Lifting the Iron Curtain: Chabad of Moldova Part I

By: Chaya Chazan

When Communism fell in 1990, the first question on Chabad headquarters’ mind was, Can we send shluchim there now?

Lishkas Ezras Achim, a grassroots organization started by Chabad chassidim who’d suffered under Communist rule, approached my parents, Rabbi Zalmen A”H and Leah Abelsky, and asked if they’d be interested in seeding a shlichus in the former Soviet Union. My parents discussed it, and then wrote to the Rebbe for approval. Within ten minutes, they had the Rebbe’s answer: A line under the word Maskim – approve, and an added “Azkir al hatziyon – I will mention [the matter] at the grave [of the Frierdiker Rebbe.]”

My parents were the first shluchim from the “Western world” to venture beyond the barely-lifted Iron Curtain.

This was far from their first shlichus mission. The Frierdiker Rebbe sent my father to Romania after World War II, to offer Jewish families an escape route across the Russian borders to the West. Although he settled in Eretz Yisrael, the Rebbe respected his father-in-law’s appointment, and considered my father the shliach of Romania. Even after Moldova declared independence from Romania in 1991, the Rebbe, when giving my father a dollar for his community, told him it was “for the Jews of Romania.”

My parents, already in their 60’s at the time, chose Kishinev over other more central cities in the newly-freed USSR. In addition to Moldova being a continuation of their previous shlichus from the Frierdiker Rebbe, it would be safer for an older couple to start such an innovative venture far from the prying eyes of the barely disbanded KGB, rather than Soviet strongholds such as Moscow, Kiev, or Leningrad.
——————-
Throughout the years of Communism, Lishkas Ezras Achim smuggled care packages and aid to the impoverished Jews in the Soviet Union. They’d been active in Moldova as well, and even had bochurim and Chabad couples visit Kishinev. When they heard my parents were moving there, a few couples extended their stay to help my parents with the difficult transition, introduce them to the community, and get them set up in an apartment.

My parents, already grandparents many times over, weren’t distracted by toddlers and child-rearing, as many new shluchim are. However, the physical and mental exertion carried a heavier toll for them. I was their liaison, accepting the burden of fundraising and practical matters, so they could focus all their energy on guiding and leading the community.

Moldova had a very large Jewish population, but very few of them had even mediocre knowledge of Torah and halachah. Every Shabbos, my parents would host two minyanim for Shacharis: one early in the morning for those who had to rush off to work after davening, and another, later one, for those who were shomer Shabbos. Both minyanim filled the shul to capacity!
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For their first Pesach in Moldova, my parents worked with the Ezras Achim couples to host a public seder in a villa an hour from the city. Over 200 people were expected to join them, including accommodations, two community sedarim, and Yom Tov meals for the whole week!

There was one elderly man, Rabbi Chaim Keiserman, who was a shochet and a yarei shamayim. Although he was 80 years old, he walked to shul every Shabbos – two hours each way! He shechted 250 chickens for Pesach, and gave them to my mother, the only person in the entire country who knew how to kasher them properly.

I noticed my mother limping as she bustled around the kitchen, and asked her about it. It was clear that her foot was broken, and I insisted she go to the hospital.

“Soon!” she said, shooing me away. “If I don’t kasher these chickens, no one will have anything to eat over Yom Tov!”

She continued kashering all 250 chickens, despite her throbbing leg. Only after the final feathers had been plucked, salted, and rinsed would she agree to go to the hospital.
—————–
I stayed on after Pesach, continuing to help my parents however I could. When Lag Ba’omer approached, I decided to hold a parade – the very first in the Soviet Union! I went to the police station – still functioning as KGB – to ask for a permit. In those days of uncertainty, as Moldova asserted its independence, and the entire USSR tried to accustom themselves to the new reality of a Communist-free society, there was no clear answer. They’d never heard of a Lag Ba’omer parade before; they had no idea how to grant a permit, or even whether or not it should be granted.

