Narrator: These bakers in Ukraine
make 700 pounds of Passover matzos a day,
even as Russian forces advance.
When we filmed at the Tiferes Hamatzos Bakery
the city of Dnipro wasn't invaded,
but it was surrounded by war zones.
For many here, making this sacred bread
feels more important than ever.
Narrator: This would've been illegal
back when their country was part of the Soviet Union.
At one point, Jews were jailed
for making or even just eating matzo.
But these days, the country supplies an estimated 20%
of all handmade matzo to the US market.
Rabbi Stambler: Then now we're back again,
sending out the best matzo,
the real matzo, throughout the whole world.
Narrator: Still, more than half of Americans
buy matzo that comes off an assembly line.
The last family-owned
matzo maker in America called Streit's
can produce up to a million square-shaped sheets in a day.
And it's been at it for nearly a century.
Whether it's machine made or handmade,
many Jews have dedicated their lives
to preserving what they call the bread of the poor.
So how did this traditional food grow
into a $110 million industry?
Handmade matzo called shmura, or guarded, in Hebrew
is what the Ukrainian bakery Tiferes Hamatzos
specializes in making.
Rabbi Stambler: You have to keep,
and you have to secure the matzo.
Narrator: This is Rabbi Meir Stambler.
He inherited the business from his father 12 years ago.
Today, he supervises the work in accordance with Jewish law.
The bakery grinds the wheat on site,
and Rabbi Stambler regulates the amount of heat and moisture
to keep the dough from rising.
Rabbi Stambler: This is custom made for us,
making sure it doesn't get heated too much.
From the moment that the wheat is in the field,
if it has any contact with water that is already a problem.
Narrator: The unleavened bread
is made of just two ingredients,
flour and water,
but making the dough is labor intensive.
Joseph says this helps him keep his mind
off of what's happening outside.
Rabbi Stambler: It's all made by hand.
It's going to take him
about a minute until it's ready.
Narrator: From there it's a race against the clock
because the dough has to make it to the oven in just
18 minutes so it doesn't rise.
Rabbi Stambler: When the Jews left Egypt
they didn't have time to bake their bread.
So they had it very fast
and what they ate was matzo.
Narrator: And everyone who touches the matzo
until it's baked must be observant Jews.
This metal rod helps workers knead the dough faster
Rabbi Stambler: He is making sure that it's being well done.
So this is a real piece of dough.
Narrator: Then they roll it into long logs
and flatten it out with rolling pins.
When it makes it to the oven, it bakes fast.
Rabbi Stambler: Maximum 10 seconds.
You'll see it's out of the oven
and this is a ready matzo to eat for the Seder night.
Narrator: Production has been going strong
despite the Russian invasion.
This would be unthinkable in previous generations.
The city's chief Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson
was arrested and exiled in 1939
for providing matzo for the region's Jews.
But since the fall of the Soviet Union,
Dnipro now has the most Jews per capita
of any city in Ukraine.
The massive 7-branched Menorah center
and surrounding neighborhood
has been come a hub for war relief efforts.
Russia has targeted Ukrainian missiles
on the outskirts of the city
and Dnipro's airport was recently attacked.
Rabbi Stambler: They don't have time to be afraid.
We're busy with saving lives, evacuations, humanitarian aid,
making sure they get whatever they need
in medicine and food, and really saving lives 24/7.
There's no time to be afraid.
There's no time to think about it.
Narrator: Rabbi Stambler,
a member of the Chabad Hasidic movement,
takes pride in contributing to this renaissance
with matzo made the old fashioned way.
The constant supervision and labor
makes shmura matzo three to six times more expensive
than machine made.
Even though the biggest shipments
left Ukraine earlier this year
the bakery exports right up until the Passover holiday.
Narrator: Ukraine normally exports
about 70 tons of matzo each year.
But war is getting in the way.
Rabbi Stambler said he had two containers full of matzo
temporarily stuck at the ports in late February.
Rabbi Stambler: Two hours before the boat was supposed
to leave, the war broke out.
We released them,
but it was too late to send them to the States.
Some of them stayed over here.
Some of them we managed to ship to the UK.
Narrator: This kind of handmade matzo
nearly disappeared after World War II
when mass produced ones became more affordable.
It was the son of the same Rabbi arrested in Dnipro
who revived it in the 1950s.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson was living in Brooklyn
when he launched a campaign to distribute shmura matzo
to Jewish families.
And the number of people who eat shmura matzo
continues to expand.
America produced 1 million pounds of shmura matzo
in 2017, and the market has grown 30% since then.
But handmade matzo makes up just a third
of all matzo sold in the United States.
Mass produced ones make up the bulk
of the $110 million industry.
Streit's is the last large family-owned matzo producer
in the US.
The company managed to stay afloat,
but it had to relocate to this facility
in Orangeburg, New York in 2017
after running a factory in Manhattan for nearly a century.
Aaron: The last day leaving the factory was a very sad day.
We stayed probably longer than we should have
just out of nostalgia.
Narrator: That's Aaron Gross,
the great-great-grandson of the company's founder,
Aron Streit.
Although the machines have been upgraded,
he still uses the same recipe.
Aaron: We're going to say it's about 200 pounds of flour,
70 to 80 pounds of water,
depending on humidity in the air.
Narrator: Just like at the handmade bakery,
workers here have to beat the clock.
The dough drops through a hopper to the floor below.
Kosher laws require that the bowls be cleaned
in between each batch.
Yeah, just water.
Narrator: Just like in Ukraine,
everyone who handles the dough from here
is an observant Jew.
During the run up to Passover
there are eight full-time rabbis at this facility.
And some of the staff have worked here for decades.
Michael's worked here for six years.
Oh no, 33 years.
Narrator: When something goes wrong,
he springs into action.
Aaron: And he drives me crazy,
because he is like, he'll feel it,
"Oh no, it needs a quarter pound more water."
I'm like Michael, a quarter pound more water?
And he is like, "No, no, it definitely does."
Narrator: This machine called a radler
adds a bunch of little holes.
So it's not like a lavash or a flatbread.
Then it cuts it in six rows.
This belt here spreads it
and then it gets cut again and put into the oven.
We're about nine or about 10 minutes into the process.
And it's dropping into the oven right here.
And it's going to cook for about a minute and a half,
740 degrees.
Narrator: The finished matzo comes out the other side.
At the Rivington Street factory,
workers used to load the matzo by hand
onto conveyor belts as it came out of the oven.
But here, robotic arms get the sheets into boxes
and out the door just in time for the Passover holiday.
So why go through all this trouble for a cracker?
Aaron: When I say most family businesses,
I think by the third generation
the third generation usually screws it up.
I'm fifth.
So I think we got past, hopefully got past that hump.
It's a beautiful business.
It's a very niche, unique business.
Narrator: And is there room at the Seder table
for both types of matzo?
Aaron: We started as a hand bakery on Pitt Street.
So I think the more people that are observing Passover
and are celebrating the holiday,
we all grow together.