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1. Why Are You Running? "I'llrace you to the corner, Ellen!"Annemarieadjusted thethick leather pack on her back so that her schoolbooks balanced evenly. "Ready?"Shelooked at her best friend. Ellenmadeaface. "No,"shesaid, laughing. "You knowIcan't beat you -—my legsaren'tas long. Can't wejust walk, l...

1. Why Are You Running? "I'llrace you to the corner, Ellen!"Annemarieadjusted thethick leather pack on her back so that her schoolbooks balanced evenly. "Ready?"Shelooked at her best friend. Ellenmadeaface. "No,"shesaid, laughing. "You knowIcan't beat you -—my legsaren'tas long. Can't wejust walk, likecivilized people?"She wasastocky ten-year-old, unlikelankyAnnemarie. "We haveto practicefor theathletic meet on Friday—Iknow I'mgoing to win the girls' racethis week. I was second last week, but I've been practicing every day. Come on, Ellen,"Annemarie pleaded, eyeing the distanceto the nextcorner ofthe Copenhagen street. "Please?" Ellen hesitated, then nodded and shifted her own rucksack of booksagainst her shoulders. "Oh, allright. Ready,"shesaid. "Go!"shouted Annemarie, and thetwo girls were off, racing along theresidentialsidewalk. Annemarie's silvery blond hair flew behind her, and Ellen's dark pigtails bounced against her shoulders. "Wait for me!"wailed little Kirsti, left behind, but thetwo older girls weren't listening. Annemarie outdistanced her friend quickly, even though one of her shoescame untied as shesped along thestreetcalled Østerbrogade, past thesmallshopsand cafés of her neighborhood herein northeast Copenhagen. Laughing, sheskirted an elderly lady in black who carried ashopping bagmade ofstring. Ayoung woman pushing a baby in acarriage moved asideto make way. Thecorner was justahead. Annemarielooked up, panting, justas shereached thecorner. Her laughter stopped. Her heartseemed to skip a beat. "Halte!"thesoldier ordered in astern voice. The Germanword wasas familiaras it was frightening. Annemarie had heard it often enough before, but it had never been directed at her until now. Behind her, Ellen also slowed and stopped. Far back, little Kirsti was plodding along, her facein a pout becausethe girls hadn't waited for her. Annemariestared up. There weretwo ofthem. Thatmeant two helmets, two sets ofcold eyes glaring at her, and four tallshiny boots planted firmly on thesidewalk, blocking her path to home. And itmeant two rifles, gripped in the hands ofthesoldiers. She stared at therifles first. Then, finally, shelooked into theface ofthe soldier who had ordered her to halt. "Why are you running?"the harsh voiceasked. His Danishwas very poor. Three years, Annemariethought with contempt. Three years they've been in ourcountry, and stillthey can'tspeak our language. "I was racingwithmy friend,"sheanswered politely. "We have racesatschoolevery Friday, and I want to do well, so I—"Her voicetrailed away, thesentence unfinished. Don't talk so much, she told herself. Justanswer them, that'sall. She glanced back. Ellenwas motionless on thesidewalk, afew yards behind her. Farther back, Kirstiwas stillsulking, and walking slowly toward thecorner. Nearby, a woman had cometo the doorway ofashop and was standing silently, watching. One ofthesoldiers, thetaller one, moved toward her. Annemarierecognized himas the onesheand Ellen alwayscalled, inwhispers, "the Giraffe"because of his heightand thelong neck thatextended fromhis stiffcollar. Heand his partner werealways on thiscorner. He prodded thecorner of her backpack with thestock of his rifle. Annemarietrembled. "What is in here?"heasked loudly. Fromthecorner of hereye, shesawtheshopkeeper move quietly back into theshadows ofthe doorway, out ofsight. "Schoolbooks,"sheanswered truthfully. "Are you a good student?"thesoldierasked. Heseemed to be sneering. "Yes." "What is your name?" "AnnemarieJohansen." "Your friend—is shea good student, too?"lie was looking beyond her, at Ellen, who hadn'tmoved. Annemarielooked back, too, and sawthat Ellen's face, usually rosy-cheeked, was pale, and her dark eyes were wide. She nodded at thesoldier. "Better thanme,"shesaid. "What is her name?" "Ellen." "And who is this?"heasked, looking to Annemarie's side. Kirsti had appeared theresuddenly, scowling ateveryone. "My littlesister."Shereached down for Kirsti's hand, hut Kirsti, always stubborn, refused itand put her hands on her hips defiantly. Thesoldier reached down and stroked her littlesister's short, tangled curls. Stand still, Kirsti, Annemarie ordered silently, praying thatsomehowthe obstinatefive-year-old would receivethe message. But Kirstireached up and pushed thesoldier's hand away. "Don't,"shesaid loudly. Both soldiers began to laugh. They spoketo each other in rapid German that Annemariecouldn't understand. "Sheis pretty, like my own little girl,"thetall onesaid in a more pleasant voice. Annemarietried to smile politely. "Go home, all of you. Go study your schoolbooks. And don't run. You look like hoodlums when you run." Thetwo soldiers turned away. QuicklyAnnemariereached down again and grabbed her sister's hand before Kirsticould resist. Hurrying thelittle girlalong, sherounded thecorner. In a moment Ellenwas beside her. Theywalked quickly, notspeaking, with Kirsti between them, toward thelargeapartment buildingwhere both families lived. When theywerealmost home, Ellenwhispered suddenly, "I was so scared." "Metoo,"Annemarie whispered back. As they turned to enter their building, both girls looked straight ahead, toward the door. They did it purposely so that theywould notcatch theeyes or theattention oftwo moresoldiers, who stood with their guns on thiscorneras well. Kirstiscurried ahead ofthem through the door, chattering about the pictureshe was bringing homefromkindergarten to showMama. For Kirsti, thesoldiers weresimply part ofthelandscape, something that had always been there, on every corner, as unimportantas lampposts, throughout her remembered life. "Are you going to tell your mother?"Ellen asked Annemarieas they trudged together up thestairs. "I'mnot. Mymother would be upset." "No, I won't, either. Mama would probably scold mefor runningon thestreet." Shesaid goodbyeto Ellen on thesecond floor, where Ellen lived, and continued on to thethird, practicing in her mind acheerful greeting for her mother:asmile, a description oftoday's spelling test, inwhich she had done well. Butshe was too late. Kirsti had gotten therefirst. "And he poked Annemarie's book bagwith his gun, and then he grabbed my hair!"Kirstiwaschattering as shetook off her sweater in thecenter oftheapartment living room. "But I wasn'tscared. Annemarie was, and Ellen, too. But notme!" Mrs. Johansen rose quickly fromthechair by the windowwhere she'd been sitting. Mrs. Rosen, Ellen's mother, was there, too, in the oppositechair. They'd been having coffeetogether, as they did many afternoons. Ofcourseit wasn't really coffee, though the mothers stillcalled it that:"having coffee."There had been no real coffeeinCopenhagen sincethe beginning ofthe Nazi occupation. Noteven any realtea. The mothers sipped at hot water flavored with herbs. "Annemarie, what happened? What is Kirstitalking about?"her motherasked anxiously. "Where's Ellen?"Mrs. Rosen had afrightened look. "Ellen's in yourapartment. She didn't realize youwere here," Annemarieexplained. "Don't worry. It wasn'tanything. It was the two soldiers who stand on thecorner ofØsterbrogade—you've seen them; you knowthetall one with thelong neck, the one who looks likeasilly giraffe?"Shetold her motherand Mrs. Rosen of theincident, trying to makeitsound humorousand unimportant. But their uneasy looks didn'tchange. "I slapped his hand and shouted at him,"Kirstiannounced importantly. "No, she didn't, Mama,"Annemariereassured her mother. "She'sexaggerating, as shealways does." Mrs. Johansenmoved to the windowand looked down to the street below. The Copenhagen neighborhood was quiet; it looked thesameasalways: peoplecoming and going fromtheshops, children at play, thesoldiers on thecorner. Shespokein alowvoiceto Ellen's mother. "Theymust beedgy because ofthelatest Resistanceincidents. Did you read inDe Frie Danskeabout the bombings inHillerød and Nørrebro?" Although she pretended to beabsorbed in unpacking her schoolbooks, Annemarielistened, and she knewwhat her mother was referring to. De Frie Danske—The Free Danes —wasan illegal newspaper; Peter Neilsen brought it to themoccasionally, carefully folded and hidden among ordinary booksand papers, and Mamaalways burned itafter sheand Papa had read it. But Annemarie heard Mamaand Papatalk, sometimesat night, about the news they received that way: news ofsabotageagainst the Nazis, bombs hidden and exploded in thefactories that produced war materials, and industrialrailroad lines damaged so that the goodscouldn't betransported. And she knewwhat Resistance meant. Papa had explained, when she overheard the word and asked. The Resistancefighters were Danish people—no one knewwho, becausetheywere very secret—who were determined to bring harmto the Nazis however they could. They damaged the German trucksand cars, and bombed their factories. Theywere very brave. Sometimes they werecaughtand killed. "I must go and speak to Ellen,"Mrs. Rosen said, moving toward the door. "You girls walk a different way to schooltomorrow. Promise me, Annemarie. And Ellenwill promise, too." "We will, Mrs. Rosen, but what does itmatter? Thereare German soldiers on every corner." "Theywillremember your faces,"Mrs. Rosen said, turning in the doorway to the hall. "It is important to be one ofthecrowd, always. Be one ofmany. Besurethat they never havereason to remember your face."She disappeared into the halland closed the door behind her. "He'llremember myface, Mama,"Kirstiannounced happily, "because hesaid I look like his little girl. Hesaid I was pretty." "If he has such a pretty little girl, why doesn't he go back to her likea good father?"Mrs. Johansenmurmured, strokingKirsti's cheek. "Why doesn't he go back to his own country?" "Mama, is thereanything to eat?"Annemarieasked, hoping to take her mother's mind away fromthesoldiers. "Takesome bread. And givea pieceto your sister." "With butter?"Kirstiasked hopefully. "No butter,"her mother replied. "You knowthat." Kirstisighed as Annemarie went to the breadbox in the kitchen. "I wish Icould haveacupcake,"shesaid. "Abig yellowcupcake, with pink frosting." Her mother laughed. "Foralittle girl, you havealongmemory," shetold Kirsti. "There hasn't been any butter, or sugar for cupcakes, foralong time. Ayear, at least." "Whenwillthere becupcakesagain?" "When the warends,"Mrs. Johansen said. She glanced through the window, down to thestreetcorner wherethesoldiers stood, their faces impassive beneath the metal helmets. "When thesoldiers leave." 