I decided to go ahead with my plans. We held the parade on a beautiful, sunny day. Jewish children marched through the streets with signs declaring their Jewish pride – the same streets they’d hurried through furtively just a couple years before, hoping no one was watching them too closely.

The following day, I was summoned to the KGB office.

“Where are you staying?” they barked at me.

“With my parents,” I answered.

“That’s not allowed! You’re a tourist; you must stay in a hotel! Since you’ve violated the rules, you must leave the country immediately.”

I realized it would take a long time for the country to learn how to operate under freedom, but at least we snuck in a Lag Ba’omer parade!
—————-
There was no kosher food in Kishinev. The only way my parents could get food was to send packages through Moscow and hope they’d be approved and passed on to Moldova. Whenever anyone came to visit from the U.S. or Israel, they made sure to bring boxes of meat, chicken, and fish with them!

One Pesach, I brought my family to Moldova. Of course, we brought along dozens of boxes of carefully vacuum-sealed meat and gefilte fish. Our unusual load caught the eye of one customs agent, and he began questioning us.

“What’s inside these boxes?” he demanded.

I explained that they contained food for the Pesach holiday.

“And have they been inspected for safety? Do you have a certificate?”

Of course, I didn’t.

“Everything must go in the garbage,” he declared, a small, satisfied smile playing around the corner of his mouth.

I was young and inexperienced. I didn’t know what to do. How could I throw away all this precious food? Not only was it thousands of dollars down the drain, but what would we eat during Pesach?

As I stood there, helpless, a man standing nearby took control of the situation.

“I have a lot of connections in this airport,” he told the customs agent. “There’s nothing wrong with this food! If you don’t let this rabbi and his food through, I will personally make sure today is your very last day of work. If you let it through, you can come to my office, and we’ll talk about how I can show my gratitude properly…”

The agent, white-faced, immediately stamped our papers and waved us through.

The man who’d so suddenly come to my rescue became a good friend. We recently celebrated his 75th birthday!
—————–
Elusha spent many years bringing kosher food from Odessa into Moldova. Over the years, he learned many tips and tricks – which custom agents appreciated gifts, which ones to avoid, and which phrases were most likely to get him through unimpeded.

Before Pesach one year, Elusha bought many boxes of matzos. He placed them on the bottom of the container, covering them with a tallis, and topping it with other, innocuous items. He hoped the customs agent would see the top items and look no further.

Unfortunately, the agent demanded to know what was underneath. When he saw the tallis, his brows drew together and his mouth tightened.

“What’s under that?” he asked, brusquely.

“Matzos,” Elusha answered, honestly. “It’s a special type of bread that G-d told the Jews to eat for the upcoming holiday.”

The customs agent stood up straight, his eyes widening. “You’re cleared. Go! Go! I don’t want to start up with the G-d of the Jews!”
——————
A major part of shlichus in Moldova is caring for our community’s physical needs. While under the rule of Communism, it was impossible to prosper. Even after Communism fell, many people remained below the poverty line, lacking money for the most basic necessities. In recent years, the war in Ukraine has made resources more scarce, and consequently, much more expensive.

So while we opened a shul, school, and pre-school, we also made it a priority to open a soup kitchen. The kitchen is open for breakfast and dinner every day. Anyone and everyone is welcome to join, and donations are appreciated, but never expected.

Our kitchen serves over 100 portions of breakfast and dinner every day, in addition to the food we serve to our students and school staff.

Since the day my father assumed leadership of the shul 35 years ago, there hasn’t been a single instance of the kitchen closing its doors!

Now, I spend the busy months of the year in Kishinev, and spend the other parts of the year between Crown Heights and Moldova. Baruch Hashem, we have four other shluchim in Moldova, including my daughter and son-in-law, who carry out the day-to-day operations while we focus on administration, fundraising, and organization. It gives us such nachas to see our grandchildren on shlichus – the fourth generation of Moldovan shluchim!
——————–
Winston* always knew he was Jewish, but it meant very little to him. He eventually met Sami*, a Muslim woman, and they decided to get married. She insisted he accept Islam after they married, and he had no compunctions about it at all.

