Number the Stars by Lois Lowry Page B

forward with the cheese in one hand, as if he were going to return it to the basket. But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled out the flowered cotton napkin.
    Annemarie froze.
    â€œYour uncle has a pretty little lunch,” the soldier said scornfully, crumpling the napkin around the cheese in his hand. “Like a woman,” he added, with contempt.
    Then his eyes locked on the basket. He handed the cheese and napkin to the soldier beside him. “What’s that? There, in the bottom?” he asked in a different, tenser voice.
    What would Kirsti do? Annemarie stamped her foot. Suddenly, to her own surprise, she begin to cry. “I don’t know!” she said, her voice choked. “My mother’s going to be angry that you stopped me and made me late. And you’ve completely ruined Uncle Henrik’s lunch, so now
he’ll
be mad at me, too!”
    The dogs whined and struggled against the leashes, nosing forward to the basket. One of the other soldiers muttered something in German.
    The soldier took out the packet. “Why was this so carefully hidden?” he snapped.
    Annemarie wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. “It wasn’t hidden, any more than the napkin was. I don’t know what it is.” That, she realized, was true. She had no idea what was in the packet.
    The soldier tore the paper open while below him, on the ground, the dogs strained and snarled, pulling against their leashes. Their muscles were visible beneath the sleek, short-haired flesh.
    He looked inside, then glared at Annemarie. “Stop crying, you idiot girl,” he said harshly. “Your stupid mother has sent your uncle a handkerchief. In Germany the women have better things to do. They don’t stay at home hemming handkerchiefs for their men.”
    He gestured with the folded white cloth and gave a short, caustic laugh. “At least she didn’t stitch flowers on it.”
    He flung it to the ground, still half wrapped in the paper, beside the apple. The dogs lunged, sniffed at it eagerly, then subsided, disappointed again.
    â€œGo on,” the soldier said. He dropped the cheese and the napkin back into her basket. “Go on to your uncle and tell him the German dogs enjoyed his bread.”
    All of the soldiers pushed past her. One of them laughed, and they spoke to each other in their own language. In a moment they had disappeared down the path, in the direction from which Annemarie had just come.
    Quickly she picked up the apple and the opened packet with the white handkerchief inside. She put them into the basket and ran around the bend toward the harbor, where the morning sky was now bright with early sun and some of the boat engines were starting their strident din.
    The
Ingeborg
was still there, by the dock, and Uncle Henrik was there, his light hair windblown and bright as he knelt by the nets. Annemarie called to him and he came to the side, his face worried when he recognized her on the dock.
    She handed the basket across. “Mama sent your lunch,” she said, her voice quavering. “But soldiers stopped me, and they took your bread.” She didn’t dare to tell him more.
    Henrik glanced quickly into the basket. She could see the look of relief on his face, and knew that it was because he saw that the packet was there, even though it was torn open.
    â€œThank you,” he said, and the relief was evident in his voice.
    Annemarie looked quickly around the familiar small boat. She could see down the passageway into the empty cabin. There was no sign of the Rosens or the others. Uncle Henrik followed her eyes and her puzzled look.
    â€œAll is well,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.
    â€œI wasn’t sure,” he said. “But now”—he eyed the basket in his hands—“because of you, Annemarie, everything is all right.
    â€œYou run home now, and tell your mama not to worry. I will see you this