After the war, my father left. He ran off with another woman, abandoning my mother to care for me and my little sister on her own. We were just a small family trying to survive in a world that had already been torn apart. Social services provided a weekly allowance, barely enough to cover the basics, let alone any sense of comfort or celebration.

Then came Christmas. My mother called us together one evening and said quietly, almost apologetically, “This Christmas… we have no money. We’ll just have a slice of bread.” That was hard to hear. My sister and I exchanged glances, feeling the weight of disappointment settle in. On Christmas morning, we gathered around a small, homemade Christmas tree decorated with a few simple ornaments. It was humble, but it was ours.

And then came a knock at the door—a loud, insistent rap that startled us. My mother sent me to open it, and there, in the hallway, sat a large box. I struggled to lift it inside, my arms barely able to manage the weight. When I opened it, I was stunned. Inside were food, drinks, and treats, enough to make Christmas feel like something magical. Later, we learned that the shopkeepers and neighbors in our neighborhood had all contributed, making sure that even the poorest families could experience a small joy that day.

That evening, as we gathered around the tree, I asked my mother, “Why would people do this? Why would they give things away to strangers?” She smiled gently and said, “Because that’s what goodness looks like, and because it comes from the heart.” That lesson has stayed with me my entire life.

Since that Christmas, I have devoted my life to helping others—neighbors, strangers, and those displaced by conflict. For 44 years, I’ve been a driver for the Red Cross, helping people reach safety, food, and shelter. I’ve carried refugees, families in crisis, and countless strangers whose lives were uprooted through no fault of their own.

When the war in Ukraine broke out, I was behind the wheel again, transporting families from reception centers to central stations. I remember one mother in particular—a young Ukrainian woman whose journey had been nothing short of harrowing. I asked her how it had been. She told me, with tears in her voice, that they had been shot at along the way, that her baby had died, and that her father had been killed. Even for someone like me, who has seen so much over decades of service, it was too much. I cried that day, and I’ve had nightmares since. But I kept driving, kept helping, because that is what we do when we can.

Now, I am 86 years old. I’ve just had major surgery, and yet, as long as my legs still carry me and my hands still grip the steering wheel, I will continue. The Red Cross knows they can call me—Bob—and I will never say no. I am proud of that, proud to return the kindness and humanity that was shown to me so long ago.

Because someone once helped my family when we needed it most, I have spent a lifetime making sure others never have to face hardship alone. It’s simple: when you can help, you help. That’s all there is to it. And I will continue to live by that lesson, for as long as I am able.