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

