. But I had no idea where the nearest bomb shelter was, much less the energy to stagger down four flights of stairs and outside in search of one. And it was curfew!
I quickly typed the words “Russian attack” into my phone and learned that the chance of a direct hit by a Russian missile or Iranian drone in the center of Lviv was exceedingly low. It had been a couple of months since a civilian was killed in an air attack on the city, which was supposed to be reassuring. But what about debris from a missile or drone that gets shot down by a Patriot? I looked out the window and did not see a soul in the street. Then I found a live-blog of the attack that helpfully informed me that the safest place was a bathtub – and to stay away from the damn windows! Choosing the least bad option, I rested in the tub for a while until Luke told me all was well. “The air alert is over. May the force be with you.” Then I finally got some sleep.
I spent the first ten days of November 2023 in Ukraine. Yes, the entire country is a war zone, and the U.S. State Department advises against traveling there. So why did I go? Every Ukrainian I met asked me this question. My practiced answer was, “to help Ukraine stay independent and free.” If a conversation developed, I mentioned that I wanted to show Ukrainians that Americans still care about them, almost two years after the brutal Russian invasion and despite our Congressional mishegoss.
I told a couple of Ukrainians that my Jewish grandmother grew up not far away – living through a Russian attack and occupation herself in 1914 – and some of my ancestors were actually from Lviv. Back then it was Lemberg, part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and capital of the “Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria and the Grade Duchy of Krakow with the Duchies of Auschwitz and Zator.” (That’s really what they called it.) I never told anyone that I wanted to be a war tourist, but maybe that’s another reason.
I never had to tell Ukrainians that Lviv is an amazing place. The old town is a UNESCO World Heritage site, filled with stunningly beautiful neo-renaissance and neo-baroque buildings and churches. The streets are cobblestoned and mostly pedestrianized. It reminded me of Prague in the summer of 1989, when it was still part of the Soviet Bloc. Almost no tourists.
Being in Ukraine during wartime was a profoundly moving and strangely uplifting experience, despite the obvious toll of the war. After tens of thousands of military and civilian deaths, Ukraine continues to resist a daily Russian onslaught. The present is the past – or is it the other way around? Lviv was once a multi-ethnic city, with large Jewish and Polish populations that lived there for hundreds of years. During and after World War II, the Jews were murdered by the Nazis and the Poles were exiled to Poland. These days, it’s filled with hundreds of thousands of internally displaced refugees.
My days in the kitchen were tiring but fulfilling, as I peeled and chopped carrots, potatoes, beets, and other vegetables for assembly into vacuum-packed, dehydrated meals (including borscht!) to be delivered to the east. I spent evenings sampling the wonderful restaurants and bars of Lviv along with fellow volunteers from many countries, including Ireland, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Czechia, and of course Ukraine. Lots of beer and delicious varenyky (dumplings).
One night about 15 of us trundled into Kryivka, a war-themed restaurant that has been around for decades. Here’s how it works: after giving the doorman the password (which I shall not reveal) and perhaps drinking a shot of horilka (vodka), you descend into the cellar, which could probably serve as a bunker during an air raid. How's that, Luke Skywalker? The dining room is filled with memorabilia from Ukraine’s battles against Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany during World War II, including a few nausea-inducing photos of Stepan Bandera, a controversial far-right leader from that time. To leave, you must navigate your way through a tacky gift shop (is there any other kind?). Yeah, it’s a tourist trap. But the food is outstanding.
The next morning I drove around Lviv with a Ukrainian twenty-something, whom I’ll call Ihor, delivering supplies to the coffee factory where LVK rents industrial-strength roasters to process the meal kits. Like many Ukrainians, Ihor is a chain smoker. As we barreled around the narrow streets (he was at the wheel) and then hauled 50-pound sacks and crates from the truck to a loading dock, he told me that many of his friends had been killed fighting the Russians and he thought the war would go on for another ten years. I asked if he was worried about getting drafted, as press gangs (military recruiters) roam the old town in Lviv rounding up young men. Ihor said that he had already served in the territorial defense in Kharkhiv during Russia’s siege from February to May 2022. In any event he planned to go to America. I inquired how he could possibly get out of Ukraine, as men aged 18 to 60 are barred from leaving. Ihor smiled, winked, and lit another cigarette.