After the birth of their daughter, her demands for him to become Muslim increased. He was just about to make an appointment with an imam, when the news of October 7th blared across every website. It made him contemplate his Jewish identity in a way he’d never done before. He decided not to go through with the conversion. Incensed, his wife left him, taking their baby girl with her.

Winston was inconsolable. He became depressed and couldn’t find meaning in life anymore. One day, while scrolling aimlessly on the internet, he met someone from Moldova who promised he could cure his depression and help him turn his life around.

Winston booked a flight for Moldova, but when he landed, the numbers he’d been given rang endlessly. The man who’d promised to fix his life had disappeared into thin air, and Winston had no way of tracking him down.

Feeling helpless and even more depressed, Winston began aimlessly wandering the streets. Suddenly, he noticed a bearded rabbi approaching. He ran over and poured out his heart.

My son-in-law, the rabbi Winston met, brought him to shul and introduced him around. Within a short time, Winston had made many new friends and began rebuilding his life anew. He’s settled in Kishinev, comes to shul every day, and is becoming a beloved member of our community.
——————–
Gregory and Katerina* were making strides on their journey towards Yiddishkeit. When they had a boy, they named him Aharon. Their daughter, born a couple of years later, was named Miriam.

Katerina taught in our school and continued learning more about Torah.

“Katerina, both of your children have such beautiful Jewish names,” I told her one day. “Isn’t it time for you to have a Jewish name, too?”

“Sure! Why not?” she answered. “What name should I choose?”

“That’s entirely up to you,” I said. “I trust you to pick the perfect name.”

A few days later, Katerina came to me, a big smile on her face. “If my son is Aharon and my daughter is Miriam, it only makes sense for me to be Yocheved, no?” she laughed.

After her naming by the Torah, I gifted her with a leather Tehillim, embossed with her new Jewish name.
——————–
Kishinev had a functioning mikvah, but when the women of the community began requesting a modern, updated building, we knew it was time for an upgrade.

We began construction, and the shell of the mikvah had been completed when funds ran dry. To finish the mikvah, we needed a large influx of cash.

My wife contacted a friend of hers, who was still single after many years of searching for her zivug.

“I’d love to help,” her friend said. “I can donate a high-end, beautiful sheitel. You can raffle it off and raise money that way.”

My wife thanked her and hung up the phone, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. How could she advertise the raffle widely enough to raise enough funds? Everything was all posts and reels and snaps, and she didn’t know her way around that world!

Her friend, Maya, was an influencer, so she called her to ask for advice.

“Perfect timing!” Maya trilled. “I’m actually attending an influencer event this week. You should come!”

My wife felt uncomfortable at first, but decided to go, hoping she’d make valuable contacts and learn the secrets of the trade.

When she arrived, Maya greeted her warmly.

“Thanks for the invitation,” my wife began, “But I actually wanted to talk about something specific-”

“I can’t talk right now,” Maya interrupted. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll chat.”

My wife called the next day and explained everything – the unfinished mikvah, the donated sheitel, and the raffle that needed marketing advice.

“Does your mikvah have a name yet?” Maya asked, a curious tremor in her voice.

“Not yet, no,” my wife answered.

“Now it does!” Maya declared. “Yesterday, I decided to honor Liel, my daughter, who passed away a few years ago, by dedicating a mikvah to her. Your mikvah is my mikvah. Don’t worry about a thing!”

Construction soon resumed and we began to plan the dedication.

My wife called her friend who’d donated the sheitel to invite her to the dedication.

“That’s great news!” her friend congratulated her. “I’d love to be there, but I’ll be getting married right around then, so I won’t be able to make it!”
——————–
Maya had undertaken a gargantuan task. To dedicate this mikvah for her daughter, she had to raise an enormous sum of money. She ran a bunch of fundraisers, asked for donations, and slowly, the money started coming in.