2. Who Is the Man Who Rides Past? "Tellmeastory, Annemarie,"begged Kirstias shesnuggled beside her sister in the big bed they shared. "Tellmeafairy tale." Annemariesmiled and wrapped herarmsaround her littlesister in the dark. AilDanish children grewup familiar with fairy tales. Hans ChristianAndersen, the most famous ofthetaletellers, had beenDanish himself. "Do youwant the oneabout thelittle mermaid?"That one had always beenAnnemarie's own favorite. But Kirstisaid no. "Tell onethatstarts with a king and a queen. And they havea beautiful daughter." "Allright. Once upon atimethere wasa king,"Annemarie began. "And a queen,"whispered Kirsti. "Don't forget the queen." "And a queen. They lived together in a wonderful palace, and—""Was the palace named Amalienborg?"Kirstiasked sleepily. "Shhh. Don't keep interrupting or I'll never finish thestory. No, it wasn't Amalienborg. It wasa pretend palace." Annemarietalked on, making up astory ofa king and queen andtheir beautiful daughter, Princess Kirsten;shesprinkled her tale withformal balls, fabulous gold-trimmed gowns, and feasts of pinkfrosted cupcakes, untilKirsti's deep, even breathing told her that her sister was sound asleep. Shestopped, waited fora moment, halfexpectingKirstito murmur"Thenwhat happened?"But Kirstiwas still. Annemarie's thoughts turned to thereal king, ChristianX, and thereal palace, Amalienborg, where helived, in thecenter ofCopenhagen. Howthe people ofDenmark loved KingChristian! He was not likefairy tale kings, who seemed to stand on balconies giving orders to subjects, or who sat on golden thrones demanding to be entertained and looking for suitable husbands for their daughters. KingChristianwasareal human being, a manwith aserious, kind face. She had seen himoften, when she was younger. Each morning, he had comefromthe palace on his horse, Jubilee, and ridden alonethrough thestreets ofCopenhagen, greeting his people. Sometimes, whenAnnemarie wasalittle girl, her older sister, Lise, had taken her to stand on thesidewalk so thatshecould waveto KingChristian. Sometimes he had waved back to thetwo ofthem, and smiled. "Nowyou arespecialforever,"Lise had told her once, "because you have been greeted by a king." Annemarieturned her head on the pillowand stared through the partly opened curtains ofthe windowinto the dimSeptember night. Thinking ofLise, her solemn, lovely sister, always made her sad. So sheturned her thoughtsagain to the king, who was stillalive, as Lise was not. Sheremembered astory that Papa had told her, shortly after the war began, shortly after Denmark had surrendered and thesoldiers had moved in overnight to taketheir places on the corners. Oneevening, Papa had told her thatearlier he was on an errand near his office, standing on thecorner waiting to cross thestreet, whenKingChristian came by on his morning ride. One ofthe German soldiers had turned, suddenly, and asked a question ofa teenage boy nearby. "Who is thatmanwho rides past hereeverymorning on his horse?"the German soldier had asked. Papasaid he had smiled to himself, amused that the German soldier did not know. Helistened whilethe boy answered. "Heis our king,"the boy told thesoldier. "Heis the King of Denmark." "Whereis his bodyguard?"thesoldier had asked. "And do you knowwhat the boy said?"Papa had asked Annemarie. She was sitting on his lap. She was little, then, only seven years old. Sheshook her head, waiting to hear theanswer. "The boy looked rightat thesoldier, and hesaid, 'All of Denmark is his bodyguard.'" Annemarie had shivered. Itsounded likea very braveanswer. "Is it true, Papa?"sheasked. "What the boy said?" Papathought fora moment. Healwaysconsidered questions very carefully before heanswered them. "Yes,"hesaid at last. "It is true. AnyDanish citizenwould diefor KingChristian, to protect him." "You too, Papa?" "Yes." "And Mama?" "Mamatoo." Annemarieshivered again. "Then I would too, Papa. IfI had to."They satsilently fora moment. Fromacross theroom, Mama watched them, Annemarieand Papa, and shesmiled. Mama had been crocheting thatevening three yearsago:thelacy edging ofa pillowcase, part ofUse's trousseau. Her fingers moved rapidly, turning thethinwhitethread into an intricate narrowborder. Lise wasa grownup girl ofeighteen, then, about to be married to Peter Neilsen. WhenLiseand Peter married, Mamasaid, Annemarieand Kirstiwould havea brother for the very first time. "Papa,"Annemarie had said, finally, into thesilence, "sometimes I wonder why the kingwasn'tableto protect us. Why didn't hefight the Nazis so that theywouldn'tcomeinto Denmark with their guns?" Papasighed. "Wearesuch atiny country,"hesaid. "And they aresuch an enormousenemy. Our kingwas wise. He knewhow fewsoldiers Denmark had. He knewthatmany, manyDanish people would dieifwefought." "InNorway they fought,"Annemarie pointed out. Papa nodded. "They fought very fiercely inNorway. They had those huge mountains for the Nor wegian soldiers to hidein. Even so, Norwaywascrushed." In her mind, Annemarie had pictured Norway as she remembered it fromthe map atschool, up above Denmark. Norwaywas pink on theschoolmap. Sheimagined the pink strip ofNorway crushed by afist. "Arethere German soldiers inNorway now, thesameas here?" "Yes,"Papasaid. "InHolland, too,"Mamaadded fromacross theroom, "and Belgiumand France." "But not in Sweden!"Annemarieannounced, proud thatshe knewso much about the world. Swedenwas blue on the map, and she had seen Sweden, even though she had never been there. Standing behind Uncle Henrik's house, north ofCopenhagen, she had looked across the water—the part ofthe North Seathat was called the Kattegat—to theland on the other side. "That is Sweden you areseeing,"Uncle Henrik had told her. "You arelooking across to anothercountry." "That's true,"Papa had said. "Sweden is stillfree." And now, three years later, it was still true. Butmuch else had changed. KingChristianwas getting old, and he had been badly injured last year in afallfromhis horse, faithful old Jubilee, who had carried himaround Copenhagen so manymornings. For days they thought he would die, and all ofDenmark had mourned. But he hadn't. KingChristianXwas stillalive. It was Lise who was not. It was her tall, beautifulsister who had died in an accident two weeks before her wedding. In the blue carved trunk in thecorner ofthis bedroom—Annemariecould see its shapeeven in the dark—werefolded Lise's pillowcases with theircrocheted edges, her wedding dress with its handembroidered neckline, unworn, and the yellowdress thatshe had worn and danced in, with its fullskirt flying, at the party celebrating herengagement to Peter. Mamaand Papa never spoke ofLise. They never opened the trunk. But Annemarie did, fromtimeto time, when she wasalonein theapartment;alone, shetouched Lise's things gently, remembering her quiet, soft-spoken sister who had looked forward so to marriageand children of her own. Redheaded Peter, her sister's fiance, had notmarried anyonein the years since Lise's death. He had changed a great deal. Once he had been likeafun-loving older brother to Annemarieand Kirsti, teasing and tickling, alwaysasource offoolishnessand pranks. Nowhestillstopped by theapartment often, and his greetings to the girls were warmand smiling, but he was usually in a hurry, talking quickly to Mamaand Papaabout things Annemarie didn't understand. He no longer sang the nonsensesongs that had once made Annemarieand Kirstishriek with laughter. And he never lingered anymore. Papa had changed, too. Heseemed much olderand very tired, defeated. The whole world had changed. Only thefairy tales remained the same. "And they lived happily everafter,"Annemarierecited, whispering into the dark, completing thetalefor her sister, who slept beside her, onethumb in her mouth. 3. Where Is Mrs. Hirsch? The days ofSeptember passed, oneafter the other, much the same. Annemarieand Ellenwalked to schooltogether, and home again, always nowtaking thelonger way, avoiding thetallsoldier and his partner. Kirsti dawdled just behind themor scampered ahead, never out oftheir sight. Thetwo mothers still had their"coffee"together in the afternoons. They began to knitmittensas the days grewslightly shorterand thefirst leaves began to fallfromthetrees, because another winter wascoming. Everyoneremembered thelast one. There was no fuel nowfor the homesand apartments in Copenhagen, and the winter nights wereterribly cold. Likethe other families in their building, theJohansens had opened the old chimney and installed alittlestoveto usefor heat when they could find coalto burn. Mama used it too, sometimes, forcooking, becauseelectricitywas rationed now. At night they used candles for light. Sometimes Ellen's father, ateacher, complained in frustration because hecouldn'tseein the dimlight to correct his students' papers. "Soonwe will haveto add another blanket to your bed,"Mama said one morning as sheand Annemarietidied the bedroom. "Kirstiand Iarelucky to haveeach other for warmth in the ywinter,"Annemariesaid. "Poor Ellen, to have no sisters." "She will haveto snuggleinwith her mamaand papa when it getscold,"Mamasaid, smiling. "I remember whenKirstislept between you and Papa. She was supposed to stay in hercrib, but in the middle ofthe nightshe wouldclimb outand get inwith you,"Annemariesaid, smoothing the pillows on the bed. Then she hesitated and glanced at her mother, fearfulthatshe had said the wrong thing, thething that would bring the pained look to her mother's face. The days when little Kirsti slept inMamaand Papa's roomwerethe days whenLiseand Annemarieshared this bed. But Mama was laughing quietly. "I remember, too,"shesaid. "Sometimes she wet the bed in the middle ofthe night!" "I did not!"Kirstisaid haughtily fromthe bedroomdoorway. "I never, ever did that!" Mama, stilllaughing, kneltand kissed Kirsti on thecheek. "Time to leavefor school, girls,"shesaid. She began to buttonKirsti's jacket. "Oh, dear,"shesaid, suddenly. "Look. This button has broken right in half. Annemarie, take Kirstiwith you, after school, to thelittleshop where Mrs. Hirsch sells thread and buttons. Seeif you can buy just one, to match the others on her jacket. I'll give yousome kroner—itshouldn'tcost verymuch." Butafter school, when the girls stopped at theshop, which had been thereas long as Annemariecould remember, they found it closed. There wasa newpadlock on the door, and asign. But the signwas inGerman. They couldn't read the words. "I wonder ifMrs. Hirsch is sick,"Annemariesaid as theywalkedaway. "I sawher Saturday,"Ellen said. "She was with her husband and their son. They alllooked just fine. Orat least the parents looked just fine—theson always looks likea horror."She giggled. Annemarie madeaface. The Hirsch family lived in the neighborhood, so they had seen the boy, Samuel, often. He wasa tallteenager with thick glasses, stooped shoulders, and unruly hair. Herodea bicycleto school, leaning forward and squinting, wrinkling his noseto nudge his glasses into place. His bicycle had woodenwheels, nowthat rubber tires weren'tavailable, and it creaked and clattered on thestreet. "I think the Hirschesallwent on a vacation to theseashore," Kirstiannounced. "And I supposethey took a big basket of pink-frosted cupcakes with them,"Annemariesaid sarcastically to her sister. "Yes, I supposethey did,"Kirstireplied. Annemarieand Ellen exchanged looks thatmeant:Kirstiis so dumb. No oneinCopenhagen had taken a vacation at theseashore sincethe war began. There were no pink-frosted cupcakes; there hadn't been for months. Still, Annemariethought, looking back at theshop beforethey turned thecorner, where was Mrs. Hirsch? The Hirsch family had gonesomewhere. Why else would they closetheshop? Mama was troubled when she heard the news. "Are you sure?" sheasked severaltimes. "Wecan find another button someplace,"Annemariereassured her. "Or wecan take onefromthe bottomofthejacketand moveit up. It won'tshowverymuch." But it didn'tseemto bethejacket that worried Mama. "Are you surethesignwas inGerman?"sheasked. "Maybe you didn't look carefully." "Mama, it had aswastika on it." Her mother turned awaywith a distracted look. "Annemarie, watch your sister forafewmoments. And begin to peelthe potatoes for dinner. I'll beright back." "Whereare you going?"Annemarieasked as her mother started for the door. "I want to talk to Mrs. Rosen." Puzzled, Annemarie watched her mother leavetheapartment. She went to the kitchen and opened the door to thecupboard wherethe potatoes were kept. Every night, now, itseemed, they had potatoes for dinner. And very littleelse. Annemarie wasalmostasleep when there wasalight knock on the bedroomdoor. Candlelightappeared as the door opened, and her mother stepped in. "Are you asleep, Annemarie?" "No. Why? Is somethingwrong?" "Nothing's wrong. But I'd like you to get up and come out to the living room. Peter's here. Papaand I want to talk to you." Annemariejumped out of bed, and Kirsti grunted in her sleep. Peter! She hadn'tseen himin along time. There was something frightening about his being hereat night. Copenhagen had acurfew, and no citizens wereallowed outaftereight o'clock. It was very dangerous, she knew, for Peter to visitat this time. Butshe was delighted that he was here. Though his visits werealways hurried—they almostseemed secret, somehow, in a way shecouldn't quite put her finger on—still, it wasatreat to see Peter. It brought back memories of happier times. And her parents loved Peter, too. They said he was likeason. Barefoot, sheran to theliving roomand into Peter'sarms. He grinned, kissed hercheek, and ruffled her long hair. "You've grown taller sinceI sawyou last,"hetold her. "You're alllegs!" Annemarielaughed. "I won the girls' footracelast Friday at school,"shetold himproudly. "Where have you been? We've missed you!" "Mywork takes meall over,"Peterexplained. "Look, I brought you something. Onefor Kirsti, too."Hereached into his pocketandhanded her two seashells. Annemarie put thesmaller one on thetableto saveit for her sister. She held the other in her hands, turning it in thelight, looking at theridged, pearly surface. It was so like Peter, to bring just the right gift. "For your mamaand papa, I broughtsomethingmore