Hanukkah, 1939.
Kaunas.

I told him the story of how Judah Maccabee led his men into war against the powerful Greeks, who had defiled the temple, and how their tiny force defeated the much greater armies of Antiochus. Judah and his followers liberated Jerusalem, and set about rededicating the temple, but when they went to light the lamps they could find only enough oil to burn for one day. Keeping the faith, they used the one small cruse they had, and God made the oil burn for eight full days. This is how Chanukah became the festival of lights. Each evening the shammers, the one candle used to light all the others, was used to light one more candle, until on the eighth day all eight candles were burning.

The tables were laden with the best of food and drinks, including some Japanese food which [aunt] Anushka supplied from her shop. We also had veal with small roasted potatoes, roast duck in orange sauce, and many other wonderful things.

Mr. Sugihara also asked me about our family life and my hobbies. When I told him that I collected stamps, he invited me to come and visit him at the consulate. He said he would give me some stamps from Japan.

After everyone had eaten, Father rang a little servant’s bell and asked for everyone’s attention. “I want you to meet Mr. Rosenblat and his daughter Lea, who recently escaped from Poland. Mr. Rosenblat wants to say a few words.”

Mr. Rosenblat looked nervous, and a bit out of place in the elegantly dressed crowd. Father had given him one of his suits, but it was too big and he looked waifish in it.

Mr. Rosenblat spoke in German, hesitatingly at the beginning, but as he warmed to his subject a hush fell over those present. He became so emotional describing what was happening to the Jews in Poland that he broke down and cried. Mr. Sugihara listened attentively, a look of dismay on his face.

After everyone rose from the table, Mr. Rosenblat cornered our guest. Mr. Sugihara asked Rosenblat for other details about conditions in Poland under the Nazis, which Rosenblat eagerly supplied. I guess it was part of the consul’s job to get firsthand information on the German occupation of Europe. Rosenblat implored Sugihara to issue him a Japanese visa, but the consul sadly shook his head, explaining that his government had refused permission to issue such visas, not even transit visas.

Father was distressed to see Rosenblat hounding our guest, but he said nothing, and Sugihara seemed sympathetic enough. He invited Rosenblat to visit him at the consulate. He was pessimistic, but he would see if there was any way he could help him. …

One day (in 1940) Mr. Rosenblat came to our house with a young student from the famous Telzer Yeshiva. Rosenblat was very excited. It turned out that the boy was a Dutch citizen, one of many boys from Holland and western Europe who had been sent to study in the Hebrew schools of Kaunas. Now the Nazis occupied their homelands, and the boys were trapped.

On behalf of the students, the Dutch consul made inquiries and discovered that two Dutch colonies in the Caribbean, Surinam and Curaçao, didn’t require visas for immigration. Permission to enter was granted at the discretion of the Dutch governor. A putative ‘end visa’ for these colonies, from the Dutch consul of Kaunas, would be a start. In fact, the consul agreed to issue visas to these colonies to anyone who asked for them.

That left the problem of the transit visa. There was only one consulate that might help. With a transit visa from the Japanese, Rosenblat said, the Soviets might allow the refugees to pass through Russian territory.

“And that’s where you come in. You know Mr. Sugihara. You should go and explain to him our desperate situation. Perhaps he will give us transit visas now. He is our only hope.”

Father was exasperated. The whole business sounded terribly complicated and far-fetched, and Mr. Sugihara had already told us that the Japanese government was adamant in refusing to issue visas. Why should that have changed?

Ordinarily I would never interrupt such a conversation, but I piped up. “Surely if anyone might take pity on us it would be Mr. Sugihara. I’m sure if there is any way he can help, he will,” I said.

It was worth a try, at least, and Father agreed to visit Mr. Sugihara the next day. …

Early the next morning, Father and I, Mr. Rosenblat and his daughter, and the Dutch boy all went to the Japanese consulate.

Mr. Sugihara looked weary, but he greeted us cordially. He had even saved some stamps for me. He had just returned from seeing the Soviet authorities. They had extended his stay, so the consulate would remain open another three weeks.

Father told him of the terrible danger we were all in, that our only hope of escape was through him. Then he showed him the visa to Curaçao in the Dutch boy’s passport. Would that be sufficient for a transit visa?

As it turned out, Mr. Sugihara had already made his decision. Since the Soviets took power he had received many delegations of refugees. For days they had gathered outside the consulate–families with children, women with infants in their arms. The Japanese government continued to refuse permission to issue visas, but and his wife discussed the situation, and agreed that his humanitarian duty was clear. It overrode the policies of governments, Mr. Sugihara said. He would issue visas despite the instructions of his superiors.

“But first we must find out whether the Russians will honor a Japanese transit visa. The Soviet consul promised me an answer today,” he said. And with that he excused himself and went to the telephone at his desk.

All of us held our breath, our eyes fixed on Sugihara’s face, as he spoke into the phone. Many lives hung in the balance. Suddenly his face lit up with a radiant smile, and he raised a triumphant fist in the air.

Mr. Rosenblat’s eyes were brimming as Mr. Sugihara rang off. Without further ceremony, the consul ushered us into his office and stamped all of our passports.

…

Before we left he gave me an envelope with stamps and shook my hand. Again I felt a bond with him. He looked at me a moment and then said, “Vaya con Dios.” I didn’t understand what the words meant, but somehow I felt their intent, and during all the years of the war I remembered them.

Vaya con Dios. Go with God. I don’t know why he said it in Spanish, but the words were from the heart, and to this day those three words invoke deep feelings in me.

Even while we were saying our good-byes to Mr. Sugihara and his wife, the Yeshiva boy was waving his hat out the window at someone below. When we came downstairs there were dozens of boys, all in their black coats and hats, converging at the gate.

from Light One Candle: A Survivor’s Tale from Lithuania to Jerusalem by Solly Ganor, Kodansha International, 1995.

Yukiko Sugihara and Solly Ganor, August, 1994,
Hill of Humanity, Yaotsu, Japan