In Copenhagen, she remembered, when Lise died, friends had come to their apartment every evening. All of them had brought food so that Mama wouldn't need to cook.
Why hadn't these people brought food? Why didn't they talk? In Copenhagen, even though the talk was sad, people had spoken softly to one another and to Mama and Papa. They had talked about Lise, remembering happier times.
Thinking about it as she sliced cheese in the kitchen, Annemarie realized that these people had nothing to talk about. They couldn't speak of happier times with Great-aunt Birte when there had never been a Great-aunt Birte at all.
Uncle Henrik came into the kitchen. He glanced at his watch and then at Mama. "It's getting late," he said. "I should go to the boat." He looked worried. He blew out the candles so that there would be no light at all, and opened the door. He stared beyond the gnarled apple tree into the darkness.
"Good. Here they come," he said in a low, relieved voice. "Ellen, come with me."
Ellen looked questioningly toward Mama, who nodded. "Go with Henrik," she said.
Annemarie watched, still holding the wedge of firm cheese in her hand, as Ellen followed Uncle Henrik into the yard. She could hear a sharp, low cry from Ellen, and then the sound of voices speaking softly.
In a moment Uncle Henrik returned. Behind him was Peter Neilsen.
Tonight Peter went first to Mama and hugged her. Then he hugged Annemarie and kissed her on the cheek. But he said nothing. There was no playfulness to his affection tonight, just a sense of urgency, of worry. He went immediately to the living room, looked around, and nodded at the silent people there.
Ellen was still outside. But in a moment the door opened and she returned—held tightly, like a little girl, her bare legs dangling, against her father's chest. Her mother was beside them.
10. Let Us Open the Casket
"You are all here now," Uncle Henrik said, looking around the living room. "I must go."
Annemarie stood in the wide doorway, looking in from the hall. The baby slept now, and its mother looked tired. Her husband sat beside her, his arm across her shoulders. The old man's head was still bent.
Peter sat alone, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was clear that he was deep in thought.
On the sofa Ellen sat between her parents, one hand clasped tightly in her mother's. She looked up at Annemarie but didn't smile. Annemarie felt a surge of sadness; the bond of their friendship had not broken, but it was as if Ellen had moved now into a different world, the world of her own family and whatever lay ahead for them.
The elderly bearded man looked up suddenly as Uncle Henrik prepared to go. "God keep you safe," he said in a firm but quiet voice.
Henrik nodded. "God keep us all safe," he replied. Then he turned and left the room. A moment later Annemarie heard him leave the house.
Mama brought the teapot from the kitchen, and a tray of cups. Annemarie helped her pass the cups around. No one spoke.
"Annemarie," Mama whispered to her in the hall, "you may go to bed if you want to. It is very late."
Annemarie shook her head. But she was tired. She could see that Ellen was, too; her friend's head was leaning on her mother's shoulder, and her eyes closed now and then.
Finally Annemarie went to the empty rocking chair in the corner of the living room and curled there with her head against its soft, padded back. She dozed.
She was startled from her half sleep by the sudden sweep of headlights, through the sheer curtains and across the room, as a car pulled up outside. The car doors slammed. Everyone in the room tensed, but no one spoke.
She heard—as if in a recurring nightmare—the pounding on the door, and then the heavy, frighteningly familiar staccato of boots on the kitchen floor. The woman with the baby gasped and began, suddenly, to weep.
The male, accented voice from the kitchen was loud. "We have observed," he said, "that an unusual number of people have gathered at this house tonight. What is the explanation?"
"There has been a death," Mama's voice replied calmly. "It is always our custom to gather and pay our respects when a family member dies. I am sure you are familiar with our customs."
One of the officers pushed Mama ahead of him from the kitchen and entered the living room. There were others behind him. They filled the wide doorway. As always, their boots gleamed. Their guns. Their helmets. All of them gleamed in the candlelight.
Annemarie watched as the man's eyes moved around the room. He looked for a long time at the casket. Then he moved his gaze, focusing on each person in turn. When his eyes reached her, she looked back at him steadily.
"Who died?" he asked harshly.
No one answered. They watched Annemarie, and she realized that the officer was directing the question at her.
Now she knew for certain what Uncle Henrik had meant when he had talked to her in the barn. To be brave came more easily if you knew nothing.
She swallowed. "My Great-aunt Birte," she lied, in a firm voice.
The officer moved forward suddenly, across the room, to the casket. He placed one gloved hand on its lid. "Poor Great-aunt Birte," he said, in a condescending voice.
"I do know your customs," he said, turning his gaze toward Mama, who still stood in the doorway. "And I know it is the custom to pay one's respects by looking your loved one in the face. It seems odd to me that you have closed this coffin up so tightly." His hand was in a fist, and he rubbed it across the edge of the polished lid.
"Why is it not open?" he demanded. "Let us open it up and take one last look at Great-aunt Birte!"
Annemarie saw Peter, across the room, stiffen in his chair, lift his chin, and reach slowly with one hand toward his side.
Mama walked quickly across the room, directly to the casket, directly to the officer. "You're right," she said. "The doctor said it should be closed, because Aunt Birte died of typhus, and he said that there was a chance the germs would still be there, would still be dangerous. But what does he know—only a country doctor, and an old man at that? Surely typhus germs wouldn't linger in a dead person! And dear Aunt Birte; I have been longing to see her face, to kiss her goodbye. Of course we will open the casket! I am glad you suggested—"
With a swift motion the Nazi officer slapped Mama across her face. She staggered backward, and a white mark on her cheek darkened.
"You foolish woman," he spat. "To think that we have any interest in seeing the body of your diseased aunt! Open it after we leave," he said.
With one gloved thumb he pressed a candle flame into darkness. The hot wax spattered the table. "Put all these candles out/' he said, "or pull the curtains."
Then he strode to the doorway and left the room. Motionless, silent, one hand to her cheek, Mama listened—they all listened—as the uniformed men left the house. In a moment they heard the car doors, the sound of its engine, and finally they heard it drive away.
"Mama!" Annemarie cried.
Her mother shook her head quickly, and glanced at the open window covered only by the sheer curtain. Annemarie understood. There might still be soldiers outside, watching, listening.
Peter stood and drew the dark curtains across the windows. He relit the extinguished candle. Then he reached for the old Bible that had always been there, on the mantel. He opened it quickly and said, "I will read a psalm."
His eyes turned to the page he had opened at random, and he began to read in a strong voice.
O praise the Lord.
How good it is to sing psalms to our God!
How pleasant to praise him!
The Lord is rebuilding Jerusalem;