practical. Two bottles of beer!" Mamaand Papasmiled and raised their glasses. Papatook asipand wiped thefoamfromhis upper lip. Then his face became more serious. "Annemarie,"hesaid, "Peter tells us that the Germans have issued ordersclosingmany stores run by Jews." "Jews?"Annemarierepeated, "Is Mrs. Hirsch Jewish? Is that why the button shop isclosed? Why havethey donethat?" Peter leaned forward. "It is their way oftormenting. Tor some reason, theywant to tormentJewish people. It has happened in the othercountries. They havetaken their time here—havelet us relax alittle. But nowitseems to bestarting." "But why the button shop? What harmisa button shop? Mrs. Hirsch is such a nicelady. Even Samuel—he'sa dope, but he wouldnever harmanyone. Howcould he—hecan'teven see, with his thick glasses!" ThenAnnemariethought ofsomething else. "Ifthey can'tsell their buttons, howwillthey earn aliving?" "Friends willtakecare ofthem,"Mamasaid gently. "That's what friends do." Annemarie nodded. Mama was right, ofcourse. Friendsand neighbors would go to the home ofthe Hirsch family, would take themfish and potatoesand bread and herbs for making tea. Maybe Peter would even takethema beer. Theywould becomfortable untiltheir shop wasallowed to open again. Then, suddenly, shesat upright, hereyes wide. "Mama!"she said. "Papa! The RosensareJewish, too!" Her parents nodded, their faces seriousand drawn. "I talked to SophyRosen thisafternoon, after you told meabout the button shop,"Mamasaid. "She knows what is happening. Butshe doesn't think that it willaffect them." Annemariethought, and understood. Sherelaxed. "Mr. Rosen doesn't haveashop. He'sateacher. They can'tclosea whole school!"Shelooked at Peter with the question in hereyes. "Can they?" "I think the Rosens will beallright,"hesaid. "But you keep an eye on your friend Ellen. And stay away fromthesoldiers. Your mother told meabout what happened onØsterbrogade." Annemarieshrugged. She had almost forgotten theincident. "It was nothing. Theywere only bored and looking for someoneto talkto, I think." Sheturned to her father. "Papa, do you remember what you heard the boy say to thesoldier? Thatall ofDenmark would bethe king's bodyguard?" Her father smiled. "I have never forgotten it,"hesaid. "Well,"Annemariesaid slowly, "nowI think thatall ofDenmark must be bodyguard for theJews, as well." "So weshall be,"Papareplied. Peter stood. "I must go,"hesaid. "And you, Longlegs, it is way past your bedtime now."He hugged Annemarieagain. Later, once morein her bed besidethe warmcocoon of her sister, Annemarieremembered howher father had said, three years before, that he would dieto protect the king. That her mother would, too. And Annemarie, seven years old, had announced proudly thatshealso would. Nowshe was ten, with long legsand no moresilly dreams of pink-frosted cupcakes. And nowshe—and allthe Danes—wereto be bodyguard for Ellen, and Ellen's parents, and all ofDenmark's Jews. Would she dieto protect them? Truly? Annemarie was honest enough to admit, therein the darkness, to herself, thatshe wasn't sure. Fora momentshefelt frightened. Butshe pulled the blanket up higheraround her neck and relaxed. It wasallimaginary, anyway—not real. It was only in thefairy tales that people werecalled upon to beso brave, to diefor oneanother. Not in real-life Denmark. Oh, there werethesoldiers; that was true. And thecourageous Resistanceleaders, who sometimes lost their lives; that was true, too. But ordinary peoplelikethe Rosensand theJohansens? Annemarieadmitted to herself, snuggling therein the quiet dark, that gggqshe was glad to bean ordinary personwho would never becalled upon forcourage. 4. It Will Be a Long Night Alonein theapartment while Mama was outshoppingwith Kirsti, Annemarieand Ellenweresprawled on theliving roomfloor playingwith paper dolls. They had cut the dolls fromMama's magazines, old ones she had saved frompast years. The paper ladies had old-fashioned hair stylesand clothes, and the girls had given themnames fromMama's very favorite book. Mama had told Annemarieand Ellen theentirestory ofGone With the Wind, and the girls thought itmuchmoreinteresting and romanticthan the kingand-queen tales thaiKirstiloved. "Come, Melanie,"Annemariesaid, walking her dollacross the edge oftherug. "Let's dress for the ball." "Allright, Scarlett, I'mcoming,"Ellen replied in asophisticated voice. She wasatalented performer;she often played theleading roles in school dramatics. Games oftheimaginationwerealways funwhenEllen played. The door opened and Kirstistomped in, her facetear-stained and glowering. Mamafollowed her with an exasperated look and seta package down on thetable. "I won't!"Kirstisputtered. "I won'tever, ever wear them! Not if you chainmein a prison and beatme with sticks!" Annemarie giggled and looked questioningly at her mother. Mrs. Johansen sighed. "I bought Kirstisome newshoes,"sheexplained. "She's outgrown her old ones." "Goodness, Kirsti,"Ellen said, "I wishmymother would get me some newshoes. I love newthings, and it's so hard to find themin thestores." "Not if you go to afish store!"Kirsti bellowed. "Butmost mothers wouldn'tmaketheir daughters wear ugly fish shoes!" "Kirsten,"Mamasaid soothingly, "you knowit wasn'tafish store. And we werelucky to find shoesatall." Kirstisniffed. "Showthem,"shecommanded. "ShowAnnemarie and Ellen howugly they are." Mama opened the packageand took outa pair oflittle girl's shoes. She held themup, and Kirstilooked away in disgust. "You knowthere's no leatheranymore,"Mamaexplained. "But they'vefound a way to makeshoes out offish skin. I don't think thesearetoo ugly." Annemarieand Ellen looked at thefish skin shoes. Annemarie took onein her hand and examined it. It was odd-looking; thefish scales were visible. But it wasashoe, and her sister needed shoes. "It's notso bad, Kirsti,"shesaid, lying alittle. Ellen turned the other one over in her hand. "You know,"she said, "it's only thecolor that's ugly." "Green!"Kirstiwailed. "I will never, ever wear green shoes!" "In ourapartment,"Ellen told her, "my father hasajar of black, black ink. Would you liketheseshoes better iftheywere black?" Kirstifrowned. "MaybeI would,"shesaid, finally. "Well, then,"Ellen told her, "tonight, if your mama doesn'tmind, I'lltaketheshoes homeand ask my father to makethemblack for you, with his ink." Mamalaughed. "I think that would beafineimprovement. What do you think, Kirsti?" Kirsti pondered. "Could he makethemshiny?"sheasked. "I want themshiny." Ellen nodded. "I think hecould. I think they'll be quite pretty, black and shiny." Kirsti nodded. "Allright, then,"shesaid. "But youmustn't tell anyonethat they'refish. I don't wantanyoneto know."Shetook her newshoes, holding themdisdainfully, and put themon achair. Then shelooked with interestat the paper dolls. "Can I play, too?"Kirstiasked. "Can I havea doll?"She squatted beside Annemarieand Ellen on thefloor. Sometimes, Annemariethought, Kirstiwas such a pest, always butting in. But theapartment was small. There was no other place for Kirstito play. And ifthey told her to go away, Mama would scold. "Here,"Annemariesaid, and handed her sisteracut-out little girl doll. "We're playingGone With the Wind. Melanieand Scarlettare going to a ball. You can be Bonnie. She's Scarlett's daughter." Kirsti danced her doll up and down happily. "I'mgoing to the ball!"sheannounced in a high, pretend voice. Ellen giggled. "Alittle girlwouldn't go to a ball. Let's makethem go someplaceelse. Let's makethemgo to Tivoli!" "Tivoli!"Annemarie began to laugh. "That's inCopenhagen! Gone With the Wind is inAmerica!" "Tivoli, Tivoli, Tivoli,"little Kirstisang, twirling her dollin a circle. "It doesn'tmatter, becauseit's only a gameanyway,"Ellen pointed out. "Tivolican be over there, by thatchair. 'Come, Scarlett,'"shesaid, using her doll voice, "'weshall go to Tivolito danceand watch thefireworks, and maybethere will besome handsome men there! Bring your silly daughter Bonnie, and shecan ride on thecarousel.'" Annemarie grinned and walked her Scarlett toward thechair that Ellen had designated as Tivoli. Sheloved TivoliGardens, in the heart ofCopenhagen; her parents had taken her there, often, when she wasalittle girl. Sheremembered the musicand the brightly colored lights, thecarouseland icecreamand especially the magnificent fireworks in theevenings:the hugecolored splashesand bursts oflights in theevening sky. "I remember thefireworks best ofall,"shecommented to Ellen. "Metoo,"Kirstisaid. "I remember thefireworks." "Silly,"Annemariescoffed. "You never sawthefireworks." TivoliGardens wasclosed now. The German occupation forces had burned part ofit, perhapsasa way of punishing thefun-loving Danes for their lighthearted pleasures. Kirsti drewherself up, her smallshoulders stiff. "I did too,"she said belligerently. "It was my birthday. I woke up in the nightand I could hear the booms. And there werelights in thesky. Mamasaid it was fireworks for my birthday!" ThenAnnemarieremembered. Kirsti's birthdaywas latein August. And that night, only a month before, she, too, had been awakened and frightened by thesound ofexplosions. Kirstiwas right—thesky in thesoutheast had been ablaze, and Mama had comforted her by calling ita birthday celebration. "Imagine, such fireworks foralittle girlfive years old!"Mama had said, sitting on their bed, holding the dark curtain asideto look through the windowat thelighted sky. The nextevening's newspaper had told thesad truth. The Danes had destroyed their own navalfleet, blowing up the vessels one by one, as the Germansapproached to take over theships for their own use. "Howsad the kingmust be,"Annemarie had heard Mamasay toPapa when they read the news. "Howproud,"Papa had replied. It had made Annemariefeelsad and proud, too, to picturethe tall, aging king, perhaps with tears in his blueeyes, as helooked at theremains of his small navy, which nowlay submerged and brokenin the harbor. "I don't want to play anymore, Ellen,"shesaid suddenly, and put her paper doll on thetable. "I haveto go home, anyway,"Ellen said. "I haveto help Mama with the housecleaning. Thursday is our NewYear. Did you know that?" "Why is it yours?"asked Kirsti. "Isn't it our NewYear, too?" "No. It's theJewishNewYear. That's just for us. But if you want, Kirsti, you can comethat nightand watchMamalight the candles." Annemarieand Kirsti had often been invited to watchMrs. Rosen light the Sabbath candles on Friday evenings, Shecovered her head with acloth and said aspecial prayer inHebrewas she did so. Annemariealways stood very quietly, awed, to watch;even Kirsti, usually such achatterbox, wasalways stillat that time. They didn't understand the words or the meaning, but they could feel whataspecialtimeit was for the Rosens. "Yes,"Kirstiagreed happily. "I'llcomeand watch your mama light thecandles, and i'llwear my newblack shoes," But this time was to be different. Leaving for school onThursdaywith her sister, Annemariesawthe Rosens walking to the synagogueearly in the morning, dressed in their bestclothes. She waved to Ellen, who waved happily back. "LuckyEllen,"Annemariesaid to Kirsti. "She doesn't haveto go to schooltoday." "Butshe probably has to sit very, very still, like we do in church,"Kirsti pointed out. "That's no fun." Thatafternoon, Mrs. Rosen knocked at their door but didn't comeinside. Instead, shespokeforalong timein a hurried, tense voiceto Annemarie's mother in the hall. WhenMamareturned, her face was worried, but her voice wascheerful. "Girls,"shesaid, "we havea nicesurprise. Tonight Ellenwill be coming to stay overnightand to be our guest forafewdays! It isn't oftenwe havea visitor." Kirsticlapped her hands in delight. "But, Mama,"Annemariesaid, in dismay, "it's their NewYear. Theywere going to haveacelebration at home! Ellen told methat her mother managed to getachicken someplace, and she was goingto roast it—their first roastchicken in a year or more!" "Their plans havechanged,"Mamasaid briskly. "Mr. and Mrs. Rosen have been called away to visitsomerelatives. So Ellenwill staywith us. Now, let's get busy and putclean sheets on your bed. Kirsti, youmay sleep withMamaand Papatonight, and we'lllet the big girls giggletogether by themselves." Kirsti pouted, and it wasclear thatshe wasabout to argue. "Mama willtell you aspecialstory tonight,"her mother said. "One just for you." "Abouta king?"Kirstiasked dubiously. "Abouta king, if youwish,"Mamareplied. "Allright, then. But there must bea queen, too,"Kirstisaid. ThoughMrs. Rosen