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A Night Divided (Scholastic Gold)|Paperback

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A stunning thriller from NYT bestselling author Jennifer A. Nielsen about a girl who must escape to freedom after the Berlin Wall divides her family between east and west.A Night Divided joins the Scholastic Gold line, which features award-winning and beloved novels. Includes...

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July 14, 1947

Dear Mama,

I know you know what happened today at 6:00 a.m., twelve years ago. How could you not? It was the day we came and you left, but I don't want to be sad today. I want to be happy and tell you everything. I'll start at the beginning. You probably already know what I'm telling you, but maybe you don't. Maybe you haven't been watching.

I like turning twelve so much already. It's the biggest number I've ever been, but it's an easy number-easy to say, easy to count, easy to split in half. I wonder if Amil thinks about you on this day like I do. I wonder if he likes being twelve?

We woke up at a little before seven. Amil and I usually sleep through our birth minutes and then when we wake up, we stand next to the last mark we etched into the wall with a sharp rock. No one else knows it's there. I do it for Amil and he does mine and then we compare how much we've grown since last year. Amil has finally caught up with me. Papa says someday Amil will tower over all of us. That's hard to imagine.

Papa gave me your gold chain with a small ruby stone hanging from it. He started giving me the jewelry when I was seven. Now I have two gold bangles, two gold rings, small emerald-and-gold hoop earrings, and the ruby necklace. Papa said I should save the jewelry for special occasions, but lately there are none, so I wear all the jewelry at once and never take it off. I don't know where he keeps all of it, but each year on my birthday, another piece appears at my bedside in a dark blue velvet box with gold trim. When you open it, the blue satin lining winks back at you. Papa always asks for the box back after I take out the jewelry.

Secretly, I want the box more than the jewelry. I want it to be all mine and never have to give it back. I could find any old thing-a pebble, a leaf, a pistachio shell-and put it in the box. Like magic, these things would get to be special at least for a day. Maybe he'll let me have it when your jewelry runs out.

I want to tell you about this diary I'm writing in. Kazi gave it to me this morning wrapped in brown paper, tied with a piece of dried grass. He never gives me gifts on my birthday. I once read an English story where a little girl got a big pink cake and presents wrapped in shiny paper and bows for her birthday. I thought about the little gifts Kazi gives us all the time-pieces of candy under our pillows or a ripe tomato from the garden, sliced, salted, and sprinkled with chili pepper on a plate. Cake and bows must be nice, but is anything better than a perfect tomato?

The diary is covered in purple and red silk, decorated with small sequins and bits of mirrored glass sewn in. The paper is rough, thick, and the color of butter. It is not lined, which I like. I've never had a diary before. When Kazi gave it to me, he said it was time to start writing things down, and that I was the one to do it. He said someone needs to make a record of the things that will happen because the grown-ups will be too busy. I'm not sure what he thinks is going to happen, but I've decided I'm going to write in it every day if I can. I want to explain things to you as if I'm writing a storybook, like The Jungle Book except without all the animals. I want to make it real so you can imagine it. I want to remember what everyone says and does, and I won't know the ending until I get there.

Kazi also gave Amil five charcoal drawing pencils. Five! He also made us rice kheer with our pooris. I'm not sure there is anything better tasting in the world. Amil, who normally eats too fast, makes his pudding last extra long, eating the smallest bites he can. I think he just does it so I have to watch him long after I've finished. Every so often he'll look up and smile. I pretend I don't care. Sometimes he saves his sweets for me, but not rice kheer.

Today we were running late, though, and Amil couldn't spend forever eating his kheer because Dadi took our plates away and told us to get ready. Amil started grumbling about school and how he wished he was a grown-up and could work at the hospital like Papa instead. "The drums sound better at a distance," Dadi said like she always does, and rushed us out the door.

Here's another secret, and don't be mad. Amil and I didn't go to school. We headed all the way out of town to the sugarcane field and tried to walk through it like a maze. We broke off pieces to chew. Later we stopped under a shady tree. Amil found bugs to draw and I read. After, we bought potato pakoras at the roadside cart in town, hoping no one would ask why we weren't in school. The pakoras tasted crisp and extra salty. Amil thinks they're too salty, but I like the sting on my tongue that stays long after I've finished eating.

Amil would rather draw and play all day instead of going to school. He would rather do anything besides school. He draws very well. Did you know that? I don't hate school, but I didn't want Amil to be alone on our birthday. When Papa finds out we didn't go to school, he'll be much angrier at Amil than he will at me. That's how it is with Papa and Amil. It hasn't always been like that. Amil used to be Papa's favorite, I think because Amil was always louder, happier, and funnier than I am. But now because Amil isn't small and cute, Papa is different.

When we were about seven or eight, Amil ran away. That's when it started. Papa came home from a long day at the hospital and during dinner he told Amil to stop smiling so much, that it made him look ridiculous. This only made Amil smile more.

Then Papa said, "Amil, you can't read. You play around too much and draw little pictures. You must be more serious or you will become nothing."

"Maybe I should leave. Then you'll be happy," Amil said. He waited for Papa to say something, but Papa didn't. He just turned back to his food. Amil got up and walked straight out of the house. An hour went by and he didn't come back, so I went out to look for him. I looked everywhere, around the garden, the shed, Kazi's and Mahit's cottages, all the places he might go. I even looked in the pantry and in Papa's closet. Papa acted like nothing was happening, but I told Kazi that I couldn't find Amil anywhere and he told Dadi and Dadi told Papa, so Papa went out with a lantern. I stayed awake in my bed wondering what I would do if Amil never came back. I couldn't imagine being in this house, in this life, without him. I heard Papa return and I waited to hear Amil's voice or his footsteps, but I didn't hear anything and began to cry, holding my doll, Dee, tight. At some point I fell asleep. When I woke at first light, Amil slept soundly in his bed next to mine. I wasn't sure if I had dreamed the whole thing.

"Amil," I said, poking him awake, standing over him. "Where did you go? Does Papa know you're back?"

"Papa knows I'm back," Amil said in a dull voice. "I walked into town, but then I kept going. I didn't want to stop. But Papa found me."

"Is Papa mad?" I asked.

"Papa will always be mad at me. It doesn't matter if I smile or don't smile. I'm just not what he wanted."

"That's not true," I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned away. He might have been right about Papa, though. Since that night he ran away, Papa always seems angry at Amil for being Amil.

Papa left a book on Amil's bed this morning. Normally on our birthday he only gives me the jewelry and we do puja at our temple and offer the gods handfuls of leaves and sweets for a prosperous year, but Papa did not talk about it this morning. Maybe we will go tomorrow. Papa doesn't like to go to temple. We only go on our birthdays and Diwali because Dadi begs us to go. Sometimes Papa walks her there and waits outside for her. I always look forward to going. I drink in the smoky smell of the lamps burning. I even like the metal taste of the holy water on my tongue. The soft sounds of the prayers being chanted and sung make me feel loved, like you're there, watching. But maybe a Hindu temple is the last place you'd be.

Amil's book is beautiful. It's a thick collection of tales from the Mahabharata with gold lettering on the cover and bright colorful pictures inside. Amil will love the drawings, but he won't read it. Amil says he can't read right because the words jump around and change on him. Papa thinks he's lying so he doesn't have to do his schoolwork. But I know he's not. I see the way he studies the writing, his eyes squinted, his face pinched. I see how hard he tries. He even turns the book upside down sometimes, but he says nothing helps. I think it's because Amil is a little bit magical. His eyes turn everything into art. Maybe Papa thought if he brought him a really good book, Amil would read it.

Papa didn't say anything about skipping school today. I hope our headmasters don't send a messenger with a note. Now I'm tired and must drink my warm milk and go to bed. Amil is already sound asleep, making little whistling sounds through his nose. I've decided that night is the best time to write to you. That way no one will ask me any questions.

Love, Nisha

***

July 15, 1947

Dear Mama,

I only have time to tell you one thing tonight because my eyelids are heavier than wet sheets. Papa is very mad. I knew he would be when he found out. Amil's headmaster sent over a message. Mine did not. When Papa found out, he made Amil sit in the corner with no breakfast this morning. Amil didn't ask why I wasn't being punished, even though Papa must have known I skipped, too. I guess the difference is that I do well in school and Amil doesn't. I only ate one of my chapatis and wrapped the other in a napkin. Then I stuck it in my schoolbook for Amil when no one was looking.

I think Kazi likes us best. Papa loves us of course because he's our father and Dadi loves us because she's our grandmother. That's what they're supposed to do, but Papa is too busy to do a lot of liking and Dadi is too old. Papa works every day, even on Sunday. I guess he has to since he's a doctor. People leave gifts on our doorstep all the time, like flowers and sweets for the wonderful things he has done for them. Sometimes I think Papa's not real. He leaves early with the cool morning air and never makes a sound. Sometimes when he comes back late at night and kisses me good night in my sleep, I wake up and see him. It feels like I'm dreaming.

Love, Nisha

***

July 16, 1947

Dear Mama,

Kazi has so much energy for us. He always has. When we were younger, maybe five or six, he used to sit cross-legged on the floor and play with us after his work was done. I remember he was the first person to teach Amil how to play cricket in the front of the house, how to throw and bat and catch. Papa never did. I would peer out the window and watch them, laughing hard when Amil missed the ball, since he could hardly see me.

I help Kazi in the kitchen all the time, even though Dadi doesn't want me to. She says I'll marry well and have someone cook for me, just like Kazi does for us. But that doesn't sound like any fun at all. I can't wait to be older and do what Kazi can do. He lets me help him more all the time. I know how to sort the lentils, grind the spices with his marble mortar and pestle, clarify the butter for ghee, and mix the dough for chapatis. I usually finish my schoolwork fast and sneak into the kitchen, when Dadi thinks I'm still working, to help Kazi prepare dinner. He sees me even when he's not looking up. It's like he smells me. He turns and holds up a handful of peas to be shelled. I like to cook things even more than I like to eat them. How does Kazi take all these plain boring foods-bitter vegetables, dried lentils, flour, oil, spices-and turn them into something so warm and delicious every time?

Love, Nisha

***

July 17, 1947

Dear Mama,

Kazi is right. I was made for writing in a diary. I'd much rather write than talk. I talk very little, mostly just to Amil and Kazi. I feel normal around them. I talk to Dadi and Papa if I have to. But for the rest of the world, the words just don't want to come out, like part of my mouth or my brain is broken. It feels scary to talk, because once the words are out, you can't put them back in. But if you write words and they don't come out the way you want them to, you can erase them and start over. I have the neatest handwriting in my class and get the highest marks on all my compositions. You would be very proud of me.

Amil likes to talk. He likes to run. He likes to laugh. He likes to yell. But he hates writing anything down, except for his drawings. The teachers think he's stupid because he can't read and doesn't do his schoolwork, but they should look at his drawings. Amil draws all sorts of things. Sometimes he draws frightening scorpions and snakes with dark charcoal pencil. He draws every leg, every bump, every little detail. Sometimes he draws me early in the morning when I'm still sleeping. It's strange to look at myself that way, but I like it. It makes me feel like I'm not alone, like someone is always watching over me. Are you, Mama?

Sometimes Amil draws Dadi or Papa when they aren't looking and only shows me. He draws Kazi cooking. He likes to paste lots of paper scraps together with flour and water to make a bigger drawing space. Kazi once gave him a drawing pad. Amil only does his best work on the paper after he practices on his bits of flour bags, ends of newspaper, whatever he can find. He let me touch the drawing pad paper once. It's cloud white, silky smooth. I wonder why Amil is the way he is. I wonder why I am the way I am. I bet you know.

Love, Nisha

***

July 18, 1947

Dear Mama,

Something very strange happened today. Three men came to our house this afternoon. I don't know why they came. I was doing my homework. Amil tried to do his but mostly doodled. Dadi sat at the table writing letters. Papa was at the hospital. The men knocked on the door. One of them was a teacher at our school who always dyes his gray hair red. His beard is the color of a chili pepper. I didn't recognize the other two men. Dadi looked out the window and called Amil. Then she told us both to go into the kitchen with Kazi, so we did. Her eyes darted back and forth before she answered the door.

All three of us-me, Kazi, and Amil-peeked around the corner. The men spoke so quietly I couldn't hear them. Then they spoke louder. I heard bits and pieces of sentences, words and names I had been hearing Papa talk about to Dadi, seen in the headlines from their newspapers. I turned over the words like puzzle pieces in my head, wondering how they were supposed to fit together: Pakistan, Jinnah, independence, Nehru, India, British, Lord Mountbatten, Gandhi, partition.

Dadi nodded and nodded, and the air smelled like the smoke from pipes. She tried to close the door once and one of the men, the tallest one, held the door open, not letting her. I held my breath. Then she finally closed the door and turned around. We came out from our hiding places, but she didn't say a thing. Her eyes were big, and she and Kazi kept giving each other secret looks. Amil asked what happened.

Dadi waved him away, but Amil didn't give up.

"Tell me or I'll scream," he said.

I put my hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe he was being so naughty.

Dadi frowned. "It was nothing to worry about," she said. "And if you scream," she said, wagging her finger angrily at Amil, "your Papa will be the first to know."

Amil's shoulders slumped. Kazi disappeared into the kitchen. I finished my work and helped him clean some green beans and chop the garlic and ginger into the tiniest pieces you ever saw, but Kazi didn't tell me anything and I could tell he didn't want to.

"The men seemed upset," I said later to Amil when we were lying on our beds. "I think something bad is going on."

"I know," said Amil. "I heard them ask when we'd be leaving."

"Why would we leave?" I asked.

"It has something to do with India being free from the British soon," he said.

I wondered what that meant, to be free from the British. Why were they allowed to rule over us in the first place? Didn't they have their own people to worry about? I thought about the men at the door. They seemed calm in that way grown-ups get calm before they get very angry.

"Remember when Papa used to tickle us?" Amil said, turning on his side toward me.

"He hasn't done that in a long time," I replied. When we were little, Papa would tickle us to wake us up. It's so strange to think about that now. I remember trying to like it since Amil liked it so much. Amil would throw his head back and squeal for more. I would grit my teeth and try not to push Papa's hand away. It made me feel like I was falling off a cliff. I asked Amil why he was thinking about that.

"Because I wish he was still that way," Amil said, and turned on his back again.

He closed his eyes and I could hear his breathing slow down. I thought about the old Papa, the one who tickled us. Had Papa changed that much? Or had we just gotten older?

Love, Nisha

***

July 19, 1947

Dear Mama,

More bad things are happening. When Amil and I walk the mile to our schools, we pass lots of things. First, we walk through the rest of our compound where we live since Papa is the head doctor for the Mirpur Khas City Hospital. The government gave us a large place to live in, much bigger than anyone I know. We have our bungalow, and a coop for the chickens, the flower and vegetable gardens, and the cottages where Kazi and the groundskeeper, Mahit, live. As we walk closer and closer to town, we pass the hospital. Then we pass the jail where all the people have to go when they do things like steal from the markets. Dadi says it's not a jail for the murderers. The murderers go somewhere else. I always try to catch a prisoner's eye when I go to school, since I can see them through the fences. I feel bad for them. Usually they stole because they were hungry. But sometimes there are truly bad ones, too, who just want to be bad, who hurt and steal just for fun. I think I can tell who's bad and who's not. The bad ones smile real big. The good ones don't.

Our schools are right next to each other, the Government School for Boys and the Government School for Girls. Mine is smaller because not all girls go to school, but Papa says it's important to be educated. Today when we walked to school, two older boys started following us. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes they chase Amil, but usually only to scare him. He runs faster than anyone I know, so he always gets away. This time though, the boys started throwing rocks at us. A small one hit the back of my head. Amil pulled my arm and we broke into a run. Amil led us into an alley. We ran through the alley and some gardens, then back onto another dirt road. We found a cluster of mango trees and hid behind them.

"Why did they do that? What did you do?" I whispered at him.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything," he whispered back at me.

I touched the small bump where the rock hit me. We went a different way to school, down another dirt road and through the sugarcane, but it took a long time and we were late. After school we ran all the way home without stopping. When we got home, we stood catching our breath outside the door, so Dadi wouldn't ask why we were out of breath.

"It's because we're Hindus," Amil said. He looked around and started to whisper again. "There are lots of places all over India where the Hindus and Sikhs and Muslims fight one another all the time now. Just not here, yet. Kazi tells me what he reads in the papers. That's why those men came to the house yesterday. They said the Hindus should leave, and they don't want Kazi to live with us."

"Because he's Muslim?" I asked, but Amil didn't answer as he ran into the house and to our room where he worked on his drawings until dinner. I thought about those boys. They were Muslim. Everyone knows who is Muslim, Hindu, or Sikh by the clothes they wear or the names they have. But we all have lived together in this town for so long, I just never thought much about people's religions before. Does it have to do with India becoming independent from the British? I don't see how those two things go together.

Sometimes Amil knows things that I don't. He talks to people more and goes to the market with Kazi. He has lots of friends at school. He doesn't mind if his words come out right, or not. I wish I were more like Amil. I don't have any friends except Sabeen. All the kids play together at my school no matter what religion we are. Sabeen is Muslim, and she and I always have lunch together. She doesn't have many friends because she doesn't stop talking and never listens. I don't mind. I'm a good listener.

Nobody ever mentions the fact that you were Muslim, Mama. It's like everyone forgot. But I don't want to forget. The truest truth is that I don't know any other children whose parents are different religions. It must be a strange thing that nobody wants to talk about. I guess we're Hindu because Papa and Dadi are. But you're still a part of me, Mama. Where does that part go?

Love, Nisha

(Continues...)

Excerpted from "The Night Diary"
by .
Copyright &copy 2019 Veera Hiranandani.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Young Readers Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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A 2019 NEWBERY HONOR BOOK"A gripping, nuanced story of the human cost of conflict appropriate for both children and adults." ...

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Acclaimed author Karen Hesse's Newbery Medal-winning novel-in-verse explores the life of fourteen-year-old Billie Jo growing up in the dust bowls of Oklahoma.

Out of the Dust joins the Scholastic Gold line, which features award-winning and beloved novels. Includes exclusive bonus content!"Dust piles up like snow across the prairie. . . ."A terrible accident has transformed Billie Jo's life, scarring her inside and out. Her mother is gone. Her father can't talk about it. And the one thing that might make her feel better — playing the piano — is impossible with her wounded hands.To make matters worse, dust storms are devastating the family farm and all the farms nearby. While others flee from the dust bowl, Billie Jo is left to find peace in the bleak landscape of Oklahoma — and in the surprising landscape of her own heart.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780590371254

Publisher:

Scholastic, Inc.

Publication date:

01/01/1999

Edition description:

Reissue

Pages:

256

Sales rank:

17,525

Product dimensions:

7.62(w) x 5.24(h) x 0.60(d)

Age Range:

11 - 14 Years

Editorial Reviews

This intimate novel, written in stanza form, poetically conveys the heat, dust and wind of Oklahoma along with the discontent of narrator Billy Jo, a talented pianist growing up during the Depression. Unlike her father, who refuses to abandon his failing farm ("He and the land have a hold on each other"), Billy Jo is eager to "walk my way West/ and make myself to home in that distant place/ of green vines and promise." She wants to become a professional musician and travel across the country. But those dreams end with a tragic fire that takes her mother's life and reduces her own hands to useless, "swollen lumps." Hesse's (The Music of Dolphins) spare prose adroitly traces Billy Jo's journey in and out of darkness. Hesse organizes the book like entries in a diary, chronologically by season. With each meticulously arranged entry she paints a vivid picture of Billy Jo's emotions, ranging from desolation ("I look at Joe and know our future is drying up/ and blowing away with the dust") to longing ("I have a hunger,/ for more than food./ I have a hunger/ bigger than Joyce City") to hope (the farmers, surveying their fields,/ nod their heads as/ the frail stalks revive,/ everyone, everything, grateful for this moment,/ free of the/ weight of dust"). Readers may find their own feelings swaying in beat with the heroine's shifting moods as she approaches her coming-of-age and a state of self-acceptance. Ages 11-13. (Oct.)

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Gr 5 UpIn the midst of the Dust Bowl, 13-year-old Billie Jo loses her mother and unborn brother in an accident that she is partly responsible for and burns her own hands so badly that she may never again find solace in her only pleasureplaying the piano. Growing ever more distant from her brooding father, she hops on a train going west, and discovers that there is no escaping the dust of her Oklahoma homeshe is part of it and it is part of her. Hesse uses free-verse poems to advance the plot, allowing the narrator to speak for herself much more eloquently than would be possible in standard prose. The author's astute and careful descriptions of life during the dust storms of the 1930s are grounded in harsh reality, yet are decidedly poetic; they will fascinate as well as horrify today's readers. Hesse deals with questions of loss, forgiveness, home, and even ecology by exposing and exploring Billie Jo's feelings of pain, longing, and occasional joy. Readers may at first balk at a work of fiction written as poetry, but the language, imagery, and rhythms are so immediate that after only a few pages it will seem natural to have the story related in verse. This book is a wonderful choice for classrooms involved in journal-writing assignments, since the poems often read like diary entries. It could also be performed effectively as readers' theater. Hesse's ever-growing skill as a writer willing to take chances with her form shines through superbly in her ability to take historical facts and weave them into the fictional story of a character young people will readily embrace.Carrie Schadle, New York Public Library

School Library Journal

Billie Jo tells of her life in Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl: Her mother dies after a gruesome accident caused by her father's leaving a bucket of kerosene near the stove; Billie Jo is partially responsible—fully responsible in the eyes of the community—and sustains injuries that seem to bring to a halt her dreams of playing the piano. Finding a way through her grief is not made easier by her taciturn father, who went on a drinking binge while Billie Joe's mother, not yet dead, begged for water. Told in free-verse poetry of dated entries that span the winter of 1934 to the winter of 1935, this is an unremittingly bleak portrait of one corner of Depression-era life. In Billie Jo, the only character who comes to life, Hesse (The Music of Dolphins, 1996, etc.) presents a hale and determined heroine who confronts unrelenting misery and begins to transcend it. The poem/novel ends with only a trace of hope; there are no pat endings, but a glimpse of beauty wrought from brutal reality.

Kirkus Reviews

Awards and Praise for Out of the Dust:Winner of the Newbery MedalWinner of the Scott O'Dell AwardAn ALA Notable Children's BookAn ALA Best Book for Young Adults A School Library Journal Best Book of the YearA Booklist Editors' ChoiceA Book Links "Lasting Connection"A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the YearA New York Public Library 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing selection* "Hesse's spare prose adroitly traces Billie Jo's journey in and out of darkness.... With each meticulously arranged entry she paints a vivid picture of Billie Jo's emotions, ranging from desolation.... to longing... to hope." — Publishers Weekly, starred review* "Hesse uses free-verse poems to advance the plot, allowing the narrator to speak for herself much more eloquently than would be possible in standard prose. The author's astute and careful descriptions of life during the dust storms of the 1930s are grounded in harsh reality, yet are decidedly poetic... Hesse's ever growing skill as a writer willing to take chances with her form shines through superbly..." — School Library Journal, starred review* "The story is bleak, but Hesse's writing transcends the gloom and transforms it into a powerfully compelling tale of a girl with enormous strength, courage and love. The entire novel is written in very readable blank verse, a superb choice for bringing out the exquisite agony and delight to be found in such a difficult period lived by such a vibrant character." Booklist, starred review

From the Publisher

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Acclaimed author Karen Hesse's Newbery Medal-winning novel-in-verse explores the life of fourteen-year-old Billie Jo growing up in the dust bowls of Oklahoma.Out of the Dust joins the Scholastic Gold line, which features award-winning and beloved novels. Includes exclusive bonus...

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Notes From Your Bookseller

Based on a devastatingly true story, Prisoner B-3087 is steeped in the horrors of the Holocaust, but beneath the heavy darkness that hangs over the concentration camps is hope. It's a beautiful story of young man whose life is upended by war and genocide and the way he survives.

From Alan Gratz, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Refugee, comes this wrenching novel about one boy's struggle to survive ten concentration camps during the Holocaust. Based on the inspiring true life story of Jack Gruener.

10 concentration camps. 10 different places where you are starved, tortured, and worked mercilessly. It's something no one could imagine surviving. But it is what Yanek Gruener has to face. As a Jewish boy in 1930s Poland, Yanek is at the mercy of the Nazis who have taken over. Everything he has, and everyone he loves, have been snatched brutally from him. And then Yanek himself is taken prisoner — his arm tattooed with the words PRISONER B-3087. He is forced from one nightmarish concentration camp to another, as World War II rages all around him. He encounters evil he could have never imagined, but also sees surprising glimpses of hope amid the horror. He just barely escapes death, only to confront it again seconds later. Can Yanek make it through the terror without losing his hope, his will — and, most of all, his sense of who he really is inside? Based on an astonishing true story.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780545459013

Publisher:

Scholastic, Inc.

Publication date:

03/01/2013

Pages:

272

Sales rank:

7,088

Product dimensions:

5.80(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.10(d)

Lexile:

760L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

10 - 14 Years

About the Author

ALAN GRATZ is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of several highly acclaimed books for young readers, including Two Degrees, Ground Zero, Allies, Grenade, Refugee, Projekt 1065, Prisoner B-3087, Code of Honor, and Captain America: The Ghost Army, an original graphic novel. Alan lives in North Carolina with his wife and daughter. Look for him online at alangratz.com. Ruth Gruener was born Aurelia Gamser in 1930s Poland. Ruth and her parents survived the Holocaust by hiding in the homes of gentile families. After World War II was over, Ruth and her family moved to the United States, where Ruth tried to start an ordinary teenage life in Brooklyn. Ruth married Jack Gruener, another Holocaust survivor, with whom she lived in Brooklyn until Jack's passing in 2017. They have two children and four grandchildren. Until her death in 2021, Ruth worked as a docent at the Museum of Jewish Heritage in downtown Manhattan and traveled all over the country to speak to schools about her and Jack's experiences in the Holocaust.

Read an Excerpt

From PRISONER B-3087I looked out through the cracks of the crawlspace. Goeth was coming closer, all shining black leather boots and crisp black uniform. One of his dogs lifted its ears and looked right at me.I pulled back away from the wall. "We're trapped. We have to get out of here. " I was almost choking on my own fear. "And go where?" Thomas hissed. "If we leave, they'll find us in the barrack!""I don't care. We can't be caught here." I pushed my way up and out of the crawlspace. I gasped, filling my lungs. But if I didn't really want to die , I had to move quickly. My heart was thumping. but I it made me feel alive, and feeling alive made me want to stay alive.

Editorial Reviews

The Nazis killed more than one million Jewish children and teenagers; Jack (Yanek) Gruener, who was 10 when Krakow, Poland, fell, was a rare survivor. "Survive," however, hardly seems adequate to describe what unfolds in these pages. Having lost his parents and close relatives just as he entered adolescence (Yanek has a secret bar mitzvah in a basement of the Krakow ghetto), the boy is totally alone as his life becomes a roll-call of nightmares: Trzebinia, Bir-kenau (where his arm is tattooed with the number in the book's title), Auschwitz, Sachsenhausen, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Gross-Rosen. Yanek is finally liberated at age 16, when American soldiers arrive at Dachau. Gratz (Fantasy Baseball) has fictionalized some aspects of Gruener's life to "paint a fuller and more representative picture of the Holocaust as a whole," and this determination to be exhaustively inclusive, along with lapses into History Channel-like prose, threatens to overwhelm the story. But more often, Gratz ably conveys Yanek's incredulity ("Not long ago, all these half-dead creatures around me had been people"), fatalism, yearning, and determination in the face of the unimaginable. Ages 10-14. Agent: Barry Goldblatt, Barry Goldblatt Literary. (Mar.)

Publishers Weekly

Praise for Prisoner B-3087:A Junior Library Guild SelectionGolden Sower Award, 2014-2015 Winner NebraskaIsinglass Teen Read Award, 2014-2015 Winner New HampshirePennsylvania Young Readers' Choice Award, 2014-2015 Winner PennsylvaniaJunior Book Award, 2015-2016 Winner South CarolinaGrand Canyon Reader Award, 2015-2016 Winner ArizonaTruman Readers Award, 2015-2016 Winner MissouriReaders Choice Awards, Winner 2015-2016 Virginia Volunteer State Book Award Winner, 2015-2016 Tennessee"A powerful story, well told." — School Library Journal"A bone-chilling tale not to be ignored." — Kirkus Reviews"[A] remarkable survival story." — Booklist"Gratz ably conveys . . . fatalism, yearning, and determination in the face of the unimaginable." — Publishers Weekly"Heartbreaking, gripping, raw, and emotional . . . storytelling at its finest." — VOYA

From the Publisher

Gr 6-10-"If I had known what the next six years of my life were going to be like, I would have eaten more. I wouldn't have complained about brushing my teeth, or taking a bath, or going to bed at eight o'clock every night." Yanek Gruener was 10 years old when the German army invaded Poland in 1939 and trapped his family inside the walls of the Jewish ghetto in Krakow. Over the course of World War II, he saw his parents deported by the Nazis and survived 10 different concentration camps. Through Gratz's spare, persistent prose, the story of the boy's early life unfolds with the urgency and directness necessary for survivor stories. While some liberties have been taken, with the permission of Gruener and his wife, Ruth, also a survivor, the experiences and images come directly from the Grueners' collective memories of the war. An author's note provides further biographical information. A powerful story, well told.-Sara Saxton, Tuzzy Consortium Library, Barrow, AK

School Library Journal

If Anne Frank had been a boy, this is the story her male counterpart might have told. At least, the very beginning of this historical novel reads as such. It is 1939 and Yanek Gruener is a 10-year old Jew in Kraków when the Nazis invade Poland. His family is forced to live with multiple other families in a tiny apartment as his beloved neighborhood of Podgórze changes from haven to ghetto in a matter of weeks. Readers will be quickly drawn into this first-person account of dwindling freedoms, daily humiliations and heart-wrenching separations from loved ones. Yet as the story darkens, it begs the age-old question of when and how to introduce children to the extremes of human brutality. Based on the true story of the life of Jack Gruener, who remarkably survived not just one, but 10 different concentration camps, this is an extraordinary, memorable and hopeful saga told in unflinching prose. While Gratz's words and early images are geared for young people, and are less gory than some accounts, Yanek's later experiences bear a closer resemblance to Elie Wiesel's Night than more middle-grade offerings, such as Lois Lowry's Number the Stars. It may well support classroom work with adult review first. A bone-chilling tale not to be ignored by the universe. (Historical fiction. 12 & up)

Kirkus Reviews

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From Alan Gratz, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Refugee, comes this wrenching novel about one boy's struggle to survive ten concentration camps during the Holocaust. Based on the inspiring true life story of Jack Gruener.10 concentration camps. 10...

