INTRODUCTION
It's hard to believe that I wrote Number the Stars more than
twenty year sago. It seems like yesterday that I answered the phone
on asnowy January morning and received the news that it had been
awarded the 1990 Newbery Medal.
Most books published that long ago have faded into a pleasant,
undisturbed retirement on dusty library shelves, or become an
occasional topic for are search paper. But Number the Stars
seems to haveacquired its own long and vibrant life; nota day goes
by that I don't hear from a passionate reader of the book—some of
them parents who remember it from their childhood and are now
reading it with their own children.
I think readers ofevery age match themselves against the
protagonists of books they love. Would I have done that? they
ask themselves as they follow a fictional character through a novel.
What choice would I have made?
And ten—theage ofAnnemariein Number the Stars,and the
approximate age ofmost ofthe book's readers—isan age when
young peopleare beginning to develop astrong set of personal
ethics. Theywant to be honorable people. They want to do the right
thing. And they are beginning to realize that the world they live in is
a place where the right thing is often hard, sometimes dangerous, and frequently unpopular.
So they follow a story about a girl their age, caught in a
frightening situation, who must make decisions. She could take the
easyway out. She could turn her back on her friend. (As the
readers of Number the Stars grow older and read other Holocaust
literature, they'll find that many people in other countries, not
Denmark, did just that). Young readers rejoice when Annemarie
takes a deep breath, enters the woods, faces the danger, stands up
to theenemy, and triumphs.
When the book was newly published, it found its way into the
hands and hearts of children who had read about but never
experienced war. Now, sadly, I have heard from young readers
who havelosta parent oran older brother in Iraq or Afghanistan. We all know how easy it is, and how futile, to blame and to hate.
I think the history of Denmark has much to teach usall.
The book has been published in many countries now, translated
into countless different languages from Hungarian to Hebrew.
Every where children are stillreading about the integrity that a small
Scandinavian population showed almostseventy yearsago. Books
do changelives, I know;and many readers havetold me that
Number the Stars changed theirs when theywere young, that it
made them think about both cruelty and courage. "It was something
that shaped my idea of how people should be treated,"wrotea
young woman recently, recalling her own fourth grade experience with the book.
The Danish friend who originally told methestory of her
childhood in Copenhagen in 1943,and who becamethe prototype
for the fictional Annemarie, isan old woman now. So amI. We
both love thinking of the children reading the story today,coming to
it for thefirst timeand realizing that once, fora brief time and in a
small place,a group of prejudice-free people honored the humanity
of others.
1.Why are you Running?
"I'll race you to thecorner, Ellen!"Annemarie adjusted the thick leather pack on her back so that her school books balanced evenly.
"Ready?"She looked at her best friend.
Ellenmadea face. "No,"she said, laughing. "You know I can't
beat you -—my legsaren'tas long. Can't we just walk, like civilized
people?"She was a stocky ten-year-old, un like lanky Annemarie.
"We haveto practice for the athletic meet on Friday—I know
I'm going to win the girls' race this week. I was second last week,
but I've been practicing every day. Come on, Ellen," Annemarie
pleaded,eyeing the distance to the nextcorner ofthe Copenhagen
street. "Please?"
Ellen hesitated, then nodded and shifted her own rucksack of
book sagainst her shoulders. "Oh, allright. Ready,"shesaid.
"Go!"shouted Annemarie,and the two girls were off, racing
along the residential side walk. Annemarie's silvery blond hair flew
behind her, and Ellen's dark pig tails bounced against her shoulders.
"Wait for me!"wailed little Kirsti, left behind, but the two older
girls weren't listening.
Annemarie out distanced her friend quickly, even though one of her shoescame untied as shesped along the street called
sterbrogade, past the small shops and cafés of her neighborhood
herein northeast Copenhagen. Laughing, sheskirted an elderly lady
in black who carried ashopping bagmade ofstring. A young
woman pushing a baby in acarriage moved asideto make way. The
corner was just a head.
Annemarie looked up, panting, just as shereached thecorner.
Her laughter stopped. Her heartseemed to skip a beat.
"Halte!" the soldier ordered in astern voice.
The Germanword wasas familiar as it was frightening.
Annemarie had heard it often enough before, but it had never been
directed at her until now.
Behind her, Ellen also slowed and stopped. Far back, little Kirsti
was plodding along, her facein a pout because the girls hadn't
waited for her.
