The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley Page B

She said they were in Latin, the only other language she knew. “But it’s a dead language,” she said. “Nobody speaks it anymore.”
    Clearly this wasn’t true, since she just had been speaking it, but I didn’t say so. Jamie asked, “If we kill all the Germans, then their language will be dead. Bam!” He pretended to shoot a German.
    Miss Smith pursed her lips, but we’d gotten to the front of the line, so she didn’t reprimand him. Instead she told the registry man her name, her birthday, and that she wasn’t married and didn’t have a job.
    Then she pushed us forward. “Ada Smith and James Smith,” she said. “They’re living with me.”
    The registry man smiled. “Niece and nevvy, are they? Must be nice to have family staying. I can see the resemblance, sure enough. The girl has your eyes.”
    “No,” Miss Smith said. “They’re evacuees. The surname is just a coincidence. I don’t know their birth dates,” she continued. “It wasn’t on their paperwork, and the children couldn’t tell me.”
    The man frowned. “A great big lass and lad like that, and they don’t know their own birthdays? Are they simple?”
    I stuck my right foot behind my left, and stared at the floor.
    “Of course not,” Miss Smith snapped. “What an ignorant thing to say.”
    The man didn’t seem put off by her tone. “Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure,” he said, “but what am I supposed to put down on the form? The government wants proper birth days. There isn’t a spot for ‘don’t know.’”
    “Write down April 5, 1929, for Ada,” Miss Smith said. After asking me how much I could remember about Jamie being a baby, she’d decided long ago I must be ten. “For Jamie put February 15.” She looked down at us. “Nineteen thirty-three,” she said. “We’re pretty sure he’s six years old.”
    The man raised an eyebrow, but did as she told him.
    “What’s all that mean?” I asked, when we were back out on the street.
    “Birthdays are days you get presents,” Jamie said gloomily, “and cake for tea. And at school you get to wear the birthday hat.”
    I remembered Miss Smith asking us about birthdays, when we first came to her, but I’d never heard about a birthday hat. Turns out it was a school thing. At Jamie’s school his teacher posted birthdays on a big calendar, and when it was your birthday you wore a hat and everybody made a fuss over you.
    When Jamie’d said he didn’t know his birthday, his class had laughed at him. He hadn’t told us that.
    “But now we have birthdays,” Jamie said contentedly. “What you told the man. I’ll tell teacher this afternoon and she’ll write it on her calendar.” He smiled at Miss Smith. “What was it?”
    “February 15, 1933,” Miss Smith said.
    “It’s not your real birthday,” I said.
    “Close enough,” Miss Smith said. “February 15 was my father’s birthday. Jamie can use it.”
    “Is your father dead?”
    “No,” Miss Smith said. “At least, not so I’ve heard. I think my brothers would tell me. It doesn’t matter if Jamie shares. There are only 365 days in the year, and there are a lot more people in the world than that. Lots of people have the same birthdays.”
    “But it isn’t Jamie’s real birthday,” I said.
    “No, it’s not.” Miss Smith turned and bent over so she was looking directly at me. “When I find out your real birthdays, I’ll change your identity cards. Okay? Promise.”
    “Okay.” I didn’t mind a temporary lie. “How do you find out?”
    Miss Smith’s nostrils narrowed. “Your mother knows. When she answers my letters, she’ll tell us.”
    Could be a long time, then. I doubted I’d ever go to school and wear a birthday hat, but still— “Will we have cake for tea on my birthday? On the day you told the man?”
    “Yes,” Miss Smith said. A sudden look of sadness washed over her face, then disappeared so quickly that if I hadn’t been looking right at her, I never would have seen it.