The Devil's Arithmetic

by Jane Yolen

  Beside her, Aaron was moving restlessly, getting ready to ask the Second Question. With the yarmulke covering his fair hair, he looked like a miniature Grandpa Will. Hannah almost laughed aloud remembering what Rosemary had asked at her first—and only—holiday visit: “Why do they wear those beanies?”

  Aaron’s hands shook and a page in the Haggadah flipped over by itself. Hannah reached out and smoothed it back for him and he smiled up at her gratefully. He has the greatest smile, Hannah thought. He won’t need braces.

  “Stop worrying,” she mouthed at him.

  At her urging, he plunged into the Second Question, chanting the Hebrew perfectly because he’d memorized it. But when he looked down at the book to read the English translation, he stumbled over the word herb, pronouncing the h. Uncle Sam snorted and Aaron stopped, mortified. He looked around the table. Everyone was smiling at him. It was clear that he’d made some silly mistake, but he didn’t know what it was he’d done. He turned helplessly to Hannah.

  “’Erb,” she corrected with a whisper. “Don’t pronounce the h.”

  He nodded gratefully and started on the English again, finishing too loudly and in a rush, a sure sign he was unhappy. “On all other nights we eat vegetables and ’erbs of all kinds. Why on this night do we eat bitter ’erbs especially?”

  Why indeed, Hannah wondered. Since they’re so disgusting. Rosemary gets to eat jelly beans and I get to eat horseradish. “It isn’t fair!” She realized suddenly that she’d spoken the last words out loud and everyone had heard. Embarrassed, she stared down at her hands, but her anger at the injustice continued.

  “Of course it isn’t fair,” whispered Aunt Eva to her, “but what has fair to do with it?” She smiled and, to break the tension, started singing “Dayenu” in her strong, musical voice. The rousing repetitive song carried them all along, even Hannah’s mother, who was tone deaf.

  Da-da-yaynu

  Da-da-yaynu

  Da-yaynu, Da-yaynu.

  Hannah knew it meant “it would have been enough,” but she suddenly felt that nothing was enough except to get out of that room and that Seder in which nothing fair or fun was happening.

  And then she remembered the wine. That, at least, was new. When the Seder began again, she would get another glass of watered wine. For the first time, she was being allowed to drink along with the grown-ups.

  “Let Hannahleh join in the toasts for real,” Grandpa Will had said before the Seder had begun.

  “Now, Poppy,” Hannah’s mother protested, “she’s only twelve.”

  “Thirteen,” Hannah said.

  Eva had patted her hand.

  “And when my sister Eva was thirteen, what she would have given for a little glass of watered wine . . . ,” Grandpa Will had begun. It was the same kind of argument he used for everything. He never had to finish the sentence, for no one could withstand the promise of guilt.

  “All right, Poppy.”

  Grandpa Will had smiled, turning to Eva. “See, they can’t keep her a baby forever.”

  Babies, like Aaron, had to make do with grape juice. Hannah had been grateful to her grandfather for that. And she had discovered, with the very first toast, that she liked the sweet, cloying taste of the wine, even though it made her head buzz.

  “Hannah!” Aaron tugged on her sleeve and his eyes were full of mischief. “It’s time.”

  “Time?” For a moment she thought he meant time for the next toast, and then she realized he meant time to steal the afikoman, the matzoh wrapped in the blue embroidered cloth. Looking around the table, she saw that the adults were all suddenly very busy talking to one another. She remembered when, as the only child, she’d been the one to take the afikoman; she’d thought herself terribly clever when she found it under Grandpa Will’s chair. Of course, now she knew that he always hid it there for easy discovery. She smiled at Aaron, suddenly feeling very adult. “You go look for it. I’ll keep watch here.”

  “Okay.” He slipped from his chair and crawled around to the head of the table. Then he leaped to his feet, holding the blue cloth and its crumbling contents high over his head. “I found it, Poppy! Now I get to hide it.” He ran from the room, but no one leaped up to follow.

  “He’s going to hide it in the bathroom,” Hannah said to no one in particular. “He always does.”

  “Hush, Hannahleh, don’t spoil things,” Aunt Rose said.