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Read an Excerpt

The Call of the Wild

And Selected Stories By Jack London

Signet Classics

Excerpt

Chapter One: Into the Primitive

"Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom's chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain."

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.

And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs. There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless - strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.

But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king - king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's place, humans included.

His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large - he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds - for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was ever a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.

And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener's helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness - faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.

The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel's treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.

"You might wrap up the goods before you deliver 'm," the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck's neck under the collar.

"Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.

"Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure 'm."

Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.

"All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over for a thousand, cold cash."

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

"How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded.

"A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help me."

"That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby - "

"It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon-keeper. "Here lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added.

Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck's throat was twisted into a savage growl.

But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.

For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue.

He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle.

Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.

"You ain't going to take him out now?" the driver asked.

"Sure," the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.

There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance.

Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out.

"Now, you red-eyed devil," he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck's body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.

And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.

After a particularly fierce blow he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest.

For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless.

"He's no slouch at dog-breakin', that's wot I say," one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically.

"Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays," was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.

Buck's senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater.

"'Answers to the name of Buck,'" the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper's letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. "Well, Buck, my boy," he went on in a genial voice, "we've had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You've learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all 'll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I'll whale the stuffin' outa you. Understand?"

As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck's hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Call of the Wild by Jack London Copyright © 1998 by Jack London. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Call of the Wild and Selected Stories|Paperback

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The Call of the Wild is Now a Major Motion Picture Starring Harrison Ford!Out of the white wilderness, out of the Far North, Jack London, one of America’s most popular authors, drew the inspiration for his robust tales of perilous adventure and animal cunning....

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by Carolyn Meyer

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The Bad Queen: Rules and Instructions for Marie-Antoine...

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Read 210 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. History paints her as a shallow party girl, a spoiled fashionista, a callous ruler. Perhap...

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The fire at the Triangle Waist Company in New York City, which claimed the lives of 146 young immigrant workers, is one of the worst disasters since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, and the disaster, which brought attention to the labor movement in America, is part of the curriculum in classrooms throughout the country.

Told from alternating points of view, this historical novel draws upon the experiences of three very different young women: Bella, who has just emigrated from Italy and doesn't speak a word of English; Yetta, a Russian immigrant and crusader for labor rights; and Jane, the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Bella and Yetta work together at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory under terrible conditions—their pay is docked for even the slightest mistake, the bosses turn the clocks back so closing time is delayed, and they are locked into the factory all day, only to be frisked before they leave at night to make sure they haven't stolen any shirtwaists. When the situation worsens, Yetta leads the factory's effort to strike, and she meets Jane on the picket line. Jane, who feels trapped by the limits of her own sheltered existence, joins a group of high-society women who have taken an interest in the strike as a way of supporting women's suffrage. Through a series of twists and turns, the three girls become fast friends—and all of them are in the Triangle Shirtwast Factory on March 25, 1911, the day of the fateful fire. In a novel that puts a human face on the tragedy, Margaret Peterson Haddix has created a sweeping, forceful tale that will have readers guessing until the last page who—if anyone—survives.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9781416911722

Publisher:

Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers

Publication date:

01/18/2011

Edition description:

Reprint

Pages:

352

Sales rank:

77,645

Product dimensions:

5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 1.00(d)

Lexile:

790L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

12 - 15 Years

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Uprising: Three Young Women Caught in the Fire That Changed America|Paperback

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The fire at the Triangle Waist Company in New York City, which claimed the lives of 146 young immigrant workers, is one of the worst disasters since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, and the disaster, which brought attention to the labor movement in America, is part of the curriculum in...

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Acclaimed author Anne Blankman returns to the shadowy and dangerous world of 1930s Germany in this thrilling sequel to Prisoner of Night and Fog, perfect for fans of Code Name Verity.

The girl known as Gretchen Whitestone has a secret: She used to be part of Adolf Hitler's inner circle. More than a year after she made an enemy of her old family friend and fled Munich, she lives in England, posing as an ordinary German immigrant, and is preparing to graduate from high school. Her love, Daniel, is a reporter in town. For the first time in her life, Gretchen is content.

But then Daniel gets a telegram that sends him back to Germany, and Gretchen's world turns upside down. When she receives word that Daniel is wanted for murder, she has to face the danger she thought she'd escaped-and return to her homeland.

Gretchen must do everything she can to avoid capture, even though saving Daniel will mean consorting with her former friends, the Nazi elite. And as they work to clear Daniel's name, Gretchen and Daniel discover a deadly conspiracy stretching from the slums of Berlin to the Reichstag itself. Can they dig up the explosive truth and get out in time-or will Hitler discover them first?

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Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780062278869

Publisher:

HarperCollins Publishers

Publication date:

04/21/2015

Sold by:

HARPERCOLLINS

Format:

NOOK Book

Pages:

416

Sales rank:

685,437

Lexile:

HL790L ( what's this?)

File size:

836 KB

Age Range:

13 - 17 Years

About the Author

Anne Blankman is the acclaimed author of Prisoner of Night and Fog, which received a starred review and a Flying Start from Publishers Weekly. When Anne was twelve, she read Anne Frank's diary and has been haunted by World War II ever since. The idea for Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke came to her after she read about a real-life unsolved street assassination from January 1933, which was the inspiration for Monika Junge's murder. To research this book, she studied a wide range of sources, including biographies, memoirs, social histories, psychological profiles, old maps, photographs, and video footage.

Anne lives in southeastern Virginia with her husband, Mike, her young daughter, Kirsten, and, of course, lots and lots of books.

Editorial Reviews

Praise for PRISONER OF NIGHT AND FOG: "A nail-biting visit to Adolf Hitler's inner circle in the early days of the Nazi party's rise to power.

Jennifer Armstrong

03/01/2015
Gr 8 Up-Using false identities, Gretchen Whitestone and Daniel Cohen barely escape to England as the Nazis come to power in Germany. Gretchen, now Gisele, is living with Dr. Whitestone and his family, finishing high school with the goal of becoming a psychoanalyst. Meanwhile, Daniel is frustrated working for a society column that publishes meaningless news, yearning for the work he did back home. Living in safety, they can't help but feel powerless as they hear of the terrible events unfolding in Germany. Then Daniel receives a disturbing telegram that forces him to return despite the risks. When Gretchen receives news that Daniel is wanted for murder, she knows she must face her greatest fears in order to save him. As the Nazi net tightens it grip around the pair, they find allies in the most unlikely of places. This leads to information that will not only clear Daniel's name but could taint the credibility of Hitler and the Nazi party. In the sequel to Prisoner of Night and Fog (HarperCollins, 2014), Blankman once again expertly crafts a powerful story full of mystery, intrigue, romance, and edge-of-your-seat terror and suspense. The well-researched plotlines are fascinating, while the multidimensional cast of characters drive the story. Readers will root for Gretchen and Daniel as they place themselves in danger while fighting to uncover the truth. VERDICT A captivating historical fiction title with an author's note for reference.-Donna Rosenblum, Floral Park Memorial High School, NY

School Library Journal

2015-01-10
A former intimate of Adolf Hitler returns to prewar Germany to save her beloved, all while fighting the rising power of the Nazi Party. In this sequel to Prisoner of Night and Fog (2014), 18-year-old Gretchen returns to her native land in 1933, as the Nazis become ever more firmly entrenched in German politics. Gretchen and her Jewish beau, Daniel, seek the truth about the (real-life) Reichstag fire in order to discredit Hitler and the National Socialists. If only they can prove Hitler is lying about the arsonists, surely they can prevent him from gaining a stranglehold on German politics. The tight interweaving of Gretchen's journey with historical events lends a sense of the genuine-and results in the fascinating experience of following a quest readers know is doomed to fail. As Gretchen winds ever closer to the inevitable confrontation with her formerly loving "Uncle Dolf," it becomes increasingly unclear what she can salvage from the rising horror of Nazism. Mixed in with the bleak reality are adventure-novel goodies to maintain the pace: organized crime, prostitution and cocaine. Gretchen's too inwardly focused to see danger in Hitler's rise beyond the risk to herself and her friends, but Daniel provides rare if vital perspective. Suspenseful and clever, intertwining historical truth with action-packed shootouts. (author's note, bibliography) (Historical fiction. 13-16)

Kirkus Reviews

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Acclaimed author Anne Blankman returns to the shadowy and dangerous world of 1930s Germany in this thrilling sequel to Prisoner of Night and Fog, perfect for fans of Code Name Verity.The girl known as Gretchen Whitestone has a secret: She used to be part of Adolf...

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An adventurous story of a frontier boy raised by Indians, The Light in the Forest is a beloved American classic.When John Cameron Butler was a child, he was captured in a raid on the Pennsylvania frontier and adopted by the great warrrior Cuyloga. Renamed True Son,...

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Samuel, 13, spends his days in the forest, hunting for food for his family. He has grown up on the frontier of a British colony, America. Far from any town, or news of the war against the King that American patriots have begun near Boston.

But the war comes to them. British soldiers and Iroquois attack. Samuel's parents are taken away, prisoners. Samuel follows, hiding, moving silently, determined to find a way to rescue them. Each day he confronts the enemy, and the tragedy and horror of this war. But he also discovers allies, men and women working secretly for the patriot cause. And he learns that he must go deep into enemy territory to find his parents: all the way to the British headquarters, New York City.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780375859083

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

01/11/2011

Pages:

176

Sales rank:

30,370

Product dimensions:

5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.50(d)

Lexile:

870L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

10 - 14 Years

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

He was not sure exactly when he became a child of the forest.

One day it seemed he was eleven and playing in the dirt around the cabin or helping with chores, and the next, he was thirteen, carrying a .40-caliber Pennsylvania flintlock rifle, wearing smoked-buckskin clothing and moccasins, moving through the woods like a knife through water while he tracked deer to bring home to the cabin for meat.

He sat now by a game trail waiting for the deer he knew would come soon. He had heard it, a branch brushing a hairy side, a twig cracking, smelled it when the wind blew toward him, the musk and urine of a buck. He checked the priming on his rifle while he waited, his mind and body relaxed, patient, ears and eyes and nose alert. Quiet. Every part of him at rest, yet focused and intense.

And he pictured his life, how he lived in two worlds.

Sometimes Samuel thought that a line dividing those worlds went right through their cabin. To the west, beyond the small parchment window made of grease-soaked sheepskin scraped paper-thin, lay the forest.

The forest was unimaginably vast, impenetrable, mysterious and dark. His father had told him that a man could walk west for a month, walk as fast as he could, and never see the sun, so high and dense was the canopy of leaves.

Even close to their homestead—twelve acres clawed out of the timber with a small log cabin and a lean-to for a barn—the forest was so thick that in the summer Samuel could not see more than ten or fifteen yards into it. Some oak and elm and maple trees were four and five feet in diameter and so tall and thickly foliaged their height could only be guessed.

A wild world.

And while there were trails made by game and sometimes used by natives, settlers or trappers, the paths wandered and meandered so that they were impossible to use in any sensible way. Except to hunt.

When he first started going into the forest, Samuel went only a short distance. That first time, though he was well armed with his light Pennsylvania rifle and dry powder and a good knife, he instantly felt that he was in an alien world.

As a human he did not belong. It was a world that did not care about man any more than it cared about dirt, or grass, or leaves. He did not get lost that first time, because he'd marked trees with his knife as he walked so he could find his way out; butstill, in some way he felt lost, as if, were he not careful, a part of him would disappear and never return, gone to the wildness. Samuel had heard stories of that happening to some men. They entered the forest to hunt or trap or look for new land to settleand simply vanished.

"Gone to the woods," people said of them.

Some, he knew, were dead. Killed by accident, or panthers or bear or Indians. He had seen such bodies. One, a man mauled to death by a bear that had attacked his horse while the man was plowing; the man's head was eaten; another, killed by an arrow through the throat. An arrow, Samuel knew, that came out of the woods from a bow that was never seen, shot by a man who was never known. And when he was small, safe inside the cabin near the mud-brick fireplace with his mother and father, he had heard the panthers scream; they sounded like a woman gone mad.

Oh, he knew the forest could kill. Once, sitting by the fire, a distant relative, a shirttail uncle who was a very old man of nearly fifty named Ishmael, had looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see monsters and said, "Nothing dies of old age in the forest. Not bugs, not deer, not bear nor panthers nor man. Live long enough, be slow enough, get old enough and something eats you. Everything kills."

And yet Samuel loved the forest now. He knew the sounds and smells and images like he knew his own mind, his own yard. Each time he had entered he'd gone farther, learned more, marked more trees with his knife, until he always knew where he was. Now he thought of the deep forest as his home, as much as their cabin.

But some men vanished for other reasons, too. Because the forest pulled them and the wild would not let them go. Three years ago, when Samuel was ten, he had seen one of these men, a man who moved like smoke, his rifle a part of his arm, a tomahawk through his belt next to a slab-bladed knife, eyes that saw all things, ears that heard all things. One family in the settlement had a room on their cabin that was a kind of store. The man had come to the store to buy small bits of cloth and powder and English flints for his rifle at the same time Samuel was waiting for his mother to buy thread.

The man smelled of deep forest, of smoke and blood and grease and something green—Samuel knew he smelled that way, too. The stranger could not be still. As he stood waiting, he moved. Though he was courteous and nodded to people, as soon as he had the supplies for his rifle and some salt, he left. He was there one moment and gone the next, into the trees, gliding on soft moccasins to become part of the forest, as much as any tree or leaf or animal. He went west.

Away from man, away from the buildings and the settled land.

Editorial Reviews

Starred review, Kirkus Reviews, January 1, 2010: "A superb reflection on the nature of war."

From the Publisher

Gr 5-8-When 13-year-old Samuel Smith returns from a hunt in the woods, he finds the Revolutionary War has reached his valley in Pennsylvania. His home has been burned, his neighbors have been killed, and his parents have been captured by the English. A skilled woodsman, Samuel sets out to find his parents. He encounters the harsh realities and often brutal sacrifices made in the name of war. During his journey, he stumbles upon Annie, an orphaned girl, who refuses to leave his side. She accompanies him on his quest despite the obstacles threatening their lives. When a patriot comes into Samuel's life, they head into enemy lines. Rich in emotion, the characters experience firsthand the heartbreaking tragedy of the war. The historical details are accurate and thorough. Listeners will learn many little known facts about the realities of life between American rebels and a powerful English military. Narrator Danny Campbell delivers Gary Paulesen's tale (Simon Pulse, 2008) in a steady and evenhanded style, drawing listeners into the narrative. The compelling story line, excellent narration, and intricate portrayal of history makes this audiobook a worthwhile listening experience.-Robyn Gioia, Bolles School, Ponte Vedra, FL

School Library Journal

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Samuel, 13, spends his days in the forest, hunting for food for his family. He has grown up on the frontier of a British colony, America. Far from any town, or news of the war against the King that American patriots have begun near Boston.But the war comes to them.

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In The Watsons Go to Birmingham - 1963, Christopher Paul Curtis has expertly crafted a story that stands the test of time. Though originally published in 1995, its nuanced depiction of a Black family at the height of the civil rights movement gives young readers important insight into a period they typically only read about in history books.

Celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Newbery and Coretta Scott King Honoree about an unforgettable family on a road-trip during one of the most important times in the civil rights movement. This special edition makes a perfect gift and includes bonus content.

When the Watson family-ten-year-old Kenny, Momma, Dad, little sister Joetta, and brother Byron-sets out on a trip south to visit Grandma in Birmingham, Alabama, they don't realize that they're heading toward one of the darkest moments in America's history. The Watsons' journey reminds us that even in the hardest times, laughter and family can help us get through anything.
"A modern classic." -NPR
"Marvelous . . . both comic and deeply moving." -The New York Times

"One of the best novels EVER." -Jacqueline Woodson, Newbery Honor and National Book Award-winning author of Brown Girl Dreaming

Bonus Content
* New foreword and afterword from the author
* Map of the Watsons' journey
* Original manuscript pages and letter from the Newbery committee
* Personal essays celebrating the book's legacy by award-winning authors Jacqueline Woodson,
Varian Johnson, and Kate DiCamillo

Related collections and offers

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780593306499

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

11/03/2020

Pages:

256

Sales rank:

62,324

Product dimensions:

5.00(w) x 7.06(h) x 0.66(d)

Age Range:

8 - 12 Years

About the Author

Christopher Paul Curtis won the Newbery Medal and the Coretta Scott King Award for his bestselling second novel, Bud, Not Buddy. His first novel, The Watsons Go to Birmingham-1963, was also singled out for many awards, and has been a bestseller in hardcover and paperback. His most recent novels for Random House include The Mighty Miss Malone, Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission, Mr. Chickee's Funny Money, and Bucking the Sarge.

Christopher Paul Curtis grew up in Flint, Michigan. After high school he began working on the assembly line at the Fisher Body Plant No. 1 while attending the Flint branch of the University of Michigan. He is now a full-time writer, and lives with his family in Windsor, Ontario.

Read an Excerpt

And You Wonder Why We Get Called the Weird Watsons
It was one of those super-duper-cold Saturdays. One of those days that when you breathed out your breath kind of hung frozen in the air like a hunk of smoke and you could walk along and look exactly like a train blowing out big, fat, white puffs of smoke.

It was so cold that if you were stupid enough to go outside your eyes would automatically blink a thousand times all by themselves, probably so the juice inside of them wouldn't freeze up. It was so cold that if you spit, the slob would be an ice cube before it hit the ground. It was about a zillion degrees below zero.

It was even cold inside our house. We put sweaters and hats and scarves and three pairs of socks on and still were cold. The thermostat was turned all the way up and the furnace was banging and sounding like it was about to blow up but it still felt like Jack Frost had moved in with us.

All of my family sat real close together on the couch under a blanket. Dad said this would generate a little heat but he didn't have to tell us this, it seemed like the cold automatically made us want to get together and huddle up. My little sister, Joetta, sat in the middle and all you could see were her eyes because she had a scarf wrapped around her head. I was next to her and on the outside was my mother.

Momma was the only one who wasn't born in Flint so the cold was coldest to her. All you could see were her eyes too, and they were shooting bad looks at Dad. She always blamed him for bringing her all the way from Alabama to Michigan, a state she called a giant icebox. Dad was bundled next to Joey, trying to look at anything but Momma. Next to Dad, sitting with a little space between them, was my older brother, Byron.

Byron had just turned thirteen so he was officially a teenage juvenile delinquent and didn't think it was "cool" to touch anybody or let anybody touch him, even if it meant he froze to death. Byron had tucked the blanket between him and Dad down into the cushion of the couch to make sure he couldn't be touched.

Dad turned on the TV to try to make us forget how cold we were but all that did was get him in trouble. There was a special news report on Channel 12 telling how bad the weather was and Dad groaned when the guy said, "If you think it's cold now, wait until tonight, the temperature is expected to drop into record-low territory, possibly reaching the negative twenties! In fact, we won't be seeing anything above zero for the next four to five days!" He was smiling when he said this but none of the Watson family thought it was funny. We all looked over at Dad. He just shook his head and pulled the blanket over his eyes.

Then the guy on the TV said, "Here's a little something we can use to brighten our spirits and give us some hope for the future: The temperature in Atlanta, Georgia is forecast to reach . . ." Dad coughed real loud and jumped off the couch to turn the TV off but we all heard the weatherman say, ". . . the mid-seventies!" The guy might as well have tied Dad to a tree and said, "Ready, aim, fire!"

"Atlanta!" Momma said. "That's a hundred and fifty miles from home!"

"Wilona . . . ," Dad said.

"I knew it," Momma said. "I knew I should have listened to Moses Henderson!"

"Who?" I asked.

Dad said, "Oh Lord, not that sorry story. You've got to let me tell about what happened with him."

Momma said, "There's not a whole lot to tell, just a story about a young girl who made a bad choice. But if you do tell it, make sure you get all the facts right."

We all huddled as close as we could get because we knew Dad was going to try to make us forget about being cold by cutting up. Me and Joey started smiling right away, and Byron tried to look cool and bored.

"Kids," Dad said, "I almost wasn't your father. You guys came real close to having a clown for a daddy named Hambone Henderson. . . ."

"Daniel Watson, you stop right there. You're the one who started that 'Hambone' nonsense. Before you started that everyone called him his Christian name, Moses. And he was a respectable boy too, he wasn't a clown at all."

"But the name stuck didn't it? Hambone Henderson. Me and your granddaddy called him that because the boy had a head shaped like a hambone, had more knots and bumps on his head than a dinosaur. So as you guys sit here giving me these dirty looks because it's a little chilly outside ask yourselves if you'd rather be a little cold or go through life being known as the Hambonettes."

Me and Joey cracked up, Byron kind of chuckled and Momma put her hand over her mouth. She did this whenever she was going to give a smile because she had a great big gap between her front teeth. If Momma thought something was funny, first you'd see her trying to keep her lips together to hide the gap, then, if the smile got to be too strong, you'd see the gap for a hot second before Momma's hand would come up to cover it, then she'd crack up too.

Laughing only encouraged Dad to cut up more, so when he saw the whole family thinking he was funny he really started putting on a show.

He stood up in front of the TV. "Yup, Hambone Henderson proposed to your mother around the same time I did. Fought dirty too, told your momma a pack of lies about me and when she didn't believe them he told her a pack of lies about Flint."

Dad started talking Southern-style, imitating this Hambone guy. "Wilona, I heard tell about the weather up that far north in Flint, Mitch-again, heard it's colder than inside an icebox. Seen a movie about it, think it was made in Flint. Movie called Nanook of the North. Yup, do believe for sure it was made in Flint. Uh-huh, Flint, Mitch-again."

"Folks there live in these things called igloos. According to what I seen in this here movie most folks in Flint is Chinese. Don't believe I seem nan one colored person in the whole dang city. You a 'Bama gal, don't believe you'd be too happy living in no igloo. Ain't got nothing against 'em, but don't believe you'd be too happy living 'mongst a whole slew of Chinese folks. Don't believe you'd like the food. Only thing them Chinese folks in that movie et was whales and seals. Don't believe you'd like no whale meat. Don't taste a lick like chicken. Don't taste like pork at all."

Momma pulled her hand away from her mouth. "Daniel Watson, you are one lying man! Only thing you said that was true was that being in Flint is like living in an igloo. I knew I should have listened to Moses. Maybe these babies mighta been born with lumpy heads but at least they'da had warm lumpy heads!

"You know Birmingham is a good place, and I don't mean the weather either. The life is slower, the people are friendlier—"

"Oh yeah," Dad interrupted, "they're a laugh a minute down there. Let's see, where was that 'Coloreds Only' bathroom downtown?"

"Daniel, you know what I mean, things aren't perfect but people are more honest about the way they feel"—she took her mean eyes off Dad and put them on Byron—"and folks there do know how to respect their parents."

Byron rolled his eyes like he didn't care. All he did was tuck the blanket farther into the couch's cushion.

Dad didn't like the direction the conversation was going so he called the landlord for the hundredth time. The phone was still busy.

"That snake in the grass has got his phone off the hook. Well, it's going to be too cold to stay here tonight, let me call Cydney. She just had that new furnace put in, maybe we can spend the night there." Aunt Cydney was kind of mean but her house was always warm so we kept our fingers crossed that she was home.

Everyone, even Byron, cheered when Dad got Aunt Cydney and she told us to hurry over before we froze to death.

Dad went out to try and get the Brown Bomber started. That was what we called our car. It was a 1948 Plymouth that was dull brown and real big, Byron said it was turd brown. Uncle Bud gave it to Dad when it was thirteen years old and we'd had it for two years. Me and Dad took real good care of it but some of the time it didn't like to start up in the winter.

After five minutes Dad came back in huffing and puffing and slapping his arms across his chest.

"Well, it was touch and go for a while, but the Great Brown One pulled through again!" Everyone cheered, but me and Byron quit cheering and started frowning right away. By the way Dad smiled at us we knew what was coming next. Dad pulled two ice scrapers out of his pocket and said, "O.K., boys, let's get out there and knock those windows out."

We moaned and groaned and put some more coats on and went outside to scrape the car's windows. I could tell by the way he was pouting that Byron was going to try and get out of doing his share of he work.

"I'm not going to do your part, Byron, you'd better do it and I'm not playing either."

"Shut up, punk."

I went over to the Brown Bomber's passenger side and started hacking away at the scab of ice that was all over the windows. I finished Momma's window and took a break. Scraping ice off of windows when it's that cold can kill you!

I didn't hear any sound coming from the other side of the car so I yelled out, "I'm serious, Byron, I'm not doing that side too, and I'm only going to do half the windshield, I don't care what you do to me." The windshield on the Bomber wasn't like the new 1963 cars, it had a big bar running down the middle of it, dividing it in half.

"Shut your stupid mouth, I got something more important to do right now."

I peeked around the back of the car to see what By was up to. The only thing he'd scraped off was the outside mirror and he was bending down to look at himself in it. He saw me and said, "You know what, square? I must be adopted, there just ain't no way two folks as ugly as your momma and daddy coulda give birth to someone as sharp as me!"

He was running his hands over his head like he was brushing his hair.

I said, "Forget you," and went back over to the other side of the car to finish the back window. I had half of the ice off when I had to stop again and catch my breath. I heard Byron mumble my name.

I said, "You think I'm stupid? It's not going to work this time." He mumbled my name again. It sounded like his mouth was full of something. I knew this was a trick, I knew this was going to be How to Survive a Blizzard, Part Two.

How to Survive a Blizzard, Part One had been last night when I was outside playing in the snow and Byron and his running buddy, Buphead, came walking by. Buphead has officially been a juvenile delinquent even longer than Byron.

"Say, kid," By had said, "you wanna learn somethin' that might save your stupid life one day?"

I should have known better, but I was bored and I think maybe the cold weather was making my brain slow, so I said, "What's that?"

"We gonna teach you how to survive a blizzard."

"How?"

Byron put his hands in front of his face and said "This is the most important thing to remember, O.K.?"

"Why?"

"Well, first we gotta show you what it feels like to be trapped in a blizzard. You ready?" He whispered something to Buphead and they both laughed.

"I'm ready."

I should have known that the only reason Buphead and By would want to play with me was to do something mean.

"O.K.," By said, "first thing you gotta worry about is high winds."

Byron and Buphead each grabbed one of my arms and one of my legs and swung me between them going, " Woo, blizzard warnings! Blizzard warnings! Wooo! Take cover!"

Buphead counted to three and on the third swing they let me go in the air. I landed headfirst in a snowbank.

But that was O.K. because I had on three coats, two sweaters, a T-shirt, three pairs of pants and four socks along with a scarf, a hat and a hood. These guys couldn't have hurt me if they'd thrown me off the Empire State Building!'

After I climbed out of the snowbank they started laughing and so did I.

"Cool, Baby Bruh," By said, "you passed that part of the test with a B-plus, what you think, Buphead?"

Buphead said, "Yeah, I'd give the little punk a A."

They whispered some more and started laughing again.

"O.K.," By said, "second thing you gotta learn is how to keep your balance in a high wind. You gotta be good at this so you don't get blowed into no polar bear dens."

They put me in between them and started making me spin round and round, it seemed like they spun me for about half an hour. When slob started flying out of my mouth they let me stop and I wobbled around for a while before they pushed me back in the same snow-bank.

When everything stopped going in circles I got up and we all laughed again.

They whispered some more and then By said, "What you think, Buphead? He kept his balance a good long time, I'm gonna give him a A-minus."

"I ain't as hard a grader as you, I'ma give the little punk a double A-minus."

"O.K., Kenny now the last part of Surviving a Blizzard, you ready?"

"Yup!"

"You passed the wind test and did real good on the balance test but now we gotta see if you ready to graduate. You remember what we told you was the most important part about survivin'?"

"Yup!"

"O.K., here we go. Buphead, tell him 'bout the final exam."

Editorial Reviews

AN ALA TOP TEN BEST BOOK
AN ALA NOTABLE CHILDREN'S BOOK
AN IRA YOUNG ADULT'S CHOICE
A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW BEST BOOK
NAMED TO MULTIPLE STATE AWARD LISTS

"This is a book that changes lives. It certainly changed mine." —Kate DiCamillo, two-time Newbery Medalist

"I identify with so much in Christopher Paul Curtis's engrossing classic, The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963." —David Barclay Moore, winner of the Coretta Scott King John Steptoe Award for New Talent

"An exceptional first novel."- Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Superb . . . a warmly memorable evocation of an African American family." - The Horn Book Magazine, starred review

"Ribald humor . . . and a totally believable child's view of the world will make this book an instant hit."- School Library Journal, starred review

From the Publisher

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The Watsons Go to Birmingham - 1963|Paperback

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Celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Newbery and Coretta Scott King Honoree about an unforgettable family on a road-trip during one of the most important times in the civil rights movement. This special edition makes a perfect gift and includes bonus content. When the Watson...

