Jerusalem, Israel, 586 BC

It was a grim scene in the city of Jerusalem that night. Nebuchadnezzar’s Army from Babylon had begun its attack on the city two days ago, and it was proving to be a gruesome scene. Now, after the rest of the city and the royal palace had been looted and burned, the army turned to bring about the destruction of the Holy Temple.

A wizened old rabbi sat solemnly in the Holy Temple, praying silently. His home had been ransacked, his city destroyed, but still he prayed. The sounds of the coming destruction grew louder. He knew they came to desecrate this place that was most sacred to the Jewish people, and he knew that he would most assuredly die with the collapse of the temple. Though he understood that religion was not something that could be destroyed in the desecration of the temple, he hoped that there would be enough survivors tonight that would have the strength to carry on the faith for many more generations..

The army broke down the doors to the temple.

The rabbi hoped for future peace.

They spilled jars of oil throughout the temple to feed the magnificent flame that would quickly destroy this sacred place.

He hoped for the coming of the Messiah.

They threw torches into the temple, instantly igniting the oil, and burning the Holy Temple.

He hoped for the rebuilding of Jerusalem.

They spat, and cursed the Jewish God as the flames grew.

He hoped that someday the prejudice and hate would stop, and such destruction would end.

The temple was engulfed in flames, and as it collapsed around the gentle rabbi, he clung to hope in the promises of the Torah.

—

Vienna, Austria, September 9, 1938

Flames flying, people screaming, the sound of shattering glass, the smell of burning flesh permeating the dense, ashen night air. All of this swirls around me in a dizzying eeriness. Adrenaline pumping, my heart racing, I jump behind a pile of rubble as shots ring out behind me, and another innocent Jew is reduced to a bloody mess on the cold cement.

Everything is happening so fast. As I sit behind the pile of burnt rubble, taking in all of the atrocities of the horrific night, I begin to think about my family, thankful in a way that they are not here to witness this nightmare. Was it really only this afternoon that the S.S. had barged into my grandparents little shop, and forced them and my mother, father, and little brother out in the square to be tied up with other friends and family and thrown into our burning synagogue? All of that seems so distant, so far away. Everything has changed in such a short period of time.

I woke up this morning naïve to how completely inhumane humans could be, and now here I am, running for my life as people murder their own neighbors. We had heard this morning that someone in Paris had murdered a Nazi official named Ernst vom Rath, but could all of this murder and chaos be because of one man? Or was there something else, something deeper at the root of this mass violence?

I turn down a side street, hoping for some place relatively safe where I can catch my breath. I stop dead in my tracks - there is a group of Nazi youth beating a young family in front of their home.

"Why?!" the father cries out. "What have we done?!"

"Stupid vermin," the Nazi mutters, kicking the man in the groin. "Why don’t you ask the half-witted assassin, Herschel Grynszpan?"

I crept back down the street, shocked. Herschel Grynszpan! I could not believe it! I had known him back in Hanover, before we had fled here to Vienna to live with my grandparents when Hitler was appointed Chancellor in 1933. He had gone to my school, and I had kept in contact with him for a while after we moved. In fact, I had just heard from him a couple days ago. His letters had become increasingly more bitter as we had written back and forth, but this last letter was the worst. He had written saying that he had escaped to Paris, and was living with his aunt and uncle there illegally. He also said that his parents had been arrested with 12,000 other Polish Jews, and deported out of Germany, but that Poland would not let them in. They were stranded without food or shelter with no place to turn for help. The letter was confusing, and filled with an overpowering, restless hatred for the Nazis that seemed to consume his every thought. But who would have thought that he would murder someone, and spark such a tumultuous and violent outburst all across the Third Reich?

Still, I should have done something, said something to Herschel. Something to prevent his hatred from taking over, but I did nothing. I did nothing, and the hatred flourished. I sat on the sidelines, and watched as the hatred consumed his very being, just as the world sits back and watches Hitler breed Anti-Semitism here. The hatred has taken over, and nothing is done.. Synagogues are burned and people turn their heads. Stores and shops are looted, and it’s business as usual for the rest of the world. Mass violence breaks out, and people turn the page to read a more pleasant story...

A futile shriek for mercy rings out from some corner of the city, abruptly ending my train of thought, and bringing me back to the harsh reality of the phantasmal nightmare going on around me. Somehow I must escape, but where can I turn? Where can I go? The whole world is infected with prejudice and hate - the same hate that grew into violence in Herschel, in Hitler, in German society, and right here tonight in Vienna. There is no safe place to go until we get rid of prejudice and hatred; they are the root of mass violence. When hatred and prejudice have taken root in a person or society and have been left to flourish and grow, it’s only a matter of finding an excuse, however unreasonable, to lash out against the discriminated.

The streets have quieted, adding to the eeriness of the breaking dawn. Shards of glass litter the streets, and I silently say Kaddish over the burnt remains of the synagogue my family met their fate in as I pass it. I can’t help but wonder what the new day will bring, but I know I must cling to the only thing I have left: hope.