The Devil's Arithmetic

by Jane Yolen

  Shmuel began to laugh, letting it start deep down in his belly and then rise higher and higher. After a bit, Gitl joined in. At the last, the two of them were laughing so loudly they were almost paralyzed by their own silliness.

  Poker-faced, Hannah stared at them. Nothing they had said seemed at all funny, but that she’d understood them at all seemed miraculous. For the more they talked, the more she realized they were not talking in English. They were speaking Yiddish. And yet she could understand it, every word. Perhaps of all the strange things in the dream, this was the strangest.

  She suddenly remembered going to the United Nations with her fifth-grade class and sitting in the big council room. The different representatives had all spoken their own languages—French, Spanish, Russian, Chinese. And she’d listened with earphones that carried translations of each speech. With one earphone off, she could hear both languages going at once. It had fascinated her. This was a lot like that, except that the English translations were going on simultaneously in her head. It was totally illogical. But dreams, it seemed, had their own logic.

  She must have made a noise, some small whimpering, because suddenly both Gitl and Shmuel stopped laughing and looked at her with concern.

  “What is it, child?” Gitl asked. “Are you all right? Does anything hurt?” And when Hannah managed to shake her head, Gitl turned to her brother. “I swear, Shmuel, city living does damage to the soul. When our brother Moishe and his wife—may they rest in peace—left for Lublin, they had happy souls. And their little Chaya, so they wrote, laughed all the time. But this grave little whimpering bird is out of a sorrowing nest. Look at her. Look.”

  Shmuel put a protective arm around Hannah. “She has been through a lot, Gitl. And remember how you and I and Moishe were when our parents died, and we so much older at the time, too. Besides, she is still not recovered in her strength. Do not worry. She’ll smell the good country spring and eat new-laid eggs. She’ll help you with the housework and me with the plow. We’ll put weight on her and color in her cheeks. The laughter will return.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Gitl said. “For He certainly knows there’s enough sorrow in the world. In the countryside as well as the city. Especially these days when laughter is our only weapon.”

  Shmuel laughed. “Do not let Fayge’s father hear you say that. He insists only studying the Torah will do.”

  “I hear Reb Boruch is a solemn man,” Gitl said carefully.

  “Solemn! He would make a donkey look like a joker,” said Shmuel.

  “Shmuel, that is your father-in-law you are talking about. The good rabbi of Viosk.” But she laughed, and turned to Hannah. “Come, Chaya, help me set the table. We must eat and get to bed early. Tomorrow there is much to do.”

  Hannah was silent through the dinner, fully expecting the food to fade away at her touch. She was surprised when it tasted real, not like dream food should have tasted, but she ate little of it, much to Gitl’s annoyance.

  “And how, my brother, do we put weight on those bones when she doesn’t eat?”

  Shmuel shrugged and didn’t answer.

  Hannah was silent as well when they led her into the room she apparently shared with Gitl. The whole household seemed so reasonable, she had to keep reminding herself it was all a stage setting in some kind of elaborate dream. Again and again she tried to pinch herself awake. All she got for it were sore spots on her arm.

  At last, when she climbed into the hard little bed they insisted was hers, wearing a cotton nightshift that was, also, somehow her own, and Gitl had drawn up the puffy goosedown comforter over her, Hannah let out a long sigh. It was a lot like one of her mother’s sighs, and she bit her lip remembering. If she tried hard, she thought she might even remember her mother’s smell, a combination of face powder and Chanel Number Five.

  “Poor little bird,” Gitl said, smoothing Hannah’s hair and touching her cheek. She smelled of soap with an underlining of onion. “Do you miss them still so much?”

  Hannah nodded. “My mother,” she said. “And my father and . . .” The rest of the words didn’t seem to come. Her head began to spin.

  “Never mind, little Chaya, never mind,” Gitl said. “Shmuel and I—we are your family now.”

  5

  HANNAH WOKE EARLY AND THE HOUSE WAS STILL PITCH black and silent. Fearfully, she felt her way through the unfamiliar rooms in her nightgown and bare feet. The floor was cold underfoot. When she found the front door, she let out her breath slowly. Now, she thought, she’d open it and be back home. Please. Please.