One evening, she was asked to speak at a hafrashas challah event for the ladies of a New Jersey community. The event was being held as a zechus for Batya*, a pregnant woman who’d been told her baby would be born with severe health deficiencies.

Maya began the speech she’d prepared, but one of the women called out, “Are you the Maya that’s building a mikvah for your daughter, Liel, that passed away?”

Maya nodded.

“Can you tell us about her?” the woman asked.

“I didn’t come here to share my story,” Maya protested. But the women begged, so Maya capitulated, her eyes welling up with tears as she spoke about Liel’s generosity, grace, and kindness. She shared her experiences in losing her precious daughter, and spoke about the mikvah she was fundraising for.

One woman took out an envelope, placed a bill inside, and passed it around. The envelope quickly passed from hand to hand, growing thicker as it made the rounds. When they handed it to Maya, it was stuffed with $1,500.

Maya brought me the money, taking the bills from the envelope and handing them to me. “The money is yours, but the envelope is mine,” she said.

When Maya came to Kishinev just before the chanukas habayis, the tilers were finishing up the installation. She gave them the envelope and asked them to seal it between the layers of tile and grout.

Maya knew Batya was due a short time after the chanukas habayis, but even after she returned home, she hesitated to call, fearing the news she’d hear.

One day, Batya called her. “Do you remember me?” she asked.

“Of course!” Maya answered. “I think about you all the time. I wanted to call you and ask how you’re doing, but I was scared to hear your answer…”

“You should’ve called.” Batya’s smile could be heard through the phone lines. “My daughter was born perfectly healthy. She’s a gorgeous little girl, and we couldn’t be happier.”

“I’m so happy to hear that!” Maya said. “What’s her name?”

“Liel,” Batya whispered.

*Names changed to protect privacy

Rabbi Zushe and ? Abelsky, Chabad Lubavitch of Moldova, Kishinev, Moldova

Rescues, Refugees, and Rebuilding: Chabad of Moldova Part II

By: Chaya Chazan

The war in Ukraine began unexpectedly. One day, everything was normal, and the next day, bombs were raining down on residential streets, destroying everything in their path. Refugees were forced to flee, often with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. The lucky ones managed to get on buses which could take them to safer borders. But the trip was perilous and long. The buses had to take circuitous routes to avoid the bombs, and the freezing winter air penetrated through the walls, gusting mercilessly throughout the miserable journey. By the time the buses arrived in Moldova, 50 hours after leaving Ukraine, the people were sunk in utter depression, starvation, and fear. They stumbled off the bus, like those half dead.

I remember seeing an elderly woman struggling with her weather valise. She reminded me of my mother, so I stepped up to her with a smile.

“Babushka, please let me take your suitcase for you,” I offered.

“Why? Because you feel sorry for me?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “No, thank you! I can manage for myself!”

My heart broke. “No, no,” I assured her. “Because you remind me of my mother, and I’d do the exact same thing for her.”

Mollified, the woman allowed me to carry all her worldly belongings into the shul.

I had to sit in the privacy of my office for a while, trying to regain equilibrium. It was so hard to see busload after busload of people who’d lost everything in moments. Even their dignity was being snatched from them.

We were determined to do everything we could to help. The most important things were shelter and food. The government helped me secure four buildings outside the city with enough beds for 400-500. Our soup kitchen went into overdrive! We worked from 4:00 AM until 11:00 PM every night with no respite, serving one portion after another. Most days, we ended up serving over 1,500 meals. We also provided kosher meals for the field clinic set up by Zaka.

One day, I got a call from a wealthy businessman from America. “I saw a video of your kitchen operation,” he told me. “It’s very impressive – especially considering how old-fashioned and small your appliances are! I want to help. I own a commercial kitchen appliance company. I want to donate a new kitchen.”