had sent herchicken to theJohansens, and Mama madealovely dinner largeenough for second helpingsall around, it was notan evening oflaughterand talk. Ellenwas silentat dinner. Shelooked frightened. Mamaand Papatried to speak of cheerfulthings, but it wasclear that theywere worried, and itmade Annemarie worry, too. OnlyKirstiwas unaware ofthe quiet tensionin theroom. Swinging her feet in their newly blackened and shiny shoes, shechattered and giggled during dinner. "Early bedtimetonight, little one,"Mamaannounced after the dishes were washed. "We need extratimefor thelong story I promised, about the king and queen."She disappeared withKirsti into the bedroom. "What's happening?"Annemarieasked when sheand Ellenwere alone with Papain theliving room. "Something's wrong. What is it?" Papa's face was troubled. "I wish that Icould protect you children fromthis knowledge,"hesaid quietly. "Ellen, you already know. Nowwe must tellAnnemarie." Heturned to herand stroked her hair with his gentle hand. "This morning, at thesynagogue, therabbitold hiscongregation that the gyggggNazis havetaken thesynagoguelists ofalltheJews. Wherethey live, what their namesare. Ofcoursethe Rosens were on that list, alongwithmany others." "Why? Why did theywant those names?" "They plan to arrestallthe Danish Jews. They plan to takethem away. And we have been told that theymay cometonight." "I don't understand! Takethemwhere?" Her father shook his head. "We don't knowwhere, and we don't really knowwhy. They callit 'relocation.' We don'teven knowwhat thatmeans. We only knowthat it is wrong, and it is dangerous, and we must help." Annemarie was stunned. Shelooked at Ellen and sawthat her best friend wascrying silently. "Whereare Ellen's parents? We must help them, too!" "Wecouldn't takeallthree ofthem. Ifthe Germanscameto search ourapartment, it would beclear that the Rosens were here. One personwecan hide. Not three. So Peter has helped Ellen's parents to go elsewhere. We don't knowwhere. Ellen doesn't knoweither. But they aresafe." Ellen sobbed aloud, and put her facein her hands. Papa put his armaround her. "They aresafe, Ellen. I promise you that. Youwill seethemagain quitesoon. Can you try hard to believe my promise?" Ellen hesitated, nodded, and wiped hereyes with her hand. "But, Papa,"Annemariesaid, looking around thesmall apartment, with its fewpieces offurniture:thefatstuffed sofa, the tableand chairs, thesmall bookcaseagainst the wall. "You said that we would hide her. Howcanwe do that? Wherecan she hide?" Papasmiled. "That part iseasy. It will beas your mamasaid: you two willsleep together in your bed, and youmay giggleand talkand tellsecrets to each other. And ifanyonecomes—" Ellen interrupted him. "Who mightcome? Willit besoldiers? Likethe ones on thecorners?"Annemarieremembered how terrified Ellen had looked the daywhen thesoldier had questioned themon thecorner. "I really don't think anyone will. But it never hurts to be prepared. Ifanyoneshould come, even soldiers, you two will be sisters. You aretogether so much, it will beeasy for you to pretend that you aresisters." Heroseand walked to the window. He pulled thelacecurtain asideand looked down into thestreet. Outside, it was beginning to growdark. Soon theywould haveto drawthe black curtains thatall Danes had on their windows; theentirecity had to becompletely darkened at night. In a nearby tree, a bird was singing; otherwiseit was quiet. It was thelast night ofSeptember. "Go, now, and get into your nightgowns. It will bealong night." Annemarieand Ellen got to their feet. Papasuddenly crossed theroomand put hisarmsaround themboth. He kissed thetop ofeachhead:Annemarie's blond one, which reached to his shoulder, and Ellen's dark hair, thethick curls braided asalways into pigtails. "Don't befrightened,"hesaid to themsoftly. "OnceI had three daughters. Tonight Iamproud to havethree daughtersagain." 5. Who Is the Dark-Haired One? "Do you really think anyone willcome?"Ellen asked nervously, turning to Annemariein the bedroom. "Your father doesn't think so." "Ofcourse not. They'realways threatening stuff. They just liketoscare people."Annemarietook her nightgown froma hook in the closet. "Anyway, ifthey did, it would give meachanceto practice acting. I'd just pretend to be Lise. I wish I weretaller, though."Ellenstood on tiptoe, trying to make herselftall. Shelaughed at herself, and her voice was morerelaxed. "Youwere greatas the Dark Queen in theschool play last year,"Annemarietold her. "You should bean actress when you growup." "My father wants meto beateacher. [ Ic wantseveryoneto be ateacher, like him. ButmaybeIcould convince himthat I should goto acting school."Ellen stood on tiptoeagain, and madean imperious gesture with herarm. "Iamthe Dark Queen,"sheintoned dramatically. "I havecometo command the night!" "You should try saying, 'IamLiseJohansen!'"Annemariesaid, grinning. "If you told the Nazis that youwerethe Dark Queen, they'd haul you offto a mentalinstitution." Ellen dropped heractress poseand sat down, with her legs curled under her, on the bed. "Theywon't really come here, do you think?"sheasked again. Annemarieshook her head. "Not in a million years."She picked up her hairbrush. The girls found themselves whispering as they got ready for bed. There was no need, really, to whisper; theywere, afterall, supposed to be normalsisters, and Papa had said they could giggle and talk. The bedroomdoor wasclosed. But the night did seem, somehow, different froma normal night. And so theywhispered. "Howdid your sister die, Annemarie?"Ellen asked suddenly. "I remember when it happened. And I remember thefuneral—it was the only timeI haveever been in a Lutheran church. But I never knewjust what happened." "I don't knowexactly," Annemarieconfessed. "Sheand Peter were outsomewheretogether, and then there wasatelephonecall, that there had been an accident. Mamaand Paparushed to the hospital—remember, your mothercameand stayed withmeand Kirsti? Kirstiwasalready asleep and sheslept right through everything, she was so littlethen. But I stayed up, and I was with your mother in theliving roomwhenmy parentscame homein the middle ofthe night. And they told me Lise had died." "I remember it was raining,"Ellen said sadly. "It was stillraining the nextmorningwhenMamatold me. Mama wascrying, and the rainmadeitseemas ifthe whole world wascrying." Annemariefinished brushing her long hairand handed her hairbrush to her best friend. Ellen undid her braids, lifted her dark hairaway fromthethin gold chain she worearound her neck—the chain that held the Star ofDavid—and began to brush her thick curls. "I think it was partly because oftherain. They said she was hit by acar. I supposethestreets wereslippery, and it was getting dark, and maybethe driver justcouldn'tsee,"Annemarie went on, remembering. "Papalooked so angry. He made one hand into afist, and he kept pounding it into the other hand. I remember the noise ofit:slam, slam, slam." Together they got into the wide bed and pulled up thecovers. Annemarie blewout thecandleand drewthe dark curtainsasideso that the openwindownear the bed let in someair. "Seethat blue trunk in thecorner?"shesaid, pointing through the darkness. "Lots ofLise's thingsarein there. Even her wedding dress. Mamaand Papa have never looked at thosethings, notsincethe day they packed themaway." Ellen sighed. "She would havelooked so beautifulin her wedding dress. She had such a pretty smile. I used to pretend that she was mysister, too." "She would haveliked that,"Annemarietold her. "Sheloved you." "That's the worst thing in the world,"Ellenwhispered. "To be dead so young. I wouldn't want the Germans to take my family away—to make us livesomeplaceelse. Butstill, it wouldn't beas bad as being dead." Annemarieleaned overand hugged her. "Theywon't take you away,"shesaid. "Not your parents, either. Papa promised that they weresafe, and healways keeps his promises. And you are quite safe, here with us." Fora whilethey continued to murmur in the dark, but the murmurs wereinterrupted by yawns. ThenEllen's voicestopped, sheturned over, and in a minute her breathingwas quietand slow. Annemariestared at the windowwheretheskywas outlined andatree branchmoved slightly in the breeze. Everything seemed very familiar, very comforting. Dangers were no morethan odd imaginings, like ghoststories thatchildrenmade up to frighten one another:things thatcouldn't possibly happen. Annemariefelt completely safe herein her own home, with her parents in the next roomand her best friend asleep beside her. She yawned contentedly and closed hereyes. It was hours later, butstill dark, when she wasawakened abruptly by the pounding on theapartment door. Annemarieeased the bedroomdoor open quietly, only acrack, and peeked out. Behind her, Ellenwas sitting up, hereyes wide. Shecould see Mamaand Papain their nightclothes, moving about. Mama held alighted candle, butas Annemarie watched, she went to alamp and switched it on. It was so long atimesincethey had dared to usethestrictly rationed electricity after dark that the light in theroomseemed startling to Annemarie, watching through theslightly opened bedroomdoor. Shesawher mother look automatically to the blackoutcurtains, making certain that theywere tightly drawn. Papa opened thefront door to thesoldiers. "This is theJohansen apartment?"Adeep voiceasked the question loudly, in theterribly accented Danish. "Our nameis on the door, and I see you haveaflashlight,"Papa answered. "What do youwant? Is somethingwrong?" "I understand you areafriend of your neighbors the Rosens, Mrs. Johansen,"thesoldier said angrily. "SophyRosen is my friend, that is true,"Mamasaid quietly. "Please, could you speak moresoftly?"My children areasleep." "Then youwill beso kind as to tellme wherethe Rosensare." He made no effort to lower his voice. "Iassumethey areat home, sleeping. It is four in the morning, afterall,"Mamasaid. Annemarie heard thesoldier stalk across theliving roomtoward the kitchen. Fromher hiding placein the narrowsliver of open doorway, shecould seethe heavy uniformed man, a holstered pistol at his waist, in theentranceto the kitchen, peering in toward the sink. Another German voicesaid, "The Rosens' apartment isempty. Weare wondering iftheymight be visiting their good friends the Johansens." "Well,"said Papa, moving slightly so that he was standing in front ofAnnemarie's bedroomdoor, and shecould see nothing except the dark blur of his back, "as you see, you are mistaken. Thereis no one here butmy family." "Youwill not object ifwelook around."The voice was harsh, and it was nota question. "Itseems we have no choice,"Papareplied. "Please don't wake my children,"Mamarequested again. "There is no need to frighten little ones." The heavy, booted feetmoved across theflooragain and into the other bedroom. Acloset door opened and closed with a bang. Annemarieeased her bedroomdoorclosed silently. She stumbled through the darkness to the bed. "Ellen,"she whispered urgently, "take your necklace off!" Ellen's hands flewto her neck. Desperately she began trying to unhook thetiny clasp. Outsidethe bedroomdoor, the harsh voices and heavy footstepscontinued. "Ican't get it open!"Ellen said frantically. "I never takeit off—I can'teven remember howto open it!" Annemarie heard a voicejust outsidethe door. "What is here?" "Shhh,"her mother replied. "My daughters' bedroom. They are sound asleep." "Hold still,"Annemariecommanded. "This will hurt."She grabbed thelittle gold chain, yanked with all her strength, and broke it. As the door opened and light flooded into the bedroom, she crumpled it into her hand and closed her fingers tightly. Terrified, both girls looked up at thethree Nazi officers who entered theroom. One ofthe men aimed aflashlightaround the bedroom. He went to theclosetand looked inside. Thenwith asweep of his gloved hand he pushed to thefloor severalcoatsand a bathrobethat hung frompegs on the wall. There was nothing elsein theroomexceptachest of drawers, the blue decorated trunk in thecorner, and a heap ofKirsti's dolls piled in asmallrocking chair. Theflashlight beamtouched each thing in turn. Angrily the officer turned toward the bed. "Get up!"he ordered. "Come out here!" Trembling, thetwo girls rosefromthe bed and followed him, brushing past thetwo remaining officers in the doorway, to thelivingroom. Annemarielooked around. Thesethree uniformed menwere different fromthe ones on thestreetcorners. Thestreetsoldiers were often young, sometimes