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Newly arrived in New Fiddleham, New England, 1892, and in need of a job, Abigail Rook meets R. F. Jackaby, an investigator of the unexplained with a keen eye for the extraordinary—including the ability to see supernatural beings. Abigail has a gift for noticing ordinary but important details, which makes her perfect for the position of Jackaby's assistant. On her first day, Abigail finds herself in the midst of a thrilling case: A serial killer is on the loose. The police are convinced it's an ordinary villain, but Jackaby is certain the foul deeds are the work of the kind of creature whose very existence the local authorities—with the exception of a handsome young detective named Charlie Cane—seem adamant to deny. "The rich world of this debut demands sequels." -Kirkus Reviews, starred review "We honestly couldn't put it down." -Nerdist.com "Toss together an alternate 19th-century New England city, a strong tradition of Sherlockian pastiche, and one seriously ugly hat, and this lighthearted and assured debut emerges, all action and quirk." -Publishers Weekly

About the Author

William Ritter is an Oregon author and educator. He is the proud father of the two bravest boys in the Wild Wood, and husband to the indomitable Queen of the Deep Dark.The Oddmireis Ritter's first series for middle-grade readers. He is also the author of the New York Times bestselling, award-winning Jackaby series for young adult readers. Visit him online at rwillritter.wordpress.com and find him on Twitter: @Willothewords.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One It was late January, and New England wore a fresh coat of snow as I stepped along the gangplank to the shore. The city of New Fiddleham glistened in the fading dusk, lamplight playing across the icy buildings that lined the waterfront, turning their brickwork to twinkling diamonds in the dark. In the inky black of the Atlantic, the reflected glow of the gaslights danced and bobbed. I made my way forward, carrying everything that traveled with me in a single suitcase. The solid ground beneath my feet felt odd after so many weeks at sea, and looming buildings rose up around me on all sides. I would come to know this city well, but in that cold winter of 1892, every glowing window and dark alley was strange, full of untold dangers and enticing mysteries. It was not an old city—not by the standards of those I had seen along my travels—but it bore itself with all the robust pomp and granite certainty of any European harbor town. I had been to mountain villages in the Ukraine, burgs in Poland and Germany, and estates in my native England, but still I found it hard not to be intimidated by the thrum and pulse of the busy American port. Even as the last of the evening light faded from the sky, the dock was still alive with shadowy figures, hurrying about their business. A storekeeper was latching the shutters as he closed up shop for the night. Sailors on leave sauntered down the harbor, looking for wild diversions on which to spend their hard-earned money—and women with low necklines looked eager to help them spend it faster. In one man I saw my father, confident and successful, probably strolling home late, once again, having devoted the evening to important work rather than his waiting family. A young woman across the dock pulled her winter coat tightly around herself and ducked her chin down as the crowd of sailors passed. Her shoulders might have shaken, just a little, but she kept to her path without letting the men's boisterous laughter keep her from her course. In her I saw myself, a fellow lost girl, headstrong and headed anywhere but home. A chilly breeze swept over the pier, and crept under the worn hem of my dress and through the seams of my thick coat. I had to throw up a hand to hold the old tweed cap on my head before it blew away. It was a boy's fashion—my father called it a newsboy—but I had grown comfortable in it in the past months. For once I found myself wishing I had opted for the redundant underskirts my mother always insisted were so important to a lady's proper dress. The cut of my simple green walking gown was excellent for movement, but the fabric did nothing to hold back the icy chill. I turned my wooly collar up against the snow and pressed forward. In my pockets jingled a handful of coins left over from my work abroad. They would buy me nothing but sympathy, I knew, and only if I bargained very well. Their foreign faces told a story, though, and I was happy for their tinkling company as I trudged through the crunching powder toward an inn. A gentleman in a long brown coat with a scarf wound up nearly to his eyebrows held the door for me as I stepped inside. I dusted the fresh flakes from my hair as I hung my hat and coat beside the door, tucking my suitcase beneath them. The place smelled of oak and firewood and beer, and the heat of a healthy fire brought a stinging life to my cheeks. A half-dozen patrons sat scattered about three or four round, plain, wooden tables. In the far corner stood a box piano, its bench unoccupied. I knew a few melodies by heart, having taken lessons all through grammar school-Mother had insisted that a lady should play an instrument. She would have fainted at the notion that I might someday put her fine culture and training to such vulgar use, especially unescorted in this strange, American tavern. I quickly turned my thoughts away from my mother's overbearing prudence before I might accidentally see reason in it. I put on my most charming smile, instead, and approached the barman. He raised a bushy eyebrow as I neared, which sent a ripple of wrinkles to the dome of his bald head. "Good afternoon, sir," I said, drawing up to the bar. "My name is Abigail Rook. I'm just off a boat, and I find myself a bit short on cash, at present. I wonder if I could just set up a hat on your piano and play a few—" The bartender interrupted. "It's out of service. Has been for weeks." I must have shown my dismay, because he looked sympathetic as I turned to go. "Hold on, then." He poured a frothy pint and slid it across the bar to me with a nod and a kindly wink. "Have a seat for a while, miss, and wait out the snow." I hid my surprise behind a grateful smile, and took a stool at the bar beside the broken piano. I glanced around at the other patrons, hearing my mother's voice in my head again, warning me that I must look like "that sort of girl," and worse, that the drunken degenerates who frequented these places would fix their eyes on me like wolves on a lost sheep. The drunken degenerates did not seem to notice me in the least, actually. Most of them looked quite pleasant, if a bit tired after a long day, and two of them were playing a polite game of chess toward the back of the room. Holding the pint of ale still felt strange, as though I ought to be looking nervously over my shoulder for the headmaster to appear. It was not my first drink, but I was unaccustomed to being treated as an adult. I peered at my own reflection in a frosty window. It had been scarcely a year since I had put the shores of England behind me, but the rugged young woman looking back from the glass was barely recognizable. The salty sea air had stolen some of the softness from my cheeks, and my complexion was tan—at least tan by English standards. My hair was not braided neatly and tied with ribbons, as my mother had always preferred it, but pinned up in a quick, simple bun that might have been a little too matronly if the wind had not shaken loose a few curving wisps to hang free about my collar. The girl who had fled the dormitories was gone, replaced by this unfamiliar woman. I forced my attention past the reflection to the flurries of white flakes somersaulting in the lamplight beyond. As I nursed the bitter drink, I became gradually aware of a body standing behind me. I turned slowly and nearly spilled the pint. It was the eyes, I think, that startled me the most, opened wide and staring with intense inquisition. It was the eyes—and the fact that he stood not half a pace from my stool, leaning ever so slightly in, so that our noses nearly bumped as I turned to face him. His hair was black, or very dark brown, and nearly wild, having only enough civility to point itself in a tousled heap backward, save a few errant strands that danced about his temples. He had hard cheekbones and deep circles under pale, cloud gray eyes. His eyes looked like they could be a hundred lifetimes old, but he bore an otherwise young countenance and had a fervent energy about him. I pulled back a bit to take him in. He was thin and angular, and his thick brown coat must have been as heavy as he was. It fell past his knees and sagged with the weight of several visibly overstuffed pockets. His lapel was bordered by a long, wooly scarf, which hung almost as long as the coat, and which I recognized as the one I had passed coming in. He must have doubled back to follow me. "Hello?" I managed to say, when I had regained balance atop my stool. "Can I help—?" "You're recently from the Ukraine." It was not a question. His voice was calm and even, but something more . . . amused? He continued, his gray eyes dancing as though exploring each thought several seconds before his mouth could voice it. "You've traveled by way of Germany, and then a great distance in a sizable ship . . . made largely of iron, I'd wager." He cocked his head to one side as he looked at me, only never quite square in the eyes, always just off, as though fascinated by my hairline or shoulders. I had learned how to navigate unwanted attention from boys in school, but this was something else entirely. He managed to seem both engrossed and entirely uninterested in me all at once. It was more than somewhat unsettling, but I found myself as intrigued as I was flustered. With delayed but dawning comprehension, I gave him a smile and said, "Ah, you're off the Lady Charlotte as well, are you? Sorry, did we meet on deck?" The man looked briefly, genuinely baffled, and found my eyes at last. "Lady who? What are you talking about?" "The Lady Charlotte, " I repeated. "The merchant carrier from Bremerhaven. You weren't a passenger?" "I've never met the lady. She sounds dreadful." The odd, thin man resumed examining my person, apparently far more impressed by my hair and the seams of my jacket than by my conversation. "Well, if we didn't sail together, how did you ever—ah, you must have snuck a peek at my luggage labels." I tried to remain casual, but leaned away as the man drew closer still, inspecting me. The oak countertop dug into my back uncomfortably. He smelled faintly of cloves and cinnamon. "I did nothing of the sort. That would be an impolite invasion of privacy," the man stated flatly as he picked a bit of lint from my sleeve, tasted it, and tucked it somewhere inside his baggy coat. "I've got it," I announced. "You're a detective, aren't you?" The man's eyes stopped darting and locked with mine again. I knew I was onto him this time. "Yes, you're like whatshisname, aren't you? The one who consults for Scotland Yard in those stories, right? So, what was it? Let me guess, you smelled salt water on my coat, and I've got some peculiar shade of clay caked on my dress, or something like that? What was it?" The man considered for a moment before responding. "Yes," he said at last. "Something like that." He smiled weakly, and then whirled on his heels and away, tossing his scarf around and around his head as he made for the exit. He crammed a knit hat over his ears and flung the door open, steeling himself against the whirling frost that rushed in around him. As the door slowly closed, I caught one last glimpse of cloudy gray eyes just between the wooly edges of his scarf and hat. And then the man was gone. Following the curious encounter, I asked the barman if he knew anything about the stranger. The man chuckled and rolled his eyes. "I've heard lots of things, and one or two of them might even be true. Just about everyone's got a story about that one. Isn't that right, boys?" A few of the locals laughed, and began to recall fragments of stories I couldn't follow. "Remember that thing with the cat and the turnips?" "Or the crazy fire at the mayor's house?" "My cousin swears by him, but he also swears by sea monsters and mermaids." For the two older gentlemen on either side of the chessboard, my query sparked to life an apparently forgotten argument, one that burst quickly into an outright quarrel about superstitions and naivete. Before long, each had attracted supporters from the surrounding tables, some insisting the man was a charlatan, others praising him as a godsend. From the midst of the confusing squabble I was at least able to catch the strange man's name. He was Mr. R. F. Jackaby.

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Newly arrived in New Fiddleham, New England, 1892, and in need of a job, Abigail Rook meets R. F. Jackaby, an investigator of the unexplained with a keen eye for the extraordinary—including the ability to see supernatural beings. Abigail has a gift for noticing ordinary but important details...

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Plot twists, big accusations, and plenty of shifty, crooked characters fill the pages of this harrowing adventure from Newbery Medalist Avi.

The streets of 1893 New York are crowded and filthy. For thirteen-year-old newsboy Maks Geless, they are also dangerous. Bruno, leader of the awful Plug Ugly Gang, has set his sights on Maks and orders his boys to track him down. Suddenly Maks finds himself on the run, doing all he can to evade the gang, with only his new friend Willa by his side. And that's just the start of Mak's troubles. His sister, Emma, has been arrested and imprisoned for stealing a watch from the glamorous new Waldorf Hotel. Maks knows she didn't do it-but will he be able to prove it in time?
This is a riveting, quickly paced adventure set against a backdrop alive with the sights and sounds of tenement New York.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9781416971085

Publisher:

Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Publication date:

09/25/2012

Edition description:

Reprint

Pages:

350

Sales rank:

229,558

Product dimensions:

5.10(w) x 7.60(h) x 1.10(d)

Lexile:

HL570L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

10 - 14 Years

About the Author

Read an Excerpt

1

Amazing things happen.

Look at someone on the street and you might never see that person again- ever. Then you bump into a stranger and your whole life changes- forever. See what I'm saying? It's all 'bout them words: "luck," "chance," "coincidence," "accident," "quirk," "miracle," plus a lot of words I'm guessing I don't even know.

But the thing is, I got a story that could use all them words. 'Bout a kid by the name of Maks Geless. That's Maks, with a k. M-a-k-s.

Now, this Maks, he's regular height for a thirteen-year-old, ruddy-faced, shaggy brown hair, always wearing a cloth cap, canvas jacket, and trousers, plus decent boots. He's a newsboy-what they call a "newsie." So he's holding up a copy of the New York City newspaper The World,and he's shouting, "Extra! Extra! Read all 'bout it! 'Murder at the Waldorf. Terrible Struggle with a Crazy Man! Two Men Killed!' Read it in The World! The world's greatest newspaper. Just two cents!"

Now, not everything gets into the papers, right? But see, the only one who knows what really happened up at the Waldorf is . . . Maks.

You're thinking, how could this kid-this newsie-know?

I'll tell you.

This story starts on Monday, October 9, 1893. That's five days before the day of that headline you just heard. It's early evening, the night getting nippy. Electric streetlamps just starting to glow. In other words, the long workday is winking.

Not for Maks. He's still on his regular corner, Hester Street and the Bowery. Been peddling The World for five hours and has sold thirty-nine papers. Sell one more and he'll have bailed his whole bundle. Do that and he'll have eighty cents in his pocket.

Now listen hard, 'cause this is important.

In 1893 newsies buy their papers and then sell 'em. So next day's bundle is gonna cost Maks seventy-two cents. Then he sells 'em for two cents each. Means, for his five hours' work, he'll earn a whole eight cents. Not much, you say? Hey, these days, six cents buys you a can of pork and beans, enough eats for a day, which is more than some people gets.

You're probably thinking, eight pennies-that ain't hardly worth working all them hours. But this is 1893. These are hard times. Factories closing. Workers laid off. Not many jobs. Housing not easy to find. Fact, people are calling these days the "Great Panic of 1893." And the thing is, Maks's family's rent is due this week. Fifteen bucks! For them, that's huge.

All I'm saying is, Maks's family needs him to earn his share, which is-you guessed it-eight cents a day.

Now, most days when Maks finishes selling his papers, he likes staying in the neighborhood to see how his newsie pals have done. Don't forget, this is New York City. The Lower East Side. Something always happening.

This night all Maks wants to do is to get home and eat. No surprise; he's hungry twenty-five hours a day, eight days a week. And last time he ate was breakfast-a roll and a bowl of coffee-milk.

So Maks holds up his last newspaper and gives it his best bark: "Extra! Extra! Read all 'bout it! 'Joe Gorker, Political Boss, Accused of Stealing Millions from City! Trial Date Set! Others Arrested!' Read it in The World! World's greatest newspaper. Just two cents! Only two cents!"

Sure, sometimes crying headlines, Maks gets to head doodling that someday he'll be in the paper for doing something great, like maybe making a flying machine. So The World would pop his picture on its first page, like this here mug Joe Gorker. Then Maks reminds himself that his job is selling the news, not being it. Besides, The World is always laying down lines 'bout Joe Gorker, screaming that the guy is a grifter-grafter so crooked that he could pass for a pretzel.

Anyway, Maks's shout works 'cause next moment, a fancy gent-top hat, handlebar mustache, starched white collar, what some people call a "swell stiff" -wags a finger at him.

Maks runs over.

The guy shows a nickel. "Got change, kid?"

"Sorry, sir. No, sir."

I know: Maks may be my hero, but he ain't no saint. Like I told you, for him, pennies are big. Needs all he can get.

"Fine," says the swell. "Keep the change."

"Thank you, sir!" Maks says as he slings his last sheet to this guy.

The guy walks off, reading the headlines.

Maks, telling himself his day is done, pops the nickel into his pocket. Except no sooner does he do that than who does he see?

He sees Bruno.

This Bruno is one serious nasty fella. Taller than Maks by a head, his face is sprinkled with peach fuzz, greasy red hair flopping over his eyes, one of which is squinty, and on his head he's got a tipped-back brown derby, which makes his ears stick out like cute cauliflowers.

But the thing is, Bruno may be only seventeen years old, but he's head of the Plug Ugly Gang. Lately, Bruno and his gang have been slamming World newsies, beating 'em up, stealing their money, burning their papers.

So Maks knows if Bruno is giving him the eye, things gonna be bad. And it's not just 'bout being robbed. If Maks loses his money, he ain't gonna be able to buy papers for next day. No papers, no more money and the family rent don't get paid. In other words, no choice. Maks has to get home with his money.

Trouble is, his home is a three-room tenement flat over to Birmingham Street, near the East River. That's fifteen big blocks away, which, right now, feels as far as the North Pole.

In other words, if Maks wants to keep his money, he's gonna have to either outrun that Plug Ugly or fight him.

Don't know 'bout you, but Maks would rather run.

© 2011 Avi Wortis

Reading Group Guide

A Reading Group Guide for

City of Orphans
By Avi

About the Book

The streets of New York in 1893 are full of life: crowded, filthy, dangerous. If you are a newsboy like thirteen-year-old Maks Geless, you need to watch out for Bruno, leader of the Plug Ugly Gang whose shadowy, sinister boss is plotting to take control of all the World newsies on the lower East Side.

With Bruno's boys in fierce pursuit, Maks discovers Willa, a strange girl who lives alone in an alley. It is she, stick in hand, who fights off the Plug Uglies-but further dangers await. Maks must find a way to free his sister Emma from The Tombs, the city jail where she has been imprisoned for stealing a watch at the glamorous new Waldorf Hotel. Maks, believing her innocent, has only four days to prove it. Fortunately, there is Bartleby Donck, the eccentric lawyer (among other employments) to guide Maks and Willa in the art of detection. Against a backdrop alive with the sights and sounds of New York tenements, Maks, as boy detective, must confront a world teeming with wealth and crime, while struggling against powerful forces threatening new immigrants and the fabric of family love.

Text-Generated Questions

1. Avi describes the streets on the Lower East Side of New York, Willa's alley, Mak's tenement, the Tombs, and the apartment of Donck, the private detective, using words that include all the senses. What are the sights, sounds, and smells of each? Using each location, explain how they are all examples of "hard times"?

2. What are newsies? What is life like for a street rat? How and why do Bruno and the Plug Ugly Gang terrorize only the newsies who peddle the World?

3. How is each member of Maks's family expected to help support the family? How does Willa become a member of this family?

4. Who is Bartleby Donck and what is his life like? How is he able to help Maks and Willa? Give all the reasons he decides to help them.

5. Explain the circumstances of Emma's arrest. How was she cleared?

6. Maks is disappointed with the inaction of his parents in helping his sister, Emma. Why don't they help? Why does Maks take on this problem? How is Maks's life different from that of his parents? Is Maks afraid of anything?

7. When Bartleby Donck meets Maks and Willa in Chapter 33 he comments that justice is blind because "No money. No justice." Does this story prove or disprove this statement?

8. Willa doesn't have many memories of her father but she does say, "I don't think he was a good man." Explain all the ways Mr. Brunswick is not a good man.

9. Avi's first line in City of Orphans is "Amazing things happen." How is this a story of luck, chance, coincidence, accidents, quirks, and miracles?

10. There are many stories in City of Orphans. How does each character's story end?

Beyond the Text

1. Research wasting disease. How are the characters in this story all touched by this disease?

2. This story is told in present tense by an omniscient, or all-knowing, narrator. Find examples of this folksy style told in first person. What effect does this style of writing have on the story and on how the reader gets to know the characters and follows the action?

3. Read another historical fiction book by Avi. How does it compare to City of Orphans?

4. Avi writes a blog, a treasury of an accomplished writer's thinking and writing. Follow Avi's blog at avi-writer.com/blog/.

5. Write a book review of this story. Then compare it to a professional review of City of Orphans on Avi's website. Find three ways you could improve your own review writing.
avi-writer.com/books/awardsreviews/ahr_cityoforphans.html

6. The historic Waldorf was a very famous example of New York architecture. Visit nyc-architecture.com/GON/GON017.htm and discover the history of this hotel.

7. The tenement at 97 Orchard St. on the Lower East Side was home to thousands of immigrants at the turn of the century. It has been restored as a living history of the time of City of Orphans. Walk through a portal to the past.
Tenement Museum site: tenement.org
Tenement Museum video walk-through on youtube.com (3 minutes):
youtube.com/watch?v=sotUOd7s_m0&feature=related

8. Jacob Riis, a famous photographer at the turn of the twentieth century, documented tenement living and displayed it for the world to see. What can be learned from his photographs found at this site? youtube.com/watch?v=SZl4KXsaKVE

9. There are two different worlds in City of Orphans: the tenement world and the Waldorf Hotel world. Compare and contrast the two.

Common Core Standards

R.CCR.1. Read closely to determine what the text says explicitly and to make logical inferences from it; cite specific textual evidence when writing or speaking to support conclusions drawn from the text.

R.CCR.2. Determine central ideas or themes of a text and analyze their development; summarize the key supporting details and ideas.

R.CCR.3. Analyze how and why individuals, events, and ideas develop and interact over the course of a text.

R.CCR.4. Interpret words and phrases as they are used in a text, including determining technical, connotative, and figurative meanings, and analyze how specific word choices shape meaning or tone.

R.CCR.5. Analyze the structure of texts, including how specific sentences, paragraphs, and larger portions of the text (e.g., a section, chapter, scene, or stanza) relate to each other and the whole.

R.CCR.6. Assess how point of view or purpose shapes the content and style of a text.

R.CCR.7. Integrate and evaluate content presented in diverse media and formats, including visually and quantitatively, as well as in words.

W.CCR.4. Produce clear and coherent writing in which the development, organization, and style are appropriate to task, purpose, and audience.

W.CCR.5. Develop and strengthen writing as needed by planning, revising, editing, rewriting, or trying a new approach.

W.CCR.7. Conduct short as well as more sustained research projects based on focused questions, demonstrating understanding of the subject under investigation.

Guide written by Jan McDonald of Rocky Mountain Readers

This guide has been provided by Simon & Schuster for classroom, library, and reading group use. It may be reproduced in its entirety or excerpted for these purposes.

This guide was written to align with the Common Core State Standards (www.corestandards.org).

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Plot twists, big accusations, and plenty of shifty, crooked characters fill the pages of this harrowing adventure from Newbery Medalist Avi.The streets of 1893 New York are crowded and filthy. For thirteen-year-old newsboy Maks Geless, they are also dangerous. Bruno, leader of the...

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by Sue Monk Kidd

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The multi-million bestselling novel about a young girl's journey towards healing and the transforming power of love, from the award-winning author of The Invention of Wings and The Book of Longings Set in South Carolina in 1964, The Secret Life of Bees tells...

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by Kristin Levine

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“Satisfying, gratifying, touching, weighty—this authentic piece of work has got soul.”—The New York Times Book ReviewAs twelve-year-old Marlee starts middle school in 1958 Little Rock, it feels like her whole world is falling apart. Until she meets Liz, the new...

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by Rita Williams Garcia

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In this Newbery Honor novel, New York Times bestselling author Rita Williams-Garcia tells the story of three sisters who travel to Oakland, California, in 1968 to meet the mother who abandoned them. A strong option for summer reading-take this book along on a family road trip or enjoy it at home.

This moving, funny novel won the Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction and the Coretta Scott King Award and was a National Book Award Finalist. Delphine, Vonetta, and Fern's story continues in P.S. Be Eleven and Gone Crazy in Alabama.

Readers who enjoy Christopher Paul Curtis's The Watsons Go to Birmingham and Jacqueline Woodson's Brown Girl Dreaming will find much to love in One Crazy Summer. Rita Williams-Garcia's books about Delphine, Vonetta, and Fern can also be read alongside nonfiction explorations of American history such as Jason Reynolds's and Ibram X. Kendi's books.

In One Crazy Summer, eleven-year-old Delphine is like a mother to her two younger sisters, Vonetta and Fern. She's had to be, ever since their mother, Cecile, left them seven years ago for a radical new life in California. But when the sisters arrive from Brooklyn to spend the summer with their mother, Cecile is nothing like they imagined.

While the girls hope to go to Disneyland and meet Tinker Bell, their mother sends them to a day camp run by the Black Panthers. Unexpectedly, Delphine, Vonetta, and Fern learn much about their family, their country, and themselves during one truly crazy summer.

This novel was the first featured title for Marley D's Reading Party, launched after the success of #1000BlackGirlBooks. Maria Russo, in a New York Times list of "great kids' books with diverse characters," called it "witty and original."

"This vibrant and moving award-winning novel has heart to spare," commented Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich in her Brightly article "Knowing Our History to Build a Brighter Future: Books to Help Kids Understand the Fight for Racial Equality."

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In this Newbery Honor novel, New York Times bestselling author Rita Williams-Garcia tells the story of three sisters who travel to Oakland, California, in 1968 to meet the mother who abandoned them. A strong option for summer reading-take this book along on a family road trip or...

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by Sharon Draper

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Sylvia is shocked and confused when she is asked to be one of the first black students to attend Central High School, which is scheduled to be integrated in the fall of 1957, whether people like it or not. Before Sylvia makes her final decision, smoldering racial tension in the town ignites into flame. When the smoke clears, she sees clearly that nothing is going to stop the change from coming. It is up to her generation to make it happen, in as many different ways as there are colors in the world.

Related collections and offers

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780142411995

Publisher:

Penguin Young Readers Group

Publication date:

09/18/2008

Edition description:

Reprint

Pages:

240

Sales rank:

208,074

Product dimensions:

8.18(w) x 10.90(h) x 0.61(d)

Lexile:

760L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

12 Years

About the Author

Sharon M. Draper lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.

What People are Saying About This

"Draper offers an emotional tale about integrity, justice, and determination." -KLIATT

Editorial Reviews

"Draper offers an emotional tale about integrity, justice, and determination." -KLIATT

From the Publisher

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Sylvia is shocked and confused when she is asked to be one of the first black students to attend Central High School, which is scheduled to be integrated in the fall of 1957, whether people like it or not. Before Sylvia makes her final decision, smoldering racial tension in the town ignites into...

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by Nolan Han

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It’s 1963 and fourteen-year-old Esther Young is looking for excitement. Cursed with a lack of talent in a family filled with artistic types, Esther vows to get some attention by initiating a summer romance with a black teen accused of murdering a white man in Alabama.King-Roy Johnson...

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by Patricia McCormick

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Read an Excerpt

Never Fall Down

By Patricia McCormick

HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright &copy 2012 Patricia McCormick
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-06-173093-1

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

At night in our town, it's music everywhere. Rich house. Poor house. Doesn't matter. Everyone has music. Radio. Record player. Eight-track cassette. Even the guys who pedal the rickshaw cycle, they tie a tiny radio to the handlebar and sing for the passenger. In my town, music is like air, always there.

All the men, all the ladies stroll the park to catch the newest song. Cambodian love song. French love song. American rock 'n' roll. Like the Beatle. Like Elvis. Like Chubby Checker. Ladies in sarong walk so soft like floating on the street. Men in trouser, hair slick back, smoking Lucky Strike. Old men playing card. Old lady selling mangoes, selling noodle, selling wristwatch. Kid flying kite, eating ice cream. The whole town is out at night. My little brother and me, we stand in front of the movie palace and sing for them. We do the twist also. "Let's Twist Again, Like We Did Last Summer." Two skinny kid, no shoe, torn pants, they like it if we sing for them; they even give us a few coin.

Tonight I study the crowd, find a lady - fat one, fat like milk fruit - and slowly, slowly, very sneaky, my brother and I, we hide behind her skirt, hold on so light she doesn't know, and pretend she's our mom. Kid with parent can see the movie for free. Kid like us, we pretend. Inside the movie palace we watch America, black and white, with airplane, shiny car, and women in skirt so short they show the knee. War movie, lotta shooting, and a little bit kissing. For the shooting, my brother and me, we clap; for the kissing, we hide our face in our shirt.

After the show, it's the best part - when we do the movie ourselves. Outside in the park, we fly the plane, shoot the gun, be the hero. Just like the real soldier fighting right now in the jungle outside of our town. We shoot probably a hundred bullet, die a hundred time. Then we hear a whistle, and the sky far away flash white. The palm tree shiver, and the ground shake. And all of a sudden the war is real.

I grab my little brother hand and run and run till we get to a little pond near our house. We jump in, water up to our nose, and hide there. Where nothing bad can find us. Next day, the music is back and the war is gone. Sometime the war come close, but never into our city. Most of the fighting, the radio says, it's far away, in the jungle. Government soldiers, they fight for the prince. The bad guys, I don't know what they fighting for, but I do know the prince is a great man. A great man, with important friend like the widow of the young American president. And beautiful daughter I saw in the newspaper when she and the prince go to China. So pretty, I cut the picture for my wall.

I worry about those two in China. The Chinese eat bad smelling food. Where they gonna eat? How they gonna get home with all this fighting?

But one soldier at the market, high-ranking guy, he brag about the government fighters. He's a big, bull-neck man, this guy who says he know the prince. He says the war only gonna last one week.

He says the soldiers in the jungle, they not real soldiers. Only peasant in black pajama. Not even with real boot. Sandal made from old tire. We gonna win, he says. We gonna squish them like cockroach.

So I try not to worry about the prince and princess and worry instead about how I can make a little money. Sometime I sell ice cream. To sell, you have to have a bell. A small bell, it sound when you walk so people hear you coming. But poor kid like me, I buy a cheap one. Old bell for buffalo. Big. Not good sound. Like old gong around my neck.

At first nobody buy. Nobody buy my ice cream because I look like poor kid. So I eat all the ice cream before it melt. Make myself almost sick. I learn a lesson then: sell fast before the ice cream melt. Sell fast. Also, go far. All over town. I walk so much I know this town like my pocket.

A lot of time kid throw stone at me. Rich kid. Kid who go to real school, with desk and a hoop for basketball. Not like temple school for poor kid like me, where you have to do chore, serve the monk, then maybe get a little teaching. Rich kid, they make a face at me, throw stones. Sometime I run. Sometime I make a face at them, too. Then run.

But soon I learn another lesson: you want to sell, you sneak out from the temple and sell when those kid in school.

My number one big sister, Chantou, she find out I'm not at the temple; she get mad. Very mad. "Arn," she say to me, "you should be doing chore for the monk, learning the chant, doing schoolwork. Selling ice cream, that's low class."

I don't tell her the monk sometime are very mean. I don't tell her they make us work all the time and that temple is not like real school. I don't tell her they get angry, they hit and say, "You stupid boy."

Also, I don't tell her we are low class. She still think like the old days, when our family owned the opera. My dad the star, my mom also the star. In our house, big house on the main road, before the show it was all singer and musician staying with us, getting ready. Forty people, maybe. A show every Saturday. Packed. So crowded some people have to sit on the grass. Our family a little bit rich, a little bit famous.

Then my father has a motorcycle accident. Hit his head on the road. At the hospital he yell like it's still the opera, like still onstage. Then he die and my mom, she can't run the opera anymore. She try. But no leading man, no opera. So she has to go far away, to Phnom Penh, to sing and make a little money, and we live with our aunt. Me and my brother and four sister. My aunt, she have no kid, so she love us like her own, but not enough money. That why I go stay at the temple sometime, why I also try to make money on my own.

I don't say any of this to my sister. I let her say that it's low class what I'm doing.

I want money, but also I want to have fun. Maybe it's low class. But it's okay for me.

Sometime, I steal coconuts. Sometime, the lady next door, she let me pick the flower to sell. And sometime I play a game for money. You can say it's gambling. But maybe you can say it's sport, also. Doesn't matter. I give the head monk a little money so I can sneak out of the temple to play. You can say maybe I bribe him. Or you can say maybe I give him a little gift.