The new kitchen made it so much easier to keep up with the demand, and we continued cranking out bowls of soup by the hundreds.

One day, another busload of refugees arrived outside the shul. As always, I hurried out to greet them, welcoming them with a smile, and directing them to a seat with a hot bowl of soup.

Among them was Marina*. Her entire town had been razed to the ground, but she was determined to stay as long as possible. When the bombs began falling on her building, she grabbed her husband and ran. Her husband had inhaled a lot of smoke, and he couldn’t keep up for long. He collapsed on the ground and died, right in front of her.

Distraught, Marina lay down beside him, sobbing. She vowed that she would die right there beside him, and wished for oblivion to claim her.

Instead, her friend grabbed her arm. “There’s a bus to Moldova leaving now. You’re getting on it,” her friend insisted.

“No! Leave me here! I just want to die!” Marina wailed.

Her friend refused to take no for an answer and dragged Marina onto the bus. Over the next 50 hellish hours, Marina wished for nothing more than death. She cried, asking her friend why she’d taken her instead of leaving her to die with her husband. Eventually, the bus came to a final, shuddering stop, and everyone trailed off the bus.

Marina followed them like an automaton. Suddenly, a warm glow appeared. A rabbi with a flowing beard and a beaming smile welcomed her warmly and offered her a bowl of soup. Marina felt that she’d seen an angel.

That warm glow imbued Marina with a renewed purpose. She called her son in Toronto and asked him to send her a plane ticket.

After being reunited with her son, Marina asked him to take her to shul on Shabbos. Her son raised a brow.

“Shul, Mama? Now? All the years we were growing up, we never went to shul. All of a sudden, you want to go?”

“For the angel rabbi with the soup in Kishinev, I must go to shul,” she said.
———————–
“You’ve already done so much for us, but I need your help,” said Katya*, a Ukrainian refugee. “My mother escaped Kiev with me, and she made it here – but barely. I took her to the hospital right away, and the doctors tried to help. Now, they’re telling me there’s nothing else they can do for her. They told me to take her home, because if I leave her in the hospital, she’ll die. What should I do?”

I immediately thought of Adrian, a parliamentary member and a good friend. He’d been one of the top doctors in the country before becoming a politician, and he had many powerful connections. When he heard Katya’s story, he called the hospital right away. They told him the same thing they’d told her – her mother’s condition was too severe for them to treat under the circumstances. If there was any chance of survival, she’d need to be airlifted to a hospital in another country.

I knew Hatzalah Air was in Romania then – just a short hop over the border. I contacted them and asked if they could help Katya’s mother. A few hours later, I watched as she was airlifted from the hospital, and taken to Germany. Baruch Hashem, she received the care she needed and made a full recovery.

Today, Katya’s mother has resettled in Germany, and, despite her advanced years and health scare, she’s dancing to greet each morning!
——————-
Among the many refugees that flooded in from Ukraine, we were honored to host the shluchim of those cities that had become too dangerous to stay. One week, we had five shluchim from Kharkov and Sumi staying with us.

“Chevra, you’ve been through a lot,” I told them. “I have a gorgeous vacation estate outside the city. Go there for Shabbos. The peace and quiet and fresh air will do wonders for you and your families.”

Rabbi Moshe Moskowitz looked at our shul, then crowded with construction equipment, dust, and debris, and looked back at me, deliberately. “I’ll sleep on the floor of the shul, but I’m staying here for Shabbos! What I need more than a relaxing getaway is a warm, chassidishe farbrengen with my brothers!”

Of course, I wouldn’t let them sleep on the shul floor! I racked my brain for ideas of where I could possibly host them. I thought of the house next door to the shul. I’d been eying it for a long time, and had made many offers to the owner. She always turned me down, refusing to sell. I decided to approach her from another angle.

“I have some important Ukrainian refugees staying for Shabbos,” I told her. “Can you find somewhere else to stay this weekend? I want to rent your house for them!”