  “You always hid the afikoman under Grandma Belle’s pillow,” Aunt Eva said.

  “You knew?”

  Uncle Sam guffawed. “You left enough crumbs.”

  “Knowing and not-knowing,” her mother said and sighed. “It’s all part of the game. And the game is to uncover the hidden order of the universe. Seder means ‘order.’ I read that in a book.”

  “What hidden order?” Grandpa Will said. “Do you think there was order back in the camps? Do you think . . .”

  Eva interrupted smoothly. “Lily, Lily, you are much too serious about these things. Let the children play. They are children for such a short time. And it’s not as if we keep kosher or do things as a rabbi would. We do it for the children. Isn’t that right, Belle?”

  Grandma Belle nodded. “So they can have fun and remember their history.”

  Brushing the stray wisps of white hair from her broad forehead, Eva rose. “Here we come, Aaron, ready or not.” Signaling the others to follow her, she left the dining room.

  The men stayed at the table talking, but Aunt Eva and Aunt Rose went into the bedroom in a noisy search. Hannah’s mother was almost as loud looking about the kitchen. They spent minutes calling out to each other about how difficult Aaron was to find this year, until Grandpa Will put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle that brought them all back.

  Hannah had been waiting at the bathroom door as if on guard. At the whistle, the door opened and Aaron peeked out.

  “Hannah, I’m in here,” he whispered.

  “Big surprise,” Hannah said, slipping into the room.

  “Look where I hid the afikoman.” He took the blue cloth out of the dirty clothes basket.

  “That’s disgusting, Aaron, hiding it in someone’s laundry.”

  “They never even looked in here, Hannah. I flushed the toilet and pretended to be going, and no one came in.” He grinned.

  “You’re so smart, Ron-ron.” Hannah had to laugh at his earnestness. “What are you going to ask Poppy for?”

  “A baseball glove.”

  She knew how much he wanted one. He’d been saving his Chanukah money and doing extra chores.

  “Good choice,” she said. “No matter what Poppy offers you to buy back the afikoman, you hold out for that glove.” She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, wondering when the braces would come off. This summer, if she was lucky. “I got a Barbie doll dress collection once.” She didn’t admit that she’d regretted it right after. When she turned to say something else, Aaron was already gone.

  The rest of the Passover meal was tempting, but Hannah had eaten so much at Rosemary’s, she only picked at her food. Besides, her head was beginning to throb.

  Uncle Sam poured another quarter glass of wine into her glass, then filled it the rest of the way with water for the next blessing. Suddenly she was sure she didn’t want any more.

  “My head feels funny,” she said to her mother.

  “I told you she was too young for wine,” her mother said with a sigh. “Even watered wine.”

  Uncle Sam handed around the large cut-crystal goblet, Elijah’s cup, and everyone poured a little bit of wine from their own glasses into it. When it was Hannah’s turn, she emptied her entire glass.

  “Elijah can have it all,” she said grandly.

  Grandpa Will smiled down the long table at her. “What a good girl. For being so unselfish, you can open the door for the prophet and welcome him in.”

  “I wanted to do that,” Aaron called out. “That’s the most fun.”

  “Hannah will do it, Aaron,” Grandpa
Will said, “because she was so generous with her gift.”

  “He can have my whole cup, too,” Aaron said.

  “A sacrifice unasked is so much the greater,” Grandpa Will stated flatly. “Come, Hannah.”

  Hannah stood reluctantly. She felt like a fraud. She hadn’t given the wine out of generosity, but only because she didn’t want it. It was no sacrifice.

  “Remember, Hannahleh, we open our door to remind ourselves of the time Jews were forced to keep their doors open to show the Christians we were not practicing blood rituals. Hah!” His last syllable was a noisy punctuation. “As if we were the bloody ones . . .”

  Aunt Eva leaned over and laid her hand quietly on his. It was enough to calm him. He smiled at Hannah. “Open the door to Elijah, child, and invite him in with an open heart.”

