The Devil's Arithmetic (15 page)

“She gave the
blokova
a gold ring she
organized
to get you in here,” Leye explained, wiping her hands on a rag and nodding her head in Rivka's direction. Leye was the head of the kitchen crew; her arms were always splotchy and stained. But it was a good job, for she could keep her baby with her. “Otherwise that one . . .” and she spit on the ground to show her disapproval of the three-fingered woman, “. . . she would have had you hauling wood with the men. And you would never have lasted because you are a city girl. It is in your
hands. Not a country girl like Shifre. We outlast you every time.”

When Hannah tried to thank Rivka, the girl only smiled and shrugged away the thanks. “My mother, may she rest in peace, always said
a nemer iz nisht keyn geber,
a taker is not a giver. And a giver is not a taker either. Keep your thanks. And hand it on.” She said it gently, as if embarrassed.

Hannah understood her embarrassment and didn't mention it again, but she
did
try to pass it on. She began saving the softer insides of the bread, slipping it to Reuven when she could. Yitzchak's little boy was so thin and sad-looking, still wondering where his sister had gone, that she could not resist him. She even tried giving him her whole bread, meal after meal, until Gitl found out.

“You cannot help the child by starving yourself,” Gitl said. “Besides, with those big blue eyes, he will have many to help him. And that smile . . .”

Hannah bit her lip. Those big blue eyes and the luminous, infrequent smiles reminded her of someone she couldn't name.

“But you—you are still a growing girl, Chaya. You must take care of you.” She folded Hannah's hands around the bread and pushed her away from Reuven. “Go, finish your kitchen duties. I will take Reuven with me.”

Hannah turned away reluctantly, as if she had somehow failed Rivka. As she did so, she saw that Gitl had given the child her own bread—and half her soup besides.

It was on the third day in the camp that Commandant Breuer came again, this time—word was whispered around the camp—for a Choosing.

His black car drove right up the middle of the camp, between the rows of barracks, the flag on the aerial snapping merrily. The driver got out, opened the rear door, and stood at attention.

“What is a Choosing?” Hannah asked Rivka out of the side of her mouth as they waited beside the cauldrons they were cleaning. She didn't know why, but she could feel sweat running down her dress, even though it was a cool day, as if her body knew something it wasn't telling her mind.

There was no movement from the midden pile, where the bright shorts and blouses of the children marked their passage. The commandant strode past without giving the dump a glance.

Rivka hissed Hannah quiet and ran a finger across her own throat, the same signal that the peasants had made in the fields when the cattle cars passed them by. Hannah knew that signal. She just didn't know what it meant . . . exactly. She shivered.

The commandant was a small, handsome man, so clean-shaven his face seemed burnished. His cheekbones had a sharp edge and there was a cleft in his chin. He stopped for a moment in front of Hannah, Rivka, and Shifre. Hannah felt sweat run down her sides.

The commandant smiled, pinched Rivka's cheek, then went on. Behind him was a man with a clipboard and a piece of paper. They walked without stopping again,
straight to the far end of the compound. The door banged behind them ominously.

Rivka let out a ragged breath, and turned to Hannah. “Anyone who cannot get out of bed today will be chosen,” she said. Her voice was soft but matter-of-fact.

“Chosen for what?” Hannah asked, though she'd already guessed.

“Chosen for processing.”

“You mean chosen for death,” Hannah said. Then suddenly she added, “Hansel, let out your finger, that I may see if you are fat or lean.”

“Do not use that word aloud,” Rivka cautioned.

“Which word?” asked Hannah. “Finger? Fat? Lean?”

Rivka sighed. “Death,” she said.

“But why?” asked Shifre, her pale face taking color from the question. “Why will some be chosen?”

“Because they cannot work,” said Rivka. “And work . . .” Her voice became very quiet and, for the first time, Hannah heard a bitterness in it. “Because work
macht frei.
”

“And because he enjoys it!” added Leye, coming over to see why they were not working.

“But do not let them hear you use the word
death.
Do not let them hear you use the word
corpse.
Not even if one lies at your feet,” Rivka warned. “A person is not killed here, but
chosen.
They are not cremated in the ovens, they are
processed.
There are no corpses, only pieces of
drek,
only
shmattes,
rags.”

“But why?” asked Hannah.

“Why?” Leye said. “Because what is not recorded
cannot be blamed. Because that is what
they
want. So that is how it must be. Quickly, back to work.”

No sooner had they begun scrubbing again than the door to the hospital opened and Commandant Breuer emerged, still smiling, but broader this time. As he and his aide passed by, Hannah could see the paper on the clipboard was now covered with numbers and names.

The commandant reminded her of someone. A picture perhaps. A moving picture. She'd seen a smiling face like that somewhere.

“Dr. . . . Dr. Mengele,” she said suddenly. “The Angel of Auschwitz.” As suddenly as she knew it, the reference was gone.

“No,” Rivka said, puzzled, “his name is Breuer. Why did you say that?”

“I told you she says strange things,” Shifre put in.

Hannah looked down at her hands. They were trembling. “I don't know why I said it. Am I becoming a
musselman?
Am I going mad?”

No one answered.