Annemarie stared up. There were two of them. That meant two
helmets, two sets ofcold eyes glaring at her,and four tall shiny
boots planted firmly on the side walk, blocking her path to home.
And it meant two rifles, gripped in the hands of the soldiers. She
stared at the rifles first. Then, finally, shelooked into the face ofthe
soldier who had ordered her to halt.
"Why are you running?"the harsh voiceasked. His Danishwas very poor. Three years, Annemarie thought with contempt. Three
years they've been in our country, and stillthey can'tbspeak our
language.
"I was racingwithmy friend,"sheanswered politely. "We have
race sat school every Friday,and I want to do well, so I—"Her
voice trailed away, the sentence unfinished. Don't talk so much, she
told herself. Justanswer them, that's all.
She glanced back. Ellenwas motionless on the side walk, a few
yards behind her. Farther back, Kirstiwas stillsulking,and walking
slowly toward the corner. Nearby, a woman had cometo the
door way of a shop and was standing silently, watching.
One of the soldiers, the taller one, moved toward her.
Annemarierecognized himas the onesheand Ellen always called,
in whispers, "the Giraffe"because of his heightand thelong neck
that extended from his stiff collar. He and his partner we real ways
on thiscorner.
He prodded thecorner of her backpack with the stock of his
rifle. Annemarie trembled. "What is in here?"heasked loudly. From
the corner of hereye, she saw the shopkeeper move quietly back
into the shadows of the doorway, out ofsight.
"Schoolbooks,"sheanswered truthfully.
"Are you a good student?"the soldier asked. He seemed to be sneering.
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"AnnemarieJohansen."
"Your friend—is shea good student, too?"lie was looking
beyond her,at Ellen, who hadn'tmoved.
Annemarie looked back, too,and sawthat Ellen's face, usually
rosy-cheeked, was pale,and her dark eyes were wide.
She nodded at the soldier. "Better than me,"she said.
"What is her name?"
"Ellen."
"And who is this?"he asked, looking to Annemarie's side. Kirsti
had appeared there suddenly, scowling ateveryone.
"My littlesister."She reached down for Kirsti's hand, hut Kirsti,
always stubborn, refused itand put her hands on her hips defiantly.
The soldier reached down and stroked her little sister's short,
tangled curls. Stand still, Kirsti, Annemarie ordered silently, praying
that somehow the obstinate five-year-old would receive the message.
But Kirsti reached up and pushed thesoldier's hand away.
"Don't,"she said loudly.
Both soldiers began to laugh. They spoke to each other in rapid
German that Annemariecouldn't understand.
"Sheis pretty, like my own little girl,"thetall onesaid in a more
pleasant voice.
Annemarie tried to smile politely.
"Go home,all of you. Go study your school books. And don't
run. You look like hoodlums when you run."
Thetwo soldiers turned away. Quickly Annemariereached
down again and grabbed her sister's hand before Kirsticould resist.
Hurrying the little girl along, sherounded the corner. In a moment
Ellenwas beside her. Theywalked quickly, notspeaking, with
Kirsti between them, toward the large apartment buildingwhere
both families lived.
When theywerealmost home, Ellenwhispered suddenly, "I was
so scared."
"Me too,"Annemarie whispered back.
As they turned to enter their building, both girls looked straight ahead, toward the door. They did it purposely so that theywould
not catch theeyes or the attention oftwo more soldiers, who stood
with their guns on this corneras well. Kirstis curried ahead ofthem
through the door, chattering about the picture she was bringing
home from kindergarten to show Mama. For Kirsti, the soldiers
part ofthelandscape, something that had always been
there, on every corner,as unimportantas lamp posts, throughout her
remembered life.
"Are you going to tell your mother?"Ellen asked Annemarieas
they trudged together up thestairs. "I'mnot. Mymother would be
upset."
"No, I won't, either. Mama would probably scold me for running
on thestreet."
Shesaid goodbyeto Ellen on thesecond floor, where Ellen
lived, and continued on to thethird, practicing in her mind acheerful
greeting for her mother: a smile, a description of today's spelling
test, in which she had done well.
But she was too late. Kirsti had gotten therefirst.
"And he poked Annemarie's book bagwith his gun,and then he
grabbed my hair!"Kirstiwaschattering as shetook off her sweater
in the center of the apartment living room. "But I wasn'tscared.