This game, it's easy for me. You draw a circle on the ground and put money there. You throw your shoe. You hit the money, you take it. I lose sometime, but most the time I win. I play not only with kid, I get so good, many time I play with the men, the cyclo driver. I tease them. I say, "You so fat, you can't see over your belly, man," and they get mad and they throw the shoe like crazy and I win. No other little kid has money like me. This mean I can buy things for my family. Good food. Grill banana. Coconut cake. Mung bean pudding. Always I give the best thing to Munny, my little brother. Palm sugar, very sweet, wrap in palm tree leaf. But one time when I give a treat to my aunt and my sister, they cry. I don't know what's going on with them. I say, "Why you cry?"

They ask where I got this money. "A little boy like you, how you get so much money?" They keep pinching me, pinching me and say maybe I steal it. I tell them the truth, that I win it. But they don't believe.

They go see the head monk. They take me, too, pinching my ear all down the street. "Arn got a lot of money," they say. "Where he got it from?"

The monk shake his head like this is very sad news for him. He tell them the truth, about the shoe game. And he says, "Arn try to give me some money too, but I don't take it."

I rub my ear and think: next time, no money for that guy.

In our town is a tree that make hard little seed ball. Buffalo toe tree. You shake it, the seed, they fall on the sidewalk. You cut down a reed, you stick the seed inside, you make a blow gun.

My little brother, he says tonight he's gonna shoot our sister in the butt for telling our aunt we sneak in the movie. This sister, Sophea, she's in the middle of us. Younger than me. Older than him. Our favorite for shooting at. Also she swear and says curse word when we hit her, and our aunt get mad at her instead of us.

I hug this tree, shake it hard and hear, far off, sound like thunder. I look at the cloud and wait for rain to fall like curtain, for the umbrella to pop up like mushroom. For the hot season to end and the rainy time to start.

But no rain is coming. Only truck.

All kinda truck. Mostly jeep and tank, but also Coca-Cola truck and bus and garbage truck. All full of soldiers. Young guys. Dark skin and tough, all in black. Black pajama, black cap. Only with red and white scarf tied around the head.

Most are kid, teenagers. Some of them only a little bit older than me. Kid with sandal made from car tire. Kid with gun. And lotta bullet across the chest. And pistol. And grenade. Some soldier are even girl. Girl with short hair, angry face.

Now people coming out of all the house. Cheering, waving white flag. Handkerchief, bed sheet maybe, scarf, everything white. They run up to the truck and try to touch the soldier.

Next to me, a guy in blue jean, hair and sideburns like Elvis, he wave at the truck. I ask him what's going on. He says the war is over.

Up and down the street people cheer and yell and wave the flag. One guy, a cook, he wave a big spoon, also his apron. The guy who cut the hair, he shake a white towel. One old lady, no teeth, pink gum like a baby, she try to kiss one soldier.

Horn honking. Little kid, they run around in circles. Dog, even, they chase their tail. So I run around, losing myself, too. I don't know who are these guy with gun 11 and truck, but I don't care. No more war. Maybe now the princess can come home.

All quiet now. The parade is finish, and all the people inside making food. On the radio it says, "Give the soldiers whatever you can. Show that you support them." Everyone inside now, except me. Near our house is a school, a rich-kid school, the one with the basketball game. Sometime I lean against the wall, look in the window and try to learn like the other kid. The letter. The number. Sometime the teacher, he says scram, and I act like I don't care, like maybe I'm just passing by. But today is no school, so I kick the soccer ball in the yard. At the corner, five black-pajama soldier stand, smoking cigarette, on a lookout. They're young, these guys, so I say, "Wanna play?"

They take the ball like they don't know what to do. They kick like they never saw this game before and I think maybe I can make a little money off them. But also they play with a frown face, no fun, always keeping the gun on the shoulder, so I think maybe not such a good idea to gamble with these guys after all.

One soldier, the biggest one, he see a kid come by on a motorcycle, and he yell at this kid to stop. He walk to the road to talk to the kid and I go too.

He tell the kid, "Give me a turn on your moto."

You can't do that. You can't just ask someone to ride his moto. So the kid says, "No, I have to go home." No warning, the soldier, he hit the kid in the head with the rifle. And the kid, he sag to the ground, like his leg go dead, and then fall in the curb. He twitch, and bubble come from his mouth. Then he stop moving. I run away, very scared, very fast. I tell my aunt about this, but she doesn't believe me. She give me an orange and says to go celebrate like everyone else. But I keep that soldier in my mind.

Next day, early in the morning, no temple gong for waking up, no monk chanting. Strange sound. Voice like machine and very loud. Truck full of soldier ride down the street. Shouting in a bullhorn. "We are Khmer Rouge," they say. "We are Red Cambodia." Also, they say the prince is coming back, that all government soldier should come meet him at the airport. "All soldier of this town," they say. "Come join us." And the government soldier, they come out of the house one by one, wearing the uniform in green. Uniform, hat, boot. Even white glove, some of them. Medal also. Very fancy. Very proud. And they join the young guy in the black pajama.

One government soldier, old guy, very high ranking, living in a big house, his wife grab his sleeve so tight, he almost can't go. Another soldier's wife, young, pregnant, she wave a white handkerchief and cry a little bit. I look for the bull-neck guy, the one who says he know the prince, but no sign of him.
(Continues...)

Excerpted from Never Fall Down by Patricia McCormick. Copyright © 2012 by Patricia McCormick. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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This National Book Award nominee from two-time finalist Patricia McCormick is the unforgettable story of Arn Chorn-Pond, who defied the odds to survive the Cambodian genocide of 1975-1979 and the labor camps of the Khmer Rouge.Based on the true story of Cambodian advocate Arn Chorn-Pond,...

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by Sonia Manzano

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The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano|Paperback

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One of America’s most influential Hispanics — ‘Maria’ on Sesame Street — presents a powerful novel set in New York’s El Barrio in 1969.There are two secrets Evelyn Serrano is keeping from her Mami and Papo? her true feelings about growing up in her Spanish Harlem neighborhood...

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The bestselling, "gripping" (Entertainment Weekly), "powerful" (Hypable), "utterly thrilling" (Paste.com) winner of the Edgar Award for Best Young Adult Mystery, perfect for readers of Kristin Hannah and Ruta SepetysAmsterdam,...

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by John Boyne

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Read an Excerpt

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

By John Boyne

David Fickling Books

Copyright © 2006 John Boyne All right reserved.
ISBN: 0385751060
Chapter One Bruno Makes a Discovery One afternoon, when Bruno came home from school, he was surprised to find Maria, the family's maid -- who always kept her head bowed and never looked up from the carpet -- standing in his bedroom, pulling all his belongings out of the wardrobe and packing them in four large wooden crates, even the things he'd hidden at the back that belonged to him and were nobody else's business.

'What are you doing?' he asked in as polite a tone as he could muster, for although he wasn't happy to come home and find someone going through his possessions, his mother had always told him that he was to treat Maria respectfully and not just imitate the way Father spoke to her. 'You take your hands off my things.'

Maria shook her head and pointed towards the staircase behind him, where Bruno's mother had just appeared. She was a tall woman with long red hair that she bundled into a sort of net behind her head, and she was twisting her hands together nervously as if there was something she didn't want to have to say or something she didn't want to have to believe.

'Mother,' said Bruno, marching towards her, 'what's going on? Why is Maria going through my things?'

'She's packing them,' explained Mother.

'Packing them?' he asked, runningquickly through the events of the previous few days to consider whether he'd been particularly naughty or had used those words out loud that he wasn't allowed to use and was being sent away because of it. He couldn't think of anything though. In fact over the last few days he had behaved in a perfectly decent manner to everyone and couldn't remember causing any chaos at all. 'Why?' he asked then. 'What have I done?'

Mother had walked into her own bedroom by then but Lars, the butler, was in there, packing her things too. She sighed and threw her hands in the air in frustration before march-ing back to the staircase, followed by Bruno, who wasn't going to let the matter drop without an explanation.

'Mother,' he insisted. 'What's going on? Are we moving?'

'Come downstairs with me,' said Mother, leading the way towards the large dining room where the Fury had been to dinner the week before. 'We'll talk down there.'

Bruno ran downstairs and even passed her out on the staircase so that he was waiting in the dining room when she arrived. He looked at her without saying anything for a moment and thought to himself that she couldn't have applied her make-up correctly that morning because the rims of her eyes were more red than usual, like his own after he'd been causing chaos and got into trouble and ended up crying.

'Now, you don't have to worry, Bruno,' said Mother, sitting down in the chair where the beautiful blonde woman who had come to dinner with the Fury had sat and waved at him when Father closed the doors. 'In fact if anything it's going to be a great adventure.'

'What is?' he asked. 'Am I being sent away?'

'No, not just you,' she said, looking as if she might smile for a moment but thinking better of it. 'We all are. Your father and I, Gretel and you. All four of us.'

Bruno thought about this and frowned. He wasn't particularly bothered if Gretel was being sent away because she was a Hopeless Case and caused nothing but trouble for him. But it seemed a little unfair that they all had to go with her.

'But where?' he asked. 'Where are we going exactly? Why can't we stay here?'

'Your father's job,' explained Mother. 'You know how important it is, don't you?'

'Yes, of course,' said Bruno, nodding his head, because there were always so many visitors to the house -- men in fantastic uniforms, women with typewriters that he had to keep his mucky hands off -- and they were always very polite to Father and told each other that he was a man to watch and that the Fury had big things in mind for him.

'Well, sometimes when someone is very important,' continued Mother, 'the man who employs him asks him to go somewhere else because there's a very special job that needs doing there.'

'What kind of job?' asked Bruno, because if he was honest with himself -- which he always tried to be -- he wasn't entirely sure what job Father did.

In school they had talked about their fathers one day and Karl had said that his father was a greengrocer, which Bruno knew to be true because he ran the greengrocer's shop in the centre of town. And Daniel had said that his father was a teacher, which Bruno knew to be true because he taught the big boys who it was always wise to steer clear of. And Martin had said that his father was a chef, which Bruno knew to be true because he sometimes collected Martin from school and when he did he always wore a white smock and a tartan apron, as if he'd just stepped out of his kitchen.

But when they asked Bruno what his father did he opened his mouth to tell them, then realized that he didn't know himself. All he could say was that his father was a man to watch and that the Fury had big things in mind for him. Oh, and that he had a fantastic uniform too.

'It's a very important job,' said Mother, hesitating for a moment. 'A job that needs a very special man to do it. You can understand that, can't you?'

'And we all have to go too?' asked Bruno.

'Of course we do,' said Mother. 'You wouldn't want Father to go to his new job on his own and be lonely there, would you?'

'I suppose not,' said Bruno.

'Father would miss us all terribly if we weren't with him,' she added.

'Who would he miss the most?' asked Bruno. 'Me or Gretel?'

'He would miss you both equally,' said Mother, for she was a great believer in not play-ing favourites, which Bruno respected, especially since he knew that he was her favourite really.

'But what about our house?' asked Bruno. 'Who's going to take care of it while we're gone?'

Mother sighed and looked around the room as if she might never see it again. It was a very beautiful house and had five floors in total, if you included the basement, where Cook made all the food and Maria and Lars sat at the table argu-ing with each other and calling each other names that you weren't supposed to use. And if you added in the little room at the top of the house with the slanted windows where Bruno could see right across Berlin if he stood up on his tiptoes and held on to the frame tightly.

'We have to close up the house for now,' said Mother. 'But we'll come back to it someday.'

'And what about Cook?' asked Bruno. 'And Lars? And Maria? Are they not going to live in it?'

'They're coming with us,' explained Mother. 'But that's enough questions for now. Maybe you should go upstairs and help Maria with your packing.'

Bruno stood up from the seat but didn't go anywhere. There were just a few more questions he needed to put to her before he could allow the matter to be settled.

'And how far away is it?' he asked. 'The new job, I mean. Is it further than a mile away?'

'Oh my,' said Mother with a laugh, although it was a strange kind of laugh because she didn't look happy and turned away from Bruno as if she didn't want him to see her face. 'Yes, Bruno,' she said. 'It's more than a mile away. Quite a lot more than that, in fact.'

Bruno's eyes opened wide and his mouth made the shape of an O. He felt his arms stretching out at his sides like they did whenever something surprised him. 'You don't mean we're leaving Berlin?' he asked, gasping for air as he got the words out.

'I'm afraid so,' said Mother, nodding her head sadly. 'Your father's job is-'

'But what about school?' said Bruno, inter-rupting her, a thing he knew he was not supposed to do but which he felt he would be forgiven for on this occasion. 'And what about Karl and Daniel and Martin? How will they know where I am when we want to do things together?'

'You'll have to say goodbye to your friends for the time being,' said Mother. 'Although I'm sure you'll see them again in time. And don't interrupt your mother when she's talking, please,' she added, for although this was strange and unpleasant news, there was certainly no need for Bruno to break the rules of politeness which he had been taught.

'Say goodbye to them?' he asked, staring at her in surprise. 'Say goodbye to them?' he repeated, spluttering out the words as if his mouth was full of biscuits that he'd munched into tiny pieces but not actually swallowed yet. 'Say goodbye to Karl and Daniel and Martin?' he continued, his voice coming dangerously close to shouting, which was not allowed indoors. 'But they're my three best friends for life!'

'Oh, you'll make other friends,' said Mother, waving her hand in the air dismissively, as if the making of a boy's three best friends for life was an easy thing.

'But we had plans,' he protested.

'Plans?' asked Mother, raising an eyebrow. 'What sort of plans?'

'Well, that would be telling,' said Bruno, who could not reveal the exact nature of the plans -- which included causing a lot of chaos, especially in a few weeks' time when school finished for the summer holidays and they didn't have to spend all their time just making plans but could actually put them into effect instead.

'I'm sorry, Bruno,' said Mother, 'but your plans are just going to have to wait. We don't have a choice in this.'

'But, Mother!'

'Bruno, that's enough,' she said, snapping at him now and standing up to show him that she was serious when she said that was enough. 'Honestly, only last week you were complaining about how much things have changed here recently.'

'Well, I don't like the way we have to turn all the lights off at night now,' he admitted.

'Everyone has to do that,' said Mother. 'It keeps us safe. And who knows, maybe we'll be in less danger if we move away. Now, I need you to go upstairs and help Maria with your packing. We don't have as much time to prepare as I would have liked, thanks to some people.'

Bruno nodded and walked away sadly, know-ing that 'some people' was a grown-up's word for 'Father' and one that he wasn't supposed to use himself.

He made his way up the stairs slowly, holding on to the banister with one hand, and wondered whether the new house in the new place where the new job was would have as fine a banister to slide down as this one did. For the banister in this house stretched from the very top floor -- just outside the little room where, if he stood on his tiptoes and held on to the frame of the window tightly, he could see right across Berlin -- to the ground floor, just in front of the two enormous oak doors. And Bruno liked nothing better than to get on board the banister at the top floor and slide his way through the house, making whooshing sounds as he went.

Down from the top floor to the next one, where Mother and Father's room was, and the large bathroom, and where he wasn't supposed to be in any case.

Down to the next floor, where his own room was, and Gretel's room too, and the smaller bath-room which he was supposed to use more often than he really did.

Down to the ground floor, where you fell off the end of the banister and had to land flat on your two feet or it was five points against you and you had to start all over again.

The banister was the best thing about this house -- that and the fact that Grandfather and Grandmother lived so near by -- and when he thought about that it made him wonder whether they were coming to the new job too and he presumed that they were because they could hardly be left behind. No one needed Gretel much because she was a Hopeless Case -- it would be a lot easier if she stayed to look after the house -- but Grandfather and Grandmother? Well, that was an entirely different matter.

Bruno went up the stairs slowly towards his room, but before going inside he looked back down towards the ground floor and saw Mother entering Father's office, which faced the dining room -- and was Out Of Bounds At All Times And No Exceptions -- and he heard her speaking loudly to him until Father spoke louder than Mother could and that put a stop to their conversation. Then the door of the office closed and Bruno couldn't hear any more so he thought it would be a good idea if he went back to his room and took over the packing from Maria, because otherwise she might pull all his belongings out of the wardrobe without any care or consideration, even the things he'd hidden at the back that belonged to him and were nobody else's business.

Excerpted from The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne Copyright © 2006 by John Boyne. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Boy in the Striped Pajamas|Paperback

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Berlin 1942When Bruno returns home from school one day, he discovers that his belongings are being packed in crates. His father has received a promotion and the family must move from their home to a new house far far away, where there is no one to play with and nothing to do.

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by Antonio Aturbe & Elena Gorbova

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Based on the experience of real-life Auschwitz prisoner Dita Kraus, this is the incredible story of a girl who risked her life to keep the magic of books alive during the Holocaust. Fourteen-year-old Dita is one of the many imprisoned by the Nazis at Auschwitz. Taken, along with her mother and father, from the Terezín ghetto in Prague, Dita is adjusting to the constant terror that is life in the camp. When Jewish leader Freddy Hirsch asks Dita to take charge of the eight precious volumes the prisoners have managed to sneak past the guards, she agrees. And so Dita becomes the librarian of Auschwitz. Out of one of the darkest chapters of human history comes this extraordinary story of courage and hope.

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Based on the experience of real-life Auschwitz prisoner Dita Kraus, this is the incredible story of a girl who risked her life to keep the magic of books alive during the Holocaust. Fourteen-year-old Dita is one of the many imprisoned by the Nazis at Auschwitz. Taken, along with her mother and...

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by Lois Lowry

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In Lois Lowry's unforgettable Newbery Medal-winning novel, a ten-year-old Danish girl's bravery is tested when her best friend is threatened by Nazis in 1943. As the German troops begin their campaign to "relocate" all the Jews of Denmark, Annemarie Johansen's family takes in Annemarie's best friend, Ellen Rosen, and conceals her as part of the family.Through the eyes of ten-year-old Annemarie, we watch as the Danish Resistance smuggles almost the entire Jewish population of Denmark, nearly seven thousand people, across the sea to Sweden. The heroism of an entire nation reminds us that there was pride and human decency in the world even during a time of terror and war.With a new introduction by the author.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780547577098

Publisher:

HMH Books

Publication date:

05/02/2011

Pages:

160

Sales rank:

805

Product dimensions:

5.00(w) x 7.60(h) x 0.60(d)

Lexile:

670L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

10 - 14 Years

Read an Excerpt

"I'll race you to the corner, Ellen!" Annemarie adjusted the thick leather pack on her back so that her school books balanced evenly. "Ready?" She looked at her best friend.
Ellen made a face. "No," she said, laughing. "You know I can't beat you-my legs aren't as long. Can't we just walk, like civilized people?" She was a stocky ten year-old, unlike lanky Annemarie.
"We have to practice for the athletic meet on Friday- I know I'm going to win the girls' race this week. I was second last week, but I've been practicing every day. Come on, Ellen," Annmarie pleaded, eyeing the distance to the next corner of the Copenhagen street. "Please?"
Ellen hesitated, then nodded and shifted her own rucksack of books against her shoulders. "Oh, all right. Ready," she said.
"Go!" shouted Annemarie, and the two girls were off, racing along the residential sidewalk. Annemarie's silvery blond hair flew behind her, and Ellen's dark pigtails bounced against her shoulders.
"Wait for me!" wailed little Kirsti, left behind, but the two older girls weren't listening.
Annemarie outdistanced her friend quickly, even though one of her shoes came untied as she sped along the street called osterbrograde, past the small shops and cafés of her neighborhood here in northeast Copenhagen. Laughing, she skirted an elderly lady in black who carried a shopping bag made of string. A young woman pushing a baby in a carriage moved aside to make way. The corner was just ahead.
Annemarie looked up, panting, just as she reached the corner. Her laughter stopped. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.
"Halte!" the solider ordered in a stern voice. The German word was familiar as it was frightening. Annemarie had heard it often enough before, but it had never been directed at her until now.
Behind her, Ellen also slowed and stopped. Far back, Kirsti was plodding along, her face in a pout cause the girls hadn't waited for her.
Annemarie stared up. There was two of them. That meant two helmets, two sets of cold eyes glaring at her, and four shiny boots planted firmly on the sidewalk, blocking her path home.
And it meant two rifles, gripped in the hands of the soldiers. She stared at the rifles first. Then, finally, she looked into the face of the soldier who had ordered her to halt.
"Why are you running?" the harsh voice asked. His Danish was very poor. Three years, Annemarie thought with contempt. Three years they've been in our country, and still they can't speak our language.
"I was racing my friend," she answered politely. "We have races at school every Friday, and I want to do well, so I -" Her voice trailed away, the sentence unfinished. Don't talk so much, she told herself. Just answer them, that's all.
She glanced back. Ellen was motionless on the sidewalk, a few yards behind her. Farther back, Kirsti was still sulking, and walking slowly toward the corner. Nearby, a woman had come to the doorway of a shop and was standing silently, watching.
One of the soldiers, the taller one, moved toward her. Annemarie recognized him as the one she and Ellen always called, in whispers, "the Giraffe" because of his height and the long neck that extended from his stiff collar. He and his partner were always on this corner.
He prodded the corner of her backpack with the stock of his rifle. Annemarie trembled. "What is in here?" he asked loudly. From the corner of her eye, she saw the shopkeeper move quietly back into the shadows of the doorway, out of sight.
"Schoolbooks," she answered truthfully.
"Are you a good student?" the soldier asked. He seemed to be sneering.
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Annemarie Johanson."
"Your friend is she a good student, too?" He was looking beyond her, at Ellen, who hadn't moved.
Annemarie looked back, too, and saw that Ellen's face, usually rosy-cheecked, was pale, and her dark eyes were wide.
She nodded at the soldier. "Better than me," she said.
"What is her name?"
"Ellen."
"And who is this?" he asked, looking to Annemarie's side. Kirsti had appeared there suddenly, scowling at everyone.
"My little sister." She reached down for Kirsti's hand, but Kirsti, always stubborn, refused it and put her hands on her hips defiantly.
The soldier reached down and stroked her little sister's short, tangled curls. Stand still, Kirsti, Annemarie ordered silently, praying that somehow the obstinate five-year-old would receive the message.
But Kirsti reached up and pushed the soldier's hand away. " Don't," she said loudly.
Both soldiers began to laugh. They spoke to each other in rapid German that Annemarie couldn't understand.
"She is pretty, like my own little girl," the tall one said in a more pleasant voice.
Annemarie tried to smile politely.
"Go home, all of you. Go study your schoolbooks. And don't run. You look like hoodlums when you run."
The two soldiers turned away. Quickly Annemarie reached down again and grabbed her sister's hand before Kirsti could resist. Hurrying the little girl along, she rounded the corner. In a moment Ellen was beside her. They walked quickly not speaking with Kirsti between them, toward the large apartment building where both families lived.
When they were almost home, Ellen whispered suddenly, "I was so scared."
"Me too," Annemarie whispered back.
As they turned to enter their building, both girls looked straight ahead, toward the door. They did it purposely so that they would not catch the eyes or the attention of two more soldiers, who stood with their guns on this corner as well. Kirsti scurried ahead of them through the door, chattering about the picture she was bringing home from kindergarten to show Mama. For Kirsti, the soldiers were simply part of the landscape, something that had always been there, on every corner, as unimportant as lampposts, throughout her remembered life.
"Are you going to tell your mother?" Ellen asked Annemarie as they trudged together up the stairs. "I'm not. My mother would be upset."
"No, I won't, tell either. Mama would probably scold me for running on the street."
She said goodbye to Ellen on the second floor, where Ellen lived, and continued to the third, practicing in her mind a cheerful greeting for her mother; a smile, a description of today's spelling test, in which she had done well.
But she was too late. Kirsti had gotten there first. "and he poked Annemarie's book bag with his gun, and then he grabbed my hair!" Kirsti was chattering as she took off her sweater in the center of the apartment living room. "But I wasn't scared. Annemarie was, and Ellen, too. But not me!"
Mrs. Johansen rose quickly from the chair by the window where she'd been sitting. Mrs. Rosen, Ellen's mother, was there, too, in the opposite chair. They'd been having coffee together, as they did many afternoons. O f course it wasn't really coffee, though the mothers still called it that; "having coffee." There had been no real coffee in Copenhagen since the beginning of the Nazi occupation. Not even any real tea. The mothers sipped at hot water flavored with herbs.
"Annemarie, what happened? What is Kirsti talking about?" her mother asked anxiously.
"Where's Ellen?" Mrs. Rosen had a frightened look.
"Ellen's in your apartment. She didn't realize you were here," Annemarie explained. "Don't worry. It wasn't anything. It was the two soldiers who stand on Osterbrogade-you've seen them; you know the tall one with the long neck, the one who looks like a silly giraffe?" She told her mother and Mrs. Rosen of the incident, trying to make it sound humorous and unimportant. But their uneasy looks didn't change.
" I slapped his hand and shouted at him," Kirsti announced importantly.
"No, she didn't, Mama," Annemarie reassured her mother. "She's exaggerating, as she always does."
Mrs. Johansen moved to the window and looked down to the street below. The Copenhagen neighborhood was quiet; it looked the same as always: people coming and going from the shops, children at play, the soldiers on the corner.
She spoke in a low voice to Ellen's mother. "They must be edgy because of the latest Resistance incidents. Did you read in De Frie Danske about the bombings in Hillerod and Norrebro?"
Although she pretended to be absorbed in unpacking her schoolbooks, Annemarie listened, and she knew what her mother was referring to. De Frie Danske-The Free Danes__ was an illegal newspaper; Peter Neilson brought it to them occasionally, carefully folded and hidden among ordinary books and papers, and Mama always burned it after she and Papa had read it. But Annemarie heard mama and Papa talk, sometimes at night, about the news they received that way: news of sabotage against the Nazis, bombs hidden and exploded in the factories that produced war materials, and industrial railroad lines damaged so that goods couldn't be transported.
And she knew what Resistance meant. Papa had explained, when she overheard the word and asked. The Resistance fighters where Danish people-no one knew who, because they were very secret-who were determined to bring harm to the Nazis however they could. They damaged the German trucks and cars, and bombed their factories. They were very brave. Sometimes they were caught and killed.
"I must go and speak to Ellen." Mrs. Rosen said, moving toward the door. "you girls walk a different way to school. Promise me, Annemarie. And Ellen will promise, too."
"We will, Mrs. Rosen. But what does it matter? There are German soldiers on every corner."
"They will remember your faces," Mrs. Rosen said, turning in the doorway to the hall. "It is important to be one of the crowd, always. Be one of many. Be sure that they never have reason to remember your face." She diappeared into the hall and closed the door behind her.
"He'll remember my face, Mama," Kirsti announced happily, "because he said I look like his little girl. He said I was pretty."
"If he has such a pretty little, why doesn't he go back to her like a good father?" Mrs. Johansen murmured, stroking Kirsti's cheek. "Why doesn't he go back to his own country?"
"Mama, is there anything to eat?" Annemarie asked, hoping to take her mother's mind away from the soldiers.
"Take some bread. And give a piece to your sister."
"With butter?" Kirsti asked hopefully.
"No butter," her mother replied. "You know that."
Kirsti sighed as Annemarie went to the breadbox in the kitchen. "I wish I could have a cupcake," she said. "A big yellow cupcake, with pink frosting."
Her mother laughed. "For a little girl, you have a long memory," she told Kirsti. "There hasn't been any butter, or sugar for cupcakes, for a long time. A year, at least."
"When will there be cupcakes again?"
"When the war ends," Mrs. Johansen said. She glanced through the window, down the street corner where the soldiers stood, their faces impassive beneath the metal helmets. "When the soldiers leave."

From the Paperback edition.

What People are Saying About This

"A story of Denmark and the Danish people, whose Resistance was so effective in saving their Jews." -School Library Journal, Starred

Editorial Reviews

A story of Denmark and the Danish people, whose Resistance was so effective in saving their Jews." -School Library Journal, Starred

From the Publisher

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In Lois Lowry's unforgettable Newbery Medal-winning novel, a ten-year-old Danish girl's bravery is tested when her best friend is threatened by Nazis in 1943.

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by Leon Leyson, et al.

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by Veera Hiranandani

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July 14, 1947

Dear Mama,

I know you know what happened today at 6:00 a.m., twelve years ago. How could you not? It was the day we came and you left, but I don't want to be sad today. I want to be happy and tell you everything. I'll start at the beginning. You probably already know what I'm telling you, but maybe you don't. Maybe you haven't been watching.

I like turning twelve so much already. It's the biggest number I've ever been, but it's an easy number-easy to say, easy to count, easy to split in half. I wonder if Amil thinks about you on this day like I do. I wonder if he likes being twelve?

We woke up at a little before seven. Amil and I usually sleep through our birth minutes and then when we wake up, we stand next to the last mark we etched into the wall with a sharp rock. No one else knows it's there. I do it for Amil and he does mine and then we compare how much we've grown since last year. Amil has finally caught up with me. Papa says someday Amil will tower over all of us. That's hard to imagine.

Papa gave me your gold chain with a small ruby stone hanging from it. He started giving me the jewelry when I was seven. Now I have two gold bangles, two gold rings, small emerald-and-gold hoop earrings, and the ruby necklace. Papa said I should save the jewelry for special occasions, but lately there are none, so I wear all the jewelry at once and never take it off. I don't know where he keeps all of it, but each year on my birthday, another piece appears at my bedside in a dark blue velvet box with gold trim. When you open it, the blue satin lining winks back at you. Papa always asks for the box back after I take out the jewelry.

Secretly, I want the box more than the jewelry. I want it to be all mine and never have to give it back. I could find any old thing-a pebble, a leaf, a pistachio shell-and put it in the box. Like magic, these things would get to be special at least for a day. Maybe he'll let me have it when your jewelry runs out.

I want to tell you about this diary I'm writing in. Kazi gave it to me this morning wrapped in brown paper, tied with a piece of dried grass. He never gives me gifts on my birthday. I once read an English story where a little girl got a big pink cake and presents wrapped in shiny paper and bows for her birthday. I thought about the little gifts Kazi gives us all the time-pieces of candy under our pillows or a ripe tomato from the garden, sliced, salted, and sprinkled with chili pepper on a plate. Cake and bows must be nice, but is anything better than a perfect tomato?