Gitl had been working in the sorting shed, where mountains of clothes and shoes, mounds of books and toys and household goods from the suitcases and bags were divided up. It was also the place where men and women could talk together, so there was a quick, quiet trading of information from the women's camp to the men's and back again.

That night, Gitl shared the news with the others of the
zugangi
barracks. “All the clothes and shoes in good
condition go straight to Germany. And we get what is left. But look what I took for you, Chayaleh.” She held up a blue scarf.

“
Organized.
You
organized
it, Tante Gitl,” Shifre cried out, her hands up with delight.

The women all laughed, the first time such a sound had rippled through the barracks since they had arrived. “Yes, she
organized
it.”

Gitl looked up, pursed her lips for a moment, then smiled. “All right. I
organized
it.”

“How did you do it, Gitl?” someone called.

“You can bet she did not ask!” came an answer.

Gitl nodded, stretching the scarf between her hands.
“Az m'fraygt a shyle iz trayf.”

Hannah translated mentally, “If you ask permission, the answer is no.” She remembered suddenly another phrase, from somewhere else, almost like it: “It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.” She had a brief memory of it printed on something. Like a shirt.

“So,” said Esther's mother, a self-satisfied look on her face, “we may be
zugangi,
but we already know how to
organize.
”

Esther looked longingly at the blue scarf, and hummed quietly to herself.

Gitl handed the scarf to Hannah. “To replace the blue ribbons,” she said softly.

“The blue ribbons?” For a moment, Hannah couldn't remember them. Then she did.

“And because today is your birthday,” Gitl added.

“Her birthday!” cried Shifre. “You did not tell me.”

Hannah shook her head. “My birthday is . . . is in
the winter. In . . . in
February.
” The word sat strangely on her mouth.

“What nonsense is this?” asked Gitl, her hands on her hips. “And what kind of word is
February?
They taught you to count the days by the Christian calendar in Lublin?” She turned to look at the women who were circled around them. “You think I do not know my own niece's birthday? And did I send a present every year?”

“Of course you know,” a gray-haired woman called out.

“I remember the day she was born,” said another. “You told me in the synagogue, all happy with the idea. You were only thirteen, you said, and already an aunt.”

“So,” Gitl said, turning to face Hannah.

Her certainty overrode Hannah's own. Besides, she asked herself, who knew what day it was, what year, in this place?

“Thank you, Gitl,” she whispered. “It's the best present I've ever had, I think. The only one I remember, anyway.”

“Oh, my dear child,” Gitl said, pulling her close, “thank God that your father and mother are not alive to see you now.”

Caught in Gitl's embrace, Hannah suddenly remembered the little house in the shtetl and the big, embracing arms of Shmuel. “What of Shmuel?” she said. “And Yitzchak? Are they . . . well?”

Gitl sat on a low shelf bed and pulled Hannah down next to her. The circle of women closed in, eager for news.

Gitl nodded. “Now listen. Shmuel is working with
the crew that cuts wood, but it is all right. It is what he knows how to do and he is strong. With him are Yitzchak the butcher and Gedaliah and Natan Borodnik and their cousin Nemuel. Tzadik the cobbler is doing what he has always done, making shoes and belts. They have a cobbler's shop there. He is making a fine pair of riding boots for the commandant. Size five.”

“That is a woman's size!” Esther's mother said with a laugh.

“Yes, and they have made up a little rhyme about it. Listen, I will tell it to you:

The women began to giggle; Hannah didn't understand the humor.

Gitl held up her hand and the laughter stopped. “And from Viosk, Naftali the goldsmith is making rings on order for all the SS men. He is a very sick man but they like his work so much, they are leaving him alone.”

“And where does he get the gold?” asked a woman in a stained green dress.

“From the valises, idiot,” someone else answered.

“From our fingers,” Fayge said suddenly, the first time she had spoken in days. She held up her hands so that everyone could see that they were bare. “From our ears.”

“From our dead,” Gitl whispered. Hannah wondered whether anyone else heard her.

“What about the others?” Esther's mother asked.

“I do not remember anything more,” Gitl said softly.

“What about the rabbi?” asked a woman with a harelip. “What about Rabbi Boruch?”

Gitl did not answer.

Fayge knelt down in front of her, putting her hands on Gitl's skirt. “We are sisters, Gitl,” she said. “I am your brother's wife. You must tell me about my father.”

Gitl closed her eyes and pursed her lips. For a long moment she did not speak, but her mouth opened and shut as if there were words trying to come out. At last she said, “Chosen. Yesterday.
Boruch dayan emes.
”

Fayge opened her mouth to scream. The woman in the green dress clapped her hand over Fayge's mouth, stifling the scream, pulling her onto the sandy floor. Three other women wrapped their arms around her as well, rocking back and forth with her silent sobs.

“Chosen,” Gitl said explosively, her eyes still closed. “Along with Zadek the tailor, the
badchan,
the butcher from Viosk, and two dozen others. And the
rendar.
”

“Why?”
asked Hannah.

“The rabbi was in the hospital. His heart was broken. Zadek, too. He had been beaten almost to death. The
badchan
because he chose to go. They say he said, ‘This is not a place for a fool, where there are idiots in charge.' And the others whose names I do not remember for crimes I do not know. And the
rendar
 . . .”