Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Page B

given to Mr. Rosen.
    "Mr. Rosen tripped on the step, remember? It must have fallen from his pocket. We'll have to save it and give it back to Peter." Annemarie handed it to her mother. "Do you know what it is?"
    Her mother didn't answer. Her face was stricken. She looked at the path and down at her ankle.
    "It's important, isn't it, Mama? It was for Uncle Henrik. I remember Peter said it was very important. I heard him tell Mr. Rosen."
    Her mother tried to stand, but fell back against the steps with a groan. "My God," she murmured again. "It may all have been for nothing."
    Annemarie took the packet from her mother's hand and stood. "I will take it," she said. "I know the way, and it's almost light now. I can run like the wind."
    Mama spoke quickly, her voice tense. "Annemarie, go into the house and get the small basket on the table. Quickly, quickly. Put an apple into it, and some cheese. Put this packet underneath; do you understand?
Hurry.
"
    Annemarie did instantly as she was told. The basket. The packet, at the bottom. She covered it with a napkin. Then some wrapped cheese. An apple. She glanced around the kitchen, saw some bread, and added that. The little basket was full. She took it to where her mother was.
    "You must run to the boat. If anyone should stop you—"
    "Who would stop me?"
    "Annemarie, you understand how dangerous this is. If any soldiers see you, if they stop you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a little girl. A silly, empty-headed little girl, taking lunch to a fisherman, a foolish uncle who forgot his bread and cheese."
    "Mania, what
is
it in the bottom?"
    But her mother still didn't answer the question. "
Go
," she said firmly. "Go right now. And
run!
As fast as you can!"
    Annemarie kissed her mother quickly, grabbed the basket from her mother's lap, turned, and ran toward the path.

14. On the Dark Path
    Only now, entering the woods on the footpath, did Annemarie realize how cold the dawn was. She had watched and helped, earlier, as the others donned sweaters, jackets, and coats; and she had peered into the night, following them with her eyes, as they moved silently off, bulky in their garments, blankets in their arms.
    But she wore only a light sweater over her cotton dress. Though the October day, later, would be warmed by sunlight, now it was gray, chilly, and damp. She shivered.
    The path curved, and she could no longer look behind her and see the clearing with the farmhouse outlined against the pale sky and the lightening meadow beyond. Now there were only the dark woods ahead; underfoot, the path, latticed with thick roots hidden under the fallen leaves, was invisible. She felt her way with her feet, trying not to stumble.
    The handle of the straw basket scratched her arm through her sweater. She shifted it and tried to run.
    She thought of a story she had often told to Kirsti as they cuddled in bed at night.
    "Once upon a time there was a little girl," she told herself silently, "who had a beautiful red cloak. Her mother had made it for her.
    "She wore it so often that everyone called her Little Red Riding-Hood."
    Kirsti would always interrupt there. "Why was it called a red riding hood?" Kirsti would ask. "Why didn't they just call her Little Red-Cloak?"
    "Well, it had a hood that covered her head. She had beautiful curls, like you, Kirsti. Maybe someday Mama will make you a coat with a hood to cover your curls and keep you warm."
    "But why," Kirsti would ask, "was it a
riding
hood? Was she riding a horse?"
    "Maybe she had a horse that she rode sometimes. But not in this story. Now stop interrupting every minute."
    Annemarie smiled, feeling her way through the dark, remembering how Kirsti always interrupted stories to ask questions. Often she just wanted to make the story last longer.
    The story continued. "One day the little girl's mother said, 'I want you to take a basket of food to your grandmother. She is sick in bed. Come, let me tie your red cloak.'"
    "The grandmother lived deep