I look at my father. There’s a fire, he says, a bad one. We need to get home, fast
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As told to Faigy Schonfeld
W hen my brother calls to tell us that the house is burning the sun is already dipping red-gold reflecting off the glass showcase where I stand.
I draw air sharply the Geneva pendant in my hand clatters to the floor. I bend to retrieve it and my older sister Dina raises an eyebrow at me her fingers around a Lucerne bangle set with ruby and sapphire stones. “What happened?”
I try to talk but feel my throat caving in.
My father takes the phone from me. “Dovid. What’s going on?” My father listens jaw tensing; he closes his eyes. “We’re coming” he says finally.
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