Number the Stars - Lois Lowry [32]
Annemarie continued the story in her head. "Suddenly, as Little Red Riding-Hood walked through the woods, she heard a noise. She heard a rustling in the bushes."
"A wolf," Kirsti would always say, shivering with fearful delight. "I know it's going to be the wolf!"
Annemarie always tried to prolong this part, to build up the suspense and tantalize her sister. "She didn't know what it was. She stopped on the path and listened. Something was following her, in the bushes. Little Red Riding-Hood was very, very, very frightened."
She would stop, would stay silent for a moment, and beside her in the bed she could feel Kirsti holding her breath.
"Then," Annemarie would go on, in a low, dread-filled voice, "she heard a grow!."
Annemarie stopped, suddenly, and stood still on the path. There was a turn immediately ahead. Beyond it, she knew, as soon as she rounded the turn, she would see the landscape open to the sea. The woods would be behind her there, and ahead of her would be the harbor, the docks, and the countless fishing boats. Very soon it would be noisy there, with engines starting, fishermen calling to one another, and gulls crying.
But she had heard something else. She heard bushes rustling ahead. She heard footsteps. And—she was certain it was not her imagination—she heard a low growl.
Cautiously, she took a step forward. And another. She approached the turn in the path, and the noises continued.
Then they were there, in front of her. Four armed soldiers. With them, straining at taut leashes, were two large dogs, their eyes glittering, their lips curled.
15. My Dogs Smell Meat!
Annemarie's mind raced. She remembered what her mother had said. "If anyone stops you, you must pretend to be nothing more than a silly little girt."
She stared at the soldiers. She remembered how she had stared at the others, frightened, when they had stopped her on the street.
Kirsti hadn't been frightened. Kirsti had been—well, nothing more than a silly little girl, angered because the Soldier had touched her hair that afternoon. She had known nothing of danger, and the soldier had been amused by her.
Annemarie willed herself, with all her being, to behave as Kirsti would.
"Good morning," she said carefully to the soldiers.
They looked her up and down in silence. Both dogs were tense and alert, The two soldiers who held the leashes wore thick gloves.
"What are you doing here?" one of them asked.
Annemarie held out her basket, with the thick loaf of bread visible. "My Uncle Henrik forgot his lunch, and I'm taking it to him. He's a fisherman."
The soldiers were looking around; their eyes glanced behind her, and scanned the bushes on either side.
"Are you alone?" one asked.
Annemarie nodded. "Yes," she said. One of the dogs growled. But she noticed that both dogs were looking at the lunch basket.
One soldier stepped forward. The other, and the two holding the dogs, remained where they were.
"You came out before daybreak just to bring a lunch? Why doesn't your uncle eat fish?"
What would Kirsti reply? Annemarie tried to giggle, the way her sister might. "Uncle Henrik doesn't even like fish," she said, laughing. "He says he sees too much of it, and smells too much of it. Anyway, he wouldn't eat it raw!" She made a face. "Well, I suppose he would if he were starving. But Uncle Henrik always has bread and cheese for lunch."
Keep chattering, she told herself, as Kirsti would. A silly little girl. "I like fish," she went on. "I like it the way my mother cooks it. Sometimes she rolls it in bread crumbs, and—"
The soldier reached forward and grabbed the crisp loaf of bread from the basket. He examined it carefully. Then he broke it in half, pulling the two halves apart with his fists.
That would enrage Kirsti, she knew. "Don't!" she said angrily. "That's Uncle Henrik's bread! My mother baked it!"
The soldier ignored her. He tossed the two halves of the loaf to the ground, one half in front of each dog. They consumed it, each