Chapter 9 Number The Stars

Novellas, Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Ch nine

Why Are Yous Lying?

Annemarie went exterior alone after supper. Through the open kitchen window she could hear Mama and Ellen talking every bit they washed the dishes, Kirsti, she knew, was busy on the floor, playing with the one-time 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 one-time woman adjusting false teeth.

Annemarie leaned confronting 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 pink light of dusk fell in irregular shapes upon the stacked hay. Flecks of dust and straw floated there, in the lite.

"Uncle Henrik," Annemarie said of a sudden, her voice common cold, "y'all are lying to me. You and Mama both."

His strong hands continued, deftly pressing similar a pulse against the moo-cow. The steady streams of milk notwithstanding came. He looked at her again, his deep blue eyes kind and questioning. "You are angry," he said.

"Yeah. Mama has never lied to me before. Never. Merely I know there is no Slap-up-aunt Birte. Never once, in all the stories I've heard, in all the sometime pictures I've seen, has there been a Great-aunt Birte." Uncle Henrik sighed. Blossom looked back at him, equally if to say "Almost washed," and, indeed, the streams of milk lessened and slowed.

He tugged at the moo-cow gently simply firmly, pulling downward the last of the milk. The bucket was half full, frothy on the height. Finally he fix it aside and washed the cow's udder with a clean damp cloth. And so he lifted the bucket to a shelf and covered information technology. He rubbed the cow'southward neck affectionately. At concluding he turned to Annemarie as he wiped his own hands with the textile.

"How dauntless are you lot, 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 ain answer. "Non very," she confessed, looking at the floor of the barn.

Tall Uncle Henrik knelt before her and then that his face was level with hers. Backside 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, withal hoping for spilled milk.

"I think that is not truthful," Uncle Henrik said. "I retrieve you are similar your mama, and like your papa, and like me. Frightened, simply determined, and if the fourth dimension came to exist brave, I am quite sure you would be very, very dauntless.

"But," he added, "it is much easier to be brave if you lot exercise not know everything. So your mama does not know everything. Neither do I. Nosotros know merely what we need to know.

"Do you empathize 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 twenty-four hour period—not long agone, though now it seemed far in the past—when the soldier had stopped her on the street and asked questions in his rough vox.

And she had not known everything and then. She had non known that the Germans were going to take away the Jews. And then, when the soldier asked, looking at Ellen that day, "What is your friend's proper name?" she had been able to answer him, fifty-fifty though she was frightened. If she had known everything, it would not have been then easy to exist brave.

She began to sympathise, just a niggling. "Yes," she said to Uncle Henrik, "I think I understand."

"You guessed correctly," he told her. "There is no Nifty-aunt Birte, and never has been. Your mama lied to you, and so did I.

"We did so," he explained, "to assistance you to be brave, because we dear you lot. Will you forgive us for that?"

Annemarie nodded. She felt older, all of a sudden.

"And I am non going to tell y'all whatever more, non now, for the same reason. Practice you understand?"

Annemarie nodded again. Suddenly at that place was a racket exterior. Uncle Henrik's shoulders stiffened. He rose quickly, went to the window of the befouled, stood in the shadows, and looked out. Then he turned dorsum to Annemarie.

"It is the hearse," he said. "Information technology is Great-aunt Birte, who never was." He smiled wryly. "Then, my picayune friend, it is fourth dimension for the nighttime of mourning to begin. Are you gear up?"

Annemarie took her uncle'due south hand and he led her from the barn. The gleaming wooden casket rested on supports in the eye 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 information technology, 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-upwardly box, that it wasn't fair. But Mama had been firm, and finally Kirsti, sulking, had trudged upstairs with her dolls under 1 arm and the kitten nether the other.

Ellen was silent, and had a sad expression. "I'm so sad your Aunt Birte died," Annemarie heard her say to Mama, who smiled sadly and thanked her. Annemarie had listened and said nothing. So at present 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 bated and whisper the hugger-mugger to her so that she wouldn't have to feel lamentable. Simply she didn't. She understood that she was protecting Ellen the style her mother had protected her. Although she didn't understand what was happening, or why the catafalque was there—or who, in truth, was in it—she knew that it was meliorate, safer, for Ellen to believe in Bully-aunt Birte. And then she said nothing.

Other people came as the night sky grew darker. A man and a adult female, both of them dressed in dark clothing, the woman carrying a sleeping babe, appeared at the door, and Uncle Henrik gestured them within. They nodded to Mama and to the girls. They went, following Uncle Henrik, to the living room and sat downwards quietly.

"Friends of Neat-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 fourth dimension and said nothing. In that moment, with that look, they became equals.