illatease, and Annemarie remembered howthe Giraffe had, fora moment, let his harsh pose slip and had smiled at Kirsti. But these menwere olderand their faces wereset with anger. Her parents werestanding besideeach other, their faces tense, but Kirstiwas nowherein sight. Thank goodness that Kirstislept through almosteverything. Ifthey had wakened her, she would be wailing—or worse, she would beangry, and her fists would fly. "Your names?"the officer barked. "AnnemarieJohansen. And this is my sister—" "Quiet! Let her speak for herself. Your name?"He was glaring at Ellen. Ellen swallowed. "Lise,"shesaid, and cleared her throat. "Lise Johansen." The officer stared at themgrimly. "Now,"Mamasaid in astrong voice, "you haveseen that weare not hiding anything. Maymy children go back to bed?" The officer ignored her. Suddenly he grabbed a handful of Ellen's hair. Ellenwinced. Helaughed scornfully. "You havea blond child sleeping in the other room. And you havethis blond daughter—"He gestured toward Annemarie with his head. "Where did you get the darkhaired one?"Hetwisted thelock ofEllen's hair. "Froma different father? Fromthe milkman? Papastepped forward. "Don'tspeak to mywifein such a way. Let go ofmy daughter or I willreport you for such treatment." "Or maybe you got her someplaceelse?"the officercontinued with asneer. "Fromthe Rosens?" Fora moment no onespoke. ThenAnnemarie, watching in panic, sawher father moveswiftly to thesmall bookcaseand take outa book. Shesawthat he was holding thefamily photograph album. Very quickly hesearched through its pages, found what he was looking for, and tore out three pictures fromthreeseparate pages. He handed themto the German officer, who released Ellen's hair. "Youwillseeeach ofmy daughters, eachwith her name written on the photograph,"Papasaid. Annemarie knewinstantlywhich photographs he had chosen. Thealbumhad many snapshots—allthe poorly focused pictures of schooleventsand birthday parties. But italso contained a portrait, taken by a photographer, ofeach girlasatiny infant. Mama had written, in her delicate handwriting, the name ofeach baby daughter across the bottomofthose photogrpahs. Sherealized too, with an icy feeling, why Papa had torn them fromthe book. At the bottomofeach page, belowthe photograph itself, was written the date. And therealLiseJohansen had been born twenty-one yearsearlier. "KirstenElisabeth,"the officer read, looking at Kirsti's baby picture. Helet the photograph fallto thefloor. "Annemarie,"heread next, glanced at her, and dropped the second photograph. "Lise Margrete,"heread finally, and stared at Ellen foralong, unwaveringmoment. In her mind, Annemarie pictured the photograph that he held:the baby, wide-eyed, propped againsta pillow, her tiny hand holding asilver teething ring, her barefeet visible belowthe hemofan embroidered dress. The wispy curls. Dark. The officer torethe photograph in halfand dropped the pieces on thefloor. Then heturned, the heels of his shiny boots grinding into the pictures, and left theapartment. Withouta word, the other two officers followed. Papastepped forward and closed the door behind him. Annemarierelaxed theclenched fingers of her right hand, which stillclutched Ellen's necklace. Shelooked down, and sawthatshe had imprinted the Star ofDavid into her palm. 6. Is the Weather Good for Fishing? "We must think what to do,"Papasaid. "They aresuspicious, now. To be honest, I thought that ifthey came hereatail—and I hoped theywouldn't—that theywould just glancearound, seethat we had no placeto hideanyone, and would go away." "I'msorry I have dark hair,"Ellenmurmured. "Itmadethem suspicious." Mamareached over quickly and took Ellen's hand. "You have beautiful hair, Ellen, just like your mama's,"shesaid. "Don'tever be sorry for that. Weren't welucky that Papathoughtso quickly and found the pictures? And weren't welucky that Lise had dark hair when she wasa baby? It turned blond later on, when she was two or so." "In between,"Papaadded, "she was bald fora while!" Ellen and Annemarie both smiled tentatively. Fora moment their fear waseased. Tonight was thefirst time, Annemarierealized suddenly, that Mamaand Papa had spoken ofLise. Thefirst timein three years. Outside, theskywas beginning to lighten. Mrs. Johansenwent to the kitchen and began to maketea. "I've never been up so early before,"Annemariesaid. "Ellen and I will probably fallasleep in schooltoday!" Paparubbed hischin fora moment, thinking. "I think we must not taketherisk ofsending you to schooltoday,"hesaid. "It is possiblethat theywilllook for theJewish children in theschools." "Not go to school?"Ellen asked in amazement. "My parents havealways told methateducation is the most important thing. Whatever happens, I must getan education." "This will only bea vacation, Ellen. For now, your safety is the most important thing. I'msure your parents would agree. Inge?" Papacalled Mamain the kitchen, and shecameto the doorway with ateacup in her hand and a questioning look on her face. "Yes?" "We must takethe girls to Henrik's. You remember what Peter told us. I think today is the day to go to your brother's." Mrs. Johansen nodded. "I think you areright. But I willtake them. Youmuststay here." "Stay hereand let you go alone? Ofcourse not. I wouldn'tsend you on a dangerous trip alone." Mama puta hand on Papa'sarm. "If only I go with the girls, it will besafer. They are unlikely to suspecta woman and her children. But ifthey are watching us—ifthey seeall of us leave? If they areawarethat theapartment isempty, that you don't go to your officethis morning? Then theywill know. Then it will be dangerous. Iamnotafraid to go alone." It was very seldomthat Mama disagreed with Papa. Annemarie watched his faceand knewthat he was strugglingwith the decision. Finally he nodded, reluctantly. "I will pack somethings,"Mamasaid. "What timeis it?" Papalooked at his watch. "Almost five,"hesaid. "Henrik willstill bethere. Heleavesaround five. Why don't you call him?" Papa went to thetelephone. Ellen looked puzzled. "Who is Henrik? Where does he go at fivein the morning?"sheasked. Annemarielaughed. "He's my uncle—mymother's brother. And he'safisherman. They leave very early, allthefishermen, each morning—their boats go outatsunrise. "Oh, Ellen,"she went on. "Youwillloveit there. It is where my grandparents lived, where Mamaand Uncle Henrik grewup. It is so beautiful—right on the water. You can stand at theedge ofthe meadowand look across to Sweden!" Shelistened while Papaspoke on thetelephoneto Uncle Henrik, telling himthat Mamaand thechildrenwerecoming fora visit. Ellen had goneinto the bathroomand closed the door; Mama was stillin the kitchen. So onlyAnnemarie was listening. It wasa very puzzling conversation. "So, Henrik, is the weather good for fishing?"Papaasked cheerfully, and listened briefly. Then hecontinued, "I'msending Ingeto you todaywith the children, and she will be bringing you acarton ofcigarettes. "Yes, just one,"hesaid, aftera moment. Annemariecouldn't hear Uncle Henrik's words. "But therearealot ofcigarettes availableinCopenhagen now, if you knowwhereto look,"he went on, "and so there will be otherscoming to you as well, I'msure." But it wasn't true. Annemarie was quitecertain it wasn't true. Cigarettes werethething that Papa missed, the wayMama missed coffee. Hecomplained often—he had complained only yesterday—that there were no cigarettes in thestores. The men in his office, he said, making aface, smoked almostanything:sometimes dried weeds rolled in paper, and thesmellwas terrible. Whywas Papaspeaking that way, almostas if he werespeakingin code? What was Mamareallytaking to Uncle Henrik? Then she knew. It was Ellen. *** Thetrain ride north along the Danish coast was very beautiful. Again and again they could seetheseafromthe windows. Annemarie had madethis trip often to visit her grandparents when theywerealive, and later, after theywere gone, to secthecheerful, suntanned, unmarried uncle whomsheloved. But thetrip was newto Ellen, who sat with her face pressed to the window, watching thelovely homesalong theseaside, thesmall farmsand villages. "Look!"Annemarieexclaimed, and pointed to the oppositeside. "It's Klampenborg, and the Deer Park! Oh, I wishwecould stop here, just foralittle while!" Mamashook her head. "Not today,"shesaid. Thetrain did stop at thesmallKlampenborg station, but none ofthefewpassengers got off. "Have you ever been there, Ellen?"Mamaasked, but Ellen said no. "Well, someday youwill go. Someday youwillwalk through the park and youwillsee hundreds of deer, tameand free." Kirstiwriggled to her kneesand peered through the window. "I don'tseeany deer!"shecomplained. "They arethere, I'msure,"Mamatold her. "They're hiding in the trees." Thetrain started again. The doorat theend oftheircar opened and two German soldiersappeared. Annemarietensed. Not here, on thetrain, too? Theywereeverywhere. Together thesoldiers strolled through thecar, glancing at passengers, stopping hereand thereto ask a question. One ofthemhad something stuck in his teeth; he probed with his tongueand distorted his own face. Annemarie watched with a kind of frightened fascination as the pairapproached. One ofthesoldiers looked downwith a bored expression on his face. "Whereare you going?"heasked. "Gilleleje,"Mamareplied calmly. "My brother lives there. We are going to visit him." Thesoldier turned away and Annemarierelaxed. Then, without warning, heturned back. "Are you visiting your brother for the NewYear?"heasked suddenly. Mamastared at himwith a puzzled look. "NewYear?"she asked. "It is onlyOctober." "And guess what!"Kirstiexclaimed suddenly, in aloud voice, looking at thesoldier. Annemarie's heartsank and shelooked at her mother. Mama's eyes werefrightened. "Shhh, Kirsti,"Mamasaid. "Don'tchatter so." But Kirsti paid no attention to Mama, as usual. Shelooked cheerfully at thesoldier, and Annemarie knewwhatshe wasabout to say:This is our friend Ellen and it's her NewYear! Butshe didn't. Instead, Kirsti pointed at her feet. "I'mgoing to visitmyUncle Henrik,"shechirped, "and I'mwearingmy brandnewshiny black shoes!" Thesoldierchuckled and moved on. Annemarie gazed through the windowagain. Thetrees, the Baltic Sea, and thecloudyOctober sky passed in a bluras they continued north along thecoast. "Smelltheair,"Mamasaid when they stepped offthetrain and madetheir way to the narrowstreet, "Isn't it lovely and fresh? It always brings back memories for me." Theair was breezy and cool, and carried thesharp, not unpleasantsmell ofsaltand fish. High against the paleclouds, seagulls soared and cried outas iftheywere mourning. Mamalooked at her watch. "I wonder ifHenrik will be back yet. But it doesn'tmatter. The houseisalways unlocked. Come on, girls, we'llwalk. It isn't far, justalittle under two miles. And it'sa nicc day. We'lltakethe path through the woods instead ofthetoad. It'salittlelonger, but it's so pretty," "Didn't you lovethecastle whenwe went throughHelsingør, Ellen?"Kirstiasked. She had been talking about KronborgCastle ever sincethey had seen it, sprawlingmassiveand ancient, beside thesea, fromthetrain. "I wishwecould havestopped to visit the castle. Kings livethere. And queens." Annemariesighed in exasperationwith her littlesister. "They do not,"shesaid. "They did in the old days. But therearen'tany kings there now. Denmark only has one king, anyway. And helives in Copenhagen." But Kirsti had pranced away, skipping along thesidewalk. "Kingsand queens,"shesang happily. "Kingsand queens." Mamashrugged and smiled. "Let her dream, Annemarie. I did thesame when I was herage." Sheturned, leading the way along atiny, twisting street, heading toward the outskirts ofthe village. "Things have hardly changed heresinceI wasa girl,"shesaid. "MyAunt Gittelived there, in that house"—she pointed—"and she's been dead for years. But the houseis thesame. Shealways had wonderfulflowers in her garden."She peered over thelowstone walland looked at thefew flowering bushesas they passed the house. "Maybethey still do, but it's the wrong time of year—therearejust thosefew chrysanthemums left. "And see, over there?"She pointed again. "My best friend—her name was Helena—lived in that house. Sometimes I used to spend the night with her. Butmore often shecameto my house, on weekends. It was morefun to bein thecountry. "My brother Henrik always teased us, though,"shecontinued with achuckle. "Hetold us ghoststoriesand scared us halfto death." Thesidewalk ended and Mamaturned onto a dirt path borderedby trees. "When I walked eachmorning into town for school,"she said, "my dog followed methis far. At theend ofthe path heturned and went back home. I guess he wasacountry dog and didn't like town. "And do you knowwhat?"she went on, smiling. "I had named himTrofast—Faithful. And it was just theright namefor him, because whatafaithful dog he was! Every afternoon he wasalways right here, waiting for meto return. He knewtheright time, somehow. Sometimes, as Icomearound this bend, even today, I feelas ifI mightcome uponTrofast, waiting still, with his tail wagging." But the pathwasempty today. No people. No faithful dogs. Mamashifted the bag she wascarrying fromone hand to the other, and theywalked on through the woods untilthe path opened to a meadowdotted with cows. Herethe path skirted theedge ofthe field, along afence, and beyond it they could seethe gray sea, ruffled bywind. The breeze moved the high grass. At theend ofthe pasture, they entered the woodsagain and Annemarie knewtheywould soon bethere. Uncle Henrik's house was in aclearing beyond these woods. "Do youmind ifI run ahead?"sheasked suddenly. "I want to be thefirst to seethe house!" "Go on,"Mamatold her. "Run ahead and tellthe house we've come home." Then she put herarmaround Ellen's shouldersand added, "Say that we've broughtafriend." 