  Slowly Hannah moved toward the front door, feeling incredibly dumb. She certainly didn’t believe that the prophet Elijah would come through the apartment door any more than she believed Darth Vader, or Robin Hood, or . . . or the Easter Bunny, would. No one believed those superstitions anymore. No one except babies. Like Aaron.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Hannah saw they were all watching her intently. Aaron bounced up and down on his chair.

  “Open it, Hannah!” he called out loudly. “Open it for Elijah!”

  Baby stories! she thought angrily, unlatching the double bolt. Flinging the door open wide, she whispered, “Ready or not, here I c . . .”

  Outside, where there should have been a long, windowless hall with dark green numbered doors leading into other apartments, there was a greening field and a lowering sky. The moon hung ripely between two heavy gray clouds. A bird pelted the air with a strange, lilting song. And across the field, stepping in the furrows, marched a shadowy figure. He had a shapeless cap on his head, a hoe over his shoulder, and he was singing:

  Who asked you to be buried alive?

  You know that no one forced you.

  You took this madness on yourself.

  4

  “HOW DID YOU DO THAT, GRANDPA?” HANNAH ASKED, turning around.

  Behind her the elegant meal, with its many plates, goblets, glasses, and silverware, was gone. Instead there was a polished table on which a single wooden bowl sat between two ornate silver candlesticks. A black stove, pouring out heat, squatted against the far wall. There were shelves on either side of the stove, filled with crockery, pots, and linens. Several strings of onions hung from the ceiling. The room smelled of fresh-baked bread.

  It must be the wine, Hannah thought. It’s giving me daydreams.

  “Well?” The question came from behind her in a woman’s voice, strongly accented. “Is he coming?”

  Confused, Hannah looked around for the speaker. “The prophet Elijah?” she asked.

  “And do you think the prophet Elijah walks in every time you open a door? A goy zugt a vertl, there’s a fool in every house.” The woman was dressed in a dark skirt covered with a smudged apron, an embroidered blouse with the sleeves rolled up, and a blue kerchief on her head. Her bare arms were dusted with flour. Standing at a low table near a sink, she was pounding bread dough.

  Hannah was stunned. It was as if she’d suddenly been transported to a movie set. The illusion was so complete, she couldn’t even find an answer. And then the words the woman had spoken came to her: a goy zugt a vertl. . . . It was a Yiddish phrase her grandfather used all the time and which she’d never understood before. Yet now it was as clear as if she could speak the language herself. A goy zugt a vertl meant “As the peasant says . . .”

  “So, Chaya, is Shmuel coming or not?” The woman did not look up from the dough as she spoke but continued to beat it with a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

  Hannah looked out the door again, as if it could offer her some clue. Since she’d opened one door and entered this daydream, perhaps going through another would bring her home again. It was worth a try. Taking a step forward, she saw that the man crossing the field was much closer now. She could make him out clearly. He had a thick black beard and a full head of black hair topped with a cap. His shirt was full-sleeved and the loose-fitting trousers were pushed into the tops of high leather boots. What Rosemary would give for such boots, she thought. The man was no longer singing but was whistling a vaguely familiar song. When she realized it was “Dayenu,” she laughed.

  “Oh, I get it,” she muttered, though she didn’t really. But she decided in that instant to play along. Whether it was a dream or an elaborate game, she’d show them all she was a good sport. It was certainly better than Grandpa Will’s deadly dull Seder lessons. “He’s coming,” she said, turning back to the woman.

  “Good. Set the table. And be sure to use the Sabbath cloth. This is a special occasion, after all. It’s not every day my baby brother is to be married the next morning.” She wiped her hands on the apron. “Well, Chaya, move!”

  Chaya. But that’s my Hebrew name, Hannah thought. The one I was given to honor Aunt Eva’s dead friend. Weird. She wondered how the woman knew that name, then laughed under her breath at her own foolishness. Of course the woman knew. She was part of this crazy game. This crazy dream. But even as she thought that, Hannah felt a panic pressure in her chest. Where was she? And where were her parents and Aaron and Aunt Eva and the others? She stared at the door again as if it held the answer.

  “Why are you standing there looking like a Chelm fool, Chaya? The cloth, child. I swear, the fever that carried your poor parents off—may they rest in peace—has done you more damage than we thought. It was a miracle you survived at all. And while that was surely part of God’s orderly plan, its meaning is beyond me. Sometimes, child, you make me wonder.”