From the living room came the sound of a sleepy baby's cursory wail. Annemarie glanced through the door and saw the woman open up her blouse and brainstorm to nurse the infant, who quieted.

Another man arrived: an quondam man, bearded. Quietly he went to the living room and saturday down, saying nothing to the others, who only glanced at him. The young woman lifted her baby'southward coating, covering its face and her own breast. The quondam man bent his head forward and airtight his optics, as if he were praying. His mouth moved silently, forming words that no one could hear.

Annemarie stood in the doorway, watching the mourners as they sat in the candlelit room. And so she turned back to the kitchen and began to help Ellen and Mama as they prepared food.

In Copenhagen, she remembered, when Lise died, friends had come to their apartment every evening. All of them had brought nutrient so that Mama wouldn't need to cook. Why hadn't these people brought food? Why didn't they talk? In Copenhagen, even though the talk was sad, people had spoken softly to one another and to Mama and Papa. They had talked about Lise, remembering happier times.

Thinking nearly it every bit she sliced cheese in the kitchen, Annemarie realized that these people had nothing to talk near. They couldn't speak of happier times with Great-aunt Birte when there had never been a Great-aunt Birte at all. Uncle Henrik came into the kitchen. He glanced at his watch and then at Mama. "It's getting tardily," he said. "I should go to the gunkhole." He looked worried. He blew out the candles and then that in that location would exist no lite at all, and opened the door. He stared across the gnarled apple tree into the darkness.

"Good. Here they come," he said in a low, relieved voice. "Ellen, come with me."

Ellen looked questioningly toward Mama, who nodded. "Go with Henrik," she said.

Annemarie watched, still holding the wedge of firm cheese in her hand, every bit Ellen followed Uncle Henrik into the yard. She could hear a abrupt, low weep from Ellen, and then the audio of voices speaking softly.

In a moment Uncle Henrik returned. Behind him was Peter Neilsen.

Tonight Peter went showtime to Mama and hugged her. Then he hugged Annemarie and kissed her on the cheek. But he said nothing. At that place was no playfulness to his affection tonight, only a sense of urgency, of worry. He went immediately to the living room, looked around, and nodded at the silent people there.

Ellen was still exterior. Merely in a moment the door opened and she returned—held tightly, similar a little girl, her bare legs dangling, confronting her father's chest. Her mother was beside them.

Why Are Y'all 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 decorated on the floor, playing with the sometime dolls she had found upstairs, the dolls that had been Mama's in one case, 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 easily rhythmically urging her milk into the spotless saucepan. The God of Thunder sat alertly poised nearby, watching.

Blossom looked up at Annemarie with large brown eyes, and moved her wrinkled mouth like an old adult female adjusting false teeth.

Annemarie leaned confronting the ancient splintery forest of the befouled wall and listened to the sharp rattling sound of the streams of milk as they hit the sides of the saucepan. Uncle Henrik glanced over at her and smiled without pausing in the rhythm of milking. He didn't say anything.

Through the befouled windows, the pinkish low-cal of sunset fell in irregular shapes upon the stacked hay. Flecks of grit and straw floated there, in the light.

"Uncle Henrik," Annemarie said suddenly, her phonation cold, "you are lying to me. You and Mama both."

His strong hands continued, deftly pressing similar a pulse against the cow. The steady streams of milk still came. He looked at her again, his deep blue optics kind and questioning. "You are angry," he said.

"Yes. Mama has never lied to me before. Never. Merely I know there is no Smashing-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, every bit if to say "Almost washed," and, indeed, the streams of milk lessened and slowed.

He tugged at the moo-cow gently just firmly, pulling down the last of the milk. The saucepan was half full, frothy on the tiptop. Finally he fix it aside and washed the cow'due south udder with a clean damp cloth. And then he lifted the bucket to a shelf and covered it. He rubbed the moo-cow's neck affectionately. At terminal he turned to Annemarie as he wiped his own hands with the cloth.

"How brave are you lot, little Annemarie?" he asked suddenly.

She was startled. And dismayed. Information technology was a question she did not want to be asked. When she asked it of herself, she didn't like her ain answer.

"Non 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, Flower lowered her head, grasped a mouthful of hay in her rima oris, and drew it in with her tongue. The kitten artsy its head, waiting, even so hoping for spilled milk.

"I recall that is not truthful," Uncle Henrik said. "I think yous are like your mama, and like your papa, and similar me. Frightened, only determined, and if the fourth dimension came to be brave, I am quite sure you would exist very, very brave.

"Just," he added, "it is much easier to be dauntless if you practice not know everything. And and so your mama does non know everything. Neither practice I. We know only what nosotros need to know.

"Practise you understand what I am maxim?" he asked, looking into her eyes.

