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."