Every year we build a succah next to our house. Three-by-three metres, it is a traditional white structure with colourful decorations. For the duration of Succot, like so many around the world, we pray and eat our meals inside.

Last Simcha Torah, I invited my children for dinner in the succah before we took it down for another year. My son, Ofir, and daughter-in-law, Sapir, who was nine months pregnant, travelled from their home in Ashkelon, and my daughter, Nofar, who has her own place on the kibbutz, also spent the night with us.

Over a meal of meat, potatoes and plenty of cake in the succah, we talked about Ofir and Sapir moving into our spare room when the baby arrived – it was due any day.

At that point, I had lived on Kibbutz Be’eri for 36 years and my husband, Erwin, had lived there for 46 years. When we met in Tel Aviv all those years ago, the fields of Be’eri were a world away from my home in Ramat Gan. I told Erwin when I moved to the kibbutz that I would only stay for a year, but I never went back to the city. Over time, I helped to establish a synagogue at Be’eri which we called “Ahavat Yisrael” (Love of/for Israel), and that’s where I was on October 6.

More than 50 people came to our Simcha Torah service, where we sang and danced. There was a party on the kibbutz that evening to mark 77 years since Be’eri was founded and lots of people went from the synagogue straight to the celebration.

During the service, I spoke to Yossi Sharabi, who often came to pray with his family. He and I agreed to go back to the synagogue the next day and clear up the mess left by the sweets. He was very involved in the synagogue, and I wanted him to take over my role as the community leader. I also chatted with Pessi Cohen.

Pessi was murdered the next day and Yossi was killed months later by Hamas in captivity in Gaza. On October 7, sirens woke us at 6.30. We weren’t too concerned because we had heard them before, but when we turned on the TV, we realised that alarms were sounding across the Gaza envelope. We were under attack.

A child's bicycle lies next to the family's charred home. (Photo: Kfir Sion)

Then we got a text saying terrorists had infiltrated the kibbutz. We heard gunshots, Ofir grabbed a kitchen knife, and we went into the mamad (safe room).

In the room, we received a phone call from our neighbour’s brother, who had been staying on the kibbutz the night before with his family. His son felt unwell in the middle of the night, so the family packed up the car and drove home, leaving our neighbour on his own. Our neighbour told us that his brother had already seen terrorists and that he was frightened and alone. Could he come into our mamad?

Quickly, I went to the front door to let him in, but no sooner had I opened it than I saw terrorists on the opposite rooftop and gunshots rained down on us. We ran back to the safe room with our neighbour, closed the window and Erwin and Ofir held the door shut. Suddenly, we heard terrorists storming our house, screaming, “Allahu Akbar”, and smashing things. A large vehicle rammed into our garden, crunching over the pergola.

The house was decimated by terrorists - this used to be the upstairs floor.

We heard terrorists in my kitchen making themselves coffee. We did not make a sound. Sapir was distraught, thinking we would all die, including her unborn baby. Our neighbour was struggling to breathe and desperate to escape; we had to pin him down to stop him from leaving.

After they drank the coffee, we heard the terrorists climbing onto our roof, which they used as a vantage point to shoot at the Israeli army. The sounds of tanks, gunfire, rockets and screams were all around. It was a warzone.

The mamad is hermetically sealed, so we did not feel the heat or smoke as our home was burning, it just got harder to breathe as the room was drained of oxygen.

Amid the chaos, I spoke to God.

I told him: “If you want to take me, that’s fine, just please make sure my children get out of here.” I repeated the Shema: “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One”. I did not panic, instead I read Psalms on my phone until my battery ran out.

One in ten residents of Kibbutz Be'eri were killed on October 7. Rachel and her family survived, but their home was destroyed (Photo: Kfir Sion)

WhatsApp was exploding with messages. Someone said that my family and I had been shot or kidnapped. Other messages warned that terrorists were killing people in their mamads, that they were shouting “help” in Hebrew and then shooting the IDF who were trying to rescue the residents.