Annemarie frowned. She wasn't certain. What did bravery mean? She had been very frightened the solar day—not long agone, though at present it seemed far in the past—when the soldier had stopped her on the street and asked questions in his rough phonation.

And she had non known everything then. She had not known that the Germans were going to take abroad the Jews. And so, when the soldier asked, looking at Ellen that solar day, "What is your friend's name?" she had been able to answer him, fifty-fifty though she was frightened. If she had known everything, it would non have been so like shooting fish in a barrel to be brave.

She began to sympathize, only a niggling. "Aye," she said to Uncle Henrik, "I think I empathize."

"You guessed correctly," he told her. "There is no Great-aunt Birte, and never has been. Your mama lied to y'all, and so did I.

"We did so," he explained, "to help y'all to be brave, because nosotros love you. Will you forgive united states for that?"

Annemarie nodded. She felt older, all of a sudden.

"And I am not going to tell yous any more, not now, for the same reason. Do you empathise?"

Annemarie nodded once more. Suddenly there was a racket outside. Uncle Henrik's shoulders stiffened. He rose quickly, went to the window of the barn, stood in the shadows, and looked out. And so he turned dorsum to Annemarie.

"It is the hearse," he said. "It is Great-aunt Birte, who never was." He smiled wryly. "So, my footling 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.

The gleaming wooden casket rested on supports in the center of the living room and was surrounded by the delicate, 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 upwardly with the others, that she was grownup enough, that she had never before seen a dead person in a closed-upward box, that it wasn't fair. Simply Mama had been firm, and finally Kirsti, sulking, had trudged upstairs with her dolls under i arm and the kitten nether 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 naught. So now I, besides, 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 catafalque was there—or who, in truth, was in it—she knew that information technology was ameliorate, safer, for Ellen to believe in Smashing-aunt Birte. So she said nix.

Other people came as the night sky grew darker. A man and a adult female, both of them dressed in dark clothing, the woman conveying a sleeping baby, appeared at the door, and Uncle Henrik gestured them within. They nodded to Mama and to the girls. They went, following Uncle Henrik, to the living room and sat down quietly.

"Friends of Keen-aunt Birte," Mama said quietly in response to Annemarie'south questioning look. Annemarie knew that Mama was lying again, and she could meet that Mama understood that she knew. They looked at each other for a long time and said nada. In that moment, with that await, they became equals.

From the living room came the sound of a sleepy baby's brief wail. Annemarie glanced through the door and saw the woman open up her blouse and brainstorm to nurse the baby, who quieted.

Some other man arrived: an old man, bearded. Quietly he went to the living room and saturday down, maxim nothing to the others, who just glanced at him. The young adult female lifted her babe'south coating, covering its face and her ain breast. The onetime man aptitude his head forrard and closed his optics, as if he were praying. His rima oris moved silently, forming words that no one could hear.

Annemarie stood in the doorway, watching the mourners every bit they sat in the candlelit room. Then she turned back to the kitchen and began to help Ellen and Mama every bit they prepared nutrient.

In Copenhagen, she remembered, when Lise died, friends had come to their apartment every evening. All of them had brought food then that Mama wouldn't need to melt.

Why hadn't these people brought food? Why didn't they talk? In Copenhagen, even though the talk was pitiful, people had spoken softly to one another and to Mama and Papa. They had talked about Lise, remembering happier times.

Thinking nigh it equally she sliced cheese in the kitchen, Annemarie realized that these people had zip to talk about. They couldn't speak of happier times with Bang-up-aunt Birte when there had never been a Great-aunt Birte at all.

Uncle Henrik came into the kitchen. He glanced at his watch and so at Mama. "Information technology'southward getting late," he said. "I should go to the boat." He looked worried. He blew out the candles and then that at that place would exist no light at all, and opened the door. He stared beyond the gnarled apple tree into the darkness.

"Good. Here they come," he said in a low, relieved vocalism. "Ellen, come with me."

Ellen looked questioningly toward Mama, who nodded. "Go with Henrik," she said.

Annemarie watched, notwithstanding property the wedge of firm cheese in her mitt, as Ellen followed Uncle Henrik into the yard. She could hear a sharp, depression cry from Ellen, and then the sound of voices speaking softly.

In a moment Uncle Henrik returned. Behind him was Peter Neilsen.

This evening Peter went starting time to Mama and hugged her. So he hugged Annemarie and kissed her on the cheek. But he said nada. In that location was no playfulness to his amore this night, just a sense of urgency, of worry. He went immediately to the living room, looked around, and nodded at the silent people there.

Ellen was notwithstanding outside. But in a moment the door opened and she returned—held tightly, like a niggling daughter, her blank legs dangling, against her father's chest. Her mother was beside them.