The diary is covered in purple and red silk, decorated with small sequins and bits of mirrored glass sewn in. The paper is rough, thick, and the color of butter. It is not lined, which I like. I've never had a diary before. When Kazi gave it to me, he said it was time to start writing things down, and that I was the one to do it. He said someone needs to make a record of the things that will happen because the grown-ups will be too busy. I'm not sure what he thinks is going to happen, but I've decided I'm going to write in it every day if I can. I want to explain things to you as if I'm writing a storybook, like The Jungle Book except without all the animals. I want to make it real so you can imagine it. I want to remember what everyone says and does, and I won't know the ending until I get there.

Kazi also gave Amil five charcoal drawing pencils. Five! He also made us rice kheer with our pooris. I'm not sure there is anything better tasting in the world. Amil, who normally eats too fast, makes his pudding last extra long, eating the smallest bites he can. I think he just does it so I have to watch him long after I've finished. Every so often he'll look up and smile. I pretend I don't care. Sometimes he saves his sweets for me, but not rice kheer.

Today we were running late, though, and Amil couldn't spend forever eating his kheer because Dadi took our plates away and told us to get ready. Amil started grumbling about school and how he wished he was a grown-up and could work at the hospital like Papa instead. "The drums sound better at a distance," Dadi said like she always does, and rushed us out the door.

Here's another secret, and don't be mad. Amil and I didn't go to school. We headed all the way out of town to the sugarcane field and tried to walk through it like a maze. We broke off pieces to chew. Later we stopped under a shady tree. Amil found bugs to draw and I read. After, we bought potato pakoras at the roadside cart in town, hoping no one would ask why we weren't in school. The pakoras tasted crisp and extra salty. Amil thinks they're too salty, but I like the sting on my tongue that stays long after I've finished eating.

Amil would rather draw and play all day instead of going to school. He would rather do anything besides school. He draws very well. Did you know that? I don't hate school, but I didn't want Amil to be alone on our birthday. When Papa finds out we didn't go to school, he'll be much angrier at Amil than he will at me. That's how it is with Papa and Amil. It hasn't always been like that. Amil used to be Papa's favorite, I think because Amil was always louder, happier, and funnier than I am. But now because Amil isn't small and cute, Papa is different.

When we were about seven or eight, Amil ran away. That's when it started. Papa came home from a long day at the hospital and during dinner he told Amil to stop smiling so much, that it made him look ridiculous. This only made Amil smile more.

Then Papa said, "Amil, you can't read. You play around too much and draw little pictures. You must be more serious or you will become nothing."

"Maybe I should leave. Then you'll be happy," Amil said. He waited for Papa to say something, but Papa didn't. He just turned back to his food. Amil got up and walked straight out of the house. An hour went by and he didn't come back, so I went out to look for him. I looked everywhere, around the garden, the shed, Kazi's and Mahit's cottages, all the places he might go. I even looked in the pantry and in Papa's closet. Papa acted like nothing was happening, but I told Kazi that I couldn't find Amil anywhere and he told Dadi and Dadi told Papa, so Papa went out with a lantern. I stayed awake in my bed wondering what I would do if Amil never came back. I couldn't imagine being in this house, in this life, without him. I heard Papa return and I waited to hear Amil's voice or his footsteps, but I didn't hear anything and began to cry, holding my doll, Dee, tight. At some point I fell asleep. When I woke at first light, Amil slept soundly in his bed next to mine. I wasn't sure if I had dreamed the whole thing.

"Amil," I said, poking him awake, standing over him. "Where did you go? Does Papa know you're back?"

"Papa knows I'm back," Amil said in a dull voice. "I walked into town, but then I kept going. I didn't want to stop. But Papa found me."

"Is Papa mad?" I asked.

"Papa will always be mad at me. It doesn't matter if I smile or don't smile. I'm just not what he wanted."

"That's not true," I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned away. He might have been right about Papa, though. Since that night he ran away, Papa always seems angry at Amil for being Amil.

Papa left a book on Amil's bed this morning. Normally on our birthday he only gives me the jewelry and we do puja at our temple and offer the gods handfuls of leaves and sweets for a prosperous year, but Papa did not talk about it this morning. Maybe we will go tomorrow. Papa doesn't like to go to temple. We only go on our birthdays and Diwali because Dadi begs us to go. Sometimes Papa walks her there and waits outside for her. I always look forward to going. I drink in the smoky smell of the lamps burning. I even like the metal taste of the holy water on my tongue. The soft sounds of the prayers being chanted and sung make me feel loved, like you're there, watching. But maybe a Hindu temple is the last place you'd be.

Amil's book is beautiful. It's a thick collection of tales from the Mahabharata with gold lettering on the cover and bright colorful pictures inside. Amil will love the drawings, but he won't read it. Amil says he can't read right because the words jump around and change on him. Papa thinks he's lying so he doesn't have to do his schoolwork. But I know he's not. I see the way he studies the writing, his eyes squinted, his face pinched. I see how hard he tries. He even turns the book upside down sometimes, but he says nothing helps. I think it's because Amil is a little bit magical. His eyes turn everything into art. Maybe Papa thought if he brought him a really good book, Amil would read it.

Papa didn't say anything about skipping school today. I hope our headmasters don't send a messenger with a note. Now I'm tired and must drink my warm milk and go to bed. Amil is already sound asleep, making little whistling sounds through his nose. I've decided that night is the best time to write to you. That way no one will ask me any questions.

Love, Nisha

***

July 15, 1947

Dear Mama,

I only have time to tell you one thing tonight because my eyelids are heavier than wet sheets. Papa is very mad. I knew he would be when he found out. Amil's headmaster sent over a message. Mine did not. When Papa found out, he made Amil sit in the corner with no breakfast this morning. Amil didn't ask why I wasn't being punished, even though Papa must have known I skipped, too. I guess the difference is that I do well in school and Amil doesn't. I only ate one of my chapatis and wrapped the other in a napkin. Then I stuck it in my schoolbook for Amil when no one was looking.

I think Kazi likes us best. Papa loves us of course because he's our father and Dadi loves us because she's our grandmother. That's what they're supposed to do, but Papa is too busy to do a lot of liking and Dadi is too old. Papa works every day, even on Sunday. I guess he has to since he's a doctor. People leave gifts on our doorstep all the time, like flowers and sweets for the wonderful things he has done for them. Sometimes I think Papa's not real. He leaves early with the cool morning air and never makes a sound. Sometimes when he comes back late at night and kisses me good night in my sleep, I wake up and see him. It feels like I'm dreaming.

Love, Nisha

***

July 16, 1947

Dear Mama,

Kazi has so much energy for us. He always has. When we were younger, maybe five or six, he used to sit cross-legged on the floor and play with us after his work was done. I remember he was the first person to teach Amil how to play cricket in the front of the house, how to throw and bat and catch. Papa never did. I would peer out the window and watch them, laughing hard when Amil missed the ball, since he could hardly see me.

I help Kazi in the kitchen all the time, even though Dadi doesn't want me to. She says I'll marry well and have someone cook for me, just like Kazi does for us. But that doesn't sound like any fun at all. I can't wait to be older and do what Kazi can do. He lets me help him more all the time. I know how to sort the lentils, grind the spices with his marble mortar and pestle, clarify the butter for ghee, and mix the dough for chapatis. I usually finish my schoolwork fast and sneak into the kitchen, when Dadi thinks I'm still working, to help Kazi prepare dinner. He sees me even when he's not looking up. It's like he smells me. He turns and holds up a handful of peas to be shelled. I like to cook things even more than I like to eat them. How does Kazi take all these plain boring foods-bitter vegetables, dried lentils, flour, oil, spices-and turn them into something so warm and delicious every time?

Love, Nisha

***

July 17, 1947

Dear Mama,

Kazi is right. I was made for writing in a diary. I'd much rather write than talk. I talk very little, mostly just to Amil and Kazi. I feel normal around them. I talk to Dadi and Papa if I have to. But for the rest of the world, the words just don't want to come out, like part of my mouth or my brain is broken. It feels scary to talk, because once the words are out, you can't put them back in. But if you write words and they don't come out the way you want them to, you can erase them and start over. I have the neatest handwriting in my class and get the highest marks on all my compositions. You would be very proud of me.

Amil likes to talk. He likes to run. He likes to laugh. He likes to yell. But he hates writing anything down, except for his drawings. The teachers think he's stupid because he can't read and doesn't do his schoolwork, but they should look at his drawings. Amil draws all sorts of things. Sometimes he draws frightening scorpions and snakes with dark charcoal pencil. He draws every leg, every bump, every little detail. Sometimes he draws me early in the morning when I'm still sleeping. It's strange to look at myself that way, but I like it. It makes me feel like I'm not alone, like someone is always watching over me. Are you, Mama?

Sometimes Amil draws Dadi or Papa when they aren't looking and only shows me. He draws Kazi cooking. He likes to paste lots of paper scraps together with flour and water to make a bigger drawing space. Kazi once gave him a drawing pad. Amil only does his best work on the paper after he practices on his bits of flour bags, ends of newspaper, whatever he can find. He let me touch the drawing pad paper once. It's cloud white, silky smooth. I wonder why Amil is the way he is. I wonder why I am the way I am. I bet you know.

Love, Nisha

***

July 18, 1947

Dear Mama,

Something very strange happened today. Three men came to our house this afternoon. I don't know why they came. I was doing my homework. Amil tried to do his but mostly doodled. Dadi sat at the table writing letters. Papa was at the hospital. The men knocked on the door. One of them was a teacher at our school who always dyes his gray hair red. His beard is the color of a chili pepper. I didn't recognize the other two men. Dadi looked out the window and called Amil. Then she told us both to go into the kitchen with Kazi, so we did. Her eyes darted back and forth before she answered the door.

All three of us-me, Kazi, and Amil-peeked around the corner. The men spoke so quietly I couldn't hear them. Then they spoke louder. I heard bits and pieces of sentences, words and names I had been hearing Papa talk about to Dadi, seen in the headlines from their newspapers. I turned over the words like puzzle pieces in my head, wondering how they were supposed to fit together: Pakistan, Jinnah, independence, Nehru, India, British, Lord Mountbatten, Gandhi, partition.

Dadi nodded and nodded, and the air smelled like the smoke from pipes. She tried to close the door once and one of the men, the tallest one, held the door open, not letting her. I held my breath. Then she finally closed the door and turned around. We came out from our hiding places, but she didn't say a thing. Her eyes were big, and she and Kazi kept giving each other secret looks. Amil asked what happened.

Dadi waved him away, but Amil didn't give up.

"Tell me or I'll scream," he said.

I put my hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe he was being so naughty.

Dadi frowned. "It was nothing to worry about," she said. "And if you scream," she said, wagging her finger angrily at Amil, "your Papa will be the first to know."

Amil's shoulders slumped. Kazi disappeared into the kitchen. I finished my work and helped him clean some green beans and chop the garlic and ginger into the tiniest pieces you ever saw, but Kazi didn't tell me anything and I could tell he didn't want to.

"The men seemed upset," I said later to Amil when we were lying on our beds. "I think something bad is going on."

"I know," said Amil. "I heard them ask when we'd be leaving."

"Why would we leave?" I asked.

"It has something to do with India being free from the British soon," he said.

I wondered what that meant, to be free from the British. Why were they allowed to rule over us in the first place? Didn't they have their own people to worry about? I thought about the men at the door. They seemed calm in that way grown-ups get calm before they get very angry.

"Remember when Papa used to tickle us?" Amil said, turning on his side toward me.

"He hasn't done that in a long time," I replied. When we were little, Papa would tickle us to wake us up. It's so strange to think about that now. I remember trying to like it since Amil liked it so much. Amil would throw his head back and squeal for more. I would grit my teeth and try not to push Papa's hand away. It made me feel like I was falling off a cliff. I asked Amil why he was thinking about that.

"Because I wish he was still that way," Amil said, and turned on his back again.

He closed his eyes and I could hear his breathing slow down. I thought about the old Papa, the one who tickled us. Had Papa changed that much? Or had we just gotten older?

Love, Nisha

***

July 19, 1947

Dear Mama,

More bad things are happening. When Amil and I walk the mile to our schools, we pass lots of things. First, we walk through the rest of our compound where we live since Papa is the head doctor for the Mirpur Khas City Hospital. The government gave us a large place to live in, much bigger than anyone I know. We have our bungalow, and a coop for the chickens, the flower and vegetable gardens, and the cottages where Kazi and the groundskeeper, Mahit, live. As we walk closer and closer to town, we pass the hospital. Then we pass the jail where all the people have to go when they do things like steal from the markets. Dadi says it's not a jail for the murderers. The murderers go somewhere else. I always try to catch a prisoner's eye when I go to school, since I can see them through the fences. I feel bad for them. Usually they stole because they were hungry. But sometimes there are truly bad ones, too, who just want to be bad, who hurt and steal just for fun. I think I can tell who's bad and who's not. The bad ones smile real big. The good ones don't.

Our schools are right next to each other, the Government School for Boys and the Government School for Girls. Mine is smaller because not all girls go to school, but Papa says it's important to be educated. Today when we walked to school, two older boys started following us. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes they chase Amil, but usually only to scare him. He runs faster than anyone I know, so he always gets away. This time though, the boys started throwing rocks at us. A small one hit the back of my head. Amil pulled my arm and we broke into a run. Amil led us into an alley. We ran through the alley and some gardens, then back onto another dirt road. We found a cluster of mango trees and hid behind them.

"Why did they do that? What did you do?" I whispered at him.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything," he whispered back at me.

I touched the small bump where the rock hit me. We went a different way to school, down another dirt road and through the sugarcane, but it took a long time and we were late. After school we ran all the way home without stopping. When we got home, we stood catching our breath outside the door, so Dadi wouldn't ask why we were out of breath.

"It's because we're Hindus," Amil said. He looked around and started to whisper again. "There are lots of places all over India where the Hindus and Sikhs and Muslims fight one another all the time now. Just not here, yet. Kazi tells me what he reads in the papers. That's why those men came to the house yesterday. They said the Hindus should leave, and they don't want Kazi to live with us."

"Because he's Muslim?" I asked, but Amil didn't answer as he ran into the house and to our room where he worked on his drawings until dinner. I thought about those boys. They were Muslim. Everyone knows who is Muslim, Hindu, or Sikh by the clothes they wear or the names they have. But we all have lived together in this town for so long, I just never thought much about people's religions before. Does it have to do with India becoming independent from the British? I don't see how those two things go together.

Sometimes Amil knows things that I don't. He talks to people more and goes to the market with Kazi. He has lots of friends at school. He doesn't mind if his words come out right, or not. I wish I were more like Amil. I don't have any friends except Sabeen. All the kids play together at my school no matter what religion we are. Sabeen is Muslim, and she and I always have lunch together. She doesn't have many friends because she doesn't stop talking and never listens. I don't mind. I'm a good listener.

Nobody ever mentions the fact that you were Muslim, Mama. It's like everyone forgot. But I don't want to forget. The truest truth is that I don't know any other children whose parents are different religions. It must be a strange thing that nobody wants to talk about. I guess we're Hindu because Papa and Dadi are. But you're still a part of me, Mama. Where does that part go?

Love, Nisha

(Continues...)

Excerpted from "The Night Diary"
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A 2019 NEWBERY HONOR BOOK"A gripping, nuanced story of the human cost of conflict appropriate for both children and adults." ...

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by Joseph Bruhac

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NAVAJOS WANTED.

Grandchildren, you asked me about this medal of mine. There is much to be said about it. This small piece of metal holds a story that I was not allowed to speak for many winters. It is the true story of how Navajo Marines helped America win a great war. There is much that I must remember to speak for this medal, to tell its story as it should be told. I must remember not only the great secret with which I was trusted, but also all that happened to me and those like me. That is a lot. But I think that I can do it well enough. After all, I was expected to remember, as were the other men trained with me. The lives of many men depended entirely on our memories.

OTHER BOOKS BY JOSEPH BRUCHAC
The Arrow Over the Door Children of the Longhouse Eagle's Song The Heart of a Chief The Winter People
CODE TALKER

A Novel About the Navajo Marines of World War Two

JOSEPH BRUCHAC

Listen, My Grandchildren

Grandchildren, you asked me about this medal of mine. There is much to be said about it. This small piece of metal holds a story that I was not allowed to speak for many winters. It is the true story of how Navajo Marines helped America win a great war. There is much that I must remember to speak for this medal, to tell its story as it should be told. I must remember not only the great secret with which I was trusted, but also all that happened to me and those like me. That is a lot. But I think that I can do it well enough. After all, I was expected to remember, as were the other men trained with me. The lives of many men depended entirely on our memories.

Look here. The man you see riding a horse on the back of this medal was an Indian. He is also one of those raising that flag there behind him. I knew him when we were both young men. His name was Ira Hayes. He was a fine person, even though he was not one of our people, but Akimel O'odam, a Pima Indian. We both fought on a distant island far off in the Pacific Ocean. There was smoke all around us from the exploding shells, the snapping sound of Japanese .25 caliber rifles, the thumping of mortars, and the rattling of machine guns. We could hear the pitiful cries of wounded men, our own Marines and the enemy soldiers, too.

It was a terrible battle. But our men were determined as they struggled up that little mountain. On top of it is where Ira was photographed, raising the flag of Nihimá. I was not one of those who fought to the top of Mount Suribachi, but I had my own special part to play. I helped send the message about our success, about the brave deeds so many Marines did that day for Nihimá.

Nihimá, "Our Mother." That is the Navajo word we chose to mean our country, this United States. It was a good name to use. When we Indians fought on those far-off islands, we always kept the thought in our minds that we were defending Our Mother, the sacred land that sustains us.

Nihimá is only one of the Navajo words we chose for places with bilagáanaa names. South America became Sha-de-ah-Nihimá, "Our Mother to the South." Alaska we called Bee hai, "With Winter." Because we knew that Britain is an island, we gave it the name of Tó tah, "Surrounded by Water." When we did not know much about a place, we described something about the people there. So we named Germany Béésh bich'ahii, "Iron Hat," and Japan was Bináá'ádaálts'ozí, "Slant-eyed."

Sometimes we didn't know much about either the country or the people there, but that did not stop us. We used our sense of humor and played with the English. The word we used for Spain was Dibé diniih, which means "Sheep Pain."

But I am getting ahead of myself. I have not even explained to you yet why we made up such names. I have not told you why being able to speak our Navajo language, the same Navajo language they tried to beat out of me when I was a child, was so important during World War Two. It was because I was a Navajo code talker.

What was a code talker and what did we code talkers do? Why was the secret we shared so great that we could not tell even our families about it until long after the war ended?

You cannot weave a rug before you set up the loom. So I will go back to the beginning, pound the posts in the ground, and build the frame. I will start where my own story of words and warriors begins.

CHAPTER ONE

Sent Away

I was only six years old and I was worried. I sat behind our hogan, leaning against its familiar walls and looking up toward the mesa. I hoped I would see an eagle, for that would be a good sign. I also hoped I would not hear anyone call my name, for that would be a sign of something else entirely. But the eagle did not appear. Instead, my mother's voice, not much louder than a whisper, broke the silence.

"Kii Yázhí, come. Your uncle is in the wagon."

The moment I dreaded had arrived. I stood and looked toward the hills. I could run up there and hide. But I did not do so, for I had always obeyed my mother-whose love for me was as certain as the firmness of the sacred earth beneath my moccasins. However, I did drag my feet as I came out from behind our hogan to see what I knew I would see. There stood my tall, beautiful mother. Her thick black hair was tied up into a bun. She was dressed in her finest clothing-a new, silky blue blouse and a blue pleated skirt decorated with bands of gold ribbons. On her feet were soft calf-high moccasins, and she wore all her silver and turquoise jewelry. Her squash-blossom necklace, her bracelets, her concha belt, her earrings-I knew she had adorned herself with all of these things for me. She wanted me to have this image of her to keep in my mind, to be with me when I was far from home.

However, the thing I saw most clearly was what she held in her arms. It was a small bundle of my clothes tied in a blanket. My heart sank. I really was going to be sent away.

My mother motioned toward the door of our hogan and I went inside. My great-grandfather was waiting for me on his bed. He was too weak to walk and was so old that he had shrunk in size. He had never been a big man, but now he was almost as small as me. Great-grandfather took my hand in both of his.

"Be strong, Kii Yázhí," he rasped, his voice as creaky as an old saddle. I stood up on my toes so that I could put my arms around his neck and then pressed my cheek against his leathery face. "Kii Yázhí," he said again, patting my back. "Our dear little boy."

I had always been small for my age. My father used to tease me about it, saying that when I was born he made my cradleboard out of the handle of a wooden spoon. My baby name was Awéé Yázhí. Little Baby. Little I was and little I stayed. I went from being Awéé Yázhí, Little Baby, to Kii Yázhí, Little Boy.

"You are small," my grandfather said, as if he could hear what I was thinking. "But your heart is large. You will do your best."

I nodded.

When I stepped outside, my mother bent down and embraced me much harder than my grandfather had hugged me. Then she stepped back to stand by the door of our hogan.

"Travel safely, my son," Mother said. Her voice was so sad.

My father came up to me and put his broad, calloused hands on my shoulders. He, too, was wearing his best clothing and jewelry. Though he said nothing, I think Father was even sadder than my mother, so sad that words failed him. He was shorter than her, but he was very strong and always stood so straight that he seemed tall as a lodgepole pine to me. His eyes were moist as he lifted me up to the wagon seat and then nodded.

My uncle clucked to the horses and shook the reins. The wagon lurched forward. As I grabbed the wooden backboard to steady myself, I felt a splinter go into my finger from the rough wood, but I ignored the pain. Instead I pulled myself around to turn backward and wave to my parents. I kept waving even after we went around the sagebrush-covered hill and I could no longer see them waving back at me, my father with his back straight and his hand held high, my mother with one hand pressed to her lips while the other floated as gracefully as a butterfly. I did not know it, but it would be quite some time before I saw my home again.

The wheels of the wagon rattled over the ruts in the road. I waved and waved and kept waving. Finally my uncle gently touched me on the wrist. My uncle was the only one in our family who had ever been to the white man's school. His words had helped convince his sister, my mother, to send me to that faraway place. Now he was taking me there, to Gallup, where the mission school was located.

"Kii Yázhí," he said, "look ahead."

I turned to look up at my uncle's kind face. His features were sharp, as hard and craggy as the rocks, but his eyes were friendly and the little mustache he wore softened his mouth. I was frightened by the thought of being away from home for the first time in my life, but I was also trying to find courage. My uncle seemed to know that.

"Little Boy," he said, "Sister's first son, listen to me. You are not going to school for yourself. You are doing this for your family. To learn the ways of the bilagáanaa, the white people, is a good thing. Our Navajo language is sacred and beautiful. Yet all the laws of the United States, those laws that we now have to live by, they are in English."

I nodded, trying to understand. It was not easy. Back then, school was such a new thing for our people. My parents and their parents before them had not gone to school to be taught by strangers. They had learned all they knew from their own relatives and from wise elders who knew many things, people who lived with us. People just like us.

My uncle sat quietly for a time, stroking his mustache with the little finger of his right hand. The wagon rattled along, the horses' hooves clopped against the stones in the road. I waited, knowing that my uncle had not yet finished talking. When he stroked his mustache like that, it meant he was thinking and choosing his words with care. It was important not to rush when there was something worthwhile to say.

Then he sighed. "Ah," he said, "your great-grandfather was your age when the Americans, led by Red Shirt, Kit Carson, made their final war against the Navajos. They wished either to kill us all or remove every Indian from this land. They did this because they did not know us. They did not really understand about the Mexicans."

My uncle turned toward me to see if I understood his words. I politely looked down at my feet and nodded. I knew about the Mexicans. For many years, the Mexicans raided our camps and stole away our people. We were sold as slaves. So our warriors fought back. They raided the villages where our people were held as slaves, rescuing them and taking away livestock from those who attacked us.

"When the Americans came," my uncle continued, "our people tried to be friends with them. But they did not listen to us. They listened to the Mexicans, who could speak their language and said that we were bad people. Instead of helping to free us from slavery, the Americans ordered all the Navajos to stop raiding the slave traders. Some of our bands signed papers and kept the promise not to raid. But each Navajo band had its own headmen. Not all of them signed such papers. So, when all of our people did not stop raiding, the Americans made war on all of the Navajos. They burned our crops, killed our livestock, and cut down our peach trees. They drove our people into exile. They sent us on the Long Walk."

Again my uncle paused to stroke his mustache and again I nodded. I had heard stories about the Long Walk from my great-grandfather. The whole Navajo tribe was forced to walk hundreds of miles to a strange and faraway place the white men called Fort Sumner. Hundreds of our people died along the way and even more died there. The earth was salty and dry. Our corn crops failed year after year. Sometimes late winter storms swept in and men froze while they were trying to work the fields. Our people began to call that place Hwééldi, the place where only the wind could live. Our people had no houses, but lived in pits dug into the earth. Indians from other tribes attacked us. We were kept there as prisoners for four winters. Even though I was a little boy, I knew this history as well as my own name.

"Kii Yázhí," my uncle said, his voice slow and serious as he spoke. "It was hard for our people to be so far away from home, but they did not give up. Our people never forgot our homeland between the four sacred mountains. Our people prayed. They did a special ceremony. Then the minds of the white men changed. Our people agreed never again to fight against the United States and they were allowed to go back home. But even though the white men allowed us to come home, we now had to live under their laws. We had to learn their ways. That is why some of us must go to their schools. We must be able to speak to them, tell them who we really are, reassure them that we will always be friends of the United States. That is why you must go to school: not for yourself, but for your family, for our people, for our sacred land."

As my uncle spoke, I saw my great-grandfather's face in my mind. There had been tears of love and pity in his eyes as I left our hogan. I knew now that he had been remembering what it was like when he had been forced to go far away from home. He had been praying life would not be as hard for me at school as it had been for him at Hwééldi.

My uncle dropped his hand onto my shoulder. "Can you do this?" he asked me.

"Yes, Uncle," I said. "I will try hard to learn for our people and our land."

We had reached the hill that marked the edge of our grazing lands. I had never gone beyond that hill before. As my uncle clucked again to the horses, I noticed the pain in my finger and saw the splinter still lodged in it. I carefully worked it free. The tip of that thin needle of wood was red with my blood. Before we went over the hill, I dropped it onto the brown earth. Although I had to go away, I could still leave a little of myself behind.

CHAPTER TWO

Boarding School

The boarding school was more than a hundred miles from my home, so our journey took us several days. We slept out under the silver moon and the bright stars. Each morning my uncle cooked food for us over the fire, usually mutton and beans. Those meals were so good and the time I spent with him was precious to me. I knew I was soon going to be away from all of my family. I shall never forget that journey.

However, what I remember most is the morning of my arrival at Rehoboth Mission. It did not begin well for me. As soon as my uncle reached the gate of the school, like all the other parents and relatives who had traveled far to bring their children there, he was told that he had to go. He patted me one final time on my shoulder, stroked his mustache with his other hand, and nodded slowly.

"You will remember," he said.

He watched me walk through the gate before he climbed back up onto the seat of the wagon, lifted his reins, clucked to the horses, and drove off without looking back. He did not say good-bye. There is no word for good-bye in Navajo.

So I was left standing there, a sad little boy holding tight against my chest the thin blanket in which my few belongings were tied. But I was not alone. There were many other Navajo children standing there, just as uncertain as I was. Like me, those boys and girls were wearing their finest clothing. Their long black hair glistened from being brushed again and again by loving relatives. The newest deerskin moccasins they owned were on their feet. Like me, many of them wore family jewelry made of silver, inset with turquoise and agate and jet. Our necklaces and bracelets, belts and hair ornaments, were a sign of how much our families loved us, a way of reminding those who would now be caring for us how precious we were in the eyes of our relatives.

Suddenly, as if everyone had remembered their manners all at once, we began to introduce ourselves to each other as Navajos are always supposed to do. We said hello, spoke our names, told each other our clans and where we were from. As you know, our clan system teaches us how we were born and shows us how to grow. By knowing each other's clan-the clan of the mother that we were born to, the clan of the father that we were born for-we can recognize our relatives.

"Yáát'eeh," a tall Navajo boy with a red headband said to me. "Hello. I am Many Horses. I am born to Bitter Water Clan and born for Towering House. My birthplace is just west of Chinle below the hills there to the west."

Hearing his polite words made me feel less sad and I answered him slowly and carefully. " Yáát'eeh. I am Kii Yázhí. I was born for Mud Clan and born to Towering House. My birth place is over near Grants. I am the son of Gray Mustache."

A round-faced girl wearing a silky shawl stepped closer to me and bowed her head. "Hello, my relative," she said. "I am Dawn Girl. I, too, was born to Mud Clan. I am born for Corn Clan."

It was not always easy for me to understand what those other boys and girls were saying. Even though we all spoke in Navajo, we had come from many distant parts of Dinetah. In those days, our language was not spoken the same everywhere by every group of Navajos. But, despite the fact that some of those other children spoke our sacred language differently, what we were doing made me feel happier and more peaceful. We were doing things as our elders had taught us. We were putting ourselves in balance.

Suddenly a huge white man with a red face appeared on the porch above us.

"Be quiet!" he roared at us in English.

Even though most of us could not understand the words he shouted, we all stopped talking. For a moment, before we remembered it is impolite to stare, we all looked up at him. Many of us had seen white people before, when we went to the trading posts with our elders. Almost every trading post was run by white men. Most of them also had their wives and families with them. Because there were no other kids around, those bilagáanaa boys and girls often played with the Navajo children. Some of those white traders' children even learned to speak Navajo pretty well-at least much better than their parents.

It is not easy for other people, even other Indians, to learn to speak Navajo properly. The traders always tried to use a little Navajo, but they knew very few words. Sometimes they thought they were saying one thing when they were saying something quite different. I liked to hear the funny way the trader at our post tried to talk Navajo. But I kept a straight face because it would have been rude to laugh at a grown-up, even a grown-up bilagáanaa who had just said that all sheep above the age of six should be in school.

However, even though most of us had seen white men before, none of us had ever seen one like that red-faced white man who yelled at us on my first day at the boarding school. His skin was so red that it seemed to be burning. His hair was also that same fiery color. Moreover, his hair was not just on top of his head-where thick hair is supposed to be. It was all over his face. Among Navajos, some men may allow a little hair to grow on their upper lip-just as my uncle and my father did. But this red man had as much hair on his face as an animal. It was on his cheeks, his chin, his neck. Thick red hair even grew out of his ears. He pointed his finger and yelped more words that none of us understood.

