Number the Stars Read Free Page A

Peter married, Mama said, Annemarie and Kirsti would have a brother for the very first time.
    â€œPapa,” Annemarie had said, finally, into the silence, “sometimes I wonder why the king wasn’t able to protect us. Why didn’t he fight the Nazis so that they wouldn’t come into Denmark with their guns?”
    Papa sighed. “We are such a tiny country,” he said. “And they are such an enormous enemy. Our king was wise. He knew how few soldiers Denmark had. He knew that many, many Danish people would die if we fought.”
    â€œIn Norway they fought,” Annemarie pointed out.
    Papa nodded. “They fought very fiercely in Norway. They had those huge mountains for the Norwegian soldiers to hide in. Even so, Norway was crushed.”
    In her mind, Annemarie had pictured Norway as she remembered it from the map at school, up above Denmark. Norway was pink on the school map. She imagined the pink strip of Norway crushed by a fist.
    â€œAre there German soldiers in Norway now, the same as here?”
    â€œYes,” Papa said.
    â€œIn Holland, too,” Mama added from across the room, “and Belgium and France.”
    â€œBut not in Sweden!” Annemarie announced, proud that she knew so much about the world. Sweden was blue on the map, and she had
seen
Sweden, even though she had never been there. Standing behind Uncle Henrik’s house, north of Copenhagen, she had looked across the water—the part of the North Sea that was called the Kattegat—to the land on the other side. “That is Sweden you are seeing,” Uncle Henrik had told her. “You are looking across to another country.”
    â€œThat’s true,” Papa had said. “Sweden is still free.”
    Â 
    And now, three years later, it was
still
true. But much else had changed. King Christian was getting old, and he had been badly injured last year in a fall from his horse, faithful old Jubilee, who had carried him around Copenhagen so many mornings. For days they thought he would die, and all of Denmark had mourned.
    But he hadn’t. King Christian X was still alive.
    It was Lise who was not. It was her tall, beautiful sister who had died in an accident two weeks before her wedding. In the blue carved trunk in the corner of this bedroom—Annemarie could see its shape even in the dark—were folded Lise’s pillowcases with their crocheted edges, her wedding dress with its hand-embroidered neckline, unworn, and the yellow dress that she had worn and danced in, with its full skirt flying, at the party celebrating her engagement to Peter.
    Mama and Papa never spoke of Lise. They never opened the trunk. But Annemarie did, from time to time, when she was alone in the apartment; alone, she touched Lise’s things gently, remembering her quiet, soft-spoken sister who had looked forward so to marriage and children of her own.
    Redheaded Peter, her sister’s fiance, had not married anyone in the years since Lise’s death. He had changed a great deal. Once he had been like a fun-loving older brother to Annemarie and Kirsti, teasing and tickling, always a source of foolishness and pranks. Now he still stopped by the apartment often, and his greetings to the girls were warm and smiling, but he was usually in a hurry, talking quickly to Mama and Papa about things Annemarie didn’t understand. He no longer sang the nonsense songs that had once made Annemarie and Kirsti shriek with laughter. And he never lingered anymore.
    Papa had changed, too. He seemed much older and very tired, defeated.
    The whole world had changed. Only the fairy tales remained the same.
    â€œAnd they lived happily ever after,” Annemarie recited, whispering into the dark, completing the tale for her sister, who slept beside her, one thumb in her mouth.

3
Where Is Mrs. Hirsch?
    The days of September passed, one after the other, much the same. Annemarie and Ellen walked to school together, and