Free The Devil's Arithmetic by Jane Yolen

tighten on her shoulder, and the villagers began to murmur among themselves. Hannah held her breath. If she held it for long enough, she thought she might wake up from this awful nightmare and be back safe at her family Seder. But when she had to let her breath out at last, she began to cough desperately and Gitl pounded her on the back.
    â€œ. . . lie down” was all she heard.
    â€œWhat? Here? On the ground?” someone cried out.
    â€œOf course, Jew,” came the officer’s voice. “And then my men will move among you and take your papers and jewelry for safekeeping.”
    â€œYou mean for your
own
keeping,” a man called out. Hannah thought it might have been Shmuel.
    â€œWho said that?’ the officer asked. When no one answered, he narrowed his eyes. “The next one who speaks I will shoot.”
    There was silence so profound, Hannah wondered if she had gone deaf.
    â€œNow—lie down!” the officer commanded at last. He gestured with his hand and the soldiers behind him made the same movement with their guns. When still no one moved, the officer very slowly and deliberately removed the pistol from his holster and pointed it at the feet of a man standing near the edge of the crowd. He fired a single shot. Dirt and pebbles sprayed up and several women screamed. A little girl cried out, “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Hannah was suddenly so cold she couldn’t move.
    Gitl shoved her in the back. “Lie down,” she whispered. “Lie down, quickly.”
    Hannah fell to the ground on her stomach and didn’t stir. When she finally forced herself to open her eyes, there was a pair of large boots by her head. She could hear children whimpering and somewhere, off to her left, a woman was crying. There was a low undercurrent of men’s voices. It took a moment before she realized they were praying.

    Hours later—or so it seemed—they were allowed to stand up again. Gitl had her hand up to her neck. There was a red mark that ran around it as if a necklace had been torn from her. Fayge’s beaded headdress and her earrings were gone. Her dress was smudged and torn. Several men were bleeding from their noses and Shmuel had a dark bruise starting at his temple. But except for the quiet snuffling of the children, a man’s persistent hacking cough, and Rachel’s labored breathing, no one made a sound.
    â€œNow,” the officer said, smiling down at them and showing his rotten teeth, “now, Jews, you are ready for resettlement.”
    â€œWhere?” a tremulous voice called out.
    â€œWherever we choose to send you,” he answered. “Get up.”
    They stood raggedly, and the soldiers herded them toward the two stationary boxcars. They went silently, almost willingly, eager to be as far from the officer and the soldiers’ guns as they could.
    â€œBut, Gitl,” Hannah whispered her protest as she stared at the two cars, “we can’t all fit in there.”
    â€œWith God’s help . . . ,” Gitl mumbled, squeezing Hannah’s hand until her knuckles hurt.
    The older people were pushed into the boxcars first, then the women and the girls. Someone shoved Hannah from behind so hard, she scraped her knee climbing up. She could feel the blood flowing down and the sharp gritty pain, but before she could bend over to look at it, someone else was behind her. Soon there were so many people crowded in, she couldn’t move at all. It was worse than the worst subway jam she’d ever been in, shopping with her Aunt Eva in the city. She was caught between Gitl on one side and the rabbi on the other. There were two women behind her and the boards of the boxcar by her face. By bending her good knee just a little, she could see out a small rectangular space between the boards. She’d just gotten a look when the car shifted and the door was shut and bolted from the outside.
    â€œWe’re locked