  Cautiously she pulled on the door and stared out.

  Dawn was just beginning beyond the rim of the field. A thin strand of light spun out along the horizon between earth and sky. A rooster crowed his wake-up call into the clear air. A-doo, a-doo echoed back.

  That was when she remembered the dream: she had been at a Seder, surrounded by familiar faces, and for some reason she hated being there. The sweet wine, the bitter herbs, she could almost taste them. She heard her aunt’s voice singing the “Dayenu” as if from miles away. Suddenly a terrible longing for all the people in the dream overcame her and she moaned softly.

  “So—you could not sleep either.” Shmuel’s voice, deep and rumbling, came from the dark behind her. “Getting married is the most frightening thing in the world, I think. But surely my marriage is not what kept you awake. Did you have another bad dream, Chaya? I worry about you and your dreams. A girl’s dreams, like her life, should be sweet and filled with honey.”

  She nodded slowly, then turned. She could see nothing in the black room. As if sensing that, Shmuel came over to stand by her side in the doorway. He was fully dressed and smoking a pipe. The curls of smoke feathered out into the open air, spreading themselves thinner and thinner, until at last they were gone.

  “Do you think it strange, little Chaya, that I—Shmuel Abramowicz—with an arm like a tree and, as Gitl says, a head like a stone, should be afraid of getting married?” He flexed his left arm at her and grinned, but above the grin his eyes seemed troubled.

  “Being married might be scary,” Hannah agreed tentatively.

  “Being married does not bother me,” Shmuel said. “But getting married—that frightens me!”

  Not sure she understood the difference, Hannah hesitated. “Maybe . . .” She took a deep breath and hurried on. “Maybe there’s something everyone is afraid of. With you it’s getting married. With me it’s shots.”

  “Shots?”

  “Shots. You know. Needles?” She jabbed her right finger into her left arm to demonstrate.

  He smiled and nodded. “You were very sick. I understand.”

  “Chaya was sick, not me.”

  He continued smiling, as if humoring her.

  Hannah drew in a deep breath and sighed. “My mother is afraid of snakes,” she said at last.

  “There are not many snakes in Lublin!” Shmuel chuckled.

  “I’m not from Lublin,” Hannah said. “I’m from New Rochelle. And I’m not Chaya, I’m Hannah.” When Shmuel’s eyebrows rose up and lines furrowed his brow, he looked so fierce Hannah moved back a step. “Of course,” she said quickly, “there aren’t many snakes in New Rochelle either. And Chaya is my Hebrew name, not Chanah, because of a friend of Aunt Eva’s. And . . .”

  “Lublin is a big place, I am sure,” Shmuel said, scratching his beard, with a gathering urgency. “And surely I am not familiar with every avenue and street, having been there only twice in my life.”

  “New Rochelle is not in Lublin, wherever that is. It’s a city all its own,” Hannah cried.

  “Since when is a street a city?”

  Hannah could feel her voice getting louder, like Aaron’s when he was scared, and a panic feeling was gripping her chest. “New Rochelle is, too, a city. It’s in New York.”

  “Nu?”

  Suddenly remembering Gitl’s boyfriend Avrom, she shouted, “In America!”

  “And Krakow is in Siberia. I get it.
A joke to help me forget about my marriage fears.” He laughed. “Lublin in America and Krakow in Siberia. Though dear Gitl would say it most certainly is that far to both of them.” He reached out and patted Hannah on the head. “What a strange little bird you are indeed, who has found her way into our nest. Gitl is right. But come, my little Americanisher, whose Yiddish is pure Lublinese, let us feed Hopel and Popel and discuss world geography some other time. Lublin in America, Krakow in Siberia.” He chuckled again as he held out a cloak for her and a pair of ugly black tie shoes.

  Seeing that he was not taking her seriously, Hannah decided there was nothing else to do but go along. She took the clothes. The ugly shoes fit perfectly. Too perfectly. She shivered, then followed him out to the barn, where they fed hay to the work horses, Popel and Hopel, in companionable silence.

  Hoping for a big breakfast, Hannah was disappointed when all Gitl put on the table was a jug of milk, black coffee, and a loaf of dark bread.