Annemarie was,and Ellen, too. But not me!"
Mrs. Johansen rose quickly from the chair by the window where
she'd been sitting. Mrs. Rosen, Ellen's mother, was there, too, in the
opposite chair. They'd been having coffee together, as they did
many afternoons. Of course it wasn't really coffee, though the
mothers stillcalled it that: "having coffee."There had been no real
coffeein Copenhagen sincethe beginning ofthe Nazi occupation.
Not even any realtea. The mothers sipped at hot water flavored
with herbs.
"Annemarie, what happened? What is Kirstitalking about?"her
motherasked anxiously.
"Where's Ellen?"Mrs. Rosen had afrightened look.
"Ellen's in yourapartment. She didn't realize youwere here,"
Annemarieexplained. "Don't worry. It wasn't anything. It was the
two soldiers who stand on the corner of sterbrogade—you've
seen them; you knowthetall one with thelong neck, the one who
looks likeasilly giraffe?"Shetold her motherand Mrs. Rosen of
the incident, trying to make it sound humorous and unimportant. But
their uneasy looks didn'tchange.
"I slapped his hand and shouted at him,"Kirstiannounced
importantly.
"No, she didn't, Mama,"Annemariereassured her mother.
"She'sexaggerating,as shealways does."
Mrs. Johansenmoved to the windowand looked down to the street below. The Copenhagen neighborhood was quiet; it looked
the same as always: people coming and going from the shops,
children at play, the soldiers on the corner.
She spokein alowvoiceto Ellen's mother. "They must beedgy
because ofthelatest Resistance incidents. Did you read inDe Frie
Danskeabout the bombings inHillerød and Nørrebro?"
Although she pretended to beabsorbed in unpacking her
school books, Annemarielistened,and she knewwhat her mother
was referring to. De Frie Danske—The Free Danes —was an
illegal newspaper; Peter Neilsen brought it to themoccasionally,
carefully folded and hidden among ordinary booksand papers,and
Mama always burned it after she and Papa had read it. But
Annemarie heard Mamaand Papatalk, sometimesat night,about
the news they received that way: news ofsabotageagainst the
Nazis, bombs hidden and exploded in thefactories that produced
war materials, and industrialrailroad lines damaged so that the
goodscouldn't betransported.
And she knewwhat Resistance meant. Papa had explained,
when she over heard the word and asked. The Resistance fighters
were Danish people—no one knewwho, becausetheywere very
secret—who were determined to bring harmto the Nazis however
they could. They damaged the German trucksand cars,and
bombed their factories. Theywere very brave. Sometimes they
were caught and killed.
"I must go and speak to Ellen,"Mrs. Rosen said, moving toward
the door. "You girls walk a different way to school tomorrow.
Promise me, Annemarie. And Ellenwill promise, too."
"We will, Mrs. Rosen, but what does it matter? Thereare
German soldiers on every corner."
"They will remember your faces,"Mrs. Rosen said, turning in the
doorway to the hall. "It is important to be one of the crowd, always.
Be one ofmany. Be sure that they never havereason to remember
your face."She disappeared into the hall and closed the door
behind her.
"He'llremember myface, Mama,"Kirsti announced happily,
"because hesaid I look like his little girl. Hesaid I was pretty."
"If he has such a pretty little girl, why doesn't he go back to her
likea good father?"Mrs. Johansenmurmured, stroking Kirsti's
cheek. "Why doesn't he go back to his own country?"
"Mama, is thereanything to eat?" Annemarie asked, hoping to
take her mother's mind away fromthesoldiers.
"Takesome bread. And givea pieceto your sister."
"With butter?"Kirstiasked hopefully.
"No butter,"her mother replied. "You knowthat."
Kirstisighed as Annemarie went to the breadbox in the kitchen.
"I wish Icould haveacupcake,"shesaid. "Abig yellowcupcake,
with pink frosting."
Her mother laughed. "Foralittle girl, you havealongmemory,"
shetold Kirsti. "There hasn't been any butter, or sugar for
cupcakes, foralong time. Ayear,at least."
"Whenwillthere becupcakesagain?"
"When the warends,"Mrs. Johansen said. She glanced through
the window, down to thestreetcorner wherethesoldiers stood,
their faces impassive beneath the metal helmets. "When the soldiers
leave."