Number the Stars (10 page)

Mama spoke quickly, her voice tense. “Annemarie, go into the house and get the small basket on the table. Quickly, quickly. Put an apple into it, and some cheese. Put this packet underneath; do you understand?
Hurry.
”

Annemarie did instantly as she was told. The basket. The packet, at the bottom. She covered it with a napkin. Then some wrapped cheese. An apple. She glanced around the kitchen, saw some bread, and added that. The little basket was full. She took it to where her mother was.

“You must run to the boat. If anyone should stop you—”

“Who would stop me?”

“Annemarie, you understand how dangerous this is. If any soldiers see you, if they stop you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a little girl. A silly, empty-headed little girl, taking lunch to a fisherman, a foolish uncle who forgot his bread and cheese.”

“Mania, what
is
it in the bottom?”

But her mother still didn't answer the question. “
Go
,” she said firmly. “Go right now. And
run!
As fast as you can!”

Annemarie kissed her mother quickly, grabbed the basket from her mother's lap, turned, and ran toward the path.

14

Only now, entering the woods on the footpath, did Annemarie realize how cold the dawn was. She had watched and helped, earlier, as the others donned sweaters, jackets, and coats; and she had peered into the night, following them with her eyes, as they moved silently off, bulky in their garments, blankets in their arms.

But she wore only a light sweater over her cotton dress. Though the October day, later, would be warmed by sunlight, now it was gray, chilly, and damp. She shivered.

The path curved, and she could no longer look behind her and see the clearing with the farmhouse outlined against the pale sky and the lightening meadow beyond. Now there were only the dark woods ahead; underfoot, the path, latticed with thick roots hidden under the fallen leaves, was invisible. She felt her way with her feet, trying not to stumble.

The handle of the straw basket scratched her arm through her sweater. She shifted it and tried to run.

She thought of a story she had often told to Kirsti as they cuddled in bed at night.

“Once upon a time there was a little girl,” she told herself silently, “who had a beautiful red cloak. Her mother had made it for her.

“She wore it so often that everyone called her Little Red Riding-Hood.”

Kirsti would always interrupt there. “Why was it called a red riding hood?” Kirsti would ask. “Why didn't they just call her Little Red-Cloak?”

“Well, it had a hood that covered her head. She had beautiful curls, like you, Kirsti. Maybe someday Mama will make you a coat with a hood to cover your curls and keep you warm.”

“But why,” Kirsti would ask, “was it a
riding
hood? Was she riding a horse?”

“Maybe she had a horse that she rode sometimes. But not in this story. Now stop interrupting every minute.”

Annemarie smiled, feeling her way through the dark, remembering how Kirsti always interrupted stories to ask questions. Often she just wanted to make the story last longer.

The story continued. “One day the little girl's mother said, ‘I want you to take a basket of food to your grandmother. She is sick in bed. Come, let me tie your red cloak.'”

“The grandmother lived deep in the woods, didn't she?” Kirsti would ask. “In the dangerous woods, where wolves lived.”

Annemarie heard a small noise—a squirrel perhaps, or a rabbit, scampering nearby. She paused, stood still on the path, and smiled again. Kirsti would have been frightened. She would have grabbed Annemarie's hand and said, “A wolf!” But Annemarie knew that these woods were not like the woods in the story. There were no wolves or bears or tigers, none of the beasts that populated Kirsti's vivid imagination. She hurried on.

Still, they were very dark, these woods. Annemarie had never followed this path in the dark before. She had told her mother she would run. And she tried.

Here the path turned. She knew the turning well, though it seemed different in the dark. If she turned to the left, it would take her to the road, out where it would be lighter, wider, more traveled. But more dangerous, too. Someone could see her on the road. At this time of the dawn, other fishermen would be on the road, hurrying to their boats for the long day at sea. And there might be soldiers.

She turned to the right and headed deeper into the woods. It was why Mama and Peter had needed to guide those who were strangers here—the Rosens and the others. A wrong turn would have taken them into danger.