My neighbour’s brother had contacted an army unit and told them about Sapir’s pregnancy. He told us the number of the battalion to expect, and they knew our last name. We had to make sure they were not a trap.

We sent the army a pin with our location via WhatsApp, but when they arrived just after 7pm, the pin sent them to a different burning house. Amid the smouldering building, they found a man inside alive. Later, he told me that he only survived because the army went to the wrong house first.

After they saved him, they came to our place, knocking and telling us their battalion number. “Trust us, we know someone in there is heavily pregnant.” We opened the window and saw the sweet faces of four soldiers looking in. They were calm and led us away. As we looked behind, we saw that our house, our home, was gone.

They wanted to take us to a house two doors down but there were terrorists everywhere. As the six of us walked, screams coming from every direction, terrorists shot at us but the IDF took them out.

In the midst of the horror, the army had secured a safe house. When we got there we met other people inside waiting to be evacuated from the kibbutz. After about 30 minutes, an armoured jeep arrived to take us to safety. There was only space for four, but 12 of us piled in.

(Photo: Kfir Sion)

We drove out of the kibbutz amid burning buildings and the dead bodies of our neighbours, soldiers and terrorists. The jeep led us to the gate of Kibbutz Be’eri, but the battle was still raging. Helicopters were arriving to evacuate injured soldiers and everywhere terrorists were shooting. We had to lie on the floor to avoid the bullets. It was another three hours before we were taken to the Dead Sea and safety by the IDF. We arrived in the early morning, barefoot and still in pyjamas.

For weeks, we heard the stories about the heroes who had saved our lives. One man, Elhanan Kalmanson, helped to save more than 100 people. He wasn’t called up to serve but he drove to the kibbutz as soon as he heard about the border breach. He was killed next to the ruins of our home in the early hours of October 8. We’re close to his family now and his dad told us that he raised his children to save others before himself: “If a Jew needs help, first you run and save them, and then you save yourself.”

Rachel Fricher showing soldiers around the synagogue shortly after the Be'eri massacre (Photo: Fricker family)

Two other soldiers were killed inside our home after we’d been rescued.

I remember looking back at my burning home and seeing nothing but flames except, miraculously, the succah. Somehow, it was still intact, a bright white structure against the charred ruins and smouldering flames. It stood in the garden for months after the attack, as soldiers took over the kibbutz and the world’s press arrived.

I see it as a symbol of our times. Our house was destroyed but the flimsy succah survived. Sometimes in life, you think things are stable, you think you know what you can hold onto, but life is fragile. We never know when things will be gone. That tiny structure, meant to last for seven days withstood the massacre, but our home, made of stone and brick, went up in flames.

The lulav and etrog and everything else inside the succah survived, too. I see them as the story of our people who stand together united in faith and togetherness

The synagogue I helped build was also undamaged. Months later, the IDF asked me for the keys, which had gone up in flames along with all of my other possessions. I gave them my blessing to break into the building. Inside the light was still on, Simcha Torah sweet wrappers littered the floor and there was food in the fridge.

Rachel Fricker at the Be'eri synagogue which she co-founded. (Photo: Kfir Sion)

Since then, the synagogue has hosted a wedding, a bris and a bar mitzvah, as life has slowly returned to the kibbutz.

One in ten of our community was killed on October 7, along with 31 soldiers. An additional 32 of our neighbours were taken hostage, and many still held captive in Gaza.

Although 70 people have returned to live on the kibbutz and our printing factory is operating, 80 per cent of us are still at the Dead Sea, in the same hotel we arrived at in October.

Sapir gave birth to baby Arbel two days after our rescue and they are both doing well. On October 10 we celebrated my granddaughter’s first birthday. We are preparing to leave the Dead Sea and move into our caravilla (mobile home) in Hatzerim near Be’er Sheva. Perhaps we will be there in time to erect a succah for this year’s celebrations.

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As told to Jane Prinsley. Translated by Jonathan Levi.