Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Page A

She had known nothing of danger, and the soldier had been amused by her.
    Annemarie willed herself, with all her being, to behave as Kirsti would.
    â€œGood morning,” she said carefully to the soldiers.
    They looked her up and down in silence. Both dogs were tense and alert. The two soldiers who held the leashes wore thick gloves.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” one of them asked.
    Annemarie held out her basket, with the thick loaf of bread visible. “My Uncle Henrik forgot his lunch, and I’m taking it to him. He’s a fisherman.”
    The soldiers were looking around; their eyes glanced behind her, and scanned the bushes on either side.
    â€œAre you alone?” one asked.
    Annemarie nodded. “Yes,” she said. One of the dogs growled. But she noticed that both dogs were looking at the lunch basket.
    One soldier stepped forward. The other, and the two holding the dogs, remained where they were.
    â€œYou came out before daybreak just to bring a lunch? Why doesn’t your uncle eat fish?”
    What would Kirsti reply? Annemarie tried to giggle, the way her sister might. “Uncle Henrik doesn’t even
like
fish,” she said, laughing. “He says he sees too much of it, and
smells
too much of it. Anyway, he wouldn’t eat it raw!” She made a face. “Well, I suppose he would if he were starving. But Uncle Henrik always has bread and cheese for lunch.”
    Keep chattering, she told herself, as Kirsti would. A silly little girl. “I like fish,” she went on. “I like it the way my mother cooks it. Sometimes she rolls it in bread crumbs, and—”
    The soldier reached forward and grabbed the crisp loaf of bread from the basket. He examined it carefully. Then he broke it in half, pulling the two halves apart with his fists.
    That would enrage Kirsti, she knew. “
Don’t!
” she said angrily. “That’s Uncle Henrik’s bread! My mother baked it!”
    The soldier ignored her. He tossed the two halves of the loaf to the ground, one half in front of each dog. They consumed it, each snapping at the bread and gulping it so that it was gone in an instant.
    â€œHave you seen anyone in the woods?” The soldier barked the question at her.
    â€œNo. Only you.” Annemarie stared at him. “What are you doing in the woods, anyway? You’re making me late. Uncle Henrik’s boat will leave before I get there with his lunch. Or what’s
left
of his lunch.”
    The soldier picked up the wedge of cheese. He turned it over in his hand. He turned to the three behind him and asked them something in their own language.
    One of them answered “
Nein
,” in an bored tone. Annemarie recognized the word; the man had replied “No.” He had probably been asked, Annemarie thought, “Do you want this?” or perhaps, “Should I give this to the dogs?”
    The soldier continued to hold the cheese. He tossed it back and forth between his hands.
    Annemarie gave an exasperated sigh. “Could I go now, please?” she asked impatiently.
    The soldier reached for the apple. He noted its brown spots, and made a face of disgust.
    â€œNo meat?” he asked, glancing at the basket and the napkin that lay in its bottom.
    Annemarie gave him a withering look. “You know we have no meat,” she said insolently. “Your army eats all of Denmark’s meat.”
    Please, please, she implored in her mind. Don’t lift the napkin.
    The soldier laughed. He dropped the bruised apple on the ground. One of the dogs leaned forward, pulling at his leash, sniffed the apple, and stepped back. But both dogs still looked intently at the basket, their ears alert, their mouths open. Saliva glistened on their smooth pink gums.
    â€œMy dogs smell meat,” the soldier said.
    â€œThey smell squirrels in the woods,” Annemarie responded. “You should take them hunting.”
    The soldier reached