Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

here, in late summer, to pick a handful of the sweet berries! Her hands and mouth would be blue afterward; Mama always laughed when she came home.
    Now it was dark again, as the trees and bushes closed around her, and she had to move more slowly, though she still tried to run.
    Annemarie thought of Mama: her ankle so swollen, and her face so pained. She hoped Mama had called the doctor by now. The local doctor was an old man, brusque and businesslike, though with kind eyes. He had come to the farmhouse several times during the summers of the past, his battered car noisy on the dirt road; he had come once when Kirsti, a tiny baby then, had been sick and wailing with an earache. And he had come when Lise had spilled hot grease, cooking breakfast, and burned her hand.
    Annemarie turned again as the path divided once more. The left fork would take her directly to the village; it was the way they had come from the train, and the way Mama had walked to school as a girl. But Annemarie turned to the right, heading now toward the harborside, where the fishing boats lay at anchor. She had often come this way before, too, sometimes at the end of the afternoon, to pick out the
Ingeborg,
Uncle Henrik’s boat, from the many returning, and to watch him and his helpers unload the day’s catch of slippery, shimmering herring still flopping in their containers.
    Even now, with the boats in the harbor ahead empty of fish, preparing to leave for the day’s fishing, she could smell the oily, salty scent of herring, which always remained in the air here.
    It wasn’t far now, and it was getting lighter. She ran almost as fast as she had run at school, in the Friday footraces. Almost as fast as she had run down the Copenhagen sidewalk on the day that the soldier had stopped her with his call of “
Halte!
”
    Annemarie continued the story in her head. “Suddenly, as Little Red Riding-Hood walked through the woods, she heard a noise. She heard a rustling in the bushes.”
    â€œA wolf,” Kirsti would always say, shivering with fearful delight. “I know it’s going to be the wolf!”
    Annemarie always tried to prolong this part, to build up the suspense and tantalize her sister. “She didn’t know
what
it was. She stopped on the path and listened. Something was following her, in the bushes. Little Red Riding-Hood was very, very,
very
frightened.”
    She would stop, would stay silent for a moment, and beside her in the bed she could feel Kirsti holding her breath.
    â€œThen,” Annemarie would go on, in a low, dread-filled voice, “she heard
a grow!.
”
    Annemarie stopped, suddenly, and stood still on the path. There was a turn immediately ahead. Beyond it, she knew, as soon as she rounded the turn, she would see the landscape open to the sea. The woods would be behind her there, and ahead of her would be the harbor, the docks, and the countless fishing boats. Very soon it would be noisy there, with engines starting, fishermen calling to one another, and gulls crying.
    But she had heard something else. She heard bushes rustling ahead. She heard footsteps. And—she was certain it was not her imagination—she heard a low growl.
    Cautiously, she took a step forward. And another. She approached the turn in the path, and the noises continued.
    Then they were there, in front of her. Four armed soldiers. With them, straining at taut leashes, were two large dogs, their eyes glittering, their lips curled.

15
My Dogs Smell Meat!
    Annemarie’s mind raced. She remembered what her mother had said. “If anyone stops you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a silly little girl.”
    She stared at the soldiers. She remembered how she had stared at the others, frightened, when they had stopped her on the street.
    Kirsti hadn’t been frightened. Kirsti had been—well, nothing more than a silly little girl, angered because the soldier had touched her hair that afternoon.