My name is Zhanna Iosifovna Gofman (Mukonaeva). I was born on July 10, 1937, in the city of Kirovograd, Ukraine. When I was just ten months old, my mother Antonina passed away.
So it was my grandmother who raised me. She was Ukrainian.
When the war began, my father, Joseph, who was the head of the mechanical department at the local factory, was sent to Tashkent because the factory was related to war and thus was relocated to continue operations, as the front was moving closer.
In 1941 the Germans entered Kirovograd. It was a terrible time. My grandmother had to hide her little Jewish granddaughter (me) from the neighbors. Some of them wanted to gain favor with the fascists and would have happily turned me over to the police at the first opportunity.
All of my Jewish relatives fled the city, but not everyone survived. Some made it through, while others were killed by the Nazis.
When I was four years old, I nearly lost my life. A neighbor was chopping the heads off chickens, and the headless birds ran into our yard where I was playing, splattering blood everywhere. The horrific sight made me faint.
My grandmother was furious and went to confront the neighbor, but the woman started shouting loudly that my grandmother was hiding a Jew.
Her screams brought a German soldier with a rifle, ready to shoot “Yids.” I don’t know how, but by some miracle my grandmother managed to talk him out of pulling the trigger. I was only four, yet that terrifying moment is burned into my memory forever.
We had to move to the other side of the city, where a relative of ours, a seamstress, was living. In that house there was a huge mirror. One day a German soldier came for a fitting, and when none of the adults were in the room, he caught my reflection in the mirror.
He stood up and walked straight toward me.
Terrified, I backed away until I was pressed against the wall. There was nowhere left to go. I just wanted to disappear into that wall. Then he scooped me up in his arms, carried me to the mirror, and began to cry. Through his tears he kept repeating, “Nein, tuch-tuch” (meaning “no, no shooting / I won’t kill”). He was saying he would not harm me.
One Christmas the Germans set up an extraordinarily beautiful tree in the city center, decorated with the most amazing toys that captured every child’s imagination. All the kids gathered there. But after they took the tree down, they left the toys scattered on the streets, and children ran around collecting them.
Those toys had a horrific “surprise” inside: the moment you started rubbing or playing with one, it would explode. Many children fell into that trap and lost fingers.
Thank God, my grandmother constantly warned me and tirelessly repeated: never pick anything up from the street and never take anything from strangers. I obeyed her, and that obedience saved me from serious disability.
On January 7, 1943, the Soviet troops began their offensive to liberate Kirovograd. All night long my grandmother and I knelt in prayer to Jesus Christ.
Everything around us was engulfed in flames; sirens wailed, gunfire and explosions rang out, as the Nazis were being driven out of the city.
In the morning we opened the shutters and saw that not only had we survived unharmed, but even our glass windows were intact. At our neighbors’ house, half of the room had been shredded by shrapnel.
Even now I recall that moment with awe. The moment of God’s miraculous power and protection. It left a mark forever on my faith in the Almighty God, to whom I have turned in times of trouble throughout my entire life.
I have now lived more than 84 years. After moving to Israel with my husband and children, I consider myself a Christian.
Your ministry helps me stay connected in faith, because it’s difficult for me to get to church.For me, your help is not just about gifts or monetary cards—the most important thing is the special attention you give to my life and my faith. I’m always happy to treat you to some crepes that my quiet husband makes.
I love you all! May God expand your ministry!
