The bang that shattered the afternoon on Thursday at Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, Mich., was so loud, so inexplicable, that several rabbis and staff members in the building rushed into the hallway all at once.
A truck had rammed through the building doors and down a corridor, past the nursery where infants slept, veering toward the gym where children played. Debris was falling from the ceiling and crumpled walls. Rabbi Arianna Gordon saw an overturned stroller surrounded by broken glass and a security guard rushing by with his weapon drawn.
Then the sound of gunfire ricocheted through the building, reaching the administrative offices and classrooms, and the ears of dozens of children enrolled in the preschool. The truck became engulfed in flames, filling the halls and offices with smoke.
“We needed to get away and get to a safe place,” said Cassi Cohen, a development director, who was in her office. “That was the only thing going through my head.”
In the end, the assault on Temple Israel, which left the attacker dead and one security guard injured was, as some members put it, a shock but not a surprise. A sprawling Reform synagogue with some 12,000 members, it is one of the largest in the country, an anchor of the Jewish community in suburban Detroit.
Security had been an ever-present concern, particularly since the Hamas attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, leaving synagogues throughout the United States bracing as potential targets for violence. Temple Israel had ramped up its security, studying threats to Jewish people and assessing what more could be done to keep its own community safe.
Only weeks ago, staff and clergy members participated in active shooter training. Special agents from the F.B.I. briefed the staff and rabbis on what to do if the synagogue was under attack.
On Thursday, with 103 children and nearly 50 teachers, clergy and staff members inside the building, Temple Israel responded without a pause.
Security guards ran toward the truck, shouting at staff members to stay in their offices. Rabbi Gordon did as she had been trained, using a texting platform to notify teachers that there was an emergency. Teachers shut doors and barricaded them with overturned tables. Ms. Cohen, fighting an urge to flee, also did as she was told, locking her office door, pulling down the window shade and huddling under her desk.
Within five minutes, police officers had arrived at the synagogue, the wail of their sirens loud enough to be heard for miles.
Lindsay Kalt, a reading specialist who works part time at Temple Israel and has a 4-year-old son in the preschool, had just left the school at noon but returned when she glimpsed smoke billowing from the building.
Police officers who had just arrived barred her from entering. Desperate to help, she messaged teachers from her phone, passing along instructions from the police.
Barricade the doors, she told them. Do not let anyone in. But if you can get kids out windows, do that.
Ms. Kalt texted her son’s teacher. “Marci,” she wrote, “protect our kids.”
The teacher responded: “We are in the bathroom. Jodi and I have them. We’ve got this.”
Rabbi Gordon does not know if it was seconds or minutes, but the smell of smoke crept into her office, and the air began to look hazy. Security guards and police officers ushered employees out of the building, directing them toward two large trees on the opposite side of the parking lot.
Her own son, age 2, was still inside. “It was one of the most horrifying moments of my life,” Rabbi Gordon said.
Police officers and teachers carried children out of windows and through a side exit of the synagogue, heading to a nearby house only a short walk from the building.
There, the homeowner brought out blankets and the children cuddled with teachers as a rabbi helped lead them in song: “Bim Bam,” a popular Jewish children’s song, and “Wheels on the Bus.” Police officers entertained children by showing off their badges.
Yellow school buses arrived to bring the children, all of whom were safe, to Shenandoah Country Club across the street, where they would be reunited with their parents.
Ms. Kalt went to the club and waited for the children to arrive. Every time a child walked in, she texted the child’s parents. “I’ve got Ruby,” she would write. “I’ve got Avi.”
“I didn’t breathe until I knew all of the kids were OK,” she said. “They are all ours.”
The staff at Shenandoah, a club that serves the Chaldeans, a community of Christian people with roots in Iraq, gave the children chicken nuggets, French fries, cookies and M&Ms.
The children colored pictures while they waited for their parents to arrive.
“We treat our neighbors as we treat ourselves,” said Hassan Yazbek, the general manager of the club. “These are our brothers and sisters.”
At the end of Thursday, many of the smallest children at Temple Israel remained oblivious to the terror that had reached so close to their classrooms.
Taylor Weintraub reunited with her 5-year-old son, Madden, at the Shenandoah Country Club after walking more than a mile when she was told not to drive any closer to the scene. Madden thought it was a fire drill, and said that he heard some noises during the drill.
“He has been re-enacting the sound, which are clearly gun shots,” Ms. Weintraub said.
Another parent said that her 3-year-old son was cheerful, happily recounting that he got to ride on a yellow school bus. It was a great day, he told her.
Oralandar Brand-Williams contributed reporting from West Bloomfield, Mich.
Julie Bosman is the Chicago bureau chief for The Times, writing and reporting stories from around the Midwest.
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