Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Ch 11
11
Will We See You Again Soon, Peter?
Annemarie blinked. Across the dark room, she saw Ellen, too, peering into the narrow wooden box in surprise.
There was no one in the casket at all. Instead, it seemed to be stuffed with folded blankets and articles of clothing.
Peter began to lift the things out and distribute them to the silent people in the room. He handed heavy coats to the man and wife, and another to the old man with the beard.
“It will be very cold,” he murmured. “Put them on.” He found a thick sweater for Mrs. Rosen, and a woolen jacket for Ellen's father. After a moment of rummaging through the folded things, he found a smaller winter jacket, and handed it to Ellen.
Annemarie watched as Ellen took the jacket in her arms and looked at it. it was patched and worn. It was true that there had been few new clothes for anyone during the recent years; but still, Ellen's mother had always managed to make clothes for her daughter, often using old things that she was able to take apart and refashion in a way that made them seem brand-new. Never had Ellen worn anything so shabby and old.
But she put it on, pulled it around her, and buttoned the mismatched buttons.
Peter, his arms full of the odd pieces of clothing, looked toward the silent couple with the infant. “I'm sorry,” he said to them. “There is nothing for a baby.”
“I'll find something,” Mama said quickly. “The baby must be warm.” She left the room and was back in a moment with Kirsti's thick red sweater. “Here,” she said softly to the mother. “It will be much too big, but that will make it even warmer for him.”
The woman spoke for the first time. “Her,” she whispered. “She's a girl. Her name is Rachel.”
Mama smiled and 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.
“How much does she weigh?” Peter asked.
“She 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.”
“A 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.
“I 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. “Now,” 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.
“Inge,” 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.
“You 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.
“Come 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.
“By 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 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.
“I 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.
“It'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.