  Whatever it was the woman wondered never got said, for just then the bearded man marched into the house, having dropped his hoe somewhere outside. He grabbed Hannah before she could protest and spun her around.

  “Hallo, little niece. Give your almost-married Uncle Shmuel a hug!”

  Hannah knew she had no Uncle Shmuel, certainly no one as big and bearded as this man, who smelled of sweat and grass and horses. But his joy was contagious. She gave him a hug.

  “Put her down, Shmuel!” the woman scolded. “She’s still recovering from her illness. You know how easily she gets upset and forgets things. And go wash yourself. I wonder that Fayge ever accepted the shadchan’s offer for your hand in marriage. You are so much of a prize you can kiss women without bathing?” She held out a large flowered bowl filled with water.

  “Not such a prize?” asked Shmuel, as he dipped his hands into the bowl, slopping water over the side. “I have all my teeth and all my hair, two fine workhorses, a four-room house, and twenty acres of land beside. I work hard and I do not smell all that bad, eh, little Chaya?” Without waiting for her answer, he lifted the water to his face and continued washing noisily.

  “What is the child going to say, Shmuel? She adores you. But it will be very crowded in this house with another woman if you do not bathe regularly. Even though the new woman is that jewel Fayge.”

  Shmuel reached out and pinched his sister on the cheek. “Do you adore me, too, Gitl?” he asked, laughing fondly.

  Annoyed, she drew back from his touch and a pin shook loose from her hair. Making a wry mouth, she removed her kerchief and drew out the other two pins. Her thick black hair cascaded down to the small of her back. “I adore any of my brothers the day before they get married,” she said. Then with a swift movement, she wrapped the hair around her hand into a bun, which she pinned on top of her head again. She put the kerchief back over the hair and knotted it securely.

  Hannah watched silently, trying to take it all in. How could she be both Hannah and this Chaya whose parents had died of a mysterious disease? She knew she was Hannah. She knew because she remembered. She remembered her mother and her father and her brother Aaron with his big blue eyes and great smile. She remembered her house with the junglegym in the backyard and the seventeen stuffed dogs on her bed. She remembered her best f
riend Rosemary, who’d had braces the year before she did and had showed her how to eat jelly beans with them on, even though you weren’t supposed to. She remembered her school in New Rochelle. As she remembered, she forgot to be a good sport and her eyes began to fill with tears.

  But the man Shmuel and the woman Gitl didn’t seem to notice. They were too involved in their own conversation.

  “If you would accept Yitzchak the butcher’s offer, you could be married, and living in a fine new house in the center of the shtetl,” Shmuel said. “Then you would not have to share your kitchen with Fayge or anyone else.” He turned and winked at Hannah.

  “Yitzchak the butcher is a monster. All he wants is a nurse for his children.”

  “All butchers are monsters to someone who refuses meat,” Shmuel said. “And he only has the two children, not an army. They are young enough so you could be a real mother to them and you are young enough so you could give him even more.”

  “Hah!”

  Shmuel turned and smiled at Hannah, signaling her closer to his side. She was hesitant to go. What if by moving closer to him she became more Chaya and less Hannah? What if by accepting the reality of the dream, she lost her memories of her actual past? She wouldn’t move. No one could make her. But Shmuel’s smile was so genuine. It reminded her of Aaron’s. He held out a hand.

  “Come, Chaya, or do you think me a monster like Yitzchak?”

  She moved.

  Close up she could see there was a band of paler skin around his forehead, which his cap must have kept shaded from the sun. And he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, bluer even than Aaron’s.

  In a loud conspiratorial whisper, Shmuel said, “She is still waiting to hear from Avrom Morowitz, who went three years ago to America, promising to send for her. But why should he send for her when he has not bothered to send even so much as a letter . . .”

  “I would not go to America for Avrom Morowitz even if he sent a thousand letters. I will live and die in this shtetl, as did our parents and as did their parents before them. That is how it should be.” Gitl’s mouth was set in a firm line, and she shook her finger at her brother.