Hadassah

the night..

That night, as we tried to sleep, the sounds of shattering glass and shouting outside made it impossible. I could hear angry voices, and my stomach twisted with fear. People were throwing bricks at our windows, shouting horrible things just because we were Jewish. I clutched my Puff Puff plushie tighter, feeling like the whole world was coming apart outside those walls.

Pops and Dad didn’t say much; they just moved quickly. Pops pulled me from my bed, his face grim. "Haddie, we have to go. Get your things, just what’s most important. We don’t have time."

I grabbed my small backpack, stuffing it with whatever I could. The sounds outside grew louder—the smashing, the yelling. Somewhere down the street, flames flickered through the night. They were burning the synagogue. Destroying the shops we went to every week.

Dad tried to keep his voice steady as he whispered, “They want us out. They don’t want us to belong here anymore.” His eyes glistened, and I could see the anger mixed with fear. He was trying to hold it together for us, but I could tell he was scared, too.

Pops gave me a look of fierce determination as he squeezed my shoulder. “We’re heading to the ghetto now, Haddie. It’s not going to be like home, but it’s where we’ll be together and safe.”

“Why do they hate us so much?” I whispered, the words barely leaving my mouth as I tried to understand.

Pops’s eyes softened, but he didn’t have an answer for me. "It’s senseless, Haddie. But we’ll stay strong. We’ll make it through this."

As we crept out the back door, I could smell smoke hanging heavy in the air. The night felt suffocating, full of thick tension and the crackling sound of fires nearby. Pops held my hand tightly, guiding me down the alley as Dad scanned our surroundings, always checking over his shoulder.

Just a few blocks away, I caught sight of our synagogue—or what was left of it. Flames licked up the stone walls, dancing wildly as the roof began to collapse. The orange glow painted the street in an eerie light, casting long, dark shadows over everything.

I stopped in my tracks, frozen as I watched it burn. All the memories we’d made there flooded back: Shabbat dinners, holidays, quiet moments of prayer. All of it, going up in flames before my eyes. I felt tears sting, but I couldn’t look away.

Pops squeezed my hand, his face set in a hard line as he stared at the flames. “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered, barely audible, almost like he was talking to himself. His voice was raw and distant, as if he were lost in a different time and place.

Dad put a hand on my shoulder and tried to turn me away, but I resisted, gripping Pops’s hand tighter. “Why are they doing this to us?” I choked out, the words catching in my throat.

Dad looked down, his expression a mixture of sorrow and anger. “People…they look for someone to blame, and they choose us,” he said quietly. “They choose anyone who’s different, anyone they don’t understand.”

Pops glanced at me, his gaze steady but sad. “We’ve done nothing wrong, Haddie. This is just hate. And it’s not the first time.”

It was then I noticed the shattered glass and looted storefronts along the street. Stores that had been part of our lives forever—the bakery where Pops would buy challah on Fridays, the deli where Dad would take me for treats after school—all reduced to rubble and ash.

The sounds of shouting echoed in the distance. More people were throwing bricks, vandalizing Jewish-owned shops and homes. I looked up at Pops, and he gave me a look that said, “Keep going. Don’t look back.”

We moved quickly, staying close to the shadows. The ghetto was on the other side of town, but Pops had scouted a route for us—safer paths through alleyways, hidden corners where we could avoid the patrols.

As we walked, I saw other families hurrying in the same direction, carrying what little they could. Children clung to their parents, wide-eyed and silent, just like me. In the crowd, no one spoke, but everyone shared the same haunted look, the same fear. We were all being herded to this new place, to a ghetto where they told us we would “belong.”

Pops and Dad stayed close, each holding onto me tightly. I tried to focus on the rhythm of their footsteps, on the warmth of their hands, but the sight of that burning synagogue stayed in my mind, a reminder of everything we were leaving behind.

Finally, we arrived at the ghetto, a fenced-off section of town with narrow, cramped streets. Armed guards watched us as we entered, their expressions cold and indifferent. Pops guided us to a small room in a dilapidated building, where we’d be staying with two other families.

Our new “home” was barely big enough for us to sit down, let alone sleep. Dad cleared a small space for me, arranging our bags to make something like a bed. He tried to give me a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“We’re here, Haddie. We’re safe,” he whispered, though his voice wavered.

I nodded, trying to believe him. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.