Free Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Page A

late.”
    Annemarie shook her head. But she was tired. She could see that Ellen was, too; her friend’s head was leaning on her mother’s shoulder, and her eyes closed now and then.
    Finally Annemarie went to the empty rocking chair in the corner of the living room and curled there with her head against its soft, padded back. She dozed.
    She was startled from her half sleep by the sudden sweep of headlights, through the sheer curtains and across the room, as a car pulled up outside. The car doors slammed. Everyone in the room tensed, but no one spoke.
    She heard—as if in a recurring nightmare—the pounding on the door, and then the heavy, frighteningly familiar staccato of boots on the kitchen floor. The woman with the baby gasped and began, suddenly, to weep.
    The male, accented voice from the kitchen was loud. “We have observed,” he said, “that an unusual number of people have gathered at this house tonight. What is the explanation?”
    â€œThere has been a death,” Mama’s voice replied calmly. “It is always our custom to gather and pay our respects when a family member dies. I am sure you are familiar with our customs.”
    One of the officers pushed Mama ahead of him from the kitchen and entered the living room. There were others behind him. They filled the wide doorway. As always, their boots gleamed. Their guns. Their helmets. All of them gleamed in the candlelight.
    Annemarie watched as the man’s eyes moved around the room. He looked for a long time at the casket. Then he moved his gaze, focusing on each person in turn. When his eyes reached her, she looked back at him steadily.
    â€œWho died?” he asked harshly.
    No one answered. They watched Annemarie, and she realized that the officer was directing the question at her.
    Now she knew for certain what Uncle Henrik had meant when he had talked to her in the barn. To be brave came more easily if you knew nothing.
    She swallowed. “My Great-aunt Birte,” she lied, in a firm voice.
    The officer moved forward suddenly, across the room, to the casket. He placed one gloved hand on its lid. “Poor Great-aunt Birte,” he said, in a condescending voice.
    â€œI
do
know your customs,” he said, turning his gaze toward Mama, who still stood in the doorway. “And I know it is the custom to pay one’s respects by looking your loved one in the face. It seems odd to me that you have closed this coffin up so tightly.” His hand was in a fist, and he rubbed it across the edge of the polished lid.
    â€œWhy is it not open?” he demanded. “Let us open it up and take one last look at Great-aunt Birte!”
    Annemarie saw Peter, across the room, stiffen in his chair, lift his chin, and reach slowly with one hand toward his side.
    Mama walked quickly across the room, directly to the casket, directly to the officer. “You’re right,” she said. “The doctor said it should be closed, because Aunt Birte died of typhus, and he said that there was a chance the germs would still be there, would still be dangerous. But what does he know—only a country doctor, and an old 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. Of
course
we will open the casket! I am glad you suggested—”
    With a swift motion the Nazi officer slapped Mama across her face. She staggered backward, and a white mark on her cheek darkened.
    â€œYou foolish woman,” he spat. “To think that we have any interest in seeing the body of your diseased aunt! Open it after we leave,” he said.
    With one gloved thumb he pressed a candle flame into darkness. The hot wax spattered the table. “Put all these candles out,” he said, “or pull the curtains.”
    Then he strode to the doorway and left the room. Motionless, silent, one hand to her cheek, Mama listened—they