The Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen Page A

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.
    â€œPapa,” 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.”
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œReb Boruch, excuse me,” Shmuel said, “but do you know just what it is that lies ahead?”
    â€œI 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 numberon 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?”
    â€œPlease.”
    Fayge put her hand on Hannah’s. “Silly child,” she said, her voice curiously hushed, “it is 5701.”
    â€œ
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