Page 106 - Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

but she couldn't begin to guess what they were dis-
cussing. Holding Tzipporah's hand, she moved in the
slow, shuffling barefooted rhythm of the line: wait, walk,
wait, walk.
Closer to the table, she saw that the man was using
the instrument to write something on each woman's
arm. Strangely, no one protested or drew their arm
away.
Another memory, hazier than the one about the dress,
flooded back to her. "This . . ." She heard a familiar
man's voice crying out. "I'll give them this!" She couldn't
think who it was or what he was giving to whom. When
she turned to see who was speaking, everyone behind
her was silent, staring at the floor.
"Next!"
The man meant Hannah. She walked up to the table
and sat down on a chair by the side of the table.
"Tell me your name," the man said. "I will give you
a number in exchange."
That seemed simple enough, but she couldn't think
of a name. There was none that came to her. From
behind, Gitl whispered hoarsely, "Chaya. Chaya Abra-
mowicz."
She said it aloud. "Chaya." It felt—and it did not
feel—like hers.
The man looked at her and his eyes were the saddest
she'd ever seen, a muddy brown, like river sludge. His
mouth was puckered and old. It dropped open as easily
as a slot in a machine, and a sound—not quite a cry—
came out.
"I knew it would come," he whispered. "Some

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