The Woman in the Purple Hat
There I was, standing bravely in front of the congregation, propped up on the Bima— or at least pretending to be. Thankfully, this was just another rehearsal, because let’s be honest, I was so not Bat Mitzvah ready.
“Kol hakavod!” the rabbi called out, clapping his hands from the back row, his voice echoing through the empty temple. He was, after all, my entire audience. Kol hakavod means all the honor, which is otherwise known as “Nice try, kid.”
In Jewish tradition, thirteen marks the magical age where a girl becomes a woman. But at thirteen, I was still figuring out how to keep my lipgloss off my pink braces. So when my Bat Mitzvah approached, I wasn’t really radiating mature grown-woman energy. One of the requirements for this so-called transformation was completing a Mitzvah, otherwise known as a good deed, because nothing says adulthood like doing chores for God.
My rabbi suggested I meet with a Holocaust survivor to hear her story. He thought her experiences might help me find inspiration for my Mitzvah–though at thirteen, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for inspiration that heavy.
Nonetheless, I agreed, and about a week later, my mom and I met the Holocaust survivor at our local diner.
The air in the diner smelled of freshly baked bread, both warm and comforting. Waitresses in navy uniform pranced around, refilling mugs that never seemed to empty, and the hum of people enjoying each other’s company filled the atmosphere—laughing, plates clinking, and stories being told. Outside, the sky was dark, but inside, everything was golden, the kind of lighting that made the cupcake display look sacred.
Then she appeared: a woman in a bright purple hat with pink feathers, and enough sequins in her outfit to light up the diner. Before I could say a word, she pulled my mom and me into a hug that sparkled, too.
As we took our seats at a corner booth toward the back of the restaurant, she pushed a plate of fresh muffins toward me.
“Take one,” she said, her eyes warm.
We exchanged polite small talk, the kind that lingers before real meaning arrives. She spoke confidently about her passion for guiding others toward purpose, and then about her friendship with the Rabbi.
“I need a Mitzvah… for my Mitzvah Project,” I said. “But I just can’t think of anything.”
Her eyes locked with mine. I paused mid-bite.
“You seem to be a brave girl,” she said. “Let your Mitzvah be my story. I’m getting older, and so are the others who lived through the Holocaust. Hear my story now, and tell it when I no longer can.”
A cold chill crawled down my spine. Suddenly, my Mitzvah was right in front of me, filled with more meaning and responsibility than I’d ever expected.
The rest of the diner blurred into plain background noise, and she began to speak delicately.
She told me that when she was three years old, she and her siblings were separated when the Nazis invaded her home. Her neighbor, a nun, protected her and took her in. The nun hid her and several other Jewish children in her basement. She was constantly fighting for survival as a toddler, always on the run from the Nazis. When the war finally ended, she was sent to America at the age of five, where she was adopted by a Jewish American family. Her biological parents did not make it.
She told me about her life after the Holocaust, learning English, slowly forgetting her first language—French—and trying to build something resembling normalcy.
In her late twenties, she discovered she had biological siblings who had also survived the war and were still living in France.
I’ll never forget how she described their encounter: “I traveled to meet them, and we fully embraced each other like strangers waking up from the same nightmare.” My brother and I rarely go a single day without chatting.
I was desperately hanging onto every word she spoke. My mom and I remained silent, blinking back our tears, eyes fixed on her with awe and admiration.
She then reached into her brown, bedazzled purse and pulled out a folder thick with family photographs, birth certificates, and transportation records, all of which looked oddly out of place against the glittering rhinestones. All proof of a fragile life nearly erased.
“With these documents, and my siblings’ memories, and then some gaps filled in by distant relatives, the whole truth was finally revealed: the Gestapo arrested my father, and in March, 1943, he was gassed at Sobibor, the extermination camp. The following year, my mother and five of my other siblings were sent from Drancy to Auschwitz on the last train out. Their train not only carried innocent Jews, but the gas that would soon kill all of them.” She spoke softly but confidently, never breaking eye contact.
I couldn’t swallow the lump rising in my throat. It just felt so unbearably unfair. The Holocaust was something I had always read about in books, but hearing her voice turned this tragedy into something living, breathing, and unforgettable.
When we left the diner after hours of stories, laughs, and tears, we agreed to stay in touch. In the weeks following, I visited her home, where she showed me various family photographs and shared the memoir she had been working on about her story.
At age thirteen, I didn’t necessarily feel like a woman. But that day, I learned what it meant to be one. She embodied strength, resilience, kindness, and quiet power, everything I now understand womanhood to be.
When it came time for my Mitzvah speech on my big day, I proudly told her story. I shared what it meant to carry the weight and the honor of being trusted to remember and to share. When I finished speaking, I found her smiling proudly at me from the back of the congregation, wearing her purple hat.
That moment wasn’t the end — it was only the beginning. Seven years later, I still share her story with pride, making sure her voice lives on. Meeting her changed how I understood compassion and responsibility. I realized that doing good isn’t necessarily about completing a project or earning praise. What started as a Bat Mitzvah requirement became something much more profound: a promise to keep empathy at the center of everything I do, and a unique friendship that continues to shape the person I’m still becoming.
I thought becoming a woman meant reading from the Torah without forgetting any Hebrew words on my Bat Mitzvah day. And I didn’t leave that diner any taller or smarter, but I walked out with someone else’s story woven into mine.
In a time where antisemitism feels louder today than ever before, I carry her story proudly. Because at thirteen, I learned that womanhood is also strength spoken aloud, and maybe getting my braces off in time for my Bat Mitzvah party wasn’t the most important thing after all.
Lindsey Lenchner is a senior at Penn State University in State College, Pennsylvania, pursuing a degree in Advertising with minors in English and Creative Writing. She finds joy in reading and writing and is passionate about creativity and storytelling. Outside of her studies, Lindsey enjoys traveling, laughing with friends and family, and going for peaceful outdoor runs.
