Page 143 - Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

games after dinner. And that same night when red-
headed Masha from Krakow hanged herself with the
jump rope, having learned that her husband and sev-
enteen-year-old son had gone up the smokestack.
It was on a sunny afternoon, as Hannah cleaned out
cauldrons with Shifre, that Hannah asked dreamily,
"What is your favorite food? If you could have anything
in the world."
They were in the tipped-over pots on their hands and
knees, scraping off bits of burned potato that still clung
stubbornly to the vast pot bottom.
Shifre backed out of the cauldron, wiping one dirty
hand across her cheek. She thought a moment before
answering. It was not a new question. They had been
asking each other variations of the same thing for
weeks.
"An orange, I think," she said slowly. That was a
change. Usually she said an egg.
"An orange," Hannah echoed, pleased with the nov-
elty. "I'd forgotten oranges."
"Or an egg."
"Boiled?"
"Or fried." They were back to their regular conver-
sation.
"Or scrambled?"
"Or an omelet."
"How bout... pizza!" Hannah said suddenly.
a
"What is pizza?" Shifre asked.
.
"It's . . . it's . . I don't know," Hannah said mi-
serably, fingers in her mouth, blurring the words. "I
can't remember. I can only remember potato soup."

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