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

you do not know everything. And so your mama does not know everything. Neither do I. We know only what we need to know.
    â€œDo you understand what I am saying?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
    Annemarie frowned. She wasn’t sure. What did bravery mean? She had been very frightened the day—not long ago, though now it seemed far in the past—when the soldier had stopped her on the street and asked questions in his rough voice.
    And she had not known everything then. She had not known that the Germans were going to take away the Jews. And so, when the soldier asked, looking at Ellen that day, “What is your friend’s name?” she had been able to answer him, even though she was frightened. If she had known everything, it would not have been so easy to be brave.
    She began to understand, just a little. “Yes,” she said to Uncle Henrik, “I think I understand.”
    â€œYou guessed correctly,” he told her. “There is no Great-aunt Birte, and never has been. Your mama lied to you, and so did I.
    â€œWe did so,” he explained, “to help you to be brave, because we love you. Will you forgive us for that?”
    Annemarie nodded. She felt older, suddenly.
    â€œAnd I am not going to tell you any more, not now, for the same reason. Do you understand?”
    Annemarie nodded again. Suddenly there was a noise outside. Uncle Henrik’s shoulders stiffened. He rose quickly, went to the window of the barn, stood in the shadows, and looked out. Then he turned back to Annemarie.
    â€œIt is the hearse,” he said. “It is Great-aunt Birte, who never was.” He smiled wryly. “So, my little friend, it is time for the night of mourning to begin. Are you ready?”
    Annemarie took her uncle’s hand and he led her from the barn.
    Â 
    The gleaming wooden casket rested on supports in the center of the living room and was surrounded by the fragile, papery flowers that Annemarie and Ellen had picked that afternoon. Lighted candles stood in holders on the table and cast a soft, flickering light. The hearse had gone, and the solemn-faced men who had carried the casket indoors had gone with it, after speaking quietly to Uncle Henrik.
    Kirsti had gone to bed reluctantly, complaining that she wanted to stay up with the others, that she was grownup enough, that she had never before seen a dead person in a closed-up box, that it wasn’t
fair.
But Mama had been firm, and finally Kirsti, sulking, had trudged upstairs with her dolls under one arm and the kitten under the other.
    Ellen was silent, and had a sad expression. “I’m so sorry your Aunt Birte died,” Annemarie heard her say to Mama, who smiled sadly and thanked her.
    Annemarie had listened and said nothing. So now I, too, am lying, she thought, and to my very best friend. I could tell Ellen that it isn’t true, that there is no Great-aunt Birte. I could take her aside and whisper the secret to her so that she wouldn’t have to feel sad.
    But she didn’t. She understood that she was protecting Ellen the way her mother had protected her. Although she didn’t understand what was happening, or why the casket was there—or who, in truth, was in it—she knew that it was better,
safer,
for Ellen to believe in Great-aunt Birte. So she said nothing.
    Other people came as the night sky grew darker. A man and a woman, both of them dressed in dark clothing, the woman carrying a sleeping baby, appeared at the door, and Uncle Henrik gestured them inside. They nodded to Mama and to the girls. They went, following Uncle Henrik, to the living room and sat down quietly.
    â€œFriends of Great-aunt Birte,” Mama said quietly in response to Annemarie’s questioning look. Annemarie knew that Mama was lying again, and she could see that Mama understood that she knew. They looked at each other for a long time and said nothing. In that moment, with that look, they became