7. The House by the Sea "Oh, Annemarie,"Ellen said, with awein her voice, "it is beautiful," Annemarielooked around and nodded her head in agreement. The houseand the meadows thatsurrounded it wereso much a part of herchildhood, a part of her life, thatshe didn't often look at themwith fresh eyes. But nowshe did, seeingEllen's pleasure. And it was true. Theywere beautiful. Thelittlered-roofed farmhouse was very old, itschimney crooked and even thesmall, shuttered windows tilted atangles. A bird's nest, wispywith straw, was half hidden in thecorner where theroofmet the wallabovea bedroomwindow. Nearby, a gnarled tree was stillspeckled with afewapples nowlong past ripe. Mamaand Kirsti had goneinside, but Annemarieand Ellen ran across the high-grassed meadow, through thelate wildflowers. Fromnowhere, a gray kitten appeared and ran besidethem, pouncing hereand there upon imagined mice, pausing to lick its paws, and then darting offagain. It pretended to ignorethe girls, but looked back often to becertain that theywerestillthere, apparentlypleased to have playmates. The meadowended at thesea, and the graywater licked there at damp brown grass flattened by the wind and bordered by pgyysmooth heavy stones. "I have never been thiscloseto thesea,"Ellen said. "Ofcourse you have. You've been to the harbor inCopenhagen a million times." Ellen laughed. "I mean therealsea, the way it is here. Open like this—a whole world ofwater." Annemarieshook her head in amazement. To liveinDenmark, a country surrounded bywater, and never to havestood at itsedge? "Your parentsarereally city people, aren't they?" Ellen nodded. "Mymother isafraid ofthe ocean,"shesaid, laughing. "Shesays it is too big for her. And too cold!" The girls sat on arock and took offtheir shoesand socks. They tiptoed across the damp stonesand let the water touch their feet. It wascold. They giggled and stepped back. Annemarieleaned down and picked up a brown leafthat floated back and forthwith the movement ofthe water. "Look,"shesaid. "This leafmay havecomefromatreein Sweden. Itcould have blown fromatreeinto thesea, and floated allthe way across. See over there?"shesaid, pointing. "Secthe land? Way across there? That's Sweden." Ellen cupped one hand over hereyesand looked across the waterat the misty shorelinethat wasanothercountry. "It's notso very far,"shesaid. "Maybe,"Annemariesuggested, "standing over therearetwo girls just ourage, looking acrossand saying, 'That's Denmark!'" They squinted into the hazy distance, as iftheymightsee Swedish children standing thereand looking back. But it was too far. They sawonly the hazy strip ofland and two small boats bobbing up and down in the gray ruffles ofseparatingwater. "I wonder if one ofthoseis your Uncle Henrik's boat,"Ellen said. "Maybe. Ican't tell. They'retoo faraway. Uncle Henrik's boat is named theIngeborg,"shetold Ellen, "for Mama." Ellen looked around. "Does he keep it right here? Does hetieit up so that it won't floataway?" Annemarielaughed. "Oh, no. In town, at the harbor, there'sa big dock, and allthefishing boats go and comefromthere. That's wherethey unload their fish. You should smellit! At night they are allthere, anchored in the harbor." "Annemarie! Ellen!"Mama's voicecameacross the meadow. The girls looked around, and sawher waving to them. They turned, picked up their shoes, and beganwalking toward the house. The kitten, who had settled comfortably on thestony shore, rose immediately and followed them. "I took Ellen down to showher thesea,"Annemarieexplained when they reached the place where Mama waited. "She'd never been thatclose before! Westarted to wade, but it was too cold. I wishwe had comein summer so wecould swim." "It'scold even then,"Mamasaid. Shelooked around. "You didn'tseeanyone, did you? You didn't talk to anyone?" Annemarieshook her head. "Just the kitten."Ellen had picked it up, and it lay purring in herarmsas shestroked its small head and talked to itsoftly. "I meant to warn you. Youmuststay away frompeople while weare here." "But there's no onearound here,"Annemariereminded her. "Even so. If you seeanyoneatall—even someone you know, one ofHenrik's friends—it is better if you comein the house. It is too difficult—maybeeven dangerous—to explainwho Ellen is." Ellen looked up and bit her lip. "Therearen'tsoldiers here, too?" sheasked. Mamasighed. "I'mafraid therearesoldierseverywhere. And especially now. This isa bad time. "Comein nowand help mefix supper. Henrik will be home soon. Watch thestep there; it's loose. Do you knowwhat I have done? I found enough apples forapplesauce. Even though thereis no sugar, theapplesaresweet. Henrik will bring homesomefish and thereis wood for thefire, so tonight we will be warmand well fed." "It is nota bad time, then,"Annemarietold her. "Not ifthereis applesauce." Ellen kissed the kitten's head and let it leap fromherarms to the ground. It darted away and disappeared in thetall grass. They followed Mamainto the house. That night, the girls dressed for bed in thesmall upstairs bedroomtheyweresharing, thesame bedroomthat had been Mama's when she wasalittle girl. Across the hall, Kirstiwas already asleep in the wide bed that had once belonged to Annemarie's grandparents. Ellen touched her neck after she had put onAnnemarie's flowersprigged nightgown, whichMama had packed. "Whereis my necklace?"sheasked. "What did you do with it?" "I hid it in asafe place,"Annemarietold her. "Avery secret place where no one willever find it. And I will keep it therefor you untilit is safefor you to wear itagain." Ellen nodded. "Papa gaveit to me when I was very small,"she explained. Shesat down on theedge ofthe old bed and ran her fingers along the handmade quilt thatcovered it. Theflowersand birds, faded now, had been stitched onto the quilt byAnnemarie's greatgrandmother many years before. "I wish I knewwhere my parentsare,"Ellen said in asmall voice as she outlined one oftheappliqued birds with her finger. Annemarie didn't havean answer for her. She patted Ellen's hand and they sat together silently. Through the window, they could secathin, round slice ofmoon appear through theclouds, against the palesky. The Scandinavian night was not very dark yet, though soon, whenwintercame, the night would be not only dark but very long, nightskies beginning in thelateafternoon and lasting through morning. Fromdownstairs, they could hear Mama's voice, and Uncle Henrik's, talking, catching up on news. Mama missed her brother when she hadn'tseen himfora while, Annemarie knew. Theywere very close. Mamaalways teased himgently for notmarrying;she asked him, laughing, when theyweretogether, whether he had found a good wife yet, one who would keep his housetidier. Henrikteased back, and told Mamathatsheshould cometo Gillelejeto liveagain so that he wouldn't haveto do allthechores by himself. Fora moment, to Annemarie, listening, itseemed likeallthe earlier times, the happy visits to thefarmin the past with summer daylightextending beyond bedtime, with thechildren tucked away in the bedroomsand the grownups downstairs talking. But there wasa difference. In theearlier times, she had always overheard laughter. Tonight there was no laughteratall. 8. There Has Been a Death Through a haze of dreams Annemarie heard Henrik riseand leavethe house, headed for the barnwith his milking pail, at daybreak. Later, when she wokeagain, it was morning. Shecould hear birdscalling outside, one ofthemclose by the windowin the appletree;and shecould hear Mama below, in the kitchen, talking to Kirsti. Ellenwas stillasleep. The night before, so shortened by the soldiers in the Copenhagen apartment, seemed long ago. Annemarierose quietly so thatshe wouldn't wake her friend. She pulled on her clothesand went down the narrow, curved staircaseto find her sister kneeling on the kitchen floor trying to makethe gray kitten drink water froma bowl. "Silly,"shesaid. "Kittens like milk, not water." "Iamteaching this one newhabits,"Kirstiexplained importantly. "And I have named himThor, for the God ofThunder." Annemarie burst out laughing. Shelooked at thetiny kitten, who was shaking his head, irritated at his wet whiskersas Kirsti kept trying to dip his faceto the water. "God ofThunder?"Annemarie said. "Helooksas if he would run and hideifthere werea thunderstorm!" "He hasa mother someplace who would comfort him, I imagine,"Mamasaid. "And when he wants milk, he'llfind his mama." "Or hecould go visit thecow,"Kirstisaid. AlthoughUncle Henrik no longer raised crops on thefarm, as his parents had, hestill keptacow, who munched happily on the meadowgrassand gavealittle milk each day in return. Nowand then he wasableto send cheeseinto Copenhagen to his sister's family. This morning, Annemarie noticed with delight, Mama had made oatmeal, and there wasa pitcher ofcreamon thetable. It was a very long timesinceshe had tasted cream. At homethey had bread and teaeverymorning. Mamafollowed Annemarie'seyes to the pitcher. "Fresh from Blossom,"shesaid. "Henrik milks hereverymorning before he leaves for the boat. "And,"sheadded, "there's butter, too. Usually notevenHenrik has butter, but he managed to savealittlethis time." "Savealittlefromwhat?"Annemarieasked, spooning oatmeal into aflowered bowl. "Don't tellmethesoldiers try to—what's the word?— relocate butter, too?"Shelaughed at her own joke. But it wasn'tajokeatall, thoughMamalaughed ruefully. "They do,"shesaid. "They relocateallthefarmers' butter, right into the stomach oftheirarmy! I supposethat ifthey knewHenrik had kept this tiny bit, theywould come with gunsand march itaway, down the path!" Kirstijoined their laughter, as thethree ofthempictured a mound offrightened butter under military arrest. The kitten darted awaywhenKirsti'sattentionwas distracted, and settled on the windowsill. Suddenly, herein this sunlit kitchen, with creamin a pitcherand a bird in theappletree besidethe door—and out in the Kattegat, where Uncle Henrik, surrounded by bright bluesky and water, pulled in his nets filled with shiny silver fish—suddenly the specter of gunsand grim-faced soldiers seemed nothingmorethan aghoststory, ajoke withwhich to frighten children in the dark. Ellen appeared in the kitchen doorway, smiling sleepily, and Mama putanother flowered bowl ofsteaming oatmeal on the old wooden table. "Cream,"Annemariesaid, gesturing to the pitcher with a grin. All day long the girls played out of doors under the brilliantclear sky and sun. Annemarietook Ellen to thesmall pasture beyond the barn and introduced her to Blossom, who gavealazy, roughtextured lick to the palmofEllen's hand when sheextended it timidly. The kitten scampered aboutand chased Hying insects across the meadow. The girls picked armfuls ofwildflowers dried brown, now, by theearly fallchill, and arranged themin potsand pitchers untilthetabletops werecrowded with their bouquets. Insidethe house, Mamascrubbed and dusted, tsk-tsking at Uncle Henrik's untidy housekeeping. Shetook therugs out to the clotheslineand beat themwith asticky scattering dust into theair. "He needsa wife,"shesaid, shaking her head, and attacked the old wooden floors with a broomwhiletherugsaired. "Just look at this,"shesaid, opening