  “No cereal?” Hannah asked. “No doughnuts? No white bread for toast?”

  “White bread? So that is what one eats in Lublin. White bread is for rich folk, not for farmers.” Shmuel laughed. “But yesterday you would eat nothing. Nothing at all. And today you want white bread. It is an improvement, I think. From nothing to Lublin white bread. Ah, but then I forget, you are not from Lublin, you are from Rochelle.”

  “New Rochelle.”

  “And where is Old Rochelle?” Gitl asked.

  “There isn’t any,” Hannah said, shaking her head. What was the point in arguing with dream people, who mixed you up. Anyway, she was starving, even if it was a dream. She reached for the milk pitcher and poured herself a glass of milk, took a swallow, and choked. It tasted awful. She looked into her glass. “It’s got things floating in it,” she said.

  “What things?” Gitl looked.

  “There.”

  “That is not things. That is the cream. You have no cream in the milk in Lublin?”

  “Rochelle,” said Shmuel.

  “New Rochelle,” Hannah insisted.

  “Old, new—what does it matter?” asked Gitl.

  “But if there is no Old Rochelle, how can there be a New?” Shmuel mused out loud. “Perhaps there is a Rochelle all alone, though the child does not know it.”

  “Pilpul!” Gitl said. “Men love to pursue questions without answers merely for the sake of arguing. It is what they do best. Ignore him, Chaya, a rabbi he is not.”

  Hannah nodded and, noticing Shmuel wasn’t eating, tried to pass him the pitcher of milk, but he waved it away.

  “We do not follow all the old customs, Gitl and I, alone here and so far from the village. But I think it is not bad to hold to some of the traditions, like the groom’s wedding fast.”

  Gitl snorted. “Especially if your stomach is nervous.”

  “Me? Nervous? And what do I have to be nervous about?” Shmuel winked at Hannah as if binding her to silence.

  “I heard you tossing and turning all night, Mr. I’m-not-nervous. And I heard how early you got up this morning, even before the rooster crowed. Even before the spring sun.”

  Shmuel seemed about to answer her back when there was a loud knock at the door.

  Hannah jumped at the unexpected knock, then a small hope suddenly warmed her. Maybe the knock was some kind of signal that the dream, the strange play, was over. Maybe it was her mother or her father or Aunt Eva standing out there. She started to rise, but Gitl got up first and went to the door. When she opened it, the door framed a man with shoulders as wide as the door itself, wiry red hair, and a bushy red beard.

  “Good morning, Yitzchak,” Shmuel called out.

  Yitzchak greeted Shmuel in return, but he kept his eyes on Gitl, who gave him no more than a grunt in way of greeting.

  “Have some coffee, Yitzchak. It is a long way through the forest from the shtetl to here, and even longer to Fayge’s village,” Shmuel said, gesturing expansively with his hand. “And have you heard about our little niece, Chaya?”

  “Little is what I have heard, but what you have here is no little girl. She is a young lady,” Yitzchak said, grinning at her. “And you are feeling better? I see good color in your cheeks.”

  Hannah looked down at the table, embarrassed by the butcher’s compliments, and Gitl reached over in front of her and took the coffeepot up, placing it down again with a solid thwack in front of Yitzchak.

  Taking the pot up eagerly, Yitzchak poured himself a cupful that slopped over the rim.

  Gitl made a small snick of annoyance between her teeth and wiped up the spill with the edge of her apron.

  Almost shyly, Yitzchak smiled up at her, took a deep drink of coffee, then turned slowly to Shmuel. “I have two cages of chickens outside, Shmuel. My wedding gift. Should I leave them or take them to Fayge’s village with us?”

  “Leave them. Leave them, Yitzchak,” Shmuel said. “With our great thanks. After all, Fayge and I will be returning here for the wedding night and she will see them then.”

  “If she sees anything but your blue eyes, then she is a fool,” Gitl said. “She should be counting your curls, not her gifts. We will load the chickens in the wagon with the other wedding gifts. Those schnorrers in Viosk will not think we do not honor our own.”

