Read Online Number the Stars by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page A

sad.
    And—most puzzling of all—she had never heard the name before. Great-aunt Birte.
Surely
she would have known if she had a relative by that name. Kirsti might not; Kirsti was little and didn’t pay attention to such things.
    But Annemarie did. She had always been fascinated by her mother’s stories of her own childhood. She remembered the names of all the cousins, the great-aunts, and -uncles: who had been a tease, who had been a grouch, who had been such a scold that her husband had finally moved away to a different house, though they continued to have dinner together every night. Such wonderful, interesting stories, filled with the colorful personalities of her mother’s family.
    And Annemarie was quite, quite certain, though she said nothing. There was no Great-aunt Birte. She didn’t exist.

9
Why Are You Lying?
    Annemarie went outside alone after supper. Through the open kitchen window she could hear Mama and Ellen talking as they washed the dishes, Kirsti, she knew, was busy on the floor, playing with the old dolls she had found upstairs, the dolls that had been Mama’s once, long ago. The kitten had fled when she tried to dress it, and disappeared.
    She wandered to the barn, where Uncle Henrik was milking Blossom. He was kneeling on the strawcovered floor beside the cow, his shoulder pressed against her heavy side, his strong tanned hands rhythmically urging her milk into the spotless bucket. The God of Thunder sat alertly poised nearby, watching.
    Blossom looked up at Annemarie with big brown eyes, and moved her wrinkled mouth like an old woman adjusting false teeth.
    Annemarie leaned against the ancient splintery wood of the barn wall and listened to the sharp rattling sound of the streams of milk as they hit the sides of the bucket. Uncle Henrik glanced over at her and smiled without pausing in the rhythm of milking. He didn’t say anything.
    Through the barn windows, the pinkish light of sunset fell in irregular shapes upon the stacked hay. Flecks of dust and straw floated there, in the light.
    â€œUncle Henrik,” Annemarie said suddenly, her voice cold, “you are lying to me. You and Mama both.”
    His strong hands continued, deftly pressing like a pulse against the cow. The steady streams of milk still came. He looked at her again, his deep blue eyes kind and questioning. “You are angry,” he said.
    â€œYes. Mama has never lied to me before. Never. But I know there is no Great-aunt Birte. Never once, in all the stories I’ve heard, in all the old pictures I’ve seen, has there been a Great-aunt Birte.”
    Uncle Henrik sighed. Blossom looked back at him, as if to say “Almost done,” and, indeed, the streams of milk lessened and slowed.
    He tugged at the cow gently but firmly, pulling down the last of the milk. The bucket was half full, frothy on the top. Finally he set it aside and washed the cow’s udder with a clean damp cloth. Then he lifted the bucket to a shelf and covered it. He rubbed the cow’s neck affectionately. At last he turned to Annemarie as he wiped his own hands with the cloth.
    â€œHow brave are you, little Annemarie?” he asked suddenly.
    She was startled. And dismayed. It was a question she did not want to be asked. When she asked it of herself, she didn’t like her own answer.
    â€œNot very,” she confessed, looking at the floor of the barn.
    Tall Uncle Henrik knelt before her so that his face was level with hers. Behind him, Blossom lowered her head, grasped a mouthful of hay in her mouth, and drew it in with her tongue. The kitten cocked its head, waiting, still hoping for spilled milk.
    â€œI think that is not true,” Uncle Henrik said. “I think you are like your mama, and like your papa, and like me. Frightened, but determined, and if the time came to be brave, I am quite sure you would be very, very brave.
    â€œBut,” he added, “it is much
easier
to be brave if