the door to thelittle-used formalliving roomwith its old-fashioned furniture. "He never dusts."And she picked up hercleaning rags. "And, Kirsti,"sheadded, "the God ofThunder madea very smallrain shower in thecorner ofthe kitchen floor. Keep an eye on him.'" Latein theafternoon, Uncle Henrik came home. He grinned when hesawthe newly cleaned and polished house, the double doors to theliving roomwide open, therugsaired, and the windows washed. "Henrik, you need a wife,"Mamascolded him. Uncle Henrik laughed and joined Mama on thesteps near the kitchen door. "Why do I need a wife, when I haveasister?"he asked in his booming voice. Mamasighed, but hereyes weretwinkling. "And you need to stay home more often to takecare ofthe house. This step is broken, and thereisaleaking faucet in the kitchen. And—" Henrik was grinning at her, shaking his head inmock dismay. "And thereare micein theattic, and my brown sweater hasa big moth holein thesleeve, and ifI don't wash the windows soon—" They laughed together. "Anyway,"Mamasaid, "I have opened everywindow, Henrik, to let theair in, and thesunlight. Thank goodness it is such a beautiful day." "Tomorrowwill bea day for fishing,"Henrik said, his smile disappearing. Annemarie, listening, recognized the odd phrase. Papa had said something likeit on thetelephone. "Is the weather good for fishing, Henrik?"Papa had asked. But what did itmean? Henrik went fishing every day, rain or shine. Denmark's fishermen didn't wait for sunny days to taketheir boats outand throwtheir nets into thesea. Annemarie, silent, sittingwithEllen under theappletree, watched her uncle. Mamalooked at him. "The weather is right?"sheasked. Henrik nodded and looked at thesky. Hesmelled theair. "I will be going back to the boat tonightafter supper. We willleave very early in the morning. I willstay on the boatall night." Annemarie wondered what it would beliketo be on a boatall night. To lieatanchor, hearing theseaslap against thesides. To see thestars fromyour place on thesea. "You have prepared theliving room?"Uncle Henrik asked suddenly. Mama nodded. "It iscleaned, and I moved thefurniturea bit to makeroom. "And you sawtheflowers,"sheadded. "I hadn't thought ofit, but the girls picked dried flowers fromthe meadow." "Prepared theliving roomfor what?"Annemarieasked. "Why did youmovethefurniture?" Mamalooked at Uncle Henrik. He had reached down for the kitten, scampering past, and nowheld itagainst hischestand scratched itschin gently. Itarched its small back with pleasure. "Well, girls,"hesaid, "it isasad event, but not too sad, really, becauseshe was very, very old. There has been a death, and tonight your Great-aunt Birte will beresting in theliving room, in her casket, beforesheis buried tomorrow. It is the old custom, you know, for the dead to restat home, and their loved ones to be with thembefore burial." Kirstiwas listeningwith afascinated look. "Right here?"she asked. "Adead person right here?" Annemariesaid nothing. She wasconfused. This was thefirst she had heard ofa death in thefamily. No one had called Copenhagen to say that there had been a death. No one had seemed sad. And—most puzzling ofall—she had never heard the name before. Great-aunt Birte. Surelyshe would have known ifshe had a relative by that name. Kirstimight not; Kirstiwas littleand didn't pay attention to such things. But Annemarie did. She had always been fascinated by her mother's stories of her own childhood. Sheremembered the names ofallthecousins, the great-aunts, and -uncles:who had been a tease, who had been a grouch, who had been such ascold that her husband had finallymoved away to a different house, though they continued to have dinner togetherevery night. Suchwonderful, interesting stories, filled with thecolorful personalities of her mother's family. And Annemarie was quite, quitecertain, though shesaid nothing. There was no Great-aunt Birte. She didn'texist. 9. Why Are You Lying? Annemarie went outsidealoneafter supper. Through the open kitchenwindowshecould hear Mamaand Ellen talking as they washed the dishes, Kirsti, she knew, was busy on thefloor, playing with the old dolls she had found upstairs, the dolls that had been Mama's once, long ago, The kitten had fled when shetried to dress it, and disappeared. She wandered to the bam, where Uncle Henrik was milking Blossom. He was kneeling on thestrawcovered floor besidethe cow, his shoulder pressed against her heavy side, his strong tanned hands rhythmically urging her milk into thespotless bucket. The God ofThunder satalertly poised nearby, watching. Blossomlooked up at Annemarie with big brown eyes, and moved her wrinkled mouth likean old woman adjusting falseteeth. Annemarieleaned against theancientsplinterywood ofthe barn walland listened to thesharp rattling sound ofthestreams ofmilk as they hit thesides ofthe bucket. Uncle Henrik glanced overat her and smiled without pausing in therhythmofmilking. He didn'tsay anything. Through the barnwindows, the pinkish light ofsunset fellin irregular shapes upon thestacked hay. Flecks of dustand straw floated there, in thelight. g"Uncle Henrik,"Annemariesaid suddenly, her voicecold, "you arelying to me. You and Mama both." His strong handscontinued, deftly pressing likea pulseagainst thecow. Thesteady streams ofmilk stillcame. Helooked at her again, his deep blueeyes kind and questioning. "You areangry,"he said. "Yes. Mama has never lied to me before. Never. But I know thereis no Great-aunt Birte. Never once, in allthestories I've heard, in allthe old pictures I'veseen, has there been a Great-aunt Birte." Uncle Henrik sighed. Blossomlooked back at him, as ifto say "Almost done,"and, indeed, thestreams ofmilk lessened and slowed. Hetugged at thecowgently but firmly, pulling down thelast of the milk. The bucket was halffull, frothy on thetop. Finally heset it asideand washed thecow's udder with aclean damp cloth. Then helifted the bucket to ashelfand covered it. Herubbed thecow's neck affectionately. At last heturned to Annemarieas he wiped his own hands with thecloth. "Howbraveare you, little Annemarie?"heasked suddenly. She was startled. And dismayed. It wasa question she did not want to beasked. When sheasked it of herself, she didn't like her own answer. "Not very,"sheconfessed, looking at thefloor ofthe barn. TallUncle Henrik knelt before her so that his face was levelwithhers. Behind him, Blossomlowered her head, grasped a mouthful of hay in her mouth, and drewit inwith her tongue. The kitten cocked its head, waiting, still hoping for spilled milk. "I think that is not true,"Uncle Henrik said. "I think you arelike your mama, and like your papa, and like me. Frightened, but determined, and ifthetimecameto be brave, Iamquitesure you would be very, very brave. "But,"headded, "it is much easier to be braveif you do not knoweverything. And so your mama does not knoweverything. Neither do I. We knowonlywhat we need to know. "Do you understand what Iamsaying?"heasked, looking into hereyes. Annemariefrowned. She wasn'tsure. What did braverymean? She had been very frightened the day—not long ago, though nowit seemed far in the past—when thesoldier had stopped her on the streetand asked questions in his rough voice. And she had not known everything then. She had not known that the Germans were going to takeaway theJews. And so, when thesoldierasked, looking at Ellen that day, "What is your friend's name?"she had been ableto answer him, even though she was frightened. Ifshe had known everything, it would not have been so easy to be brave. She began to understand, justalittle. "Yes,"shesaid to Uncle Henrik, "I think I understand." "You guessed correctly,"hetold her. "Thereis no Great-aunt Birte, and never has been. Your mamalied to you, and so did I. "We did so,"heexplained, "to help you to be brave, because welove you. Will you forgive us for that?" Annemarie nodded. Shefelt older, suddenly. "And Iamnot going to tell you anymore, not now, for thesame reason. Do you understand?" Annemarie nodded again. Suddenly there wasa noise outside. Uncle Henrik's shoulders stiffened. Herose quickly, went to the windowofthe barn, stood in theshadows, and looked out. Then he turned back to Annemarie. "It is the hearse,"hesaid. "It is Great-aunt Birte, who never was."Hesmiled wryly. "So, my littlefriend, it is timefor the night of mourning to begin. Are you ready?" Annemarietook her uncle's hand and heled her fromthe barn. *** The gleamingwooden casket rested on supports in thecenter of theliving roomand was surrounded by thefragile, papery flowers that Annemarieand Ellen had picked thatafternoon. Lighted candles stood in holders on thetableand castasoft, flickering light. The hearse had gone, and thesolemn-faced menwho had carried thecasket indoors had gone with it, after speaking quietly to Uncle Henrik. Kirsti had goneto bed reluctantly, complaining thatshe wanted to stay up with the others, thatshe was grownup enough, thatshe had never beforeseen a dead person in aclosed-up box, that it wasn't fair. But Mama had been firm, and finallyKirsti, sulking, hadtrudged upstairs with her dolls under onearmand the kitten under the other. Ellenwas silent, and had asad expression. "I'mso sorry your Aunt Birte died,"Annemarie heard her say to Mama, who smiled sadly and thanked her. Annemarie had listened and said nothing. So nowI, too, am lying, shethought, and to my very best friend. Icould tellEllen that it isn't true, that thereis no Great-aunt Birte. Icould take heraside and whisper thesecret to her so thatshe wouldn't haveto feelsad. Butshe didn't. She understood thatshe was protectingEllen the way her mother had protected her. Although she didn't understand ypgwhat was happening, or why thecasket was there—or who, in truth, was in it—she knewthat it was better, safer, for Ellen to believeinGreat-aunt Birte. So shesaid nothing. Other peoplecameas the nightsky grewdarker. Aman and a woman, both ofthemdressed in dark clothing, the woman carrying asleeping baby, appeared at the door, and Uncle Henrik gestured theminside. They nodded to Mamaand to the girls. Theywent, followingUncle Henrik, to theliving roomand sat down quietly. "Friends ofGreat-aunt Birte,"Mamasaid quietly in responseto Annemarie's questioning look. Annemarie knewthat Mama was lying again, and shecould seethat Mama understood thatshe knew. They looked ateach other foralong timeand said nothing. In thatmoment, with that look, they becameequals. Fromtheliving roomcamethesound ofasleepy baby's brief wail. Annemarie glanced through the doorand sawthe woman open her blouseand begin to nursetheinfant, who quieted. Another man arrived:an old man, bearded. Quietly he went to theliving roomand sat down, saying nothing to the others, who onlyglanced at him. The youngwoman lifted her baby's blanket, covering its faceand her own breast. The old man bent his head forward and closed hiseyes, as if he were praying. His mouth moved silently, formingwords that no onecould hear. Annemariestood in the doorway, watching the mournersas they sat in thecandlelit room. Then sheturned back to the kitchen and began to help Ellen and Mamaas they prepared food. InCopenhagen, sheremembered, whenLise died, friends had cometo theirapartmentevery evening. All ofthemhad brought food so that Mama wouldn't need to cook. Why hadn't these people brought food? Why didn't they talk? InCopenhagen, even though thetalk was sad, people had spoken softly to oneanotherand to Mamaand Papa. They had talked about Lise, remembering happier times. Thinking about itas shesliced cheesein the kitchen, Annemarie realized that these people had nothing to talk about. They couldn't speak of happier times withGreat-aunt Birte when there had never been a Great-aunt Birteatall. Uncle Henrik cameinto the kitchen. He glanced at his watch andthen at Mama. "It's getting late,"hesaid. "I should go to the boat." Helooked worried. He blewout thecandles so that there would be no lightatall, and opened the door. Hestared beyond the gnarled appletreeinto the darkness. "Good. Herethey come,"hesaid in alow, relieved voice. "Ellen, come withme." Ellen looked questioningly toward Mama, who nodded. "Go withHenrik,"shesaid. Annemarie watched, still holding the wedge offirmcheesein her hand, as Ellen followed Uncle Henrik into the yard. Shecould hear asharp, lowcry fromEllen, and then thesound of voices speaking softly. In a moment Uncle Henrik returned. Behind himwas Peter Neilsen. Tonight Peter went first to Mamaand hugged her. Then he hugged Annemarieand kissed her on thecheek. But hesaid nothing. There was no playfulness to hisaffection tonight, justa sense of urgency, ofworry. He went immediately to theliving room, looked around, and nodded at thesilent peoplethere. Ellenwas still outside. But in a moment the door opened and she returned—held tightly, likealittle girl, her barelegs dangling, against her father'schest. Her mother was besidethem. 