64 | JUNE 30 • 2022
M
y grandfather Mark
Nisnevich, 86, of
West Bloomfield,
died June 18, 2022, 80 years
after he got his first job at age 6.
It was 1942 and
World War II had
thrown Europe
into shambles.
Born in Bobruisk,
Belorussia, a small
Jewish city on the Berezina
River just southeast of Minsk,
my grandfather was the oldest
of three children.
Like many other residents of
Belorussia, he and his family
were evacuated deep into east-
ern Russia where they would
be safe from the Nazis. Life,
however, remained difficult, as
disease, starvation and bitter
cold plagued the region.
With my great-grandmother
Bella sick in a hospital, and
my great-grandfather Boris off
fighting for the Soviet Army, my
6-year-old grandfather became
the head of the family — and,
therefore, started to work.
He took on the role as sole
caregiver of his two younger
sisters, Ada and Maya. With
little to no food available, they’
d
catch rabbits, dig up frozen
potatoes leftover from the pre-
vious harvest and make soup
from poison ivy.
Miraculously, the entire
family survived the war. My
great-uncle Eduard was born
in the years that followed. But,
since 1942, my grandfather
never stopped working a day in
his life, until many years later
when he was no longer in good
health.
At age 14, he attended mari-
time academy and later joined
a Soviet merchant navy fleet
as one of just two Jewish ser-
vicemen out of 10,000. When
a fellow serviceman called him
a zhyd, a derogatory term for
Jews, my grandfather clocked
him square in the face and was
kicked out of the navy.
That was simply life in the
Soviet Union for Jews; antisem-
itism was rampant, and many
Jews faced discrimination and
limited opportunities in work
and school.
Still, my grandfather wasn’t
deterred. He was a brilliant
mathematician and excelled in
the sciences. He knew how to
navigate by the stars.
He studied engineering at not
one, but two universities — a
rare feat for a Soviet Jew — and
received high-level engineering
jobs in Vorkuta, Russia, and
Riga, Latvia.
He also met my grandmother,
Asya, after accidentally cutting
his finger and visiting a medical
clinic where she was working.
Yet, as opportunities became
more and more limited, espe-
cially for my young mother Alla
and aunt Stella, my grandpar-
ents decided to leave the Soviet
Union (as did millions of other
Soviet Jews). They applied to
emigrate.
LIFE IN AMERICA
In 1981, they were finally grant-
ed approval and made their way
to Oak Park, Mich. The family
arrived with just seven suitcases
and $1,000. They went from
living in relative luxury in the
USSR to sleeping on the floor
in an apartment with almost no
furniture and just one can of
pop in the fridge.
The next day, my grandpar-
ents went to work. There was no
time to waste. My grandfather
did yardwork all day while my
grandmother worked in beauty
services, having worked as an
esthetician in the Soviet Union.
Even my mother, a young teen-
age girl, worked three jobs. At
night, they’
d attend ESL class.
Getting adjusted to life in
America wasn’t easy, but my
grandfather, a tireless worker
who was determined to pro-
vide for his family, planted new
roots.
Eventually, he received a
job as an engineer, working
contracts for the Big Three
and serving as a lead design-
er. My grandmother opened
a successful hair salon in her
namesake, Asya’s Hair & Nails,
in 1982, where my grandfather
also helped run the business,
especially when it came to
accounting.
As a kid, I spent almost every
weekend with my grandpar-
ents. There was nothing like
sleepovers there. We’
d pick rasp-
berries, cucumbers and cherries
from their backyard, and later
my grandmother would cook
blintzes while my grandfather
smoked fish, his specialty.
Nobody could make me
laugh like my grandfather. I
remember doubling over in
tears as he’
d put on my sister’s
dance outfit — 10 sizes too
small — and dance a Russian
jig. In addition to being the life
of the party, my grandfather was
an honest man. People adored
him, and when Mark Nisnevich
entered the room, everybody
smiled.
But, in 2013, on Thanksgiving
Day, our lives were turned
upside down.
My grandfather suffered
a massive stroke. He wasn’t
expected to survive even 24
hours. However, he lived for
nearly nine years, completely
beating the odds.
Though he was very ill, it was
my grandmother who kept him
alive. We like to think he simply
didn’t want to let my grand-
mother go.
Every day, my grandfather
wore his best outfit. He had
fresh haircuts, was clean-shaven
and wore cologne. My grand-
mother made him homemade
meals three times a day, sitting
by his side every single day
from 2013 to 2022.
Through it all, my grandfa-
ther constantly smiled. Even
in his final weeks and months,
a huge smile crossed his face
when his grandchildren came
to visit.
When my grandfather passed
away on June 18, 2022, people
remembered one thing above
all: his smile. But I didn’t know
how much my grandfather truly
did for others until we met with
our rabbi to write a eulogy.
I learned that my grandfather
sponsored 40 people to escape
the Soviet Union and immi-
Holocaust survivor Mark Nisnevich was always smiling.
Remembering My Grandfather
ASHLEY ZLATOPOLSKY CONTRIBUTING WRITER
OBITUARIES
OF BLESSED MEMORY
Mark
Nisnevich