The moon was still out when Rose awoke. Its strong blaring light illuminated the small room that she inhabited. She rose from her bed, still half asleep and journeyed to her window. Through it she saw the fires of countless torches radiating in the distance. Accompanying the light, she could hear the distant shouts of many furious voices. Although she could not perceive everything they were screaming, she could hear the forsaken sentence that she had been told to fear since childhood: убивать евреев–Kill the Jews.

A prodigious chill scraped down Rose's body: her greatest fear had turned into reality, and it was marching straight towards her. Rose screamed and ran through the house searching for the one and only person she had left–her mother.

Throughout her childhood, Rose lived a life without a father. Near Rose's first birthday, a conflict erupted with the Ottoman Empire. Due to this, many young men of the village, along with her father, were forced to enlist in the army. The war only lasted a year but the news of her father came much later. She could still remember the day they received the letter: her mother was placing matzo-ball soup on the table. Every day Rose's mother would cook that matzo-ball soup: Not for herself and not for Rose, but because in the back of her mind she thought that maybe, just maybe, making her husband’s favorite meal would trigger his return.

There were exactly three knocks on the door; ever since he left no one ever knocked. She ran to the door, her small legs carrying her at a rapid pace. Yet when she cracked open the door a few inches outwards, she saw the truth that she had greatly feared. A letter was placed on the front steps, signed with a great big colorful stamp displaying the military's logo. Her mother picked up the letter and began to cry. Slowly at first with a few tears tumbling down her cheeks; yet, as time passed by the crying shifted into an orchestra of wails and moans.

When Rose ventured to her mother and glanced at the letter, she instantly concluded that the stamp engraved on it must be the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. That must be why mother is laughing. Because mother is too brave to cry.

The military said that he died a noble and valorable death in battle. They said that he was a war hero. That he had saved hundreds if not thousands of soldiers with his shrewdness and intelligence on the battlefield. They said that if it were not for him, they may have lost the war. But the words of the letter did not change the dreadful feeling that both Rose and her mother felt that day–nothing would.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Soon after his death, Rose’s mother realized that she had to put food on the table. She asked almost every resident of the village for a job. Begging them that they could pay her less than what any of the men were asking for. Begging them to just give her a small portion of food for her daughter, even if they did not have enough for themselves. But because of her womanhood, she and her daughter were left hungry, foraging on the street for someone, anyone to help. And eventually help came.

The synagogue treated her kindly and well. It gave her a job as a canter and paid her in food, rent, and even gave Rose Jewish figurines to play with. Rose’s mother would return home from the synagogue after a long day of work, a bag full of food clenched in her fists.

For Rose, the synagogue was her childhood–her life. Every day, her mother would drop her off at the synagogue with her other friends, and they would run around the streets of the little village, causing trouble in every spot they went. On Fridays, Rose would spend her day at the synagogue, listening to her mother sing the beautiful prayers of שַׁבָּת.

But now, as Rose looked off into the distance at the raving mob, the traditions that had once seemed so beautiful and divine horrified her. She ventured outside and caught sight of her mother. She was shaking back and forth on the rocking chair, a look of dread engraved upon her face.

“We should have left earlier my darling,” Rose’s mother mumbled, fear creeping through her voice, “we should have gotten our visas and fled to America.”

“But we couldn’t afford them mother.”

“We could have sold everything. We could have escaped this. It is my fault.”

Rose’s mother burst into tears. She turned towards Rose, a desperate plea escaping from her heavily bitten lips.

“If we leave now, we may be able to escape.”

“We won't make it.” Rose paused. “I have a better idea.”

The cellar was a cramped space. Its low hanging roof and narrow walls would make any normal person claustrophobic while inside. Closing the trapdoor, they slid into the cellar and created a dust like hurricane that swirled around its outer walls. The food residing in it was years if not over a decade old and the contents inside were clearly rotted.

For what seemed like hours they waited–holding their breath as the steps of angered men stomped upon the house's ancient wooden floors.

“Will we be ok, Mother?” Rose whispered, her voice childish and fearful.

“I hope so, my Darling.”

And as if a storm was forming, a boundless silence overran the cellar. And then, it began.