The Devil's Arithmetic (5 page)

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.

“
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.

“You will wear the dress I wore as a child for Shmuel's Bar Mitzvah. He was so handsome—and so nervous. Just like today. It is too bad that your wonderful clothes from Lublin had to be burned along with your bedding, but the doctors said they carried the disease. As you arrived just two days ago, there was no time to make you anything else. But do not worry, Chaya, I will make you new clothes before winter comes.”

While Hannah stood in the center of the room, wondering which chest she should try first, Gitl went to the standing wardrobe, opened it, and pulled out a dark blue sailor-suit dress with white piping at the sleeves and neck, and a blue sash belt. It was the ugliest thing Hannah had ever seen. And babyish.

“Lovely,” Gitl said. “Nicer than anything any of the girls in our shtetl or Fayge's have. All the other girls will be jealous.”

“Jealous? Of that?” Hannah was momentarily speechless, then muttered under her breath, “It's a rag, a
shmatte
.”

Gitl made a sound of disgust. “In Lublin it may be a
shmatte
. But here it is fit for a princess. Even Fayge in her wedding dress will not be as beautiful. Now, young lady, no more nonsense. Perhaps we have been babying you too long, Miss I-know-what-a-wedding-night-is.”

Hannah's face must have shown its instant apology
through burning cheeks, for Gitl came over immediately and put her arm around Hannah. “There, there, child, forgive me. I am crazy with all this wedding business, and my tongue is sometimes quicker than my heart. Put on the dress. Perhaps it is, after all, a little out of fashion, but then so are we here in our shtetl. And you are not in Lublin now.”

She paused for a moment as if waiting for Hannah's reply. When there was none, she went on as before. “Try on the stockings and shoes. I only used them for
shul
and for the photographer. And then I grew, in one year, too big for them. They still have plenty of wear left and I think they will fit you nicely. I was just your size at fifteen. At sixteen I was a giant! Then I will do your hair for you and everything will look fine, you will see.”

Hannah pulled the dress on. It fit her perfectly in the bodice and the sleeves, but came down way over her knees. Gitl didn't seem to see anything wrong with that. The stockings were a heavy skin-colored cotton that came halfway up her thighs, the shoes shiny black mary janes. Shaking her head, Hannah put them on as well. If she pretended she was going to a Halloween party, the outfit would be bearable.

Gitl braided her hair into two tight plaits, then held up a pair of blue velvet ribbons. “These I was saving for my own wedding night—about which you know so much.” This time her voice held a hint of laughter. “But who would marry that monster Yitzchak, who leaves his precious children outside like yard goods? Besides, the ribbons will look beautiful in your brown hair.” She
tied them around the ends of the plaits, then pinned the plaits on top of Hannah's head like a crown. “There! Look!” She pushed Hannah toward a mirror that hung on the wall.

Hannah looked. Gone were her braces. Gone was the light coral lipstick her mother had allowed her to wear to the Seder. The girl who stared back had the same heart-shaped face, the same slightly crooked smile, the same brown hair, the same gray eyes as Hannah Stern of New Rochelle, New York, in America. But there was something old-fashioned and unfamiliar about this Chaya Abramowicz, something haunting, like one of the old photographs on Grandma Belle's grand piano. Photographs of Grandma's family but none of Grandpa Will's, because, Aunt Eva had once explained, no photographs had been saved in the death camps. “We are our own photos. Those pictures are engraved only in our memories. When we are gone, they are gone.”

Hannah smiled awkwardly at her reflection and turned away.