  Shmuel laughed. “Gitl and Chaya will stay the night with Fayge’s people and come back home in the morning. It would not do . . . the walls are thin. . . .” He actually blushed, and Gitl put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not say it step by step in front of the child,” she said.

  “I did no such thing, Gitl. I was careful. I said only that the walls are thin. And so they are.”

  “He meant no disrespect,” Yitzchak added quickly.

  “Hush, Yitzchak the butcher. Do not tell me in my house what is and what is not.” Gitl’s eyes sparked.

  Hannah interrupted. “But I know what a wedding night is.”

  All three stared at her and Yitzchak laughed nervously.

  “You see,” he said, “I told you she was a young woman.”

  “You said a young lady and a lady is what she is not if she knows such things,” Gitl said.

  “It’s on ‘General Hospital,’” Hannah began.

  Gitl turned to Hannah and shook her head. “So in Lublin the hospitals tell you about these things. Then I do not think much of hospitals. And I think even less of Lublin. You know so much, my little yeshiva bocher, telling you anything more is carrying straw to Egypt. Ah!” She threw her hands up in the air and spun around to face Yitzchak. “And you—you finish your coffee. Look how the morning flies, and we sit here gabbling about wedding nights, which will be here soon enough. I have still to clean the house. I will not have Fayge coming here, fresh from her father’s house where there is a serving girl to clean, and think me and all in this shtetl slovens. We have to leave before noon.”

  “That is why I came early, Gitl, so I might help. My children, too.” Yitzchak stood, the coffee cup still in his hand.

  “The children—oy. And where did you leave them? Outside in cages like the chickens?” She clicked her tongue and went to the door. Opening it, she waved her hand in greeting. “Reuven, Tzipporah, come in.”

  Two little blond-haired children, no more than three or four years old, suddenly appeared in the doorway, silently holding hands.

  “Go, sit at the table with my niece Chaya, the young lady over there,” Gitl said. “She will give you milk with things in it and tell you stories of places called New this and Old that. Then you can go outside with her and feed the horses and chickens.”

  “The horses are fed,” Shmuel said. “The chickens I will tend to myself, with Yitzchak and the children. Chaya can help you here in the house. There is enough to do.”

  Yitzchak’s massive hands made surprisingly dainty circles in the air. “My children and I will take care of the animals. Tzipporah is wonderful about collecting eggs. A real specialist. And Reuven knows just when to shoo them off the nest.” He smiled down
at his children, who looked up at him adoringly. “We are sorry if we disturbed you. We thought we would come over early and, in that way, help.”

  “Help!” Gitl sniffed, but she smiled at the children.

  No sooner had Yitzchak disappeared outside with Reuven and Tzipporah than Shmuel laughed out loud. “I swear, Gitl, that man is already henpecked and not even married to you yet.”

  “He is a monster,” Gitl murmured. “Imagine leaving those sweet, motherless children outside like chickens in cages.” She began to swipe at the table furiously with a wet rag.

  “I thought he was nice,” Hannah ventured.

  “Nice!” Gitl’s voice rose. “But then you know so much about raising motherless children, too, I suppose.”

  Hannah closed her mouth. Argument was useless. Instead, she began to clear away the dishes with silent efficiency and seemed to be the only one who was surprised that she was helping.

  6

  “COME, IT IS TIME TO GET DRESSED,” GITL SAID.

  Dressed! Hannah looked down at the flowered smock she had on, the same awful thing she’d been wearing the night before. Anything would be better. It looked like one of her grandmother’s house dresses, shapeless, with faded roses. Following Gitl into the bedroom, she paused only a moment, wondering without much hope if the door would transport her back to the Bronx. But when she passed through, the small, dark bedroom was still solidly itself. What was dream and what was real were getting harder and harder to distinguish.

  “What should I wear, Gitl?” The woman’s name came easily now to her tongue. Hannah wasn’t even sure where the closet was that held her clothes, her real clothes. The bedroom she and Gitl had shared had only one door, which led back into the main living-dining room. There were two small beds in it with wooden chests at the foot of each, and a large standing wardrobe. Between the two beds was a washstand with a stoneware pitcher and bowl. She had already discovered, to her horror, that the bathroom was a privy outside the house, and it had no light for night visits.