Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Ch 13
13
Run! As Fast As You Can!
Still moving quietly so as not to wake her sister, Annemarie sped down the stairs and through the kitchen door. Her foot caught the loose step and she faltered for a moment, righting herself, then dashed across the ground to the place where her mother lay.
“Mama!” she called desperately, “Mama!”
“Shhh,” Mama said, raising her head. “I'm all right!” “But, Mama,” Annemarie asked, kneeling beside her, “what's wrong? What happened?”
Her mother pulled herself to a sitting position. She winced in pain. “I'm all right, really. Don't worry. And the Rosens are with Henrik. That's the important thing.” She smiled a little, though her face was drawn with pain and she bit her lip, the smile fading. “We got there quite quickly, even though it was still so dark and it was difficult for the Rosens, not knowing the path. Henrik was there waiting, on the boat, and he took them aboard and down below so quickly to the cabin that they were invisible in an instant. He said the others were already there; Peter got them there safely, too.
“So I turned and hurried home. I was so anxious to get back to you girls. I should have been more careful.” Talking softly, she brushed some grass and dirt from her hands.
“Can you believe it? I was very nearly here—well, maybe just halfway—when I tripped over a root and went sprawling.”
Mama sighed. “So clumsy,” she said, as if she were scolding herself. “I'm afraid my ankle is broken, Annemarie. Thank goodness it is nothing worse. An ankle mends. And I am home, and the Rosens are with Henrik.
“You should have seen me, Annemarie,” she said, shaking her head with a wry look. “Your proper mama, crawling inch by inch! I probably looked like a drunkard!”
She reached for Annemarie's arm. “Here, let me lean on you. I think if you support me on this side, I can make my way up to the house. Goodness, what a clumsy fool I am! Here, let me put my arm over your shoulders. You're such a good, strong, brave girl. Now—very slowly. There.”
Mama's face was white with pain. Annemarie could see it even through the faint light of the approaching dawn. She hobbled, leaning heavily on her daughter, pausing again and again, toward the house.
“When we get inside, I'll have a cup of tea and then we'll call the doctor. I'll tell him that I fell on the stairs. You'll have to help me wash away the grass and twigs. Here, Annemarie, let me rest for a minute.”
They had reached the house, and Mama sank down to the steps and sat. She took several deep breaths.
Annemarie sat beside her and held her hand. “Mama, I was so worried when you didn't come back.” Mama nodded. “I knew you would be. I thought of you, worrying, as I dragged myself along. But here I am—safe with you, now. Everything is fine. What time is it?”
“It must be four-thirty, or close to it.”
“They will sail soon.” Mama turned her head and gazed across the meadow to the sea and the vast sky above it. There were no stars now, only the gray, pale sky, with pinkness at its border. “Soon they will be safe, too.”
Annemarie relaxed. She stroked her mother's hand and looked down at the discolored, swollen ankle. “Mama, what is this?” she asked suddenly, reaching into the grass at the foot of the steps.
Mama looked. She gasped. “Oh, my God,” she said.
Annemarie picked it up. She recognized it now, knew what it was. It was the packet that Peter had given to Mr. Rosen.
“Mr. Rosen tripped on the step, remember? It must have fallen from his pocket. We'll have to save it and give it back to Peter.” Annemarie handed it to her mother. “Do you know what it is?”
Her mother didn't answer. Her face was stricken. She looked at the path and down at her ankle.
“It's important, isn't it, Mama? It was for Uncle Henrik. I remember Peter said it was very important. I heard him tell Mr. Rosen.”
Her mother tried to stand, but fell back against the steps with a groan. “My God,” she murmured again. “It may all have been for nothing.”
Annemarie took the packet from her mother's hand and stood. “I will take it,” she said. “I know the way, and it's almost light now. I can run like the wind.”
Mama spoke quickly, her voice tense. “Annemarie, go into the house and get the small basket on the table. Quickly, quickly. Put an apple into it, and some cheese. Put this packet underneath; do you understand? Hurry.”
Annemarie did instantly as she was told. The basket. The packet, at the bottom. She covered it with a napkin. Then some wrapped cheese. An apple. She glanced around the kitchen, saw some bread, and added that. The little basket was full. She took it to where her mother was.
“You must run to the boat. If anyone should stop you—”
“Who would stop me?”
“Annemarie, you understand how dangerous this is. If any soldiers see you, if they stop you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a little girl. A silly, empty-headed little girl, taking lunch to a fisherman, a foolish uncle who forgot his bread and cheese.”
“Mania, what is it in the bottom?”
But her mother still didn't answer the question. “Go,” she said firmly. “Go right now. And run! As fast as you can!”
Annemarie kissed her mother quickly, grabbed the basket from her mother's lap, turned, and ran toward the path.
