The Devil's Arithmetic (7 page)

The wagons came to a halt as the
klezmer
band came around a bend in the forest path. Hannah saw that there were three musicians in all: the clarinet, the violin, and an accordion. The music was fast and full of a wild energy.

The band members strode down the line of villagers. Behind them came Shmuel, dancing with abandon, his hands above his head and his black hair a dark halo
around it. Yitzchak followed him, big hands clapping in rhythm. Other men soon joined them. Laughing and shouting encouragement, the women watched from the side. Then they began to sing.

“Sing, Chaya!” Shmuel called as he danced by her. “Sing!”

“I don't know the words,” she called back. But even as she said it, she found herself singing, the words stumbling out as if her mouth remembered what her mind did not, as if her mouth belonged to Chaya, her head to Hannah. She began to clap madly in rhythm until the tune came to an abrupt end.

“Look,” Rachel cried above the noise, the breathiness back in her voice, “they have even brought a
badchan
. Fayge's father must have a lot of money.”

“Or an only daughter,” Esther added.

“Then why is she marrying Shmuel?” Shifre blurted out. Looking at Hannah apologetically, she added, “I mean he is handsome but he is not so rich or so learned. And you know about Rabbi Boruch . . .”

“They say . . . ,” Rachel began, and the girls bent closer to her as her breath gave out, “. . . they say that Fayge is his favorite and always gets her way. They say she saw Shmuel and fell in love.”

“In love.” The girls breathed the words in rhythm.

“So?” Hannah was puzzled. “So they fell in love.”

“So—it may happen in Lublin that a Jewish girl marries for love,” said Shifre. “But here in the country, we still marry the one our parents pick out with the
shadchan
, the marriage broker.”

“Even today?” Hannah asked, not sure when
today
was.

“Even today,” they all said together.

Hannah turned to look at the man Rachel had pointed out as the
badchan
. She wondered who he was. The word seemed to have no easy translation in her head. As she watched, the tall, skinny man circulated from group to group. Each knot of people he left was laughing uproariously. Maybe he was some sort of comedian.

When the
badchan
got to the girls, he squatted down in front of them. He was so tall, even squatting, he towered a full head above Rachel, who was the smallest of them. Then he began in a sing-song manner to rhyme about each one in turn. When he got to Hannah, he pointed his finger at her and sang:

“That is you, Chaya!” Gitl cried out from behind them. “What a fine
badchan
.”

Without taking his eyes off Hannah, the
badchan
said, “So, your name is Chaya, which is to say,
life
. A strong name for a strange time, child. Be good
life
and long
life
to your friends, young-old Chaya.” He stood up slowly, unfolding like some kind of long-legged bird, and danced away to the next group of villagers.

“Strange,” Hannah remarked to no one in particular.

“Well, that is what he is hired to be,” Rachel said.
“Strange and mysterious and to make up rhymes, sing songs, tell fortunes. He said I looked startled by life, Chaya. Do you think so?” She put her arm through Hannah's.

Hannah shrugged, but she wasn't really thinking about what Rachel said. She was watching the
badchan
. He reminded her of something or someone, but she couldn't think what. Then, when he tipped his hat to one of the old women on the wagons, it came to her. He was like a court jester. Only instead of wearing one of those colorful caps with bells, he wore a black hat like the other men, and the bottom of his coat danced along with his every move.

The idea of a Jewish jester so tickled her, she began to laugh out loud. Without even knowing the joke, the other girls joined in.

THE FOREST WAS NOW BOILING WITH PEOPLE, FOR THE VIOSK
villagers had come behind the
klezmer
to greet Shmuel and his friends. Hannah hung back. More people meant more greetings and more excuses. It was worse than any family party at home.

At home
! The skin on her face suddenly felt stretched tight across her cheekbones and her eyes began to prickle with tears.
Where
was
her home
? She forced herself to recall the house in New Rochelle with its borders of flowers and the flagstone walk. But the image seemed to be fading, especially when compared with the forest full of villagers and the tiny house and horse barn she'd left just hours before.

A hand on her arm riveted her to the moment.

“Come, Chaya,” Gitl said. “Come and meet your new aunt-to-be.” Pulling Hannah past the noisy celebrants, Gitl led her to the one wagon facing the rest, where the men were busy at work encouraging the two strong workhorses to turn around.

On that wagon sat two people, one an older man dressed all in black, with a white prayer shawl across his shoulders, a book in his lap. The other was one of the most beautiful women Hannah had ever seen, like a movie star. She was all in white, with an elegantly beaded headdress capping her hair. That hair was jet black, so black that it didn't even have lighter highlights, and electric with curls spilling over her shoulders. There were gold rings on her fingers and gold dangling from her ears. She had a strong nose and a fierce, piercing look, like a bird of prey.

“Fayge,” Gitl said, “this is my niece, Chaya.”

Hannah wondered how, with all the noise and excitement, Fayge even heard Gitl's introduction. But she looked down from the wagon, those eagle eyes staring. Then she smiled, not at all fiercely, but even shyly.

“The Lubliner. Come, you must be exhausted, walking all this way after having been so sick. Shmuel would never forgive me if I did not let you ride. And what a pretty dress. You put us all to shame.” She leaned down and offered her hand.

“I will not say I told you so,” Gitl whispered into Hannah's ear, “but I did.”

As if in a dream, Hannah reached up for Fayge's hand. She expected a princess's hand, small, fine-boned, soft. But Fayge's hand was large and strong, with calluses in the palm. When she was up by Fayge's side, she could smell a scent on her hair and dress, like roses and wood shavings after a long rain.

