Page 158 - Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

Shmuel spat.
A guard hit him with the butt end of his gun in the
stomach and Shmuel went down on his knees, but he
made no sound.
"These men . . . ," Breuer began, "these pieces of,
in your Jew language, drek tried to escape last night.
Escape! And where would they go? To the mine fields?
To the woods to starve? To the town where no right-
thinking Pole would give them shelter? This camp is in
the middle of nowhere, remember that. You are in the
middle of nowhere. All that gives you life is work—
and my good wishes. Do you understand?" He glanced
around as if daring any of them to challenge him.
They were silent.
"I see I have been too easy on you. I have made you
into my pets. That is what they call you, you know:
Breuer's dirty little pets. The other transports, they do
not come here and sleep in barracks and have three
meals every single day. They are not cared for in a
modern hospital. They are not given clothes and shoes."
He held up a pair of woman's shoes and Hannah tried
not to stare at them, but they drew her eyes. "No, they
are processed at once, as has been ordered from Berlin.
They are part of the Final Solution to the Jewish Prob-
lem. But you, my little pets, I have let you live to work.
And see how you reward your master."
He walked over to the violinist, who had been pushed
to his knees by a guard;, Pushing the man's head back,
Breuer spoke directly to him, but in a voice that carried
around the compound: "I let you play music because
it is said that music feeds the gods. Well, now you shall

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