"Is that a man speaking or is it a dog?" one of the boys next to me whispered in Navajo.

He wasn't joking. It was a serious question. The huge white man's angry shouts did sound like the barking of a dog. We all put our heads down as that red-dog white man yelped and roared. Finally, he became silent. But he kept staring down at us, waiting for something. When none of us moved, but just stood there, politely looking down at the ground, he barked at us again even louder.

We did not realize that he was ordering us to lift up our faces. We could not understand that he was telling us we must look at him to pay attention. None of us yet had learned that white people expect you to look into their eyes-the way you stare at an enemy when you are about to attack. Among bilagáanaas, the only time children look down is when they are ashamed of something.

"What does he want?" a girl whispered in a frightened voice. "He seems angry enough to eat us."

A dark-skinned man with a kind face walked up to stand beside the big, red white man. The red white man growled something at him and the dark-skinned man nodded. Then he turned to us.

" Yáát'eeh, my dear children," he said in Navajo in a comforting voice. "My name is Mr. Jacob Benally. I am born to Salt Clan and born for Arrow Clan."

That was when all of us realized this dark-skinned man was Navajo. We had not even thought he was any kind of Indian at all before he spoke. It was not just because he was dressed like a white man, but because his hair was so short. He wore no hat and you could see that all his hair had been cut off close to his scalp. We had never seen a Navajo man with such short hair. Back then, all Navajo men were supposed to have long hair.

Realizing that this man, dressed like a white man, was a Navajo made us look around the school yard. We had already noticed there were many older boys and girls there, all in uniforms. We had thought they were bilagáanaa children. They were watching us silently. Now we looked at them differently, seeing that their emotionless faces looked Navajo. But none of them had come to introduce themselves.

Many Horses, the tall boy with the red headband, spoke up.

"My uncle," he said to Mr. Jacob Benally, using the polite form of address to show he respected this man like a relative, "are those other children in bilagáanaa clothing also Navajos?"

"Yes, my nephew," Mr. Jacob Benally said, "but I am sorry that I must now tell you something. Listen well. You are forbidden to speak Navajo. You must all speak in English or say nothing at all."

All of us stood there in silence. Most of us did not know any words in English. Those who did know some English words were so shocked that they could not remember any of them. Finally, Mr. Jacob Benally helped us.

"Children," he said in Navajo, "here is a word of greeting that you can say. Watch how I hold my mouth and then repeat it after me. Heh-low. Heh-low."

All of us did as he said. We opened our mouths and made those two sounds. "Heh-low, heh-low, heh-low."

We hoped that this kind Navajo man would stay with us and keep talking Navajo. His job as an interpreter, though, was for one day and one day only. After that he went back to working in the stables and speaking broken English.

The only way left to us was to speak English. Thinking back on it, years later, I see now that it was a good policy in one sense. In the weeks that followed, we learned English much more quickly because we could not use our native tongue. But I can never forget how sad it made me feel when I learned enough English to understand what the angry, red white man, whose name was Principal O'Sullivan, had to say about our sacred language and our whole Navajo culture.

"Navajo is no good, of no use at all!" Principal O'Sullivan shouted at us every day. "Only English will help you get ahead in this world!"

Although the teachers at the school spoke in quieter tones than our principal, they all said the same. It was no good to speak Navajo or be Navajo. Everything about us that was Indian had to be forgotten.

CHAPTER THREE

To Be Forgotten

They took away our hair.

"My children," Mr. John Benally said, after teaching us how to say hello in English, "I am sorry, but you must go now into this room."

We did as he asked. One by one we were herded into a little shed where three tall, uniformed Navajo boys, whose hair was as short as Mr. John Benally's, were waiting.

I should explain, grandchildren, that in those days, among our people, both men and women always kept their hair long. It was a sacred thing. Cutting your hair was believed to bring misfortune to you. But at mission school they had other beliefs.

I was the first one in line. Two of the uniformed boys took me by my arms, one on each side, and pulled me over to a chair.

"What are you doing?" I said in Navajo, just loud enough so that they could hear. But they did not answer me.

Instead, they pushed me down into that hard wooden chair and held me firmly-as if I were a sheep about to be sheared. Then another boy with a big pair of scissors chopped off my hair. He did it so quickly that it was over almost before I knew it. Another stunned child was being led in, and shoved into that chair even before I was out the door.

Both boys and girls had their hair cut. The only difference was that the hair of the girls was left a little longer than the boys. But I could see from the looks on their faces that losing most of their beautiful hair made those girls feel the same way I felt. Naked and ashamed.

Not only our hair was stripped away. After being shorn, we were led into two separate buildings, one for the boys and another for the girls. Once we were inside, we were made to take off all our fine clothing and our jewelry. We never saw those clothes or jewels again. Years later I learned that our squash-blossom necklaces and turquoise bracelets, earrings and hair ornaments and silver belts, were sold to white men and women.

In exchange for my clothing and jewelry, I was issued a military-style uniform made of cloth that was rough and itchy, and a stiff cap that was shoved down onto my head. The uniform and cap were too big for me, so big that my cap came down over my eyes. That made no difference to the older students who were handing out our new clothing. Once I was dressed I was pushed out onto the school yard. There, we new students were formed into a line and made to stand at attention, with the boys on one side of the yard and the girls, who were now wearing long brown dresses, aprons, and head coverings, on the other.

It was so strange. Where only a few moments before, there had been a colorful crowd of Navajo children, each one different from the other, now we all looked just the same. In our drab uniforms, the only difference between us boys was our size. Of course, I was the smallest one. I remember thinking that they had removed from us everything that we owned. But I was wrong. There was still one more thing to be taken.

We were led one by one to stand in front of a skinny white man with yellow hair who was sitting at a desk. A white board with curved black marks on it was propped up on that desk. None of us could read English, but I learned later that those curving marks that twisted like worms were the letters of the man's name: Mr. Reamer. I also learned later that he always did the job he was about to do with us new students because he had convinced himself that he understood our language.

Mr. John Benally stood close to help with translating as Mr. Reamer asked each child the name of his or her father. That translation would help decide each student's new last name in English. For example, one of the boys in our group said he was the son of Bilíí daalbáhí, "One who Has Roan Horses." He became John Roanhorse. Mr. Reamer seemed very fond of the name John and gave it to lots of boys. Also, if he did not like the way someone's last name sounded in English when it was translated from Navajo, he would just choose another last name and give it to that boy or girl.

We did not know it at the time, but some of the last names we got were the names of famous dead white men. Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and so on. That was shocking to me when I discovered it later. Among our people no one is ever deliberately given the name of someone who has died.

When it came to be my turn I stood at attention in front of the desk. The skinny, yellow-haired white man said something to me. What he said sounded very strange. It did not sound like any language I had ever heard before, not even the English that everyone around us was now speaking. Once again the white man made those unpleasant noises. He sounded like someone trying to speak when his mouth is full of food.

"He thinks he is talking Navajo," Mr. John Benally whispered into my ear. "He is trying to ask you the name of your father."

"Dágháatbáhi Biye'," I said. "I am the son of the One with a Gray Mustache."

"Huh," said Mr. Reamer as he wrote something down on his paper. "Another Begay."

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Code Talker: A Novel about the Navajo Marines of World War Two|Paperback

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"Readers who choose the book for the attraction of Navajo code talking and the heat of battle will come away with more than they ever expected to find."-Booklist, starred review Throughout World War II, in the conflict fought against Japan, Navajo code talkers were a...

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by Ruta Sepetys

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Editorial Reviews

The pacing is swift as a thriller...the book's drama comes not simply from the battlefield action—the bombings, the armies on the move—but from the constant wounding fire of lies and revelations, self-deceptions and desperate ententes...It would be near blasphemous to use suffering on this scale as the backdrop to provide the beats of suspense and near escape if it weren't for Sepetys's clear commitment to preserving the memory of the forgotten, the drowned...once again, Ruta Sepetys acts as champion of the interstitial people so often ignored—whole populations lost in the cracks of history.

The New York Times Book Review - M. T. Anderson

★ 11/09/2015
Sepetys delivers another knockout historical novel, after Between Shades of Gray and Out of the Easy, that offers insight into the ugly realities of WWII and culminates with a forgotten event, the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff. Set in East Prussia during the brutal winter of 1945, in the waning days of the conflict, and tautly narrated by four strong, distinct voices, the narrative highlights the plight of refugees as Germany tries to evacuate soldiers and civilians: "The brutality was shocking. Disgraceful acts of inhumanity. No one wanted to fall into the hands of the enemy. But it was growing harder to distinguish who the enemy was." The narrators include Florian, a Prussian boy carrying a secret parcel; traumatized 15-year-old Amelia, a Polish girl without papers who hides a mysterious pregnancy; Joana, a repatriated 21-year-old Lithuanian nurse, who believes she's a murderer; and Alfred, a German soldier who imagines writing self-important missives to a girl back home. Their stories collide-first as the three refugees travel through the countryside with a larger group, and then as they try to gain passage on Alfred's ship, the Wilhelm Gustloff, which is doomed to maritime disaster with casualties exceeding those of the Titanic and Lusitania combined. Sepetys excels in shining light on lost chapters of history, and this visceral novel proves a memorable testament to strength and resilience in the face of war and cruelty. Ages 12-up. Agent: Steven Malk, Writers House. (Feb.)

Publishers Weekly

Praise for Salt to the Sea:

"Ruta Sepetys is a master of historical fiction. In Salt to the Sea the hard truths of her herculean research are tempered with effortless, intimate storytelling, as her warm and human characters breathe new life into one of the world's most terrible and neglected tragedies." - Elizabeth Wein, New York Times bestselling author of Printz Award Honor Book "A rich, page-turning story that brings to vivid life a terrifying-and little-known-moment in World War II history." -"Brutal. Beautiful. Honest." - Sabaa Tahir, New York Times bestselling author of An Ember in the Ashes

* "Sepetys excels in shining light on lost chapters of history, and this visceral novel proves a memorable testament to strength and resilience in the face of war and cruelty." -Publishers Weekly, starred review

* "This haunting gem of a novel begs to be remembered, and in turn, it tries to remember the thousands of real people its fictional characters represent. What it asks of us is that their memories, and their stories, not be abandoned to the sea." -Booklist, starred review

* "Artfully told and sensitively crafted, Sepetys's exploration of this little-known piece of history will leave readers weeping." -School Library Journal, starred review

"The inevitability of the ending (including the loss of several characters) doesn't change its poignancy, and the short chapters and slowly revealed back stories for each character guarantee the pages keep turning. Heartbreaking, historical, and a little bit hopeful." -Kirkus

"This book includes all the reasons why teens read: for knowledge, for romance, for amazing and irritating characters. This novel will break readers' hearts and then put them back together a little more whole." -VOYA

"Sepetys's...scene-setting is impeccable; the penetrating cold of the journey is palpable, and she excels at conveying the scope of the losses while giving them a human face....[T]his elegiac tale succeeds with impressive research, affecting characters, and keen, often unsettling insights into humans' counterposed tendencies toward evil and nobility. Readers will be left to discuss which impulse triumphs here." -The Horn Book

From the Publisher

★ 12/01/2015
January 1945. The war in Europe is in its end stages as German forces are beaten back by the Allied armies. To escape the Soviet advance on the eastern front, thousands of refugees flee to the Polish coast. In this desperate flight for freedom, four young people-each from very different backgrounds and each with dark secrets-connect as they vie for passage on the Willhelm Gustloff, a former pleasure cruiser used to evacuate the refugees. Packed to almost ten times its original capacity, the ship is hit by Soviet torpedoes fewer than 12 hours after leaving port. As the ship sinks into the icy waters of the Baltic Sea, what was supposed to be an avenue for escape quickly becomes another fight to survive the randomness of war. VERDICT YA author Sepetys (Between Shades of Gray; Out of the Easy) describes an almost unknown maritime disaster whose nearly 9,000 casualties dwarfed those of both the Titanic and the Lusitania. Told alternately from the perspective of each of the main characters, the novel also highlights the struggle and sacrifices that ordinary people-children-were forced to make. At once beautiful and heart-wrenching, this title will remind readers that there are far more casualties of war than are recorded in history books. Sure to have crossover appeal for adult readers.-Elisabeth Clark, West Florida P.L., Pensacola

Library Journal

12/01/2016
Gr 8 Up-In East Prussia at the end of World War II, a group of refugees are desperately making their way toward the one chance they have at survival: passage aboard the Wilhelm Gustloff. Braving the unforgiving elements, violent soldiers, and an uncertain future, Joana, Emilia, and Florian narrate their harrowing journey, along with unsettling chapters from Alfred, a Nazi sailor. Sepetys brings to vivid life the events and repercussions of this little-known piece of 20th-century history.

School Library Journal

2015-11-03
January 1945: as Russians advance through East Prussia, four teens' lives converge in hopes of escape. Returning to the successful formula of her highly lauded debut, Between Shades of Gray (2011), Sepetys combines research (described in extensive backmatter) with well-crafted fiction to bring to life another little-known story: the sinking (from Soviet torpedoes) of the German ship Wilhelm Gustloff. Told in four alternating voices-Lithuanian nurse Joana, Polish Emilia, Prussian forger Florian, and German soldier Alfred-with often contemporary cadences, this stints on neither history nor fiction. The three sympathetic refugees and their motley companions (especially an orphaned boy and an elderly shoemaker) make it clear that while the Gustloff was a German ship full of German civilians and soldiers during World War II, its sinking was still a tragedy. Only Alfred, stationed on the Gustloff, lacks sympathy; almost a caricature, he is self-delusional, unlikable, a Hitler worshiper. As a vehicle for exposition, however, and a reminder of Germany's role in the war, he serves an invaluable purpose that almost makes up for the mustache-twirling quality of his petty villainy. The inevitability of the ending (including the loss of several characters) doesn't change its poignancy, and the short chapters and slowly revealed back stories for each character guarantee the pages keep turning. Heartbreaking, historical, and a little bit hopeful. (author's note, research and sources, maps) (Historical fiction. 12-16)

Kirkus Reviews

Read More

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The pacing is swift as a thriller...the book's drama comes not simply from the battlefield action-the bombings, the armies on the move-but from the constant wounding fire of lies and revelations, self-deceptions and desperate ententes...It would be near blasphemous to use suffering on this scale as the backdrop to provide the beats of suspense and near escape if it weren't for Sepetys's clear commitment to preserving the memory of the forgotten, the drowned...once again, Ruta Sepetys acts as champion of the interstitial people so often ignored-whole populations lost in the cracks of history.

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by Mark Zusak

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#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • ONE OF TIME MAGAZINE’S 100 BEST YA BOOKS OF ALL TIMEThe extraordinary, beloved novel about the ability of books to feed the soul even in the darkest of times.When Death has a story to tell, you listen....

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by Sheri L. Smith

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Sherri L. Smith was born in Chicago, Illinois and spent most of her childhood reading books. She currently lives in Los Angeles, where she has worked in movies, animation, comic books and construction. Sherri's first book, Lucy the Giant, was an American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults in 2003. The Dutch translation, Lucy XXL (Gottmer, 2005), was awarded an Honorable Mention at the 2005 De Gouden Zoen, or Golden Kiss, Awards for Children's Literature in the Netherlands. Sherri's novel, Sparrow, was chosen as a National Council for the Social Studies/Children's Book Council Notable Social Studies Trade Book for Young People and is also a 2009 Louisiana Young Readers Choice Award Nominee. Upon the release of Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet in February 2008, Sherri was featured as a spotlight author for The Brown Bookshelf's Black History Month celebration, 28 Days Later. Flygirl, an historical YA novel set during World War II, is her fourth novel.

"Cloudberries," Ladybug Magazine (2001)

Lucy the Giant (2002)

Various stories, Bart Simpson Comics (2002)

Sparrow (2006)

Hot Sour, Salty, Sweet (2008)

Flygirl (January 2009)

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For fans of Unbroken and Ruta Sepetys.All Ida Mae Jones wants to do is fly. Her daddy was a pilot, and years after his death she feels closest to him when she's in the air. But as a young black woman in 1940s Louisiana, she knows the sky is off limits to her, until America...

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by Elizabeth Wein

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Editorial Reviews

* "Highly recommended for all libraries, especially where her previous titles have flown off the shelves."-School Library Journal, starred review

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"For me, Code Name Verity is the best of both worlds: an exciting, well-researched masterpiece of historical fiction with a contemporary sensibility....It brought me to tears to realize that I'll never be able to read it again for the first time. That is how powerful a story this is."-Richie's Picks

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"The word crossover appears many times on publisher information sheets, but this is the real deal. An incredibly assured debut novel, full of convincing detail, heart-stopping emotion and tension. I have high hopes for Code Name Verity."-The Bookseller

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"It has been a while since I was so captivated by a character in YA fiction Code Name Verity is one of those rare things: an excitingand affectingfemale adventure story."-The Guardian

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"A fiendishly plotted mind game of a novel, the kind you have to read twice."-The New York Times

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"Maddie and Verity's extraordinary bravery is reflected in frank narrative as they both fight against time and a horrific, powerful enemy...The themes of hope, friendship, and determination even in the most impossible situations are relevant to all readers."-VOYA

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"The unforgettable Code Name Verity played with my mind, and then it ripped out my heart."-Nancy Werlin, New York Times best-selling author

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"I closed this book feeling I'd met real people I'd never forget. Code Name Verity's characters don't just stick with me-they haunt me. I just can't recommend this book enough."-Maggie Stiefvater, author of the New York Times best-selling Shiver trilogy, The Scorpio Races & Books of Faerie

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

"This astonishing tale of friendship and truth will take wing and soar into your heart."-Laurie Halse Anderson, New York Times best-selling author of Speak, Fever 1793 and Wintergirls

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

* "If you pick up this book, it will be some time before you put your dog-eared, tear-stained copy back down."-Booklist (starred review)

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

*"[A] taut, riveting thriller. Readers will be left gasping for the finish, desperate to know how it ends."-School Library Journal (starred review)

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

*"This novel positively soars."-The Horn Book (starred review)

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

*"[An] innovative spy tale built to be savored."-Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (starred review)

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

*"A carefully researched, precisely written tour de force; unforgettable and wrenching."-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

"[T]he author manages the neat trick of both conveying an enormous amount of historical information while also providing a nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat plot peopled with vivid, imperfect and believable characters."-RT Book Reviews

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

"[A]n impressive story of wartime female solidarity."-The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

"The horror of the camp, with its medical experimentation on Polish womencalled Rabbitsis ably captured. Yet, along with the misery, Wein also reveals the humanity that can surface, even in the worst of circumstances."-Booklist

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

"Wein's second World War II adventure novel - the first, "Code Name Verity," was highly praised last year - captures poignantly the fragility of hope and the balm forgiveness offers."-The New York Times

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

" Rose Under Fire' is bound to soar into the promised land of young adult books read by actual adults-and deservedly so, because Wein's unself-consciously important story is timeless, ageless and triumphant."-The Los Angeles Times

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

* "At once heartbreaking and hopeful, Rose Under Fire will stay with readers long after they have finished the last page."-VOYA, stared review

"Wein does again what she did so beautifully in Code Name Verity (2012) and Rose Under Fire (2013): She plaits together the historical record, her passion for flying and ferociously vivid characters to create a heartbreaking adventure that grounds readers in the moment even as geopolitical complexity threatens to knock them off their feet. . . . Unforgettable."-Kirkus Reviews

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

*"A riveting and often brutal tale of WWII action and espionage with a powerful friendship at its core. [an] expertly crafted adventure."-Publishers Weekly, starred review

* "Like Em and Teo's tangled history, Ethiopia's is an intricate crosshatch of tradition, progress, conflict, and rich heritage, and Wein gracefully pilots both piercing stories, highlighting the unique circumstances of Ethiopia in the 1930s and the ubiquitous experience of two teens trying to find their places in the world."-Booklist, starred review

PRAISE FOR CODE NAME VERITY

Accolades

2013 Michael L. Printz Award Honor Book
2013 YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Top Ten
2013 Edgars Award Nominee
New York Times best seller
New York Times Book Review Notable Children's Book of 2012
Kirkus Reviews Best Books of 2012
Publishers Weekly Best Books of 2012
School Library Journal's Best Books of the Year 2012
The Horn Book Magazine's Best Books of 2012
Booklist Books for Youth Editors' Choice: 2012
Library Journal's Best YA Books for Adults
BookPage Best Children's Books of 2012
The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books Blue Ribbons 2012
Chicago Public Library Best of the Best 2012
Young Adult Novels You'll Never Outgrow -part of National Public Radio's Best Books of 2012 series
A BookBrowse 2012 Favorite
2012 Cybils Award finalist

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

* "In plot and character this story is consistently involving, a great, page-turning read; just as impressive is how subtly Wein brings a respectful, critical intelligence to her subject."-The Horn Book, starred review

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

* "Readers will connect with Rose and be moved by her struggle to go forward, find her wings again, and fly."-School Library Journal, starred review

PRAISE FOR ROSE UNDER FIRE

* "[A]lthough the story's action follows [ Code Name Verity]'s, it has its own, equally incandescent integrity. Rich in detail, from the small kindnesses of fellow prisoners to harrowing scenes of escape and the Nazi Doctors' Trial in Nuremburg, at the core of this novel is the resilience of human nature and the power of friendship and hope."-Kirkus Reviews, starred review

From the Publisher

Wein's novel is full of wonderful surprises. She does not shrink from confronting the large, difficult themes that are an integral part of the historical moment she is recounting: racism, war, colonialism, slavery, citizenship and religion. That she manages to handle all of these themes with such grace is admirable...Wein has always known how to spin a plot—and in Black Dove White Raven she does not disappoint. But most important, she knows how to create characters the reader cares about...Wein takes us on quite a flight in Black Dove White Raven ...we hold our breaths and soar.

The New York Times Book Review - Benjamin Alire Sáenz

★ 01/26/2015
Wein returns to Africa, the setting of her Lion Hunters series, with protagonists who share an avocation with those in her award-winning novels Code Name Verity and Rose Under Fire. Delia and Rhoda are stunt pilots, barnstorming the American countryside in the 1920s, each with a child in tow. When Delia is killed during an air show, Rhoda commits to fulfilling their dream of raising Teo, whose father was Ethiopian, in a place where he won't be discriminated against because of his skin color. Rhoda resettles Teo and her own daughter, Emilia, at an Ethiopian coffee plantation just as Haile Selassie takes power-and as Mussolini's troops prepare for an invasion. The novel, which opens with the knowledge that Teo is missing, is constructed as a series of letters, school essays, flight logs, and excerpts of fantasy stories written by Teo and Emilia, all of which Emilia is sending to Selassie in a plea for help. While the conceit tests credulity, Wein brings this fascinating period in history to life with several well-engineered plot twists, lots of high-flying, nail-biting tension, and meticulous research. Ages 12-up. Agent: Ginger Clark, Curtis Brown. (Mar.)

Publishers Weekly

★ 03/01/2015
Gr 8 Up-In her latest World War II-era novel, Wein returns to themes of aviation and the enduring bonds of platonic love and friendship. Best friends Rhoda, a white Quaker, and African American Delia were "barnstorming" pilots, a team who performed in air shows across the United States as White Raven and Black Dove, their children, Emilia and Teo, in tow. When Delia is killed in a plane crash, Rhoda commits to fulfilling Delia's dream for Teo-to live in a land where he wouldn't be judged by the color of his skin-and moves them all to Ethiopia, where Teo's father was born. Life on the coffee farm at Tazma Meda is wonderful, especially since Rhoda is teaching the children to fly, but rumors of invasion by Italy become reality, and bureaucratic snafus mean that the family can't leave the country. Then the war becomes even more personal when all young men of Ethiopian heritage are conscripted. Wein continues to present multidimensional characters within her effortless prose. VERDICT Highly recommended for all libraries, especially where her previous titles have flown off the shelves.-Stephanie Klose, School Library Journal

School Library Journal

2015-01-10
Wein returns to Ethiopia, the setting of her Arthurian adventures, for a high-flying novel about the 1935 Italian invasion.Emilia Menotti and Teodros Dupré share no DNA, but they are otherwise as close as siblings could be. Their aviator mothers had performed together as barnstormers Black Dove and White Raven until a bird strike killed Teo's mother as the two women were preparing to immigrate to Ethiopia, where Teo's father had come from. Alone, Momma raises them on a remote coffee cooperative, an idyll cut short as tensions rise between the independent African nation and Italy, whose colonies border it. Wein does again what she did so beautifully in Code Name Verity (2012) and Rose Under Fire (2013): She plaits together the historical record, her passion for flying and ferociously vivid characters to create a heartbreaking adventure that grounds readers in the moment even as geopolitical complexity threatens to knock them off their feet. The story is pieced together from a combination of documents; Emmy's opening begging Haile Selassie for help is followed by a collection of the two teens' writings, including childhood stories, themes written for the cooperative school and long, diarylike flight logs. This device does not create as seamless a narrative as in her previous two books, and Emmy's and Teo's voices are often hard to tell apart, but Wein's forceful prose will carry readers past any sense of contrivance. Unforgettable. (Historical fiction. 12 & up)

Kirkus Reviews

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Emilia and Teo's lives changed in a fiery, terrifying instant when a bird strike brought down the plane their stunt pilot mothers were flying. Teo's mother died immediately, but Em's survived, determined to raise Teo according to his late mother's wishes-in a place where he won't be discriminated...

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by Alan Gratz

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Notes From Your Bookseller

Powerful and well-written, Refugee interweaves the stories of three children, living through different crises, as they seek shelter from the unfathomable events they have witnessed. This story will have you questioning what home really means.

The award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling novel from Alan Gratz tells the timely—and timeless—story of three different kids seeking refuge.
A New York Times bestseller!
JOSEF is a Jewish boy living in 1930s Nazi Germany. With the threat of concentration camps looming, he and his family board a ship bound for the other side of the world...

ISABEL is a Cuban girl in 1994. With riots and unrest plaguing her country, she and her family set out on a raft, hoping to find safety in America...

MAHMOUD is a Syrian boy in 2015. With his homeland torn apart by violence and destruction, he and his family begin a long trek toward Europe...

All three kids go on harrowing journeys in search of refuge. All will face unimaginable dangers — from drownings to bombings to betrayals. But there is always the hope of tomorrow. And although Josef, Isabel, and Mahmoud are separated by continents and decades, shocking connections will tie their stories together in the end.

As powerful and poignant as it is action-packed and page-turning, this highly acclaimed novel has been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than four years and continues to change readers' lives with its meaningful takes on survival, courage, and the quest for home.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780545880831

Publisher:

Scholastic, Inc.

Publication date:

07/25/2017

Pages:

352

Sales rank:

2,806

Product dimensions:

8.30(w) x 5.60(h) x 1.20(d)

Age Range:

9 - 12 Years

About the Author

ALAN GRATZ is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of several highly acclaimed books for young readers, including Two Degrees, Ground Zero, Allies, Grenade, Refugee, Projekt 1065, Prisoner B-3087, Code of Honor, and Captain America: The Ghost Army, an original graphic novel. Alan lives in North Carolina with his wife and daughter. Look for him online at alangratz.com.

Read an Excerpt

Pak! A pistol rang out again over the waves, and the crowd on the beach cried out in panic. The pistol fired again — pak! — and — ping! — the hull of the Castillos' boat rang as the bullet hit it.The police were shooting at them! But why? Didn't Castro say it was all right to leave? Isabel's eyes fell on Luis and his girlfriend, and she understood. They had been drafted into the police, and they weren't allowed to leave. They were deserters, and deserters were shot.The motor coughed to life, and the boat lurched into a wave, spraying Isabel with seawater. The villagers on the beach cheered for them, and Sr. Castillo revved the engine, leaving the charging policemen in their wake.Isabel braced herself between two of the benches, trying to catch her breath. It took her a moment to process it, but this was really happening. They were leaving Cuba, her village, her home — everything she'd ever known — behind.Isabel's father pitched across the roiling boat and grabbed Sr. Castillo by the shirt. "What are you playing at, letting them on board?" he demanded. "What if they follow us? What if they send a navy boat after us? You've put us all in danger!"Sr. Castillo batted Geraldo Fernandez's arms away. "We didn't ask you to come along!""It's our gasoline!" Isabel's father yelled.They kept arguing, but the engine and the slap of the boat against the waves drowned their words out for Isabel. She wasn't paying any attention anyway. All she could think about was the ninety miles they still had to go, and the water pouring in from the gunshot hole in the side of the boat.

Immigrants and refugees have long been part of our cultural tapestry, though it hasn't been until more recent years that their stories have begun to appear with more authenticity in children's literature. Below are seven inspiring stories, both historical and contemporary, that speak to the experiences of immigrants and refugees. What books would you add [...]

Just Right Reads is a series hosted by Kamilla Benko, children's book editor and author of the forthcoming The Unicorn Quest, featuring newly released middle grade books and Q&As with your favorite authors! Kimberly discusses what it was like to re-enter Ada's story, shares which character is most like her, and reveals which character wasn't [...]

Get out the reading logs-it is back to school time! In between homework, soccer practice, and chess club, we promise your middle grader can sneak in some reading time with these September book picks. The best part? They are family friendly and mom and dad can join in on the fun to make it a [...]

Editorial Reviews

★ 05/22/2017
In this hard-hitting novel, Gratz (Projekt 1065) skillfully intertwines the stories of three protagonists seeking asylum with their respective families. Twelve-year-old Josef is fleeing Nazi Germany on a ship headed for Cuba in 1939; in 1994, 11-year-old Isabel leaves Cuba for the United States aboard a boat; and 12-year-old Mahmoud leaves Syria in 2015 after a bomb destroys his family's apartment building. Though set in different political landscapes, the harrowing narratives share a sense of urgency, danger, and sacrifice, and the brief chapters keep each story fresh in readers' minds. Each character confronts exceptional challenges: Josef must behave as the adult when his father returns shattered from a concentration camp, and Mahmoud realizes that the invisibility he cultivated in Aleppo is less of an asset in Greece ("They only see us when we do something they don't want us to do"). Filled with both tragic loss and ample evidence of resilience, these memorable and tightly plotted stories contextualize and give voice to current refugee crises, underscoring that these journeys are born out of a desperate need for security and safety. Ages 9-12. Agent: Holly Root, Root Literary. (July)

Publishers Weekly

Praise for Refugee:
A New York Times Notable Book

An Amazon Best Book of the Year

A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year

A Kirkus Best Book of the Year

Winner of the Sydney Taylor Book Award

Winner of the National Jewish Book Award

"Unflinching and sympathetic." — The New York Times

"Grade A: A stunning, poignant novel." — Entertainment Weekly

"Harrowing, timely." — People Magazine

"A gripping, visceral, and hold-your-breath intense story." — John Green, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Fault in Our Stars

* "Gratz accomplishes a feat that is nothing short of brilliant, offering a skillfully wrought narrative laced with global and intergenerational reverberations that signal hope for the future. . . . Poignant, respectful, and historically accurate while pulsating with emotional turmoil, adventure, and suspense."