“Now,” Fayge said, turning toward her and smiling broadly. “Tell me all about Lublin.”

The bride's wagon was turned around at last, and the procession started up again. This time the
klezmer
was behind, far back at the end of the line of villagers. Hannah's new friends danced by the wagon's side, hands joined, singing:

“I always hated the ‘Sherele,'” Fayge said. “Such a gloomy song for so glorious an event.”

“What's the ‘Sherele'?” Hannah asked.

“The wedding dance your friends are doing. You do not play such games in Lublin? Perhaps you are smarter than we.”

Hannah looked down at the girls. Some younger girls had joined them and the line was twisting and turning to the rhythm of the song. “New Rochelle,” she murmured, though this time it was more a prayer than a statement.

Fayge didn't seem to hear. “Oh, Chaya, never mind the ‘Sherele.' We will sing and dance other things all night long. The grandmothers will dance the ‘Bobbe Tants'—well, Shmuel's grandmother is gone, may she rest in peace. But Gitl can dance with my grandmother. You should see my grandmother, so light and quick. And you, too, Chaya, you will dance. Oh, only if you are feeling well enough. We will have great fun. You will see.” She patted Hannah's hand.

The wagon bumped along the road, swaying from side to side. Hannah wished she could get down and looked longingly at the ground.

“What is it, Chayaleh?” Fayge asked.

“Is it much longer?”

“Around one more big bend and we will be there. At my village. At Viosk. Would you believe it? My village for but a few more hours and then my village no more.
And
would you guess that as excited as I am about marrying my beloved Shmuel, a part of me is also afraid?”

Hannah laughed out loud. “Shmuel said the same thing this morning.”

“Did he? Did he?” Fayge's eyes lit up and suddenly she looked very young, not that much older than Hannah. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

Hannah closed her eyes, trying to remember. “He said . . . he said . . .”

“Yes?”

“He said he wasn't afraid of
being
married, only of
getting
married.”

Reb Boruch cleared his throat loudly.

“Oh, Chaya,” Fayge said, ignoring her father, “thank you for telling me that.” She gave Hannah a hug. “We are going to be such friends, you and I. Best friends. Life will be good to us forever and ever, I know.”

The wagon made a wide turn around the bend in the path, the horses straining mightily. One blew out its nostrils, a loud huffing. Ahead, where the path widened out, was a meadow and beyond it a town.

Hannah called over her shoulder to the dancing girls, “We're here,” the words springing easily to her mouth. The girls dropped hands and stared down the path.

When Hannah looked up again, she could see Viosk laid out at the far end of the meadow, picture-postcard pretty. Small houses nestled in a line, and the larger buildings, none higher than three stories, stood behind, like mothers with their children.

As the horses pulled them closer, Hannah could distinguish a central open market with stalls, surrounded by stores. There was a pharmacy topped by a large black sign, a barbershop with its familiar peppermint stick, a glass-fronted tavern, and a dozen other shops. In the middle of the market, a tall wooden pole supported a bell. Behind the open market was a towering wooden building with four separate roofed sections and fenced-in courtyards. The dominant color was brown: brown wooden buildings, brown sandy streets, as if it were a faded photograph. Yet it was real.

“Papa,” Fayge said, turning to him, “what are those automobiles and trucks doing in front of the
shul?
” She pointed to one of the big buildings. “Is it another surprise for the wedding? Oh, Papa!” She gave him a hug, and his normally dour face lit up.

Hannah looked where Fayge was pointing. In the middle of the brown landscape, like a dark stain, were three black old-fashioned cars and twelve army trucks strung out behind. She gave an involuntary shudder. They reminded her of something; she couldn't think what.

Fayge's father cleared his throat and closed the book on his lap. “I do not make surprises,” he said gruffly. “Only my children make surprises.”

“Then what are those automobiles and trucks doing in front of our
shul?
” Fayge asked.

The wagon continued its slow side-to-side pace toward the town, but behind it the villagers grew silent as one by one they noticed what sat in front of the synagogue.

Shmuel hurried forward. Putting his hand on the wagon, close to Fayge's hand but not quite touching it, he addressed her father formally.

“Reb Boruch, excuse me,” Shmuel said, “but do you know just what it is that lies ahead?”

“I am not a fortune teller nor yet a
badchan
,” Reb Boruch said. “It is to God you must address such questions.”

Just then the door of the first car opened and a man in a black uniform with high black boots stepped out. He turned and opened the car's back door. Another man, similarly dressed, unfolded himself from the seat. The medals on his chest caught the light from the spring sun, sending undecipherable signals across the market to them.

Somehow the
badchan
materialized in front of the wagon. He pointed to the man with the medals and cried out, “I see the
malach ha-mavis
. I see the Angel of Death.”

Hannah felt the breath catch in her throat.
Malach ha-mavis
. That was her grandfather's phrase, the one he had shouted at her when she drew the long number
on her arm.
Angel of death
. Slowly, carefully, she turned to Shmuel, afraid to move too quickly, afraid she might not be quick enough. “Please, Shmuel, what year is it? Please.”

He laughed, but there was little brightness in it. “They do not have the same year in Lublin?”

“Please.”

Fayge put her hand on Hannah's. “Silly child,” she said, her voice curiously hushed, “it is 5701.”

“
5701?
But this can't be the future,” Hannah said. “It doesn't look like the future. You don't have movies or new cars or . . .” Her voice was hoarse.