A small flicker, a smoldering ember. If left unchecked, it can become a raging inferno, consuming everything in its path. Unless someone stands tall and douses the flames. Four tales of courage

As Told to Brachi Zeivald by Esther Karpul

I was 19 when it happened.

I lived in Communist Russia, where I was studying engineering in university. It was the end of a grueling day, and I was back in my small apartment, doing my homework, when my pencil point broke. (All sketching was done by hand — who had a computer at home?) I couldn’t find my sharpener anywhere, so I headed to the kitchen to look for a sharp knife.

There was a tremendous crash. CRASH! The toilet in the bathroom had just cracked. Instantly, I realized someone had broken into the house through the unbarred bathroom window.

I tensed. I was a young girl, in an empty apartment, and I knew I was in serious danger. I couldn’t flee the apartment — to do so, I’d need to pass the bathroom, which would mean risking a head-on confrontation with a presumably armed burglar.

Still holding that knife, I opened the kitchen door, walked into the hallway — and met the intruder face-to-face. I froze.

The phone rang, shattering the silence. Instinctively, I extended my hand toward the receiver. “Don’t pick up!” the burglar barked.

I trembled. My mind flooded with horrific thoughts and scenarios; I pictured my mother mourning me. But then I steeled myself. Concentrating hard, I commanded myself to focus on the here and now, on his face, twisted into an evil mask.

“Go into the living room!” he barked. As he pointed toward the doorway, I saw a knife in his hand.