“So little Red Riding-Hood carried the basket of food and hurried along through the woods. It was a lovely morning, and birds were singing. Little Red Riding-Hood sang, too, as she walked.”

Sometimes she changed that part of the story, telling it to Kirsti. Sometimes it was raining, or even snowing, in the woods. Sometimes it was evening, with long, frightening shadows, so that Kirsti, listening, would snuggle closer and wrap her arms around Annemarie. But now, telling it to herself, she wanted sunlight and bird song.

Here the path widened and flattened; it was the place where the woods opened on one side and the path curved beside a meadow at the edge of the sea. Here she could run, and she did. Here, in daylight, there would be cows in the meadow, and on summer afternoons Annemarie would always stop by the fence and hold out handfuls of grass, which the curious cows would take with their rough tongues.

Here, her mother had told her, Mama would always stop, too, as a child walking to school. Her dog, Trofast, would wriggle under the fence and run about in the meadow, barking excitedly, trying to chase the cows, who always ignored him.

The meadow was empty now, and colorless in the half light. She could hear the churning sea beyond, and see the wash of daylight to the east, over Sweden. She ran as fast as she could, searching with her eyes for the place ahead where the path would re-enter the woods in its final segment, which led to town.

Here. The bushes were overgrown and it was difficult to see the path here. But she found the entrance, beside the high blueberry bushes—how often she had stopped here, in late summer, to pick a handful of the sweet berries! Her hands and mouth would be blue afterward; Mama always laughed when she came home.

Now it was dark again, as the trees and bushes closed around her, and she had to move more slowly, though she still tried to run.

Annemarie thought of Mama: her ankle so swollen, and her face so pained. She hoped Mama had called the doctor by now. The local doctor was an old man, brusque and businesslike, though with kind eyes. He had come to the farmhouse several times during the summers of the past, his battered car noisy on the dirt road; he had come once when Kirsti, a tiny baby then, had been sick and wailing with an earache. And he had come when Lise had spilled hot grease, cooking breakfast, and burned her hand.

Annemarie turned again as the path divided once more. The left fork would take her directly to the village; it was the way they had come from the train, and the way Mama had walked to school as a girl. But Annemarie turned to the right, heading now toward the harborside, where the fishing boats lay at anchor. She had often come this way before, too, sometimes at the end of the afternoon, to pick out the
Ingeborg,
Uncle Henrik's boat, from the many returning, and to watch him and his helpers unload the day's catch of slippery, shimmering herring still flopping in their containers.

Even now, with the boats in the harbor ahead empty of fish, preparing to leave for the day's fishing, she could smell the oily, salty scent of herring, which always remained in the air here.

It wasn't far now, and it was getting lighter. She ran almost as fast as she had run at school, in the Friday footraces. Almost as fast as she had run down the Copenhagen sidewalk on the day that the soldier had stopped her with his call of “
Halte!
”

Annemarie continued the story in her head. “Suddenly, as Little Red Riding-Hood walked through the woods, she heard a noise. She heard a rustling in the bushes.”

“A wolf,” Kirsti would always say, shivering with fearful delight. “I know it's going to be the wolf!”

Annemarie always tried to prolong this part, to build up the suspense and tantalize her sister. “She didn't know
what
it was. She stopped on the path and listened. Something was following her, in the bushes. Little Red Riding-Hood was very, very,
very
frightened.”

She would stop, would stay silent for a moment, and beside her in the bed she could feel Kirsti holding her breath.

“Then,” Annemarie would go on, in a low, dread-filled voice, “she heard
a grow!.
”

Annemarie stopped, suddenly, and stood still on the path. There was a turn immediately ahead. Beyond it, she knew, as soon as she rounded the turn, she would see the landscape open to the sea. The woods would be behind her there, and ahead of her would be the harbor, the docks, and the countless fishing boats. Very soon it would be noisy there, with engines starting, fishermen calling to one another, and gulls crying.

But she had heard something else. She heard bushes rustling ahead. She heard footsteps. And—she was certain it was not her imagination—she heard a low growl.