10. Let Us Open the Casket "You areall here now,"Uncle Henrik said, looking around the living room. "I must go." Annemariestood in the wide doorway, looking in fromthe hall. The baby slept now, and its mother looked tired. Her husband sat beside her, hisarmacross her shoulders. The old man's head was still bent. Peter satalone, leaning forward with hiselbows on his knees. It wasclear that he was deep in thought. On thesofa Ellen sat between her parents, one hand clasped tightly in her mother's. Shelooked up at Annemarie but didn'tsmile. Annemariefeltasurge ofsadness; the bond oftheir friendship had not broken, but it wasas ifEllen had moved nowinto a different world, the world of her own family and whatever lay ahead for them. The Elderly bearded man looked up suddenly as Uncle Henrik prepared to go. "God keep you safe,"hesaid in afirmbut quiet voice. Henrik nodded. "God keep usallsafe,"hereplied. Then he turned and left theroom. Amoment later Annemarie heard him leavethe house. Mama brought theteapot fromthe kitchen, and atray ofcups. Annemarie helped her pass thecupsaround. No onespoke. "Annemarie,"Mama whispered to her in the hall, "youmay go to bed if youwant to. It is very late." Annemarieshook her head. Butshe was tired. Shecould see that Ellenwas, too; her friend's head was leaning on her mother's shoulder, and hereyesclosed nowand then. FinallyAnnemarie went to theempty rocking chair in thecorner oftheliving roomand curled there with her head against its soft, padded back. She dozed. She was startled fromher halfsleep by thesudden sweep of headlights, through thesheercurtainsand across theroom, asacar pulled up outside. Thecar doors slammed. Everyonein theroom tensed, but no onespoke. She heard—as ifin arecurring nightmare—the pounding on the door, and then the heavy, frighteningly familiar staccato of boots on the kitchen floor. The womanwith the baby gasped and began, suddenly, to weep. The male, accented voicefromthe kitchenwas loud. "We have observed,"hesaid, "thatan unusual number of people have gathered at this housetonight. What is theexplanation?" "There has been a death,"Mama's voicereplied calmly. "It is always ourcustomto gatherand pay our respects when afamily member dies. Iamsure you arefamiliar with ourcustoms." One ofthe officers pushed Mamaahead of himfromthe kitchen and entered theliving room. There were others behind him. They filled the wide doorway. Asalways, their boots gleamed. Their guns. Their helmets. All ofthemgleamed in thecandlelight. Annemarie watched as the man'seyes moved around theroom. Helooked foralong timeat thecasket. Then he moved his gaze, focusing on each person in turn. When hiseyes reached her, she looked back at himsteadily. "Who died?"heasked harshly. No oneanswered. Theywatched Annemarie, and sherealized that the officer was directing the question at her. Nowshe knewforcertainwhat Uncle Henrik had meant when he had talked to her in the barn. To be bravecame moreeasily if you knewnothing. Sheswallowed. "MyGreat-aunt Birte,"shelied, in afirmvoice. The officer moved forward suddenly, across theroom, to the casket. He placed one gloved hand on its lid. "Poor Great-aunt Birte,"hesaid, in acondescending voice. "I do knowyourcustoms,"hesaid, turning his gazetoward Mama, who stillstood in the doorway. "And I knowit is thecustomto pay one's respects by looking your loved onein theface. It seems odd to methat you haveclosed thiscoffin up so tightly."His hand was in afist, and herubbed itacross theedge ofthe polished lid. "Why is it not open?"he demanded. "Let us open it up and take onelast look at Great-aunt Birte!" AnnemariesawPeter, across theroom, stiffen in hischair, lift his chin, and reach slowlywith one hand toward his side. Mama walked quickly across theroom, directly to thecasket, directly to the officer. "You'reright,"shesaid. "The doctor said it should beclosed, because Aunt Birte died oftyphus, and hesaid that there wasachancethe germs would still bethere, would still be dangerous. But what does he know—only acountry doctor, and anold man at that? Surely typhus germs wouldn't linger in a dead person! And dear Aunt Birte; I have been longing to see her face, to kiss her goodbye. Ofcourse we will open thecasket! Iamglad you suggested—" With aswiftmotion the Nazi officer slapped Mamaacross her face. Shestaggered backward, and a white mark on hercheek darkened. "You foolishwoman,"hespat. "To think that we haveany interest in seeing the body of your diseased aunt! Open itafter we leave,"hesaid. With one gloved thumb he pressed acandleflameinto darkness. The hot wax spattered thetable. "Putallthesecandles out/' hesaid, "or pullthecurtains." Then hestrodeto the doorway and left theroom. Motionless, silent, one hand to hercheek, Mamalistened—they alllistened—as the uniformed men left the house. In a moment they heard thecar doors, thesound ofitsengine, and finally they heard it driveaway. "Mama!"Annemariecried. Her mother shook her head quickly, and glanced at the open windowcovered only by thesheercurtain. Annemarie understood. There mightstill besoldiers outside, watching, listening. Peter stood and drewthe dark curtainsacross the windows. He relit theextinguished candle. Then hereached for the old Biblethat had always been there, on the mantel. He opened it quickly and said, "I willread a psalm." Hiseyes turned to the page he had opened at random, and he began to read in astrong voice. Opraisethe Lord. How good it is to sing psalms to our God! How pleasant to praise him! The Lord is rebuilding Jerusalem; he gathers in thescattered sons of Israel. It is he who heals the broken in spirit and binds up their wounds, he who numbers thestars one by one... Mamasat down and listened. Gradually they each began to relax. Annemariecould seethe old man across theroom, moving his lipsas Peter read; he knewtheancient psalmby heart. Annemarie didn't. The words were unfamiliar to her, and she tried to listen, tried to understand, tried to forget the warand the Nazis, tried not to cry, tried to be brave. The night breeze moved the dark curtainsat the openwindows. Outside, she knew, thesky was speckled with stars. I lowcould anyone number themone by one, as the psalmsaid? There weretoo many. Theskywas too big. Ellen had said that her mother was frightened ofthe ocean, that it was too cold and too big. Theskywas, too, thought Annemarie. The whole world was: too cold, too big. And too cruel. Peter read on, in his firmvoice, though it wasclear he was tired. Thelongminutes passed. They seemed hours. Finally, stillreading, he moved quietly to the window. Heclosed the Bibleand listened to the quiet night. Then helooked around the room. "Now,"hesaid, "it is time." First heclosed the windows. Then he went to thecasketand opened thelid. 11. Will We See You Again Soon, Peter? Annemarie blinked. Across the dark room, shesawEllen, too, peering into the narrowwooden box in surprise. There was no onein thecasketatall. Instead, itseemed to be stuffed with folded blanketsand articles ofclothing. Peter began to lift thethings outand distributethemto thesilent peoplein theroom. He handed heavy coats to the man and wife, and another to the old manwith the beard. "It will be very cold,"he murmured. "Put themon."Hefound a thick sweater for Mrs. Rosen, and a woolen jacket for Ellen's father. Aftera moment ofrummaging through thefolded things, he found asmaller winter jacket, and handed it to Ellen. Annemarie watched as Ellen took thejacket in herarmsand looked at it. it was patched and worn. It was truethat there had been fewnewclothes foranyone during therecent years; butstilt, Ellen's mother had always managed to makeclothes for her daughter, often using old things thatshe wasableto takeapartand refashion in a way thatmadethemseembrand-new. Never had Ellenworn anything so shabby and old. Butshe put it on, pulled itaround her, and buttoned the mismatched buttons. Peter, hisarms full ofthe odd pieces ofclothing, looked toward thesilentcouple with theinfant. "I'msorry,"hesaid to them. "There is nothing fora baby." "I'llfind something,"Mamasaid quickly. "The babymust be warm."Sheleft theroomand was back in a moment withKirsti's thick red sweater. "Here,"shesaid softly to the mother. "It will be much too big, but that willmakeitevenwarmer for him." The woman spokefor thefirst time. "Her,"she whispered. "She'sa girl. Her nameis Rachel." Mamasmiled and helped her direct thesleeping baby'sarms intothesleeves ofthesweater. Together they buttoned the heart-shapedbuttons—howKirstiloved thatsweater, with its heart buttons!— untilthetiny child wascompletely encased in the warmred wool. Hereyelids fluttered butshe didn't wake. Peter reached into his pocketand took something out. He went to the parentsand leaned down toward the baby. He opened thelidofthesmall bottlein his hand. "Howmuch docs she weigh?"Peterasked. "She was seven pounds when she was bom,"the youngwoman replied. "She's gained alittle, but not verymuch. Maybeshe weighs eight pounds now, no more." "Afewdrops will beenough, then. It has no taste. She won't even notice." The mother tightened herarmsaround the baby and looked up at Peter, pleading. "Please, no,"shesaid. "Shealways sleepsall night. Please, she doesn't need it, I promise. She won'tcry." Peter's voice was firm. "Wecan't takeachance,"hesaid. He inserted the dropper ofthe bottleinto the baby's tinymouth, and squeezed afewdrops ofliquid onto her tongue. The baby yawned, and swallowed. The motherclosed hereyes; her husband gripped her shoulder. Next, Peter removed thefolded blankets fromthecoffin, one by one, and handed themaround. "Carry these with you,"hesaid. "Youwill need themlater, for warmth." Annemarie's mother moved around theroomand gaveeach person asmall package offood:thecheeseand bread and apples that Annemarie had helped her preparein the kitchen hours before. Finally, Peter took a paper-wrapped packet fromtheinside of his own jacket. Helooked around theroom, at theassembled people nowdressed in the bulkywinterclothing, and thenmotioned to Mr. Rosen, who followed himto the hall. Annemariecould overhear theirconversation. "Mr. Rosen," Peter said, "I must get this to Henrik. But I might notsee him. Iam going to takethe others only to the harborand theywill go to the boatalone. "I want you to deliver this. Without fail. It is of great importance."There wasa moment ofsilencein the hall, and Annemarie knewthat Peter must be giving the packet to Mr. Rosen. Annemariecould seeit protruding fromMr. Rosen's pocket when hereturned to theroomand sat down again. Shecould see, too, that Mr. Rosen had a puzzled look. He didn't knowwhat the packetcontained. He hadn'tasked. It was one moretime, Annemarierealized, when they protected oneanother by not telling. IfMr. Rosen knew, he might be frightened. IfMr. Rosen knew, he might bein danger. So he hadn'tasked. And Peter hadn'texplained. "Now,"Peter said, looking at his watch, "I willlead thefirst group. You, and you, and you."He gestured to the old man and to the young people with their baby. "Inge,"hesaid. Annemarierealized that it was thefirst timethat she had heard Peter Neilsen call her mother by her first name; before, it had always been "Mrs. Johansen"; or, in the old days, during the merrimentand excitement of hisengagement to Lise, it had been, occasionally, "Mama."Nowit was Inge. It wasas if he had moved beyond his own youth and had taken his placein the world ofadults. Her mother nodded and waited for his instructions. "Youwait twentyminutes, and then bring the Rosens. Don't comesooner. We must beseparate on the path so thereis less chance of being seen." Mrs. Johansen nodded again. "Come directly back to the houseafter you haveseen the Rosens safely to Henrik. Stay in theshadowsand on the back path —you knowthat, ofcourse. "By thetime you get the Rosens to the boat,"Peter went on, "I will be gone. As soon as I deliver my group, I mustmove on. There is other work to be donetonight." Heturned to Annemarie. "So I willsay goodbyeto you now." Annemarie went to himand gave hima hug. "But we willsee youagain