A Mighty Stand
It is the eve of Passover, 1943. And we are ready to fight. Some may ask if we want to fight. Of course not. People want to live. They want to raise children. Laugh with friends. But we don't have that option. We're Jews living in the Warsaw Ghetto.
I look around me. There is Elena. A fiery-haired woman in her mid-twenties. Though young, her face is marked with lines of worry and scars of trying times. Yet her eyes are alive with purpose. Before the ghetto years, in what feels like long ago normal times, she was my neighbor. Back then, people called her stubborn. Now, they say she is determined and defiant.
Years of ghetto life have hardened Elena. Like us all, she has watched people perish from disease and starvation, watched parents clutch their children's tiny hands as they walked towards the trains for deportation to concentration camps. To a near certain death. The tears have been too many to count. And now, when she cries, the tears no longer come.
Then, there is Marek, a tall man with a broad frame and deep-set eyes that convey a mixture of strength and weariness. His dark hair is a mop of curls, and his long beard speaks of sleepless nights. He is thoughtful, with a warm demeanor and a gentle nature. Before the war and in the ghetto, he was a beloved teacher. A mass of students would always assemble in his classrooms.