9. Why Are You Lying?
Annemarie went outside alone after supper. Through the open
kitchen window she could hear Mama and Ellen talking as they
washed the dishes, Kirsti, she knew, was busy on the floor, playing
with the old dolls she had found upstairs, the dolls that had been
Mama's once, long ago, The kitten had fled when she tried to dress
it, and disappeared.
She wandered to the barn, where Uncle Henrik was milking
Blossom. He was kneeling on the straw covered floor beside the
cow, his shoulder pressed against her heavy side, his strong tanned
hands rhythmically urging her milk into the spotless bucket. The
God of Thunder sat alertly poised nearby, watching.
Blossom looked up at Annemarie with big brown eyes, and
moved her wrinkled mouth like an old woman adjusting false teeth.

Annemarie leaned against the ancient splintery wood of the barn
wall and listened to the sharp rattling sound of the streams of milk as
they hit the sides of the bucket. Uncle Henrik glanced over at her
and smiled without pausing in the rhythm of milking. He didn't say
anything.

Through the barn windows, the pinkish light of sunset fell in
irregular shapes upon the stacked hay. Flecks of dust and straw
floated there, in the light.

"Uncle Henrik," Annemarie said suddenly, her voice cold, "you
are lying to me. You and Mama both."
His strong hands continued, deftly pressing like a pulse against
the cow. The steady streams of milk still came. He looked at her
again, his deep blue eyes kind and questioning. "You are angry," he
said.
"Yes. Mama has never lied to me before. Never. But I know
there is no Great-aunt Birte. Never once, in all the stories I've
heard, in all the old pictures I've seen, has there been a Great-aunt
Birte."
Uncle Henrik sighed. Blossom looked back at him, as if to say
"Almost done," and, indeed, the streams of milk lessened and
slowed.
He tugged at the cow gently but firmly, pulling down the last of
the milk. The bucket was half full, frothy on the top. Finally he set it
aside and washed the cow's udder with a clean damp cloth. Then
he lifted the bucket to a shelf and covered it. He rubbed the cow's
neck affectionately. At last he turned to Annemarie as he wiped his
own hands with the cloth.
"How brave are you, little Annemarie?" he asked suddenly.
She was startled. And dismayed. It was a question she did not
want to be asked. When she asked it of herself, she didn't like her
own answer.
"Not very," she confessed, looking at the floor of the barn.
Tall Uncle Henrik knelt before her so that his face was level with
hers. Behind him, Blossom lowered her head, grasped a mouthful of
hay in her mouth, and drew it in with her tongue. The kitten cocked
its head, waiting, still hoping for spilled milk.
"I think that is not true," Uncle Henrik said. "I think you are like
your mama, and like your papa, and like me. Frightened, but
determined, and if the time came to be brave, I am quite sure you
would be very, very brave.
"But," he added, "it is much easier to be brave if you do not
know everything. And so your mama does not know everything.
Neither do I. We know only what we need to know.
"Do you understand what I am saying?" he asked, looking into
her eyes.
Annemarie frowned. She wasn't sure. What did bravery mean?
She had been very frightened the day—not long ago, though now it
seemed far in the past—when the soldier had stopped her on the
street and asked questions in his rough voice.
And she had not known everything then. She had not known
that the Germans were going to take away the Jews. And so, when
the soldier asked, looking at Ellen that day, "What is your friend's
name?" she had been able to answer him, even though she was
frightened. If she had known everything, it would not have been so
easy to be brave.
She began to understand, just a little. "Yes," she said to Uncle
Henrik, "I think I understand."
"You guessed correctly," he told her. "There is no Great-aunt
Birte, and never has been. Your mama lied to you, and so did I.
"We did so," he explained, "to help you to be brave, because we
love you. Will you forgive us for that?"
Annemarie nodded. She felt older, suddenly.
"And I am not going to tell you any more, not now, for the same
reason. Do you understand?"
Annemarie nodded again. Suddenly there was a noise outside.
Uncle Henrik's shoulders stiffened. He rose quickly, went to the
window of the barn, stood in the shadows, and looked out. Then he
turned back to Annemarie.
"It is the hearse," he said. "It is Great-aunt Birte, who never
was." He smiled wryly. "So, my little friend, it is time for the night of
mourning to begin. Are you ready?"
Annemarie took her uncle's hand and he led her from the barn.
***
The gleaming wooden casket rested on supports in the center of
the living room and was surrounded by the fragile, papery flowers
that Annemarie and Ellen had picked that afternoon. Lighted
candles stood in holders on the table and cast a soft, flickering light.
The hearse had gone, and the solemn-faced men who had carried
the casket indoors had gone with it, after speaking quietly to Uncle
Henrik.
Kirsti had gone to bed reluctantly, complaining that she wanted
to stay up with the others, that she was grownup enough, that she
had never before seen a dead person in a closed-up box, that it
wasn't fair. But Mama had been firm, and finally Kirsti, sulking, had
trudged upstairs with her dolls under one arm and the kitten under
the other.
Ellen was silent, and had a sad expression. "I'm so sorry your
Aunt Birte died," Annemarie heard her say to Mama, who smiled
sadly and thanked her.
Annemarie had listened and said nothing. So now I, too, am
lying, she thought, and to my very best friend. I could tell Ellen that
it isn't true, that there is no Great-aunt Birte. I could take her aside
and whisper the secret to her so that she wouldn't have to feel sad.
But she didn't. She understood that she was protecting Ellen the
way her mother had protected her. Although she didn't understand
way her mother had protected her. Although she didn't understand
what was happening, or why the casket was there—or who, in
truth, was in it—she knew that it was better, safer, for Ellen to
believe in Great-aunt Birte. So she said nothing.
Other people came as the night sky grew darker. A man and a
woman, both of them dressed in dark clothing, the woman carrying
a sleeping baby, appeared at the door, and Uncle Henrik gestured
them inside. They nodded to Mama and to the girls. They went,
following Uncle Henrik, to the living room and sat down quietly.
"Friends of Great-aunt Birte," Mama said quietly in response to
Annemarie's questioning look. Annemarie knew that Mama was
lying again, and she could see that Mama understood that she
knew. They looked at each other for a long time and said nothing.
In that moment, with that look, they became equals.
From the living room came the sound of a sleepy baby's brief
wail. Annemarie glanced through the door and saw the woman
open her blouse and begin to nurse the infant, who quieted.
Another man arrived: an old man, bearded. Quietly he went to
the living room and sat down, saying nothing to the others, who only
glanced at him. The young woman lifted her baby's blanket,
covering its face and her own breast. The old man bent his head
forward and closed his eyes, as if he were praying. His mouth
moved silently, forming words that no one could hear.
Annemarie stood in the doorway, watching the mourners as they
sat in the candlelit room. Then she turned back to the kitchen and
began to help Ellen and Mama as they prepared food.
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.