Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Page A

work to be done tonight.”
    He turned to Annemarie. “So I will say goodbye to you now.”
    Annemarie went to him and gave him a hug. “But we will see you again soon?” she asked.
    â€œI hope so,” Peter said. “Very soon. Don’t grow much more, or you will be taller than I am, little Longlegs!”
    Annemarie smiled, but Peter’s comment was no longer the lighthearted fun of the past. It was only a brief grasp at something that had gone.
    Peter kissed Mama wordlessly. Then he wished the Rosens Godspeed, and he led the others through the door.
    Mama, Annemarie, and the Rosens sat in silence. There was a slight commotion outside the door, and Mama went quickly to look out. In a moment she was back.
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said, in response to their looks. “The old man stumbled. But Peter helped him up. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Maybe just his pride,” she added, smiling a bit.
    It was an odd word:
pride.
Annemarie looked at the Rosens, sitting there, wearing the misshapen, ill-fitting clothing, holding ragged blankets folded in their arms, their faces drawn and tired. She remembered the earlier, happier times: Mrs. Rosen, her hair neatly combed and covered, lighting the Sabbath candles, saying the ancient prayer. And Mr. Rosen, sitting in the big chair in their living room, studying his thick books, correcting papers, adjusting his glasses, looking up now and then to complain good-naturedly about the lack of decent light. She remembered Ellen in the school play, moving confidently across the stage, her gestures sure, her voice clear.
    All of those things, those sources of pride—the candlesticks, the books, the daydreams of theater—had been left behind in Copenhagen. They had nothing with them now; there was only the clothing of unknown people for warmth, the food from Henrik’s farm for survival, and the dark path ahead, through the woods, to freedom.
    Annemarie realized, though she had not really been told, that Uncle Henrik was going to take them, in his boat, across the sea to Sweden. She knew how frightened Mrs. Rosen was of the sea: its width, its depth, its cold. She knew how frightened Ellen was of the soldiers, with their guns and boots, who were certainly looking for them. And she knew how frightened they all must be of the future.
    But their shoulders were as straight as they had been in the past: in the classroom, on the stage, at the Sabbath table. So there were other sources, too, of pride, and they had not left everything behind.

12
Where Was Mama?
    Mr. Rosen tripped on the loose step outside the kitchen door. His wife grasped his arm, and he regained his balance.
    â€œIt’s very dark,” Mama whispered as they stood in the yard with their blankets and bundles of food gathered in their arms, “and we can’t use any kind of light. I’ll go first—I know the way very well—and you follow me. Try not to stumble over the tree roots in the path. Feel carefully with your feet. The path is uneven.
    â€œAnd be very, very quiet,” she added, unnecessarily.
    The night was quiet, too. A slight breeze moved in the tops of the trees, and from across the meadow came the sound of the sea’s movement, which was a constant sound here and had always been. But no birds called or cried here now, in the night. The cow slept silently in the barn, the kitten upstairs in Kirsti’s arms.
    There were stars here and there, dotting the sky among thin clouds, but no moon. Annemarie shivered, standing at the foot of the steps.
    â€œCome,” Mama murmured, and she moved away from the house.
    One by one the Rosens turned and hugged Annemarie silently. Ellen came to her last; the two girls held each other.
    â€œI’ll come back someday,” Ellen whispered fiercely. “I
promise.
”
    â€œI know you will,” Annemarie whispered back, holding her friend tightly.
    Then they were gone, Mama and the