Holocaust Survivor Alex Kleytman’s Final Act of Devotion: Shielding Wife Larisa During Bondi Beach Tragedy – ‘He Raised Himself Up to Protect Me’

Sydney’s Bondi Beach gleamed under the golden hues of a late December sunset on December 14, 2025, transforming into a vibrant tapestry of joy for hundreds gathered to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah at the annual Chanukah by the Sea event. Families sprawled on colorful blankets, the air filled with the laughter of children spinning dreidels and the sweet aroma of sufganiyot doughnuts passed hand to hand, while rabbis led songs of resilience that echoed against the rhythmic crash of Pacific waves. For 82-year-old Alex Kleytman and his wife of 57 years, Larisa, both Holocaust survivors who had rebuilt their lives in Australia’s embrace, this was meant to be another cherished chapter in a story of survival and quiet triumph. Instead, in a heartbeat, it became the stage for Alex’s ultimate display of love – a selfless move to shield Larisa from harm that cost him his life, leaving her to navigate a world forever dimmed by his absence.

Larisa Kleytman, 80, sat in stunned silence outside St. Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst the morning after the unthinkable unfolded, her frail frame wrapped in a woolen shawl against the chill of early summer winds. Reporters clustered gently at a respectful distance, but her words, when they came, carried the weight of decades compressed into raw, halting sentences. “We were standing there, enjoying the celebration, and suddenly came the ‘boom boom,’” she recounted to the Daily Mail, her voice trembling as she relived the moment that shattered their evening. “Everybody fell down. At this moment, he was behind me, and at one moment he decided to go close to me. He pushed his body up because he wanted to stay near me.” Alex, sensing the danger before she could fully register it, had positioned himself as a human barrier, his broad shoulders – forged by years of quiet determination – turning toward her in an instinctive bid for protection. Moments later, he was struck in the back, collapsing lifeless beside her on the sand, a pool of blood staining the very ground where they had stood moments before in celebration.

“I think he was shot because he raised himself up to protect me,” Larisa added, her eyes distant, as if replaying the scene in slow motion against the backdrop of flashing ambulance lights and panicked cries. In the chaos that followed, Alex’s body lay unmoving next to hers, a silent testament to a love that had weathered the horrors of war, displacement, and the relentless march of time. Paramedics arrived swiftly, but for Alex, it was too late; he was pronounced dead at the scene among the 15 others lost that night, including a 10-year-old girl and a beloved rabbi. Larisa, grazed but spared the worst, was transported to the hospital in a daze, emerging hours later to face a barrage of questions she could scarcely process. “I have no husband,” she whispered to one journalist, her words hanging heavy in the air like an unfinished prayer. When pressed on her feelings, she waved a hand dismissively, her voice breaking: “Don’t even ask.” In that simple plea lay the profundity of her grief – a woman who had already endured unimaginable loss now confronted with the void left by the man who had been her anchor for nearly six decades.

The Kleytmans’ story, one of improbable endurance and tender partnership, traces back to the shadowed valleys of Ukraine during World War II, where both Alex and Larisa entered the world amid the encroaching darkness of Nazi occupation. Born in 1943 to Jewish parents in a small shtetl near Odessa, Alex was just a toddler when his family was uprooted, his father conscripted into forced labor while he, his mother, and infant brother were deported to the frozen wastelands of Siberia. There, in labor camps where temperatures plunged to minus 40 degrees Celsius and rations consisted of watery soup and crusts of bread, Alex learned the bitter lessons of survival that would define him. “The dreadful conditions in Siberia… we struggled every day just to see the next sunrise,” he recalled in a 2023 interview with JewishCare, an Australian charity supporting elderly Holocaust survivors. His mother, a seamstress by trade, bartered stitches for scraps of food, shielding her boys from the guards’ whips and the gnawing hunger that claimed so many. Alex, ever the protector even as a child, would huddle with his brother under threadbare blankets, whispering stories of warmer days to drown out the wind’s howl.

Larisa’s path mirrored this gauntlet of terror. Born in 1945 in Kyiv as the war’s embers still smoldered, she too faced the roundups that swept through Jewish neighborhoods, her family hiding in basements and attics as whispers of ghettos and worse filtered through cracked walls. The family fled eastward, enduring train journeys packed like cattle, where disease and despair thinned the crowds at every stop. “We were ghosts in our own land, always moving, always afraid,” Larisa shared in the same JewishCare session, her hands clasped tightly around a faded photograph of her parents. Like Alex, she credited her mother’s unyielding spirit for their escape – a woman who taught her daughters to recite Psalms in the dark, clinging to faith as a fragile thread against oblivion. The war’s end in 1945 brought no immediate reprieve; Soviet antisemitism lingered, forcing both families into shadows of suspicion and scarcity.

