And in the quiet, it did feel like that. Like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

But as the morning went on, and the sun rose a little higher in the sky, the sounds on the streets that came wafting through the windows didn’t feel okay at all.

The men went to one of the side rooms to daven, and Reb Shmuel’s daughters and I tried to daven in the kitchen. But my mind kept jumping to the window, creating pictures of the scenes below. The footsteps, the pounding of running feet, and the screams of the Arab men that I could hear outside all played loudly in my head and I couldn’t concentrate.

When everyone was finished davening, we sat there quietly, no one sure what we should do next. Should we start the seudah? Suddenly, the sound of pounding footsteps reverberated around the room, banging up the steps. I grabbed Mama’s hand in fear, but the footsteps passed right by our door and continued upward toward the door of our apartment. Then we heard banging, pounding, on the door above our heads.

“Mr. Yosef,” an Arab-accented voice shouted from above, and then more pounding. More banging. “Mr. Yosef, open the door. I want to help you. Open up. It’s me. Issa. Mr. Yosef?”

Mama looked at Papa, fear in her eyes.

“What should we do?” Reb Shmuel asked Papa in a low voice. “Do you trust him?”

“Issa?” Papa asked, although we all knew who Reb Shmuel was talking about. “I did. I always did. For years, I trusted him.”

And now? The question hung in the air, unspoken. Should we trust Issa? Should Papa open the door? And if he did, could Issa really help us?

Slowly, Papa stood up from his chair and went to the door. “Issa,” he called, opening the door a crack to call out into the hallway, “I’m here. In the downstairs apartment.” As soon as he said those words, he quickly closed the door. If Issa was coming to hurt us, at least we would have the door between us.

We heard the sound of footsteps and then suddenly, Issa was there. “Mr. Yosef,” he called through the door.

“Yes?” Papa answered, standing on the inside without opening the door for his worker. “What do you want?”

“Come with me,” Issa urged. “Come to my house. You can hide there until this is all over. I will protect you. Please.”

“Yosef?” Mama called across the room, her voice quiet enough that Issa wouldn’t be able to hear through the door. “Should we?”

“Do you trust him, Reb Yosef?” Reb Shmuel asked in a hushed tone, as well. “For all we know he might have a murderous mob waiting to kill us all if we follow him.”

“I—” Papa opened his mouth and then closed it again.

For the first time in my life I saw Papa unsure of what to do next. He always had all the answers. Always knew what was best for us. For our family. But now I looked at him and I could see that he didn’t know what to say.

“Papa,” I whispered.

“Shhh, Elka,” Papa responded. “I need to think.” He turned to Reb Shmuel and addressed the rest of his words to him. “A week ago,” Papa explained, “I would have trusted him with my life. We have worked together for four years now. Issa was always loyal and kind.”

“But now?” Reb Shmuel urged.

“All our loyal and kind neighbors are running through the streets madly hunting for Jews to kill. Is this a risk we can take?”

“Mr. Yosef, please,” Issa called again through the door, “I cannot stay here too long or someone will suspect me. Please come with me now.”

“No,” Papa said decisively, just loud enough for us all to hear him. “No,” he said a little louder, this time loud enough for Issa to hear. “We will stay here together. Thank you, Issa, for your offer, but I feel safer here. Together with other Jews.”

“Please come,” Issa begged through the door. “They will come for you and then what will you do?”

“We will take care of ourselves, Issa,” Papa said. “Now please leave so no one follows you to us.”

I could hear Issa’s footsteps as he made his way back down the steps and out into the street. Thinking of the words Akeem had said to me just last week, when he had threatened to kill Papa, I was glad we were not following Issa. Who said it wasn’t a trap?

The screaming from the streets pierced through the windows — Arab voices that sounded mad, crazed. They held knives in their hands. I heard the words “Atbach al Yahud,” strong and guttural and fierce, rising high above the rest of the noise.

I sat close to Mama, cuddling Yisroel on my lap, as if it would save me. As if I could protect my little baby brother just by holding him. Next to us, Papa, Reb Shmuel, and Dovid began dragging the table to the door, blocking it. They piled it with chairs and then moved to the bedroom to bring the big heavy bed, which they stood up against the door.

And then we waited. And davened. And tried not to listen to the fearsome sounds coming in from outside as we hoped against hope that our Arab neighbors would never come.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 909)