— Kirkus Reviews, starred review

* "[A] hard-hitting novel. . . . Filled with both tragic loss and ample evidence of resilience, these memorable and tightly plotted stories contextualize and give voice to current refugee crises, underscoring that these journeys are born out of a desperate need for security and safety." — Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Gratz, who is known for well-written and well-researched historical fiction, doesn't disappoint. His latest is timely and moving. . . . This compelling novel will help young people make sense of today's refugee crisis. Meant to be read, discussed, and shared widely." — School Library Journal

"Some novels are engaging and some novels are important. Refugee is both." — #1 New York Times bestselling author Ruta Sepetys

"This heart-stopping novel is not only compelling — it is necessary." — Judy Blundell, National Book Award winning author of What I Saw and How I Lied

"An incredibly important, heartrending, edge-of-the-seat read, bringing light to the plight of immigrants who search for safety and freedom." — Pam Muñoz Ryan, author of the New York Times bestseller and Newbery Honor Book Echo

"With urgent, clear-eyed storytelling, Gratz's Refugee compellingly explores the desperation and strength that unites those struggling for a place to call home." — Eliot Schrefer, New York Times bestselling author and two-time National Book Award finalist of Rescued and Endangered

"Full of struggle, heroism, and non-stop adventure, Refugee is not only an important book, it's a terrific story." — Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, author of the New York Times bestseller and Newbery Honor Book The War That Saved My Life

"Powerful and compelling. Refugee is a story about what unites us all." — Christina Diaz Gonzalez, award-winning author of Moving Target
Praise for Projekt 1065:
* "While the book is replete with fascinating historical insight, Gratz has also crafted a suspenseful mystery that will keep readers on the edge of their seats. With short, action-packed chapters, it is a great choice for reluctant readers as well... A winning combination of action, suspense, and historical setting." — School Library Journal, starred review

* "A rare insider's glimpse into the Hitler Youth: animated, well-researched, and thought-provoking." — Kirkus Reviews, starred review

"[A] high-action spy thriller." — Booklist
Praise for Prisoner B-3087:
A Junior Library Guild Selection

Golden Sower Award, 2014-2015 Winner Nebraska

Isinglass Teen Read Award, 2014-2015 Winner New Hampshire

Pennsylvania Young Readers' Choice Award, 2014-2015 Winner Pennsylvania

Junior Book Award, 2015-2016 Winner South Carolina

Grand Canyon Reader Award, 2015-2016 Winner Arizona

Truman Readers Award, 2015-2016 Winner Missouri

Readers Choice Awards, Winner 2015-2016 Virginia

Volunteer State Book Award Winner, 2015-2016 Tennessee

"A powerful story, well told." — School Library Journal

"A bone-chilling tale not to be ignored." — Kirkus Reviews

"[A] remarkable survival story." — Booklist

"Gratz ably conveys . . . fatalism, yearning, and determination in the face of the unimaginable." — Publishers Weekly

"Heartbreaking, gripping, raw, and emotional . . . storytelling at its finest." — VOYA
Praise for Code of Honor:
"Readers will be swept up by both the intrigue and the rapid pacing... Kamran is a smart and sympathetic narrator, and readers will be happy to spend time with him in this action-packed thriller." — Kirkus Reviews

"Exciting, at times ripped from the headlines, and scary, this cinematic work has layers of intrigue and danger in each scene... will appeal to a variety of readers and will raise questions about patriotism, loyalty, and trust... A winner." — School Library Journal

"Vivid characters and timely topics, such as posttraumatic stress disorder, contribute to making Code of Honor a first-rate novel." — VOYA

From the Publisher

07/01/2017
Gr 5-7-Gratz presents three interrelated stories about surviving. The tales center on children and their families who are driven from their homes by war, violence, and unrest. Josef must leave Nazi-controlled Germany with his mother, his sister, and his mentally broken father (just returned to them from Auschwitz). He sails across the Atlantic Ocean on the ill-fated St. Louis only to be turned away from Cuba and returned to Europe. Isabel and her family live in Cuba and escape on a makeshift raft during the exodus in the 1990s. They flee the repression and poverty of Fidel Castro's rule. Mahmoud, a Syrian boy, and his family seek refuge from the ongoing war and violence in their home city of Aleppo. They board a dinghy in order to cross the Aegean sea from Turkey to Greece. All the entries share elements of hardship, fear, and trauma and stress the power of love, family, and incredible sacrifice. Gratz, who is known for well-written and well-researched historical fiction, doesn't disappoint. His latest is timely and moving. VERDICT This compelling novel will help young people make sense of today's refugee crisis. Meant to be read, discussed, and shared widely. A first purchase.-Patricia Feriano, Montgomery County Public Schools, MD

School Library Journal

★ 2017-05-10
In the midst of political turmoil, how do you escape the only country that you've ever known and navigate a new life? Parallel stories of three different middle school-aged refugees-Josef from Nazi Germany in 1938, Isabel from 1994 Cuba, and Mahmoud from 2015 Aleppo-eventually intertwine for maximum impact. Three countries, three time periods, three brave protagonists. Yet these three refugee odysseys have so much in common. Each traverses a landscape ruled by a dictator and must balance freedom, family, and responsibility. Each initially leaves by boat, struggles between visibility and invisibility, copes with repeated obstacles and heart-wrenching loss, and gains resilience in the process. Each third-person narrative offers an accessible look at migration under duress, in which the behavior of familiar adults changes unpredictably, strangers exploit the vulnerabilities of transients, and circumstances seem driven by random luck. Mahmoud eventually concludes that visibility is best: "See us....Hear us. Help us." With this book, Gratz accomplishes a feat that is nothing short of brilliant, offering a skillfully wrought narrative laced with global and intergenerational reverberations that signal hope for the future. Excellent for older middle grade and above in classrooms, book groups, and/or communities looking to increase empathy for new and existing arrivals from afar. Poignant, respectful, and historically accurate while pulsating with emotional turmoil, adventure, and suspense. (maps, author's note) (Historical fiction. 10-14)

Kirkus Reviews

Three narrators read the first-person narratives of three teens who are fleeing their homelands. Michael Goldstrom expresses the anxieties of Josef, who flees Germany in 1938 aboard a ship bound for Cuba. His father has been imprisoned, and Joseph wonders if the family will fall victim to Nazi sailors. Assaf Cohen conveys the maturity, caution, and protectiveness of Mahmoud as his family escapes besieged Aleppo in 2015. Kyla Garcia depicts the devotion of Isabel, who sacrifices her beloved trumpet to buy items needed to escape Cuba for America in a leaking boat in 1994. The narrators' accents differentiate characters and time periods well. Their excellent renditions convey the teens' emotions and point to commonalities of fear, courage, family love, and responsibility. S.W. © AudioFile 2017, Portland, Maine

AUGUST 2017 - AudioFile

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Customer Reviews

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The award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling novel from Alan Gratz tells the timely—and timeless—story of three different kids seeking refuge.A New York Times bestseller!JOSEF is a Jewish boy living in 1930s Nazi Germany. With the...

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by Anne Blankman

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A gripping historical thriller set in 1930s Munich, Prisoner of Night and Fog is the evocative story of an ordinary girl faced with an extraordinary choice in Hitler's Germany. Fans of Code Name Verity will love this novel full of romance, danger, and intrigue!

Gretchen Müller grew up in the National Socialist Party under the wing of her uncle Dolf-who has kept her family cherished and protected from that side of society ever since her father sacrificed his life for Dolf's years ago. Dolf is none other than Adolf Hitler. And Gretchen follows his every command.

When she meets a fearless and handsome young Jewish reporter named Daniel Cohen, who claims that her father was actually murdered by an unknown comrade, Gretchen doesn't know what to believe. She soon discovers that beyond her sheltered view lies a world full of shadowy secrets and disturbing violence.

As Gretchen's investigations lead her to question the motives and loyalties of her dearest friends and her closest family, she must determine her own allegiances-even if her choices could get her and Daniel killed.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780062278838

Publisher:

HarperCollins Publishers

Publication date:

04/22/2014

Sold by:

HARPERCOLLINS

Format:

eBook

Pages:

432

Sales rank:

626,137

File size:

901 KB

Age Range:

13 - 17 Years

About the Author

Anne Blankman is the acclaimed author of Prisoner of Night and Fog, which received a starred review and a Flying Start from Publishers Weekly. When Anne was twelve, she read Anne Frank's diary and has been haunted by World War II ever since. The idea for Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke came to her after she read about a real-life unsolved street assassination from January 1933, which was the inspiration for Monika Junge's murder. To research this book, she studied a wide range of sources, including biographies, memoirs, social histories, psychological profiles, old maps, photographs, and video footage.

Anne lives in southeastern Virginia with her husband, Mike, her young daughter, Kirsten, and, of course, lots and lots of books.

Editorial Reviews

04/01/2014
Gr 9 Up-Gretchen Muller has been raised with the ideals of the National Socialist Party. Blonde, blue-eyed, and beautiful, she has become a favorite of her Uncle Dolf, who is none other than Adolf Hitler. Her father, who served with Hitler during World War I, gave his life to protect him during the Beer Hall Putsch. Although she is grateful to her Uncle and the Party, she is not blind to their policies and punishments. Living in a dysfunctional family, Gretchen has endured the torments and twisted pranks of her malicious brother while her mother turns a blind eye. As the Nazis are on the verge of gaining power in Germany, the teen is contacted by a Jewish reporter, Daniel Cohen. His investigation into the Party has led him to information about her father's death that will change her life forever. Blankman's debut is beautifully written, full of suspense and intrigue. The well-developed characters drive the novel, while the murder-mystery plot is full of vivid historical details. Gretchen's journey of self-discovery unearths certain truths about her family, Hitler, and the Party and demonstrates that it is sometimes easier to accept a lie than the truth. Her relationship with Daniel, though not the main focus, is genuine and memorable. Readers will certainly enjoy this haunting and captivating work. An author's note provides historical information while setting the stage for a sequel.-Donna Rosenblum, Floral Park Memorial High School, NY

School Library Journal

★ 02/03/2014
Gretchen Müller has grown up in 1920s Germany believing her father sacrificed his life to shield "Uncle Dolf" from a fusillade of police bullets during Hitler's failed 1923 attempt to overthrow the government. Because of her father's martyrdom, Gretchen's family has enjoyed favored status among the Nazis; she is now Hitler's "favorite pet," and her (terrifying) older brother works as one of his thuggish Brownshirts. Then Gretchen meets Daniel Cohen, a young reporter who has evidence that her father was not a Nazi hero, but a murder victim. Gretchen refuses to believe it, but as she undertakes her own investigation, she realizes that many things she had accepted as truth are lies. Debut novelist Blankman's account of life in Munich prior to Hitler's 1933 elevation to the chancellorship is completely engrossing. In an afterword, she separates fact from the fictional characters she created; a three-page bibliography is appended. Concocting a murder mystery featuring one of history's most well-known figures is risky, and some scenes test the limits of plausibility. But Blankman creates riveting tension for her heroine and pulls readers through with an irresistible subplot featuring forbidden love. Ages 13-up. Agent: Tracey Adams, Adams Literary. (Apr.)

Publishers Weekly

I'm in awed envy of the daring with which Anne Blankman plunges into her difficult and sensitive subject matter. It's terrifying and incredible to think how much of this story is true." - Elizabeth Wein, award-winning author of CODE NAME VERITY

"PRISONER OF NIGHT AND FOG seamlessly blends the fascinating, terrifying facts of Hitler's rise to power with a gripping murder mystery. Gretchen is a brave and believable protagonist, and readers will become engrossed in her struggle to uncover the truth. I can't wait for the sequel." - Michelle Cooper, award-winning author of the Montmaray Journals series

"A nail-biting visit to Adolf Hitler's inner circle in the early days of the Nazi party's rise to power." - Jennifer Armstrong, author of In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer (with Irene Gut Opdyke)

"Completely engrossing" - Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"An interesting perspective on a well-trod era." - Kirkus Reviews

"Haunting and captivating" - School Library Journal

"A winning gamble" - Booklist

From the Publisher

I'm in awed envy of the daring with which Anne Blankman plunges into her difficult and sensitive subject matter. It's terrifying and incredible to think how much of this story is true.

Elizabeth Wein

A nail-biting visit to Adolf Hitler's inner circle in the early days of the Nazi party's rise to power.

Jennifer Armstrong

PRISONER OF NIGHT AND FOG seamlessly blends the fascinating, terrifying facts of Hitler's rise to power with a gripping murder mystery. Gretchen is a brave and believable protagonist, and readers will become engrossed in her struggle to uncover the truth. I can't wait for the sequel.

Michelle Cooper

2014-03-03
In 1930s Munich, a young German girl learns to question her learned hatred for Jewish people. Seventeen-year-old Gretchen Müller has grown up knowing Adolf Hitler as "Uncle Dolf," the great National Socialist leader whose life her father had died saving in 1923. This bedrock truth is challenged when a Jewish reporter named Daniel Cohen reaches out to her suggesting that her father actually had been murdered by a fellow National Socialist party member. Together, they work to unravel the mystery of why her father was killed. Gretchen finds herself doubting everything she has been taught to hate and fear about Jews and ultimately must decide where her honor and loyalty lie. In her debut, Blankman weaves into Gretchen's story the details of Hitler's historically documented rise to power (and psychopathic nature), and her fictional characters talk and live among some of Nazi Germany's most notorious figures. At times, the dialogue is unwieldy, and the historical details consume the narrative, which may cause some readers to become bored by slower sections of the story (though a sexually charged scene with Hitler himself will open their eyes wide). Here's hoping the author will find a better balance between description and action in the proposed sequel, as the relationship between Gretchen and Daniel is what sets this apart. An interesting perspective on a well-trod era. (author's note, bibliography) (Historical fiction. 13-17)

Kirkus Reviews

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A gripping historical thriller set in 1930s Munich, Prisoner of Night and Fog is the evocative story of an ordinary girl faced with an extraordinary choice in Hitler's Germany. Fans of Code Name Verity will love this novel full of romance, danger, and intrigue!Gretchen...

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by Alan Gratz

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Notes From Your Bookseller

Powerful and well-written, Refugee interweaves the stories of three children, living through different crises, as they seek shelter from the unfathomable events they have witnessed. This story will have you questioning what home really means.

The award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling novel from Alan Gratz tells the timely—and timeless—story of three different kids seeking refuge.
A New York Times bestseller!
JOSEF is a Jewish boy living in 1930s Nazi Germany. With the threat of concentration camps looming, he and his family board a ship bound for the other side of the world...

ISABEL is a Cuban girl in 1994. With riots and unrest plaguing her country, she and her family set out on a raft, hoping to find safety in America...

MAHMOUD is a Syrian boy in 2015. With his homeland torn apart by violence and destruction, he and his family begin a long trek toward Europe...

All three kids go on harrowing journeys in search of refuge. All will face unimaginable dangers — from drownings to bombings to betrayals. But there is always the hope of tomorrow. And although Josef, Isabel, and Mahmoud are separated by continents and decades, shocking connections will tie their stories together in the end.

As powerful and poignant as it is action-packed and page-turning, this highly acclaimed novel has been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than four years and continues to change readers' lives with its meaningful takes on survival, courage, and the quest for home.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780545880831

Publisher:

Scholastic, Inc.

Publication date:

07/25/2017

Pages:

352

Sales rank:

2,806

Product dimensions:

8.30(w) x 5.60(h) x 1.20(d)

Age Range:

9 - 12 Years

About the Author

ALAN GRATZ is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of several highly acclaimed books for young readers, including Two Degrees, Ground Zero, Allies, Grenade, Refugee, Projekt 1065, Prisoner B-3087, Code of Honor, and Captain America: The Ghost Army, an original graphic novel. Alan lives in North Carolina with his wife and daughter. Look for him online at alangratz.com.

Read an Excerpt

Pak! A pistol rang out again over the waves, and the crowd on the beach cried out in panic. The pistol fired again — pak! — and — ping! — the hull of the Castillos' boat rang as the bullet hit it.The police were shooting at them! But why? Didn't Castro say it was all right to leave? Isabel's eyes fell on Luis and his girlfriend, and she understood. They had been drafted into the police, and they weren't allowed to leave. They were deserters, and deserters were shot.The motor coughed to life, and the boat lurched into a wave, spraying Isabel with seawater. The villagers on the beach cheered for them, and Sr. Castillo revved the engine, leaving the charging policemen in their wake.Isabel braced herself between two of the benches, trying to catch her breath. It took her a moment to process it, but this was really happening. They were leaving Cuba, her village, her home — everything she'd ever known — behind.Isabel's father pitched across the roiling boat and grabbed Sr. Castillo by the shirt. "What are you playing at, letting them on board?" he demanded. "What if they follow us? What if they send a navy boat after us? You've put us all in danger!"Sr. Castillo batted Geraldo Fernandez's arms away. "We didn't ask you to come along!""It's our gasoline!" Isabel's father yelled.They kept arguing, but the engine and the slap of the boat against the waves drowned their words out for Isabel. She wasn't paying any attention anyway. All she could think about was the ninety miles they still had to go, and the water pouring in from the gunshot hole in the side of the boat.

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Editorial Reviews

★ 05/22/2017
In this hard-hitting novel, Gratz (Projekt 1065) skillfully intertwines the stories of three protagonists seeking asylum with their respective families. Twelve-year-old Josef is fleeing Nazi Germany on a ship headed for Cuba in 1939; in 1994, 11-year-old Isabel leaves Cuba for the United States aboard a boat; and 12-year-old Mahmoud leaves Syria in 2015 after a bomb destroys his family's apartment building. Though set in different political landscapes, the harrowing narratives share a sense of urgency, danger, and sacrifice, and the brief chapters keep each story fresh in readers' minds. Each character confronts exceptional challenges: Josef must behave as the adult when his father returns shattered from a concentration camp, and Mahmoud realizes that the invisibility he cultivated in Aleppo is less of an asset in Greece ("They only see us when we do something they don't want us to do"). Filled with both tragic loss and ample evidence of resilience, these memorable and tightly plotted stories contextualize and give voice to current refugee crises, underscoring that these journeys are born out of a desperate need for security and safety. Ages 9-12. Agent: Holly Root, Root Literary. (July)

Publishers Weekly

Praise for Refugee:
A New York Times Notable Book

An Amazon Best Book of the Year

A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year

A Kirkus Best Book of the Year

Winner of the Sydney Taylor Book Award

Winner of the National Jewish Book Award

"Unflinching and sympathetic." — The New York Times

"Grade A: A stunning, poignant novel." — Entertainment Weekly

"Harrowing, timely." — People Magazine

"A gripping, visceral, and hold-your-breath intense story." — John Green, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Fault in Our Stars

* "Gratz accomplishes a feat that is nothing short of brilliant, offering a skillfully wrought narrative laced with global and intergenerational reverberations that signal hope for the future. . . . Poignant, respectful, and historically accurate while pulsating with emotional turmoil, adventure, and suspense."

— Kirkus Reviews, starred review

* "[A] hard-hitting novel. . . . Filled with both tragic loss and ample evidence of resilience, these memorable and tightly plotted stories contextualize and give voice to current refugee crises, underscoring that these journeys are born out of a desperate need for security and safety." — Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Gratz, who is known for well-written and well-researched historical fiction, doesn't disappoint. His latest is timely and moving. . . . This compelling novel will help young people make sense of today's refugee crisis. Meant to be read, discussed, and shared widely." — School Library Journal

"Some novels are engaging and some novels are important. Refugee is both." — #1 New York Times bestselling author Ruta Sepetys

"This heart-stopping novel is not only compelling — it is necessary." — Judy Blundell, National Book Award winning author of What I Saw and How I Lied

"An incredibly important, heartrending, edge-of-the-seat read, bringing light to the plight of immigrants who search for safety and freedom." — Pam Muñoz Ryan, author of the New York Times bestseller and Newbery Honor Book Echo

"With urgent, clear-eyed storytelling, Gratz's Refugee compellingly explores the desperation and strength that unites those struggling for a place to call home." — Eliot Schrefer, New York Times bestselling author and two-time National Book Award finalist of Rescued and Endangered

"Full of struggle, heroism, and non-stop adventure, Refugee is not only an important book, it's a terrific story." — Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, author of the New York Times bestseller and Newbery Honor Book The War That Saved My Life

"Powerful and compelling. Refugee is a story about what unites us all." — Christina Diaz Gonzalez, award-winning author of Moving Target
Praise for Projekt 1065:
* "While the book is replete with fascinating historical insight, Gratz has also crafted a suspenseful mystery that will keep readers on the edge of their seats. With short, action-packed chapters, it is a great choice for reluctant readers as well... A winning combination of action, suspense, and historical setting." — School Library Journal, starred review

* "A rare insider's glimpse into the Hitler Youth: animated, well-researched, and thought-provoking." — Kirkus Reviews, starred review

"[A] high-action spy thriller." — Booklist
Praise for Prisoner B-3087:
A Junior Library Guild Selection

Golden Sower Award, 2014-2015 Winner Nebraska

Isinglass Teen Read Award, 2014-2015 Winner New Hampshire

Pennsylvania Young Readers' Choice Award, 2014-2015 Winner Pennsylvania

Junior Book Award, 2015-2016 Winner South Carolina

Grand Canyon Reader Award, 2015-2016 Winner Arizona

Truman Readers Award, 2015-2016 Winner Missouri

Readers Choice Awards, Winner 2015-2016 Virginia

Volunteer State Book Award Winner, 2015-2016 Tennessee

"A powerful story, well told." — School Library Journal

"A bone-chilling tale not to be ignored." — Kirkus Reviews

"[A] remarkable survival story." — Booklist

"Gratz ably conveys . . . fatalism, yearning, and determination in the face of the unimaginable." — Publishers Weekly

"Heartbreaking, gripping, raw, and emotional . . . storytelling at its finest." — VOYA
Praise for Code of Honor:
"Readers will be swept up by both the intrigue and the rapid pacing... Kamran is a smart and sympathetic narrator, and readers will be happy to spend time with him in this action-packed thriller." — Kirkus Reviews

"Exciting, at times ripped from the headlines, and scary, this cinematic work has layers of intrigue and danger in each scene... will appeal to a variety of readers and will raise questions about patriotism, loyalty, and trust... A winner." — School Library Journal

"Vivid characters and timely topics, such as posttraumatic stress disorder, contribute to making Code of Honor a first-rate novel." — VOYA

From the Publisher

07/01/2017
Gr 5-7-Gratz presents three interrelated stories about surviving. The tales center on children and their families who are driven from their homes by war, violence, and unrest. Josef must leave Nazi-controlled Germany with his mother, his sister, and his mentally broken father (just returned to them from Auschwitz). He sails across the Atlantic Ocean on the ill-fated St. Louis only to be turned away from Cuba and returned to Europe. Isabel and her family live in Cuba and escape on a makeshift raft during the exodus in the 1990s. They flee the repression and poverty of Fidel Castro's rule. Mahmoud, a Syrian boy, and his family seek refuge from the ongoing war and violence in their home city of Aleppo. They board a dinghy in order to cross the Aegean sea from Turkey to Greece. All the entries share elements of hardship, fear, and trauma and stress the power of love, family, and incredible sacrifice. Gratz, who is known for well-written and well-researched historical fiction, doesn't disappoint. His latest is timely and moving. VERDICT This compelling novel will help young people make sense of today's refugee crisis. Meant to be read, discussed, and shared widely. A first purchase.-Patricia Feriano, Montgomery County Public Schools, MD

School Library Journal

★ 2017-05-10
In the midst of political turmoil, how do you escape the only country that you've ever known and navigate a new life? Parallel stories of three different middle school-aged refugees-Josef from Nazi Germany in 1938, Isabel from 1994 Cuba, and Mahmoud from 2015 Aleppo-eventually intertwine for maximum impact. Three countries, three time periods, three brave protagonists. Yet these three refugee odysseys have so much in common. Each traverses a landscape ruled by a dictator and must balance freedom, family, and responsibility. Each initially leaves by boat, struggles between visibility and invisibility, copes with repeated obstacles and heart-wrenching loss, and gains resilience in the process. Each third-person narrative offers an accessible look at migration under duress, in which the behavior of familiar adults changes unpredictably, strangers exploit the vulnerabilities of transients, and circumstances seem driven by random luck. Mahmoud eventually concludes that visibility is best: "See us....Hear us. Help us." With this book, Gratz accomplishes a feat that is nothing short of brilliant, offering a skillfully wrought narrative laced with global and intergenerational reverberations that signal hope for the future. Excellent for older middle grade and above in classrooms, book groups, and/or communities looking to increase empathy for new and existing arrivals from afar. Poignant, respectful, and historically accurate while pulsating with emotional turmoil, adventure, and suspense. (maps, author's note) (Historical fiction. 10-14)

Kirkus Reviews

Three narrators read the first-person narratives of three teens who are fleeing their homelands. Michael Goldstrom expresses the anxieties of Josef, who flees Germany in 1938 aboard a ship bound for Cuba. His father has been imprisoned, and Joseph wonders if the family will fall victim to Nazi sailors. Assaf Cohen conveys the maturity, caution, and protectiveness of Mahmoud as his family escapes besieged Aleppo in 2015. Kyla Garcia depicts the devotion of Isabel, who sacrifices her beloved trumpet to buy items needed to escape Cuba for America in a leaking boat in 1994. The narrators' accents differentiate characters and time periods well. Their excellent renditions convey the teens' emotions and point to commonalities of fear, courage, family love, and responsibility. S.W. © AudioFile 2017, Portland, Maine

AUGUST 2017 - AudioFile

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The award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling novel from Alan Gratz tells the timely—and timeless—story of three different kids seeking refuge.A New York Times bestseller!JOSEF is a Jewish boy living in 1930s Nazi Germany. With the...

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by Christopher Paul Curtis

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Notes From Your Bookseller

On an epic search for the father he's never known, Bud has all he needs in his suitcase and there is absolutely nothing that can stop him. This is as heartfelt as it is hilarious, a simple story of impossible perseverence and the bonds of family.

The Newbery Medal and Coretta Scott King Award-winning classic about a boy who decides to hit the road to find his father-from Christopher Paul Curtis, author of The Watsons Go To Birmingham-1963, a Newbery and Coretta Scott King Honoree.

It's 1936, in Flint, Michigan. Times may be hard, and ten-year-old Bud may be a motherless boy on the run, but Bud's got a few things going for him:

1. He has his own suitcase full of special things.
2. He's the author of Bud Caldwell's Rules and Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar Out of Yourself.
3. His momma never told him who his father was, but she left a clue: flyers advertising Herman E. Calloway and his famous band, the Dusky Devastators of the Depression!!!!!!

Bud's got an idea that those flyers will lead him to his father. Once he decides to hit the road to find this mystery man, nothing can stop him-not hunger, not fear, not vampires, not even Herman E. Calloway himself.

BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR:
The New York Times
School Library Journal
Publishers Weekly

"[A] powerfully felt novel." - The New York Times

"Will keep readers engrossed from first page to last." - Publishers Weekly, Starred

"Curtis writes with a razor-sharp intelligence that grabs the reader by the heart and never lets go. . . . This highly recommended title [is] at the top of the list of books to be read again and again." - Voice of Youth Advocates, Starred

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780440413288

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

01/08/2002

Edition description:

Reprint

Pages:

288

Sales rank:

7,540

Product dimensions:

5.40(w) x 10.88(h) x 0.63(d)

Lexile:

950L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

9 - 12 Years

About the Author

Christopher Paul Curtis is the author of the Newbery Honor-winning The Watsons Go to Birmingham-1963.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Here we go again. We were all standing in line waiting for breakfast when one of the caseworkers came in and tap-tap-tapped down the line. Uh-oh, this meant bad news, either they'd found a foster home for somebody or somebody was about to get paddled. All the kids watched the woman as she moved along the line, her high-heeled shoes sounding like little firecrackers going off on the wooden floor.

Shoot! She stopped at me and said, "Are you Buddy Caldwell?"

I said, "It's Bud, not Buddy, ma'am."

She put her hand on my shoulder and took me out of line. Then she pulled Jerry, one of the littler boys, over. "Aren't you Jerry Clark?" He nodded.

"Boys, good news! Now that the school year has ended, you both have been accepted in new temporary-care homes starting this afternoon!"

Jerry asked the same thing I was thinking. "Together?"

She said, "Why, no. Jerry, you'll be in a family with three little girls . . ."

Jerry looked like he'd just found out they were going to dip him in a pot of boiling milk.

". . . and Bud . . ." She looked at some papers she was holding. "Oh, yes, the Amoses, you'll be with Mr. and Mrs. Amos and their son, who's twelve years old, that makes him just two years older than you, doesn't it, Bud?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She said, "I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

Me and Jerry looked at each other.

The woman said, "Now, now, boys, no need to look so glum. I know you don't understand what it means, but there's a depression going on all over this country. People can't find jobs and these are very, very difficult times for everybody. We've been lucky enough to find two wonderful families who've opened their doors for you. I think it's best that we show our new foster families that we're very . . ."

She dragged out the word very, waiting for us to finish her sentence for her.

Jerry said, "Cheerful, helpful and grateful." I moved my lips and mumbled.

She smiled and said, "Unfortunately, you won't have time for breakfast. I'll have a couple of pieces of fruit put in a bag. In the meantime go to the sleep room and strip your beds and gather all of your things."