Cautiously, she took a step forward. And another. She approached the turn in the path, and the noises continued.

Then they were there, in front of her. Four armed soldiers. With them, straining at taut leashes, were two large dogs, their eyes glittering, their lips curled.

15

Annemarie's mind raced. She remembered what her mother had said. “If anyone stops you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a silly little girl.”

She stared at the soldiers. She remembered how she had stared at the others, frightened, when they had stopped her on the street.

Kirsti hadn't been frightened. Kirsti had been—well, nothing more than a silly little girl, angered because the soldier had touched her hair that afternoon. She had known nothing of danger, and the soldier had been amused by her.

Annemarie willed herself, with all her being, to behave as Kirsti would.

“Good morning,” she said carefully to the soldiers.

They looked her up and down in silence. Both dogs were tense and alert. The two soldiers who held the leashes wore thick gloves.

“What are you doing here?” one of them asked.

Annemarie held out her basket, with the thick loaf of bread visible. “My Uncle Henrik forgot his lunch, and I'm taking it to him. He's a fisherman.”

The soldiers were looking around; their eyes glanced behind her, and scanned the bushes on either side.

“Are you alone?” one asked.

Annemarie nodded. “Yes,” she said. One of the dogs growled. But she noticed that both dogs were looking at the lunch basket.

One soldier stepped forward. The other, and the two holding the dogs, remained where they were.

“You came out before daybreak just to bring a lunch? Why doesn't your uncle eat fish?”

What would Kirsti reply? Annemarie tried to giggle, the way her sister might. “Uncle Henrik doesn't even
like
fish,” she said, laughing. “He says he sees too much of it, and
smells
too much of it. Anyway, he wouldn't eat it raw!” She made a face. “Well, I suppose he would if he were starving. But Uncle Henrik always has bread and cheese for lunch.”

Keep chattering, she told herself, as Kirsti would. A silly little girl. “I like fish,” she went on. “I like it the way my mother cooks it. Sometimes she rolls it in bread crumbs, and—”

The soldier reached forward and grabbed the crisp loaf of bread from the basket. He examined it carefully. Then he broke it in half, pulling the two halves apart with his fists.

That would enrage Kirsti, she knew. “
Don't!
” she said angrily. “That's Uncle Henrik's bread! My mother baked it!”

The soldier ignored her. He tossed the two halves of the loaf to the ground, one half in front of each dog. They consumed it, each snapping at the bread and gulping it so that it was gone in an instant.

“Have you seen anyone in the woods?” The soldier barked the question at her.

“No. Only you.” Annemarie stared at him. “What are you doing in the woods, anyway? You're making me late. Uncle Henrik's boat will leave before I get there with his lunch. Or what's
left
of his lunch.”

The soldier picked up the wedge of cheese. He turned it over in his hand. He turned to the three behind him and asked them something in their own language.

One of them answered “
Nein
,” in an bored tone. Annemarie recognized the word; the man had replied “No.” He had probably been asked, Annemarie thought, “Do you want this?” or perhaps, “Should I give this to the dogs?”

The soldier continued to hold the cheese. He tossed it back and forth between his hands.

Annemarie gave an exasperated sigh. “Could I go now, please?” she asked impatiently.

The soldier reached for the apple. He noted its brown spots, and made a face of disgust.

“No meat?” he asked, glancing at the basket and the napkin that lay in its bottom.

Annemarie gave him a withering look. “You know we have no meat,” she said insolently. “Your army eats all of Denmark's meat.”

Please, please, she implored in her mind. Don't lift the napkin.

The soldier laughed. He dropped the bruised apple on the ground. One of the dogs leaned forward, pulling at his leash, sniffed the apple, and stepped back. But both dogs still looked intently at the basket, their ears alert, their mouths open. Saliva glistened on their smooth pink gums.

“My dogs smell meat,” the soldier said.

“They smell squirrels in the woods,” Annemarie responded. “You should take them hunting.”