The Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

Author:Jane Yolen [Yolen, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 1990-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

On the fourth day, the train slowed, the noise of its wheels a terrifying shriek. Hannah felt hope, like a small bubble, rise from her empty stomach. Her mouth was so dry, she could feel her tongue as big as a sausage between her teeth. Letting out a deep, sighing breath, she heard echoes of that sigh all around her.

The train jerked to a stop and the silence was like a prayer. Into that silence, the raw scraping of the doors being pulled open was as loud as thunder. Air, fresh air, rushed in. Hannah tried to suck in as much as she could.

“ ’Raus, ’raus, schneller!” came the harsh command. “Out, out, faster!”

They scrambled out of the boxcar to stand, blinking in the early morning light. Hannah’s knees trembled from the effort of moving, and her head felt light from all the fresh air. When she looked around, she could see how weakened everyone was. Only Gitl, her dark green dress crumpled, the white collar torn, held her head high. She had an arm under Fayge’s, steadying her. Fayge’s white wedding dress was badly stained, front and back, and she was as pale as paper. Yitzchak, carrying both his daughter and his son in his arms, was still gulping at the air. The children did not move. And Shmuel—Hannah could not find him. Then she saw he was still standing in the door of the boxcar.

“There are more dead here,” he called.

“Leave them!” a soldier said, slamming his rifle butt into Shmuel’s shins. “Get down.”

Shmuel got down painfully, and hobbled over to Gitl’s side. He put his hand on Hannah’s hair tenderly, but it felt as heavy as a weight.

“There are five old women from Viosk, and old Shimshon the tailor in there,” he whispered. Then under his breath he muttered, “And a child.”

“Boruch dayan emes . . . ,” Gitl said.

“Down there!” a soldier shouted, gesturing with his rifle. Part of the moon still hung in the sky, a pale halo over his blond head.

Hannah followed the line of his pointing gun. Below them, down a gravel embankment, was a stark line of low barracks. She tried to count them; they seemed to go on and on. A barbed wire fence surrounded them. To the side of the barracks was a small, pretty house where early spring flowers were opening. A wrought-iron gate stood in front of the buildings, and over the gate was a sign proclaiming in large black letters: ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

Several of the villagers whispered the words, but the rabbi, his hand up to his eyes, strained to read them.

“What does it say, Faygeleh?” he asked, clinging to his daughter’s hand, suddenly an old man. “My eyes . . .”

But Fayge was beyond answering. It was Hannah who told him, her voice bitter. “Work makes you free,” she said.

The rabbi nodded. “See, my children,” he said hoarsely, “we are in God’s hands. We are not afraid of work.”

Behind him, the badchan whispered, “This is the Devil’s work, not God’s.

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