Number the Stars

he who numbers the stars one by one...

Mama sat down and listened. Gradually they each began to relax. Annemarie could see the old man across the room, moving his lips as Peter read; he knew the ancient psalm by heart.

Annemarie didn't. The words were unfamiliar to her, and she tried to listen, tried to understand, tried to forget the war and the Nazis, tried not to cry, tried to be brave. The night breeze moved the dark curtains at the open windows. Outside, she knew, the sky was speckled with stars. How could anyone number them one by one, as the psalm said? There were too many. The sky was too big.

Ellen had said that her mother was frightened of the ocean, that it was too cold and too big.

The sky was, too, thought Annemarie. The whole world was: too cold, too big. And too cruel.

Peter read on, in his firm voice, though it was clear he was tired. The long minutes passed. They seemed hours.

Finally, still reading, he moved quietly to the window. He closed the Bible and listened to the quiet night. Then he looked around the room. "Now," he said, "it is time."

First he closed the windows. Then he went to the casket and opened the lid.

11. Will We See You Again Soon, Peter?

Annemarie blinked. Across the dark room, she saw Ellen, too, peering into the narrow wooden box in surprise.

There was no one in the casket at all. Instead, it seemed to be stuffed with folded blankets and articles of clothing.

Peter began to lift the things out and distribute them to the silent people in the room. He handed heavy coats to the man and wife, and another to the old man with the beard.

"It will be very cold," he murmured. "Put them on." He found a thick sweater for Mrs. Rosen, and a woolen jacket for Ellen's father. After a moment of rummaging through the folded things, he found a smaller winter jacket, and handed it to Ellen.

Annemarie watched as Ellen took the jacket in her arms and looked at it. it was patched and worn. It was true that there had been few new clothes for anyone during the recent years; but still, Ellen's mother had always managed to make clothes for her daughter, often using old things that she was able to take apart and refashion in a way that made them seem brand-new. Never had Ellen worn anything so shabby and old.

But she put it on, pulled it around her, and buttoned the mismatched buttons.

Peter, his arms full of the odd pieces of clothing, looked toward the silent couple with the infant. "I'm sorry," he said to them. "There is nothing for a baby."

"I'll find something," Mama said quickly. "The baby must be warm." She left the room and was back in a moment with Kirsti's thick red sweater.

"Here," she said softly to the mother. "It will be much too big, but that will make it even warmer for him."

The woman spoke for the first time. "Her," she whispered. "She's a girl. Her name is Rachel."

Mama smiled and helped her direct the sleeping baby's arms into the sleeves of the sweater. Together they buttoned the heart-shaped buttons—how Kirsti loved that sweater, with its heart buttons!—until the tiny child was completely encased in the warm red wool. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn't wake.

Peter reached into his pocket and took something out. He went to the parents and leaned down toward the baby. He opened the lid of the small bottle in his hand.

"How much does she weigh?" Peter asked.

"She was seven pounds when she was bom," the young woman replied. "She's gained a little, but not very much. Maybe she weighs eight pounds now, no more."

"A few drops will be enough, then. It has no taste. She won't even notice."

The mother tightened her arms around the baby and looked up at Peter, pleading. "Please, no," she said. "She always sleeps all night. Please, she doesn't need it, I promise. She won't cry."

Peter's voice was firm. "We can't take a chance," he said. He inserted the dropper of the bottle into the baby's tiny mouth, and squeezed a few drops of liquid onto her tongue. The baby yawned, and swallowed. The mother closed her eyes; her husband gripped her shoulder.

Next, Peter removed the folded blankets from the coffin, one by one, and handed them around. "Carry these with you," he said. "You will need them later, for warmth."

Annemarie's mother moved around the room and gave each person a small package of food: the cheese and bread and apples that Annemarie had helped her prepare in the kitchen hours before.

Finally, Peter took a paper-wrapped packet from the inside of his own jacket. He looked around the room, at the assembled people now dressed in the bulky winter clothing, and then motioned to Mr. Rosen, who followed him to the hall.

Annemarie could overhear their conversation. "Mr. Rosen," Peter said, "I must get this to Henrik. But I might not see him. I am going to take the others only to the harbor and they will go to the boat alone.