The Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

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.
    â€œFayge,” 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œNow,” 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:
    Who asked you to get married?
    Who asked you to be buried alive?
    You know that no one forced you,
    You took this madness on yourself.
    â€œI always hated the ‘Sherele,’” Fayge said. “Such a gloomy song for so glorious an event.”
    â€œWhat’s the ‘Sherele’?” Hannah asked.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œWhat is it, Chayaleh?” Fayge asked.
    â€œIs it much longer?”
    â€œAround 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.”
    â€œDid 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 . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHe said he wasn’t afraid of
being
married, only of
getting
married.”
    Reb Boruch cleared his throat loudly.
    â€œOh, Chaya,” Fayge said, ignoring her father, “thank you for telling me that.”