Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

helped her direct the sleeping baby’s arms into the sleeves of the sweater. Together they buttoned the heart-shaped buttons—how Kirsti loved that sweater, with its heart buttons!—until the tiny child was completely encased in the warm red wool. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t wake.
    Peter reached into his pocket and took something out. He went to the parents and leaned down toward the baby. He opened the lid of the small bottle in his hand.
    â€œHow much does she weigh?” Peter asked.
    â€œShe was seven pounds when she was born,” the young woman replied. “She’s gained a little, but not very much. Maybe she weighs eight pounds now, no more.”
    â€œA few drops will be enough, then. It has no taste. She won’t even notice.”
    The mother tightened her arms around the baby and looked up at Peter, pleading. “Please, no,” she said. “She always sleeps all night. Please, she doesn’t need it, I promise. She won’t cry.”
    Peter’s voice was firm. “We can’t take a chance,” he said. He inserted the dropper of the bottle into the baby’s tiny mouth, and squeezed a few drops of liquid onto her tongue. The baby yawned, and swallowed. The mother closed her eyes; her husband gripped her shoulder.
    Next, Peter removed the folded blankets from the coffin, one by one, and handed them around. “Carry these with you,” he said. “You will need them later, for warmth.”
    Annemarie’s mother moved around the room and gave each person a small package of food: the cheese and bread and apples that Annemarie had helped her prepare in the kitchen hours before.
    Finally, Peter took a paper-wrapped packet from the inside of his own jacket. He looked around the room, at the assembled people now dressed in the bulky winter clothing, and then motioned to Mr. Rosen, who followed him to the hall.
    Annemarie could overhear their conversation. “Mr. Rosen,” Peter said, “I must get this to Henrik. But I might not see him. I am going to take the others only to the harbor and they will go to the boat alone.
    â€œI want you to deliver this. Without fail. It is of great importance.” There was a moment of silence in the hall, and Annemarie knew that Peter must be giving the packet to Mr. Rosen.
    Annemarie could see it protruding from Mr. Rosen’s pocket when he returned to the room and sat down again. She could see, too, that Mr. Rosen had a puzzled look. He didn’t know what the packet contained. He hadn’t asked.
    It was one more time, Annemarie realized, when they protected one another by not telling. If Mr. Rosen knew, he might be frightened. If Mr. Rosen knew, he might be in danger.
    So he hadn’t asked. And Peter hadn’t explained.
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    â€œNow,” Peter said, looking at his watch, “I will lead the first group. You, and you, and you.” He gestured to the old man and to the young people with their baby.
    â€œInge,” he said. Annemarie realized that it was the first time that 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 merriment and excitement of his engagement to Lise, it had been, occasionally, “Mama.” Now it was Inge. It was as if he had moved beyond his own youth and had taken his place in the world of adults. Her mother nodded and waited for his instructions.
    â€œYou wait twenty minutes, and then bring the Rosens. Don’t come sooner. We must be separate on the path so there is less chance of being seen.”
    Mrs. Johansen nodded again.
    â€œCome directly back to the house after you have seen the Rosens safely to Henrik. Stay in the shadows and on the back path—you know that, of course.
    â€œBy the time you get the Rosens to the boat,” Peter went on, “I will be gone. As soon as I deliver my group, I must move on. There is other