Had he, Aharon Handalman, been transported to Hell? And dear God, what had he ever done to deserve this?

He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes wide and dry. He wanted to feel nothing, to not even acknowledge this place, but that was impossible. It was a little warmer here, but he was lying on his back, the worst position for his heart. In his chest it thudded and shuddered like a badly tuned engine. He could hear his own panicked panting, the whistling in his throat of a coward.

Lord, where are You? Where have You sent me? Why me?

A few feet away they were fighting over him, yes, like dogs over a scrap of meat! Sweat dripped down his face, rolled into his ears. Those pictures from Yad Vashem would not leave him alone. He wanted to believe that God would keep him safe, that there was a plan, but his fear was rich as cream and his prayer a frail thing.

He tried to turn his head, made an effort. It took a great deal of effort. He was definitely paralyzed, gunned down by the CIA or Mossad or someone like that. His body was made of immobile steel, hugging the floor. But his neck would move, if he strained.

Across the room he saw the beast that was doing most of the speaking. No, you couldn’t call it speech; that would be giving them too much credit. It was barking or snarling. A dense black robe hung from its massive shoulders, making its body a squat rectangle. Its face—somewhere between an ape’s, a jackal’s, and a human’s—was flat, impervious, and cruel. Its hair was groomed back from its brow, lips pulled back from its teeth. This animal was snarling at a figure that was seated on a raised platform. The figure… it was in a chair of some kind, wooden maybe, and it was taller than the other animals, even sitting down. It wore a blood-purple robe patterned at the neck and hem with gold. Its head was covered by a golden mask that had a short snout, menacing eyes, growling mouth, and golden fangs.

The ferocity of the masked figure, its undeniable position as some kind of leader, sent a fresh wave of mortal dread shuddering through Aharon’s body. This wasn’t right, that these animals acted like men. It wasn’t right! He wouldn’t look, wouldn’t sully his eyes with such obscenities! He turned his head back to the ceiling, trying to be gentle. It was a bowling ball cranium on a flower stalk neck. The pain! God help him. Oh, god help him!

If this is it, if this is what it comes down to, just kill me and have it done with. Only please, Lord, make it quick. The thought of Hannah and the children being widowed, orphaned, sent despair flooding through him. And still, he could not believe where he was.

Hell. He was in Hell, some abysmal place of punishment. Somehow, that place, that hole that Kobinski had found with his magic or his mathematics, that awful hole in the world near Auschwitz, had brought him here—not to Heaven, not to a fiery chariot like Ezekiel, but straight to a place of abomination.

The very stars should cry out against this outrage to a righteous man!

There came a pounding that reverberated up from the floor. The creatures carried heavy staffs, and it was these they were using now, the entire assembly, pounding the staffs on the floor in a jarring rhythm. Aharon tried to sink farther into the stone.

At any moment these jackals would fall on him and rip him to pieces, and he could almost welcome an end to this nightmare, dear merciful God, if only they would be quick.

Then the room fell silent and he thought he heard… he could swear he was hearing…

Hebrew?

“Are you a Jew?” a voice said, in the Hebrew tongue. The sound was awkward, as though the mouth was not used to forming the words.

Aharon froze, listening.

“Are you a Jew!” the voice demanded, louder.

“Yes,” Aharon whispered. He made the effort to turn his head again and look up at the masked figure. It was leaning forward in its thronelike chair, bending toward him.

The creature with the flat face walked into his line of sight, barking angrily. The masked one snarled back. Aharon’s neck was screaming, sending shock waves of pain, but he ignored it. His ears sifted the air for clues; he didn’t dare breathe.

“Tell me who you are and how you got here,” the masked figure snapped. “Do it now.”

“Who are you?”

“Answer!”

“Aharon… Aharon Handalman. From Jerusalem. I… I was… I have a wife, Hannah. Children. I’m a rabbi.” These words brought fresh tears.

“Stop blubbering if you want to live!”

Aharon did stop. He took deep breaths, swallowed. The fear, no longer having an outlet, sent his body into convulsionlike shivers.

Among the crowd there was a growling rumble. The flat-faced one spoke again, loud over the crowd, and again the masked one snarled back. It went on for some time.

Aharon allowed his neck to release his head, swallowing the pain. Hebrew? Would demons be given the power to speak the Hebrew tongue? Yes, certainly. It was an ancient tongue, the tongue of the chosen people. Had angels not spoken to Jacob? Would not the language be known even in Hell? And yet this answer did not satisfy him. There had been no kindness or sympathy in the voice of the masked creature and yet… it was not the voice of a demon, either. Deep inside him, there was a small sparking of hope.

The staves pounded again, insistently. When they fell silent, Aharon heard the slow, heavy fall of footsteps. He cringed but was incapable of moving far. The purple robe appeared in his line of sight, looming over him. He had no choice but to stare up at that hideous face.

“Listen to me carefully, Jew.” The voice sounded remote coming from behind the mask. “You must sit up.”

Aharon drew in a sharp breath. “Sit? I… I cannot. I’m injured.”

“You are not injured. Gravity is heavier here. Moving is difficult, but it can be done. Sit up or die, your choice.”

Had he imagined something human in the voice? Nothing human could be so cruel. Aharon believed the threat completely. If he did not sit up he would die. And yet… did that mean that if he could sit he would live? He heaved a quivery sigh and tried to gather his strength. The voice said he could move, that he was not paralyzed but only burdened by gravity. The implications of that were too unfathomable to provide any relief, but it did make him try. He strained. It was impossible. Perhaps, if he had been asked when he’d first arrived, before the day of terror and the journey had worn his reserves to nothing, but now…

Even as he told himself he couldn’t do it, the desire for self-preservation worked miracles. He managed to turn onto one shoulder and press his palms deep into the floor. Grunting like a pig, spittle flying from his lips, he leveraged his upper torso partially off the floor. His arms shook uncontrollably. His heart was going to burst under the strain.

“Now hold it,” the voice said.

Aharon didn’t, couldn’t, answer. He felt veins popping out on his neck. A stab of agony raced from one side of his chest to the other like a warning shot across a bow.

The masked figure turned to the assembly and the crowd shook the roof with their pounding staves.

Without warning, Aharon’s elbows collapsed. He slammed to the floor, his left eyebrow splitting on the stone, sending blood into his eyes. He moaned. Was it over? Please, God, let it be over.

The pounding was still reverberating in the room, but the voice spoke again, to him alone this time, urgent and low. “Listen—you must give me something, anything. A wallet, a letter, a watch. Do it quickly.”

Aharon opened his eyes. The figure was bending over him, one hand held out. The hand trembled, white and long-fingered… and hairless.

Aharon tried to see the eyes behind the mask, but they were buried in shadow. “Who are you?”

“Never mind.”