Fate, in its capricious way, wove their threads together in the bustling immigrant quarters of post-war Ukraine. Alex, then a lanky teenager honing his skills as a budding engineer, met Larisa at a community dance in Odesa, where the strains of klezmer music offered fleeting escape from ration lines and reconstruction woes. She, with her quick wit and luminous eyes, captivated him instantly; he, with his steady gaze and gentle humor, won her heart over shared walks along the Black Sea. They married in 1968, a modest ceremony under a chuppah strung with wildflowers, vowing to build a life unmarred by the past’s echoes. Two children followed – a son, David, who pursued medicine, and a daughter, Miriam, who became a teacher – along with 11 grandchildren who filled their home with the clamor of birthdays and bar mitzvahs. In 1975, seeking freedoms denied under Soviet rule, the Kleytmans emigrated to Australia, landing in Sydney’s sun-drenched harbors with little more than suitcases and dreams.

Matraville, a leafy suburb in Sydney’s southeast dotted with modest brick homes and community parks, became their sanctuary. Alex thrived as a civil engineer, designing infrastructure for growing neighborhoods – bridges that spanned bustling avenues, water systems that quenched the city’s thirst – his meticulous blueprints a metaphor for the stability he craved after chaos. Retirement in the early 2010s allowed him to tinker in a backyard workshop, crafting wooden toys for grandchildren and tending a vegetable garden where tomatoes ripened like promises kept. Larisa, a homemaker who infused every meal with the flavors of her youth – borscht simmering with dill, latkes crisped to perfection – volunteered at local synagogues, her stories of survival inspiring younger generations. “Australia gave us what the old world stole: peace, prosperity, and the space to simply be,” Alex once said, his voice warm with gratitude. Their home, adorned with family portraits and a menorah polished from years of Hanukkah lightings, stood as a bulwark against faded scars.

It was this hard-won normalcy that drew the Kleytmans to Bondi Beach that fateful evening. The Chanukah by the Sea festival, organized by Chabad of Sydney, had become a beloved tradition since its inception in 2010 – a public embrace of Jewish joy on one of the world’s most famous shores, where 1,000 souls converged annually to light candles, share blessings, and reaffirm community amid Australia’s secular tapestry. For Alex and Larisa, it was a ritual of renewal: holding hands as the sun set, watching grandchildren chase seagulls, and toasting to miracles both ancient and personal. “Hanukkah reminds us that light persists, no matter the darkness,” Larisa later reflected, her words laced with bittersweet resolve. Arriving around 5 p.m., they settled near the water’s edge, the menorah’s glow casting flickering shadows on the sand as songs of “Maoz Tzur” rose in harmonious waves.

Then, at approximately 6:47 p.m., the world inverted. Two gunmen – a 50-year-old father and his 24-year-old son from Sydney’s Bonnyrigg suburb – approached from an overlooking pedestrian bridge, their presence unremarkable until the first shots rang out, sending the crowd into a frenzy of dives and dashes. New South Wales Police later classified the assault as a targeted terrorist act against the Jewish community, the deadliest since the 2019 Christchurch mosque shootings that claimed 51 lives. The father perished at the scene, his son taken into custody in critical condition, with authorities probing links to online extremism and a possible third accomplice. In total, 15 souls were lost, and 29 others wounded, their paths converging in a tableau of shared vulnerability: a budding soccer star from France, a freelance photographer capturing the festivities, two revered rabbis whose teachings had illuminated lives, a 10-year-old girl whose laughter had just begun to bloom, and now, Alex Kleytman, whose final gesture etched him into eternity as a hero.

Among the fallen, Alex’s story resonates with profound intimacy. Eyewitnesses, their accounts pieced together in hospital corridors and police statements, described the pandemonium: families clutching children as they bolted for cover behind lifeguard towers, the acrid scent of gunpowder mingling with sea salt, and cries for help piercing the dusk. Ahmed al-Ahmed, the 43-year-old fruit shop owner whose own intervention subdued one assailant, later recounted spotting the Kleytmans amid the scattering throng. “I saw the older gentleman pull his wife close, like a shield from the storm,” he told reporters from his hospital bed, bandages swathing his arm. Larisa, emerging from her haze of shock, confirmed the sequence with heartbreaking clarity: Alex, ever vigilant, had sensed the shift in the air – a father’s instinct honed by Siberian winters and Soviet shadows. He stepped forward, his body eclipsing hers, absorbing the impact meant for them both. “He tried to protect me,” she said simply, a phrase that has since become a mantra of mourning, echoed in tributes from grandchildren who called him “Saba the Strong.”