One of the most moving experiences I had was at the Opera. I bought a front-row ticket for ten dollars. Before the curtain went up, the house manager said that in case of an air alert, we should proceed to the shelter downstairs – finally I knew where it was! Then everyone in the packed house rose to their feet and the Orchestra launched into the Ukrainian national anthem. All sang along. The majority of audience members – including me – had their hands on their hearts. After the orchestra finished, a burly man in a camouflage jacket a few seats from me shouted “Slava Ukraini” (Glory to Ukraine), and the audience answered back “Heroim Slava!” (Glory to the Heroes). For the first time since my arrival in Ukraine, I actually felt relaxed. For the next three and a half hours we watched an exhilarating performance of Carmen and forgot about the war.
I spent most of my only day off on a walking tour with historian and genealogist Alex Denisenko, who told me the stories behind the streets and buildings around my apartment in the Old Town. I hadn’t realized that I was living in the old Jewish ghetto, a block from Old Hebrew street. After Alex casually told me that on a recent tour a Russian missile had flown over the spot where we stood, we dropped in to see Meylakh Sheykhet, Ukraine’s director of the Union of Councils for Jews in the Former Soviet Union. A force of nature, Meykakh explained how his organization provides meals to Ukrainians who have fled the frontline towns in the east (whether or not they’re Jewish), and he hopes to rebuild the Golden Rose Synagogue, constructed in 1582 but destroyed by the Nazis in 1942. Now a memorial funded by Germany marks the spot.
Alex then took me to the new Jewish ghetto, where the Nazis imprisoned Jews and from where they sent many thousands to death camps. We stopped in front of the building in which Rafael Lemkin lived while studying law in the 1920s. Lemkin, a Polish Jew, went on to invent the term “genocide,” which is codified in international law and has been used to describe what is happening today in Ukraine, Israel and Gaza. Again, past is present.
At times the war seemed far away. But then I’d walk past hollow-eyed soldiers in fatigues trying to enjoy a few moments of leave with their families. One day I was in the main square when I heard a trumpet playing and everything stopped. A funeral procession slowly made its way to a nearby church. Weeping family members carried photos of soldiers who had recently been killed at the front. Some Ukrainians have become inured to these scenes, but I certainly wasn’t. Then I made a pilgrimage to the Lychakiv cemetery, a cross between Arlington and Pere Lachaise. On my brief visit to Lviv in June 2022, a small number of newly dug graves occupied a corner of an area they call the Field of Mars. Now it’s full.
After a farewell dinner with fellow volunteers my last night in Ukraine, I entered my building to darkness. Was it just a broken hall light, or had the Russians hit the power plants as everyone expected them to? I almost knocked over an elderly woman who appeared bewildered. How long had she been standing there? Using my cellphone flashlight, I carefully helped her up four flights of stairs. She opened her door and switched on the light. It wasn’t the Russians after all. She said “Dyakuju” (thank you). I had learned enough Ukrainian to reply, “Do pobachennia” (Goodbye). Then she closed the door. In that moment I understood why people do not want to leave their homes during wartime.
I returned to the U.S. a week before Thanksgiving. I am thankful that for the chance to get to know Lviv and Ukraine. I am also thankful to have met many diligent and selfless Ukrainian and international volunteers. And I’m thankful that in my small way I could help Ukraine stay independent and free. They certainly need and deserve our help.
I never had to tell Ukrainians that Lviv is an amazing place. The old town is a UNESCO World Heritage site, filled with stunningly beautiful neo-renaissance and neo-baroque buildings and churches. The streets are cobblestoned and mostly pedestrianized. It reminded me of Prague in the summer of 1989, when it was still part of the Soviet Bloc. Almost no tourists.
Being in Ukraine during wartime was a profoundly moving and strangely uplifting experience, despite the obvious toll of the war. After tens of thousands of military and civilian deaths, Ukraine continues to resist a daily Russian onslaught. The present is the past – or is it the other way around? Lviv was once a multi-ethnic city, with large Jewish and Polish populations that lived there for hundreds of years. During and after World War II, the Jews were murdered by the Nazis and the Poles were exiled to Poland. These days, it’s filled with hundreds of thousands of internally displaced refugees.
My days in the kitchen were tiring but fulfilling, as I peeled and chopped carrots, potatoes, beets, and other vegetables for assembly into vacuum-packed, dehydrated meals (including borscht!) to be delivered to the east. I spent evenings sampling the wonderful restaurants and bars of Lviv along with fellow volunteers from many countries, including Ireland, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Czechia, and of course Ukraine. Lots of beer and delicious varenyky (dumplings).
