The Devil’s Arithmetic

“Never mind, little Chaya, never mind,” Gitl said. “Shmuel and I—we are your family now.”

“But if there is no Old Rochelle, how can there be a New?” Shmuel mused out loud. “Perhaps there is a Rochelle all alone, though the child does not know it.”

Photographs of Grandma’s family but none of Grandpa Will’s, because, Aunt Eva had once explained, no photographs had been saved in the death camps. “We are our own photos. Those pictures are engraved only in our memories. When we are gone, they are gone.”

“The men down there,” she cried out desperately, “they’re not wedding guests. They’re Nazis. Nazis! Do you understand? They kill people. They killed—kill—will kill Jews. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Six million of them! I know. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. We have to turn the wagons around. We have to run!”

“Of course, Jew,” came the officer’s voice. “And then my men will move among you and take your papers and jewelry for safekeeping.”

Something forced Hannah to bend down and stare into the shelf. Little Tzipporah lay curled in a ball, her finger in her mouth like a stopper in a bottle. There was a fly on her cheek. Hannah reached out to brush it off.

“Do not touch her,” Gitl said.

Part of her revolted against the insanity of the rules. Part of her was grateful. In a world of chaos, any guidelines helped. And she knew that each day she remained alive, she remained alive. One plus one plus one. The Devil’s arithmetic, Gitl called it.

“If something happens to us, you must remember. Promise me, Chaya, you will remember.”

Hannah’s lips moved but no sound came out.

“Promise.”

“I will remember.” The words forced themselves out through her stiffened lips.

It later became an adoption agency, the finest in the Mideast. She called it after her young niece, who had died a hero in the camps: CHAYA.

Life.

“Never mind, little Chaya, never mind,” Gitl said. “Shmuel and I—we are your family now.”

“But if there is no Old Rochelle, how can there be a New?” Shmuel mused out loud. “Perhaps there is a Rochelle all alone, though the child does not know it.”

Photographs of Grandma’s family but none of Grandpa Will’s, because, Aunt Eva had once explained, no photographs had been saved in the death camps. “We are our own photos. Those pictures are engraved only in our memories. When we are gone, they are gone.”

“The men down there,” she cried out desperately, “they’re not wedding guests. They’re Nazis. Nazis! Do you understand? They kill people. They killed—kill—will kill Jews. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Six million of them! I know. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. We have to turn the wagons around. We have to run!”

“Of course, Jew,” came the officer’s voice. “And then my men will move among you and take your papers and jewelry for safekeeping.”

Something forced Hannah to bend down and stare into the shelf. Little Tzipporah lay curled in a ball, her finger in her mouth like a stopper in a bottle. There was a fly on her cheek. Hannah reached out to brush it off.

“Do not touch her,” Gitl said.

Part of her revolted against the insanity of the rules. Part of her was grateful. In a world of chaos, any guidelines helped. And she knew that each day she remained alive, she remained alive. One plus one plus one. The Devil’s arithmetic, Gitl called it.

“If something happens to us, you must remember. Promise me, Chaya, you will remember.”

Hannah’s lips moved but no sound came out.

“Promise.”

“I will remember.” The words forced themselves out through her stiffened lips.

It later became an adoption agency, the finest in the Mideast. She called it after her young niece, who had died a hero in the camps: CHAYA.

Life.