The ripple of Alex’s loss extends through a family tapestry rich with his influence. David, their son, a cardiologist in Melbourne, arrived at the hospital in the pre-dawn hours, his scrubs rumpled from an overnight flight, to hold his mother as sobs wracked her frame. “Dad was our rock – the man who taught us that survival isn’t just enduring, but lifting others along the way,” he shared in a family statement released through JewishCare. Miriam, the teacher, gathered the 11 grandchildren – ages 8 to 25 – in Matraville’s sunlit living room, where Alex’s half-finished puzzle lay on the coffee table, a metaphor for lives interrupted. “He built us bridges, literal and figurative,” she said, tears tracing paths down her cheeks. “Now we cross them for him.” The extended Kleytman clan, including siblings who had shared Siberian exile, convened for shiva, the seven-day mourning period, transforming the modest home into a haven of shared memories: tales of Alex’s engineering feats, his love for Vivaldi on vinyl, and the way he’d wink at Larisa across crowded seder tables, their hands brushing like a private vow renewed.

Bondi’s Jewish community, already a mosaic of resilience forged in Eastern European hearths and Israeli kibbutzim, reeled from the blow. Rabbi Eli Schlanger, 41, a London-born father of five and assistant rabbi at Chabad of Bondi, had helped organize the event, his infectious energy drawing crowds with promises of “light in the gathering dusk.” His cousin, Rabbi Zalman Lewis, eulogized him as “a vivacious soul who spread happiness like confetti,” noting Eli’s recent joy over his newborn son, born just two months prior. Dan Elkayam, 28, a French immigrant and rising soccer talent with Rockdale Ilinden Football Club, had traveled for the holiday, his teammates mourning a “valued brother” whose on-field prowess masked a gentle off-pitch demeanor. “Dan lit up every pitch, every room,” club president George Perry said, vowing a memorial match in his honor. Yaakov Levitan, another rabbi whose quiet wisdom anchored Sydney’s synagogues, left behind a wife and three children, his final sermon on perseverance now a haunting echo. And young Matilda, the 10-year-old whose aunt Lina wept, “My beloved niece… a bright, joyful child,” had been a pupil at Harmony Russian School, her teacher Irina Goodhew remembering her as “a spirit that brought light to everyone.”

Peter Meagher, 62, the freelance photographer felled while snapping candids of the menorah lighting, embodied the event’s inclusive spirit; a retired NSW Police detective and Randwick Rugby stalwart, he was “the heart and soul” of his club, his camera a bridge between worlds. Reuven Morrison, 72, a Soviet émigré turned philanthropist who split time between Sydney and Melbourne, had once declared Australia “the safest country in the world” for Jews – a belief now tested to its core. These lives, diverse yet united in celebration, underscore the attack’s indiscriminate cruelty, a stark reminder that hate preys on joy’s gatherings.

In the days since, Australia’s response has blended mourning with resolve. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese visited Bondi’s cordoned sands, laying a wreath amid wilting sufganiyot wrappers, and pledged $20 million for enhanced community security, including AI-monitored perimeters for faith events. New South Wales Premier Chris Minns, eyes reddened from vigils, announced a royal commission into rising antisemitism, which has surged 738% since October 7, 2023, per the Executive Council of Australian Jewry – from synagogue graffiti to online doxxing that silences voices like Larisa’s. “This wasn’t random; it was a calculated strike at our shared humanity,” Minns said, flanked by Jewish leaders. International condolences poured in: French President Emmanuel Macron hailed Elkayam as a “beacon extinguished too soon,” while U.S. counterparts decried the “revolting outpouring of hatred.”

For Larisa, the path forward glimmers faintly through family’s embrace. Discharged from hospital on December 16, she returned to Matraville, where neighbors – a mix of Greek bakers and Italian gardeners – filled her freezer with casseroles and her doorstep with cards. JewishCare, the organization that chronicled the Kleytmans’ Holocaust testimonies, established a scholarship in Alex’s name for engineering students from immigrant backgrounds, ensuring his legacy endures in blueprints yet to be drawn. Grandchildren, drawing from his Siberian stories, started a “Lights for Alex” campaign, collecting menorahs for isolated seniors. “Saba showed us how to stand tall, even when the ground shakes,” one, 15-year-old Jacob, posted on social media, his words garnering thousands of shares.

As Hanukkah’s candles burn through the week – the festival resuming defiantly on Bondi’s shores this Friday with metal detectors and police lines – Larisa clings to fragments of their shared light. In quiet moments, she fingers Alex’s wedding band, now on a chain around her neck, and whispers the Psalms her mother taught in hiding. “He protected me then, as he did in Siberia’s snows,” she confides to visitors, a faint smile breaking through. Australia, too, pauses at this crossroads: Will the beach’s waves wash away division, or merely lap at its edges? Alex Kleytman’s final act – a husband’s shield against the storm – challenges the nation to choose the former, honoring a survivor not with silence, but with safeguards woven strong. In Matraville’s garden, tomatoes ripen on, a quiet miracle persisting, much like the love that outlasted empires and now defies even this.