One night about 15 of us trundled into Kryivka, a war-themed restaurant that has been around for decades. Here’s how it works: after giving the doorman the password (which I shall not reveal) and perhaps drinking a shot of horilka (vodka), you descend into the cellar, which could probably serve as a bunker during an air raid. How's that, Luke Skywalker? The dining room is filled with memorabilia from Ukraine’s battles against Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany during World War II, including a few nausea-inducing photos of Stepan Bandera, a controversial far-right leader from that time. To leave, you must navigate your way through a tacky gift shop (is there any other kind?). Yeah, it’s a tourist trap. But the food is outstanding.
The next morning I drove around Lviv with a Ukrainian twenty-something, whom I’ll call Ihor, delivering supplies to the coffee factory where LVK rents industrial-strength roasters to process the meal kits. Like many Ukrainians, Ihor is a chain smoker. As we barreled around the narrow streets (he was at the wheel) and then hauled 50-pound sacks and crates from the truck to a loading dock, he told me that many of his friends had been killed fighting the Russians and he thought the war would go on for another ten years. I asked if he was worried about getting drafted, as press gangs (military recruiters) roam the old town in Lviv rounding up young men. Ihor said that he had already served in the territorial defense in Kharkhiv during Russia’s siege from February to May 2022. In any event he planned to go to America. I inquired how he could possibly get out of Ukraine, as men aged 18 to 60 are barred from leaving. Ihor smiled, winked, and lit another cigarette.
One of the most moving experiences I had was at the Opera. I bought a front-row ticket for ten dollars. Before the curtain went up, the house manager said that in case of an air alert, we should proceed to the shelter downstairs – finally I knew where it was! Then everyone in the packed house rose to their feet and the Orchestra launched into the Ukrainian national anthem. All sang along. The majority of audience members – including me – had their hands on their hearts. After the orchestra finished, a burly man in a camouflage jacket a few seats from me shouted “Slava Ukraini” (Glory to Ukraine), and the audience answered back “Heroim Slava!” (Glory to the Heroes). For the first time since my arrival in Ukraine, I actually felt relaxed. For the next three and a half hours we watched an exhilarating performance of Carmen and forgot about the war.
I spent most of my only day off on a walking tour with historian and genealogist Alex Denisenko, who told me the stories behind the streets and buildings around my apartment in the Old Town. I hadn’t realized that I was living in the old Jewish ghetto, a block from Old Hebrew street. After Alex casually told me that on a recent tour a Russian missile had flown over the spot where we stood, we dropped in to see Meylakh Sheykhet, Ukraine’s director of the Union of Councils for Jews in the Former Soviet Union. A force of nature, Meykakh explained how his organization provides meals to Ukrainians who have fled the frontline towns in the east (whether or not they’re Jewish), and he hopes to rebuild the Golden Rose Synagogue, constructed in 1582 but destroyed by the Nazis in 1942. Now a memorial funded by Germany marks the spot.
Alex then took me to the new Jewish ghetto, where the Nazis imprisoned Jews and from where they sent many thousands to death camps. We stopped in front of the building in which Rafael Lemkin lived while studying law in the 1920s. Lemkin, a Polish Jew, went on to invent the term “genocide,” which is codified in international law and has been used to describe what is happening today in Ukraine, Israel and Gaza. Again, past is present.
At times the war seemed far away. But then I’d walk past hollow-eyed soldiers in fatigues trying to enjoy a few moments of leave with their families. One day I was in the main square when I heard a trumpet playing and everything stopped. A funeral procession slowly made its way to a nearby church. Weeping family members carried photos of soldiers who had recently been killed at the front. Some Ukrainians have become inured to these scenes, but I certainly wasn’t. Then I made a pilgrimage to the Lychakiv cemetery, a cross between Arlington and Pere Lachaise. On my brief visit to Lviv in June 2022, a small number of newly dug graves occupied a corner of an area they call the Field of Mars. Now it’s full.
After a farewell dinner with fellow volunteers my last night in Ukraine, I entered my building to darkness. Was it just a broken hall light, or had the Russians hit the power plants as everyone expected them to? I almost knocked over an elderly woman who appeared bewildered. How long had she been standing there? Using my cellphone flashlight, I carefully helped her up four flights of stairs. She opened her door and switched on the light. It wasn’t the Russians after all. She said “Dyakuju” (thank you). I had learned enough Ukrainian to reply, “Do pobachennia” (Goodbye). Then she closed the door. In that moment I understood why people do not want to leave their homes during wartime.
I returned to the U.S. a week before Thanksgiving. I am thankful that for the chance to get to know Lviv and Ukraine. I am also thankful to have met many diligent and selfless Ukrainian and international volunteers. And I’m thankful that in my small way I could help Ukraine stay independent and free. They certainly need and deserve our help.