She thought about it for a while, before finally agreeing. She even told me she felt bad accepting the amount I’d offered, and took a much smaller sum as the rental payment.

Baruch Hashem, we had a wonderful, uplifting Shabbos together. There were many reporters covering our aid efforts, including a Jewish reporter from The Times of Israel that stayed with us over Shabbos.

The lechaims flowed freely, and soon, Rabbi Moskowitz was dancing around the room energetically, singing V’somachto Bi’chagecha loudly and joyously.

The Israeli reporter smirked and asked him, “Rabbi, what chag are you celebrating?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m celebrating!” Rabbi Moskowitz answered him. “I’m celebrating that I was a shliach of the Rebbe; I am a shliach of the Rebbe, and I will be a shliach of the Rebbe. They can take away my house and all my belongings, but this is something they can never take from me!”

We were all inspired by his answer, not least of all the reporter.

After Shabbos, I called the owner again. “Thank you so much for renting us the house,” I told her. “By the way – I’m still interested in buying it. Would you change your mind?”

“This Shabbos has shown me that you really mean what you say,” she said. “You’re here to stay! Yes; I will sell you the house.”

With the new property, we made plans to open a kosher cafe and playgroup. Baruch Hashem, there’s always more to be done!
—————-
Svetlana* had married a non-Jew and never thought twice about her Yiddishkeit. She fled Ukraine with her husband and son and found refuge in Kishinev. She watched in amazement as our team of shluchim and volunteers took care of everything.

“I’ve been very inspired by you rabbis,” she told me. “You dedicate your lives to helping other Jews! It’s made me think about my Judaism in a whole new way. I want to give my son a bris. Can you help me with that?”

Among the refugees was an expert mohel, and he was happy to accommodate her. With tears in her eyes, Svetlana watched her son join the people she’d recently come to admire.
—————-
For over a month, we operated on emergency protocol, adrenaline alone keeping us going. There was never a second to relax – not even a moment to think. Baruch Hashem, we have other shluchim that were invaluable, and our crew of locals kept things running as smoothly as possible. But the sheer amount of people that needed food, clothing, medicine, shelter, advice, support, and guidance was never ending. Our phones rang constantly, even throughout Shabbos, with one life-threatening call after another. Most nights, I got by on just a couple of hours of sleep and copious amounts of coffee.

At one point, a family matter required me in New York. As I boarded the plane and found my seat, my mind finally stopped racing. It was the first time in a very long time that I’d had even a minute to just think. When you’re in the thick of things, you don’t have the time or luxury to process what you’re doing. You just act on instinct. The magnitude of the utter devastation and suffering I’d witnessed struck me all at once, and I spent the entire flight in tears, trying to process a month of emotion in just a few hours.

We hope for an end to all pain and suffering, when everyone can return home and rebuild their lives.
——————
We noticed that many refugees preferred to stay in the airport, hoping to figure out their long-term plans quickly enough so they wouldn’t have to leave and find a place to stay in the city. Meeting the needs as they appeared, we opened a Chabad house in the airport.

On Shemini Atzeres, a stranger walked into the shul and joined the dancing with gusto. When I had a moment, I welcomed him and asked where he was from.

He told me he was Johnny* from Morristown, New Jersey. He’d had a traditional upbringing, and even attended yeshiva for a while. Although he’d left the Torah path, he remained on good terms with his family, and often visited the Chabad house in Belgium, where he lived.

The shliach in Belgium called Johnny before Yom Tov, inviting him for hakafos.

“Rabbi, G-d is going to have to have hakafos in Belgium without me this year,” he told the shliach. “I need a vacation. I’m going to Moldova for a fun getaway!”

“Imagine my surprise,” Johnny told me, “when I walked out of Kishinev’s airport, only to be faced by a huge sign reading, Chabad. It’s like G-d was chasing me! I looked up your information and came right here. Apparently, G-d can’t do hakafos without me.”

*Names changed to protect privacy

To be continued in Part 2