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that the light in the room seemed startling to Annemarie, watching through the slightly opened bedroom door. She saw her mother look automatically to the blackout curtains, making certain that they were tightly drawn.
    Papa opened the front door to the soldiers.
    â€œThis is the Johansen apartment?” A deep voice asked the question loudly, in the terribly accented Danish.
    â€œOur name is on the door, and I see you have a flashlight,” Papa answered. “What do you want? Is something wrong?”
    â€œI understand you are a friend of your neighbors the Rosens, Mrs. Johansen,” the soldier said angrily.
    â€œSophy Rosen is my friend, that is true,” Mama said quietly. “Please, could you speak more softly?” My children are asleep.”
    â€œThen you will be so kind as to tell me where the Rosens are.” He made no effort to lower his voice.
    â€œI assume they are at home, sleeping. It is four in the morning, after all,” Mama said.
    Annemarie heard the soldier stalk across the living room toward the kitchen. From her hiding place in the narrow sliver of open doorway, she could see the heavy uniformed man, a holstered pistol at his waist, in the entrance to the kitchen, peering in toward the sink.
    Another German voice said, “The Rosens’ apartment is empty. We are wondering if they might be visiting their good friends the Johansens.”
    â€œWell,” said Papa, moving slightly so that he was standing in front of Annemarie’s bedroom door, and she could see nothing except the dark blur of his back, “as you see, you are mistaken. There is no one here but my family.”
    â€œYou will not object if we look around.” The voice was harsh, and it was not a question.
    â€œIt seems we have no choice,” Papa replied.
    â€œPlease don’t wake my children,” Mama requested again. “There is no need to frighten little ones.”
    The heavy, booted feet moved across the floor again and into the other bedroom. A closet door opened and closed with a bang.
    Annemarie eased her bedroom door closed silently. She stumbled through the darkness to the bed.
    â€œEllen,” she whispered urgently, “take your necklace off!”
    Ellen’s hands flew to her neck. Desperately she began trying to unhook the tiny clasp. Outside the bedroom door, the harsh voices and heavy footsteps continued.
    â€œI can’t get it open!” Ellen said frantically. “I never take it off—I can’t even remember how to open it!”
    Annemarie heard a voice just outside the door. “What is here?”
    â€œShhh,” her mother replied. “My daughters’ bedroom. They are sound asleep.”
    â€œHold still,” Annemarie commanded. “This will hurt.” She grabbed the little gold chain, yanked with all her strength, and broke it. As the door opened and light flooded into the bedroom, she crumpled it into her hand and closed her fingers tightly.
    Terrified, both girls looked up at the three Nazi officers who entered the room.
    One of the men aimed a flashlight around the bedroom. He went to the closet and looked inside. Then with a sweep of his gloved hand he pushed to the floor several coats and a bathrobe that hung from pegs on the wall.
    There was nothing else in the room except a chest of drawers, the blue decorated trunk in the corner, and a heap of Kirsti’s dolls piled in a small rocking chair. The flashlight beam touched each thing in turn. Angrily the officer turned toward the bed.
    â€œGet up!” he ordered. “Come out here!”
    Trembling, the two girls rose from the bed and followed him, brushing past the two remaining officers in the doorway, to the living room.
    Annemarie looked around. These three uniformed men were different from the ones on the street corners. The street soldiers were often young, sometimes ill at ease, and Annemarie remembered how the Giraffe had, for a moment, let his