Here we go again. I felt like I was walking in my sleep as I followed Jerry back to the room where all the boys' beds were jim-jammed together. This was the third foster home I was going to and I'm used to packing up and leaving, but it still surprises me that there are always a few seconds, right after they tell you you've got to go, when my nose gets all runny and my throat gets all choky and my eyes get all sting-y. But the tears coming out doesn't happen to me anymore, I don't know when it first happened, but it seems like my eyes don't cry no more.

Jerry sat on his bed and I could tell that he was losing the fight not to cry. Tears were popping out of his eyes and slipping down his cheeks.

I sat down next to him and said, "I know being in a house with three girls sounds terrible, Jerry, but it's a lot better than being with a boy who's a couple of years older than you. I'm the one who's going to have problems. A older boy is going to want to fight, but those little girls are going to treat you real good. They're going to treat you like some kind of special pet or something."

Jerry said, "You really think so?"

I said, "I'd trade you in a minute. The worst thing that's going to happen to you is that they're going to make you play house a lot. They'll probably make you be the baby and will hug you and do this kind of junk to you." I tickled Jerry under his chin and said, "Ga-ga goo-goo, baby-waby."

Jerry couldn't help but smile. I said, "You're going to be great."

Jerry looked like he wasn't so scared anymore so I went over to my bed and started getting ready.

Even though it was me who was in a lot of trouble I couldn't help but feel sorry for Jerry. Not only because he was going to have to live around three girls, but also because being six is a real rough age to be at. Most folks think you start to be a real adult when you're fifteen or sixteen years old, but that's not true, it really starts when you're around six.

It's at six that grown folks don't think you're a cute little kid anymore, they talk to you and expect that you understand everything they mean. And you'd best understand too, if you aren't looking for some real trouble, 'cause it's around six that grown folks stop giving you little swats and taps and jump clean up to giving you slugs that'll knock you right down and have you seeing stars in the middle of the day. The first foster home I was in taught me that real quick.

Six is a bad time too 'cause that's when some real scary things start to happen to your body, it's around then that your teeth start coming a-loose in your mouth.

You wake up one morning and it seems like your tongue is the first one to notice that something strange is going on, 'cause as soon as you get up there it is pushing and rubbing up against one of your front teeth and I'll be doggoned if that tooth isn't the littlest bit wiggly.

At first you think it's kind of funny, but the tooth keeps getting looser and looser and one day, in the middle of pushing the tooth back and forth and squinching your eyes shut, you pull it clean out. It's the scariest thing you can think of 'cause you lose control of your tongue at the same time and no matter how hard you try to stop it, it won't leave the new hole in your mouth alone, it keeps digging around in the spot where that tooth used to be.

You tell some adult about what's happening but all they do is say it's normal. You can't be too sure, though, 'cause it shakes you up a whole lot more than grown folks think it does when perfectly good parts of your body commence to loosening up and falling off of you.

Unless you're as stupid as a lamppost you've got to wonder what's coming off next, your arm? Your leg? Your neck? Every morning when you wake up it seems a lot of your parts aren't stuck on as good as they used to be.

Six is real tough. That's how old I was when I came to live here in the Home. That's how old I was when Momma died.

I folded the blanket and sheet and set them back on the mattress. Then I reached under the bed to get my suitcase. Most of the kids in the Home keep their things in a paper or cloth sack, but not me. I have my own suitcase.

I set it on the mattress and untied the twine that held it together. I did what I do every night before I go to sleep, I checked to make sure everything was there. The way there're more and more kids coming into the Home every day, I had to make sure no one had run off with any of my things.

First I pulled my blanket out and saw that everything was where it was supposed to be. At the bottom of my suitcase were the flyers. I took the blue flyer out and looked at it again.

The paper was starting to wear out from me looking at it so much but I liked checking to see if there was anything I hadn't noticed before. It was like something was telling me there was a message for me on this flyer but I didn't have the decoder ring to read what it was.

Across the top of the flyer writ in big black letters were the words limited engagement, then in little letters it said, "Direct from an S.R.O. engagement in New York City." Underneath that in big letters again it said, "herman e. calloway and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression!!!!!!"

Those six exclamation points made it seem like this was the most important news anyone could think of, seems like you'd have to be really great to deserve all of those exclamation points all stacked up in a row like that.

Next the paper said, "Masters of the New Jazz," then in the middle of the flyer was a blurry picture of the man I have a real good suspicion about. I've never met him, but I have a pretty good feeling that this guy must be my father.

In the picture he's standing next to a giant fiddle that's taller than him. It looks like it's real heavy 'cause he's leaning up against it trying to hold it up. He looks like he's been doing this for a long time and he must be tired 'cause he has a droopy, dreamy look on his face. There are two men beside him, one playing drums and the other one blowing a horn.

It wasn't hard to see what the guy who must be my father was like just by looking at his picture. You could tell he was a real quiet, real friendly and smart man, he had one of those kind of faces. Underneath the picture someone had writ with a black fountain pen, "One Night Only in Flint, Michigan, at the Luxurious Fifty Grand on Saturday June 16, 1932. 9 Until ?"

I remember Momma bringing this flyer with her when she came from working one day, I remember because she got very upset when she put it on the supper table and kept looking at it and picking it up and putting it back and moving it around. I was only six then and couldn't understand why this one got her so upset, she kept four others that were a lot like it in her dressing table, but this one really got her jumpy. The only difference I could see between the blue one and the others was that the others didn't say anything about Flint on them.

I remember this blue one too 'cause it wasn't too long after she brought it home that I knocked on Momma's bedroom door, then found her.

I put the blue flyer back in the suitcase with the four older ones and put everything back in its place.

I went over to the big chest of drawers and took my other set of clothes out and put them in the suitcase too. I tied the twine back around my bag, then went and sat on Jerry's bed with him. Jerry must've been thinking just as hard as I was 'cause neither one of us said nothing, we just sat close enough so that our shoulders were touching.

Here we go again.

Reading Group Guide

ABOUT THIS BOOK

During the Great Depression, a 10-year-old homeless boy sets out in search of a man he believes to be his father.

Bud Caldwell's mother died when he was six years old, leaving him with nothing but a cardboard suitcase filled with memories and a possible hint of who his father may be. Now, ten years old and on the run, Bud lives among the homeless in Flint, Michigan, until he decides to walk to Grand Rapids in search of his father. Helped by a few kind people along the way, Bud eventually locates Herman E. Calloway, a famous musician who denies Bud's claim that he is his father. Finally, the contents of Bud's suitcase provide the clues necessary to prove that Calloway is indeed related to Bud, but not in the way that Bud expects.

ABOUT THIS AUTHOR

Born in Flint, Michigan, Christopher Paul Curtis spent his first 13 years after high school on the assembly line of Flint's historic Fisher Body Plant #1. His job entailed hanging doors, and it left him with an aversion to getting into and out of large automobiles-particularly big Buicks.

Curtis's writing-and his dedication to it-has been greatly influenced by his family members. With grandfathers like Earl "Lefty" Lewis, a Negro Baseball League pitcher, and 1930s bandleader Herman E. Curtis, Sr., of "Herman Curtis and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression," it is easy to see why Christopher Paul Curtis was destined to become an entertainer.

TEACHING IDEAS

In the Classroom

Bud, Not Buddy, set during the Great Depression, offers students the opportunity to think about the hardships that the American people experienced during this time in history. Through the homeless main character, students are asked to explore the themes of family, survival, and hope. They are also challenged to think about how racism further threatened the lives of African Americans during this period. Though the living conditions in the novel seem bleak, the main character never loses his sense of humor and offers young readers a survival story with a happy ending. The novel is an ideal choice for read-aloud or a class novel study. In addition, this guide offers activities for using the novel to connect language arts, social studies, science, art, and music.

Pre-Reading Activity

Ask students to research the causes of the Great Depression. How did it affect families of all socioeconomic levels? Tell them that Bud, the main character in the novel, is homeless and goes to a mission for a hot meal. Find out other types of organizations that helped people during the Great Depression. Then have students find out what organizations in their city or town provide food and shelter for the homeless today.

Thematic Connections

Family and Relationships
Ask the class to discuss Bud's relationship with his mother. What are some of his special memories of her? Why did his mother never tell him about his grandfather? Why do you think Bud's mother left home? Changed her last name? If Bud's mother was so unhappy, why did she keep the flyers about her dad's band?

Why is Bud so convinced that Herman Calloway is his father? Discuss whether Bud is disappointed to learn that Calloway is not his father but his grandfather. What type of relationship do you think Bud will have with his grandfather? How is Calloway's Band like a family? What is Miss Thomas's role in Bud's new family?

Survival
Bud has been without a family since age six. What type of survival skills does Bud learn at the Home? Make a list of "Bud Caldwell's Rules and Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar Out of Yourself." How does Bud use these rules to survive difficult situations? Have the class discuss whether Bud will continue using these rules now that he has found a family.

Hope
Ask the class to discuss how the flyers in Bud's suitcase give him hope. Bud's mother once told him, "When one door closes, don't worry, because another door opens." (p. 43) How does this statement give Bud the hope he needs to continue his search for his father? Discuss the moments in the story when a door closes for Bud. At what point does the door open? Cite evidence in the novel that Herman Calloway had hope that his daughter might return.

Racism
Engage the class in a discussion about the different types of racism. Bud encounters racism throughout his journey. Ask students to explain Mrs. Amos's statement: "I do not have time to put up with the foolishness of those members of our race who do not want to be uplifted." (p. 15) How does this statement indicate that Mrs. Amos feels superior to Bud and other members of her race? Why does she think that Bud does not want to be uplifted?

Bud meets many homeless people at Hooverville. What evidence is there that racism prevails among them? How does racism affect Herman E. Calloway's band? Eddie tells Bud, "Mr. C. has always got a white fella in the band, for practical reasons." (p. 205) Discuss what the "practical reasons" might be. How does this reflect the times? Would Mr. Calloway's reasons be valid today?

Interdisciplinary Connections

Language Arts
Bud has special memories of his mother's reading to him. He remembers the little lessons that he learned from the fables that she read. Have students select one of "Bud Caldwell's Rules and Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar Out of Yourself" and write a fable, using the rule as the lesson learned.

Explain to students that a euphemism is a word used to soften the meaning of a word that may suggest something unpleasant. For example, Bud says, "I don't know why grown folks can't say someone is dead, they think it's a lot easier to say gone." (p.178) Ask students to brainstorm other euphemisms for dead.

Ask students to explain the metaphor, "The idea that had started as a teeny-weeny seed in a suitcase was now a mighty maple." (p.146) What is the "seed"? The "mighty maple"? Ask students to find other examples of figurative language in the novel.

Social Studies
John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, and J. Edgar Hoover are among the notorious figures mentioned in the book. Send students to the library media center to research these people and to find out when the FBI was formed. What is its primary purpose? Who is the head of the FBI today? What names are currently on the FBI's most wanted list?

Policemen inspect Lefty Lewis's car because they are searching for labor organizers who are sneaking to Grand Rapids from Detroit. Ask students to find out about the history of labor unions and the existence of unions today. Then have the class debate the pros and cons of labor unions.

Science
Lefty Lewis sends Herman Calloway a telegram telling him about Bud. Have students construct an illustrated timeline that shows the development of communication from the invention of the telegraph to today's new technologies. A good choice to introduce students to the earlier time of the pony express is the picture book The Sweetwater Run by Andrew Glass.

Art
It is obvious at the end of the novel that Bud is being groomed as a band member. Design a flyer for Bud's opening night with Calloway's Band. Encourage students to give the band a new name in honor of Bud.

Music
Entertainment played a major role during the Great Depression. One of Bud's flyers describes Calloway's Band as "Masters of the New Jazz." Ask students to find out who the major jazz artists were during the Great Depression. Why was jazz so important during this time period? Note that the author's grandfather was also a big band leader.

Teaching ideas prepared by Pat Scales, director of library services, the South Carolina Governor's School for Arts and Humanities, Greenville, South Carolina.

VOCABULARY

Vocabulary/Use of Language

Ask students to find unfamiliar words and try to define them from the context of the story. Such words may include: urchins (p.12), ingratitude (p.14), vermin (p.15), matrimonial (p. 56), devoured (p. 91), ventriloquists (p.101), sully (p.141), embouchure (p.194), and prodigy (p.196).

AWARDS

Winner of the 2000 John Newbery Medal

Winner of the 2000 Coretta Scott King Award

REVIEWS

"Curtis has given a fresh, new look to a traditional orphan-finds-a-home story that would be a crackerjack read-aloud."
—Starred, School Library Journal

"Bud's journey...will keep readers engrossed from first page to last." —Starred, Publishers Weekly

"[T]he rich blend of tall tale, slapstick, sorrow, and sweetness has the wry, teasing warmth of family folklore." —Booklist

FURTHER READING

The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline B. Cooney [978-0-440-22065-7]

Gib Rides Home by Zilpha K. Snyder [978-0-440-41257-1]

A Letter to Mrs. Roosevelt by C. Coco De Young [978-0-440-41529-9]

Monkey Island by Paula Fox [978-0-440-40770-6]

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES

http://www.visionx.com/jazz/

http://www.sos.state.mi.us/history/museum/explore/museums/hismus/1900-75/depressn/labnews2.html

Editorial Reviews

AN ALA BEST BOOK FOR YOUNG ADULTS
AN ALA NOTABLE CHILDREN'S BOOK
AN IRA CHILDREN'S BOOK AWARD WINNER
NAMED TO 14 STATE AWARD LISTS

"The book is a gem, of value to all ages, not just the young people to whom it is aimed." - The Christian Science Monitor

"Will keep readers engrossed from first page to last." - Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Curtis writes with a razor-sharp intelligence that grabs the reader by the heart and never lets go. . . . This highly recommended title [is] at the top of the list of books to be read again and again." - Voice of Youth Advocates, starred review

From the Publisher

In Bud, Not Buddy, Curtis weaves elements of his family history into the tale, providing an after word about his two grandfathers...a big-band leader, and a baseball player in the Negro Leagues who are models for characters in the story. Curtis writes with humor and sensitivity and makes readers care about the characters he creates. In the process, he offers up a significant slice of American history.
— Riverbank Review

Martha Davis Beck

As in his Newbery Honor-winning debut, The Watsons Go to Birmingham--1963, Curtis draws on a remarkable and disarming mix of comedy and pathos, this time to describe the travails and adventures of a 10-year-old African-American orphan in Depression-era Michigan. Bud is fed up with the cruel treatment he has received at various foster homes, and after being locked up for the night in a shed with a swarm of angry hornets, he decides to run away. His goal: to reach the man he--on the flimsiest of evidence--believes to be his father, jazz musician Herman E. Calloway. Relying on his own ingenuity and good luck, Bud makes it to Grand Rapids, where his "father" owns a club. Calloway, who is much older and grouchier than Bud imagined, is none too thrilled to meet a boy claiming to be his long-lost son. It is the other members of his band--Steady Eddie, Mr. Jimmy, Doug the Thug, Doo-Doo Bug Cross, Dirty Deed Breed and motherly Miss Thomas--who make Bud feel like he has finally arrived home. While the grim conditions of the times and the harshness of Bud's circumstances are authentically depicted, Curtis shines on them an aura of hope and optimism. And even when he sets up a daunting scenario, he makes readers laugh--for example, mopping floors for the rejecting Calloway, Bud pretends the mop is "that underwater boat in the book Momma read to me, Twenty Thousand Leaks Under the Sea." Bud's journey, punctuated by Dickensian twists in plot and enlivened by a host of memorable personalities, will keep readers engrossed from first page to last. Ages 9-12. (Sept.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

A 10-year-old boy in Depression-era Michigan sets out to find the man he believes to be his father. "While the harshness of Bud's circumstances are authentically depicted, Curtis imbues them with an aura of hope, and he makes readers laugh even when he sets up the most daunting scenarios," said PW in our Best Books citation. Ages 9-12. (Jan.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

Publishers Weekly

Gr 4-7-Motherless Bud shares his amusingly astute rules of life as he hits the road to find the jazz musician he believes is his father. A medley of characters brings Depression-era Michigan to life. (Sept.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.

Library Journal

Gr 4-7-When 10-year-old Bud Caldwell runs away from his new foster home, he realizes he has nowhere to go but to search for the father he has never known: a legendary jazz musician advertised on some old posters his deceased mother had kept. A friendly stranger picks him up on the road in the middle of the night and deposits him in Grand Rapids, MI, with Herman E. Calloway and his jazz band, but the man Bud was convinced was his father turns out to be old, cold, and cantankerous. Luckily, the band members are more welcoming; they take him in, put him to work, and begin to teach him to play an instrument. In a Victorian ending, Bud uses the rocks he has treasured from his childhood to prove his surprising relationship with Mr. Calloway. The lively humor contrasts with the grim details of the Depression-era setting and the particular difficulties faced by African Americans at that time. Bud is a plucky, engaging protagonist. Other characters are exaggerations: the good ones (the librarian and Pullman car porter who help him on his journey and the band members who embrace him) are totally open and supportive, while the villainous foster family finds particularly imaginative ways to torture their charge. However, readers will be so caught up in the adventure that they won't mind. Curtis has given a fresh, new look to a traditional orphan-finds-a-home story that would be a crackerjack read-aloud.-Kathleen Isaacs, Edmund Burke School, Washington, DC Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.

School Library Journal

The book is a gem, of value to all ages, not just the young people to whom it is aimed.
— The Christian Science Monitor

Trudy C. Palmer

Bud Caldwell, a 10-year-old vagabond orphan in pursuit of his long lost father from Flint to Grand Rapids, Michigan, is the quintessential endearing hero. Bud's first-person narrative demands an enthusiastic and versatile reader. James Avery is all that and more. His Bud is charming and sincere, and the cast of characters, presented with endless variations in voicing, is authentic and memorable. His zippy reading creates the perfect mood. Add in occasional jazz tunes at chapter changes, as well as Bud Caldwell's Rules and Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar out of Yourself, and you just may have the best way to experience this award-winning book. T.B. Winner of AUDIOFILE Earphones Award. © AudioFile 2000, Portland, Maine

OCT/NOV 00 - AudioFile

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Customer Reviews

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The Newbery Medal and Coretta Scott King Award-winning classic about a boy who decides to hit the road to find his father-from Christopher Paul Curtis, author of The Watsons Go To Birmingham-1963, a Newbery and Coretta Scott King Honoree. It’s 1936,...

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by Carolyn Meyer

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Editorial Reviews

02/16/2015
A suitable fit for American Girl series graduates, this diary-style historical novel follows the adventures of independent-minded 16-year-old Katherine "Kitty" Evans, who sets off on her own in 1926. It comes as a blow to Kitty when her parents announce that they don't have the funds to send her to college to pursue her dream of becoming a journalist. Instead of following her father's wishes for her to sell shoes, Kitty applies for and obtains a position as a "Harvey Girl," waitressing in one of the famous Harvey House restaurants situated in railroad towns across the West. The work is much more rigorous than Kitty imagined, and the rules of conduct for Harvey Girls is very strict. Still, Kitty finds time to make friends and absorb local culture while stationed in Kansas and New Mexico, never losing sight of her goal to be a writer. Kitty's diary entries express her growing confidence, her journalist's eye for detail, and her love of fun, and b&w period photographs bring additional ambiance to Meyer's (Beauty's Daughter) colorful portrait of a working girl. Ages 10-up. (Apr.)

Publishers Weekly

A suitable fit for American Girl series graduates, this diary-style historical novel follows the adventures of independent-minded 16-year-old Katherine 'Kitty' Evans, who sets off on her own in 1926 . . . Kitty's diary entries express her growing confidence, her journalist's eye for detail, and her love of fun, and b&w period photographs bring additional ambiance to Meyer's ( Beauty's Daughter) colorful portrait of a working girl." -Publishers Weekly

"A fast and interesting read about a part of history of which many readers may be unaware." -School Library Connection

"(Will) appeal to readers who have enjoyed but outgrown the Dear America and American Girl series." -Kirkus Reviews

From the Publisher

02/01/2015
Gr 7-10-It is 1926, and Kitty Evans is looking forward to finishing high school and going to college to become a journalist. Unfortunately, her father informs her that there isn't enough money to educate both her and her brother and that she will have to get a job. With her dreams shattered, Kitty answers a newspaper ad for a Harvey Girl. After six weeks of training, she'll be transferred to one of many Harvey restaurants located along train lines in the western United States. Little does Kitty know that the rules and expectations of a Harvey Girl are very strict. She meets some new friends including Cordelia, a debutante from Philadelphia who wears short flapper dresses and bright red lipstick, and Emmy, another girl who hopes to make money to send back to her family. Cordelia encourages the girls to try new things, Emmy reminds them of the rules, and Kitty documents it all. The narrative is told through a series of diary entries in which Kitty notes her challenges-from the job interview and telling her parents about life-changing decision to making friends and meeting all kinds of characters. Kitty records interactions with everyone from railroaders to politicians to hobos. She also has many admirers and is asked to "go for walks" and to "save a dance" at local gatherings. Meyer includes primary-source photographs throughout to illustrate the Harvey buildings and train stations, as well as local people. Kitty encounters many travelers from around the world, hearing German, Spanish, and some local slang as she travels from Kansas to New Mexico. Readers will feel connected to Kitty and her group of girlfriends and hope for their success. VERDICT A fast and interesting read about a part of history of which many readers may be unaware.-Jessica Lorentz Smith, Bend Senior High School, OR

School Library Journal

2015-01-10
Although more than a year too young for the position, almost-17-year-old Kitty takes a job as a Harvey Girl, one of the well-trained waitresses that staffed a national restaurant chain serving rail passengers from the late-19th to mid-20th centuries.Frustrated that her father no longer has the money to send her to college, budding journalist Kitty applies on a whim, defying family expectations, to become a Harvey Girl. She's chosen along with outgoing flapper Cordelia, and after a month of rigorous training, they're sent to work at the Harvey House in Belén, New Mexico. Kitty records her experiences in her diary, sometimes in too-extensive detail. In New Mexico, she slowly develops a romantic relationship with a railroad worker, Gus, and gets to know the Latino culture of the area. As her writing skills improve, she begins to sell articles-included in the text-to the local newspaper. Kitty does a good job of describing the personalities of her co-workers, and because she is so descriptive, the era-the late 1920s-is also neatly depicted. This effort is most likely to appeal to readers who have enjoyed but outgrown the Dear America and American Girl series, but other readers may find the tale lacks sufficient tension to sustain interest through the extended narrative. A smattering of period photographs add flavor. A slowly paced and occasionally even tedious depiction of a small slice of American railroad history. (Historical fiction. 10-14)

Kirkus Reviews

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Diary of a Waitress: The Not-So-Glamorous Life of a Harvey Girl|Hardcover

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A young working girl comes of age in the American West in this “fast and interesting” historical novel for fans of the Dear America and American Girl series (School Library Journal) In 1926, droves of Americans traveled by train across the...

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The year is 1920 and the setting is a shtetl, a small village in northern Poland, where Fivel and his family live in fear of the ruthless Cossacks and unpredictable pogroms. As he and his mother, brother, and sisters struggle to stay alive, nine-year-old Fivel is hungry, is cold, is a rascal, is goodhearted, longs for his father, and is afraid for their lives. Will the money from America ever come? Has their father forgotten about them, perhaps even found another family? When will the next horrific Cossack raid come?

Here is an absorbing, ultimately hopeful novel that creates an unforgettable portrait of a family, a time, and the bridging of two worlds.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780547562056

Publisher:

HMH Books

Publication date:

10/24/2005

Sold by:

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Format:

NOOK Book

Pages:

208

Lexile:

510L ( what's this?)

File size:

392 KB

Age Range:

10 - 12 Years

About the Author

Linda Glaser is the author of many picture books for children. She was inspired to write this her first novel, after hearing the real Fivel speak to a sixth grade Sunday school class. She was moved by his rich stories and felt that she was somehow connecting with the world of her Eastern European Jewish grandparents, also immigrants. She lives in Duluth, Minnesota, with her husband and daughters. This is her first book for Houghton Mifflin.
Linda Glaser's grandparents emigrated from eastern Europe in the late 1800's to New York City, where they first saw the huge statue.Also the author of the immigrant novel, BRIDGE TO AMERICA, Ms. Glaser lives in Duluth, MN.

Read an Excerpt

I'll never forget that cold afternoon. It's fixed in my head as clearly as Beryl's face and the warm sweet smell of his bakery. Such a smell could fill an empty stomach!
I was heading there right after heder -itching to tell him the trick we'd played on our teacher and hoping for a bagel to fill myself up a little. But Lila, a neighbor lady, came rushing up to me on the road.
"Fivel, I heard there's a man at your house." She leaned in too close, smelling strongly of garlic. "Do you know who it is?" Lila always wanted the gossip. So even if I had known, I might not have told her. But the only man I could think of was Pa. My heart pounced at the thought. Was it possible? "I'd better go see" was all I said. Then I raced down the road so fast my own breath had to run to catch up with me. Pa. That one word thundered through my whole body. Maybe I'd finally meet him. Maybe he had come for us himself. I ran so hard, the heels of my feet hit me from behind. Maybe, maybe, we'd soon be with him in America. I burst into my house and stopped short. A tall well-dressed man in city clothes was talking to Ma. We'd never had such a rich looking man in our house before. No one had ever stepped on our hard dirt floor with such shiny leather shoes! He was speaking Polish, not Yiddish-our Jewish language. And he did not have the full beard of a Jew. So it wasn't Pa after all. Disappointment weighed on my chest, heavy as a pile of stones. It took me some time to even care enough to listen or wonder why he was here. When I did, he gave a quick glance in my direction and lowered his voice. "Please understand, Mrs. Myzel. All of us will benefit." He stroked the side of his nose with his pointer finger. "You, most of all, with one less mouth to feed." He gave a stiff smile showing mostly teeth. Ma set her lips firmly and shook her head. The man frowned. "Mrs. Myzel, as you well know, life does not look promising for Jews in Poland. So far, 1920 does not bode well." He drew a folded paper from his coat pocket, snapped it open, and offered it to her-"Here is my name and address" -not knowing that Ma couldn't read. "You must realize that I can give him a much better life than this." He shot an ugly look around our one-room house and down at the hard dirt floor. It made me want to kick him. Ma didn't take the paper. "Thank you for your concern." She spoke in Polish, clipping each word. "But we're managing." Her face was rigid as she held the door open for him.
He thrust the paper into her hand anyway. "If things get worse for you Jews, and mark my words they will, you'll be grateful you have this. Good day." He turned and left. Ma quickly shut the door and gave a little shudder.
"Who was that?" I asked.
She didn't answer. Her mouth was set in a thin tight line.
But my sister Kvola spoke up. "That man . . ." her eyes flashed. "He wanted to take you!" "No!" I threw my arms around Ma. My sister Hannah was bent over our table mending. She hunched into herself even more when Kvola said that. Ma was still glaring at the door. Just then, my brother, Benyomin, rushed in, his face flushed from running. "That man," he pointed outside. "What was he doing here? Did you see his fancy horse and carriage in front of Tomas and Ana's house?" A horse and carriage! I hadn't even noticed. I'd been in such a rush to see Pa. I'd barely glanced next door. He must be very rich. I squeezed Ma's arm even tighter. Rich people always seemed to get what they wanted.
Kvola narrowed her eyes. "He wants to take Fivel away. His wife wants 'a good little boy.' " She gave a stiff smile like his-full of teeth.
"What?" Benyomin looked at Ma. "He can't do that!" "Don't let him!" I clutched Ma around the waist. "Please." "Of course not," said Ma impatiently. "I'm already one child poorer." A shadow of sadness swept behind her eyes. I didn't know what she'd meant by that. But it wasn't comforting. She drew her mouth into that tight line again as if she'd said more than she'd meant to. She gave Hannah and Kvola a sharp warning look.
"But Ma, what if he comes back?" I cried. Ma shook her head. "Don't worry." But she sounded more tired than reassuring. She set the paper on the table. That troubled me. I badly wanted to crumple it into a tight ball, throw it into our clay oven, and watch it burst into flames. But something about the heaviness in Ma's shoulders made me uneasy. Now my shoulders sagged, too.
"Pff!" Kvola made a spitting sound. "Don't even think about him! He's gone." She gave a strong kick in his direction as if she, herself, had booted him out of our house. That made me smile. "Don't you worry, Fivel." She tugged my shoulders back up. "Everythingg will be fine." I nodded. "Soon we'll be safe in America." I tried to sound just as strong and sure as she did. I looked up at Ma. "Won't we?" IIIII asked, hoping maybe she'd talk about Pa and America like she used to when I was little. But Ma was in her own thoughts. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the pot on the stove. "Soon Pa will send for us." I tried again, enjoying the sound of it in my mouth, as though saying it aloud would bring it closer.
But Ma just wasn't in a talking mood. She ladled out our soup for tonight-mostly water with some potatoes and onions, leaving the rest in the pot for tomorrow. "It's almost Shabbos," she reminded me, feeding a few more sticks to the fire. "Here." She handed me the pot. "Quick to Beryl's. And come straight home before sundown." I lifted the latch and hurried into the sharp autumn air and down the dirt road. An icy gust swept through my clothes. I shivered, but not only from the cold. That man in city clothes gave me chills. And what about Ma? One child poorer? It made no sense. But why had she looked so sad? I walked as fast as I could without spilling our soup. Meanwhile, I tried to push the man out of my head-like Kvola kicking him out the door. But his parting words taunted. You'll be grateful you have this. "No!" I shouted into the cold wind. "No we won't!"

Copyright © 2005 by Linda Glaser. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

Editorial Reviews

"Seasoned picture-book author Glaser offers a compelling historical novel here, which an endnote explains was loosely based on the life of a member of her community."—Booklist Booklist, ALA

"Even reluctant readers will enjoy this riveting account and sensitive portrayal of what it means to be an immigrant." --School Library Journal School Library Journal

"Glaser's first novel is an inspirational story that's clearly a labor of love and tribute. A fine addition to collections on the immigrant experience."—Kirkus Kirkus Reviews

From the Publisher

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Bridge to America: Based on a True Story|NOOK Book

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The year is 1920 and the setting is a shtetl, a small village in northern Poland, where Fivel and his family live in fear of the ruthless Cossacks and unpredictable pogroms. As he and his mother, brother, and sisters struggle to stay alive, nine-year-old Fivel is hungry, is cold, is a rascal, is...

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by Louis Bayard

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Read an Excerpt

Lucky Strikes

By Louis Bayard

Henry Holt and Company

Copyright © 2016 Louis Bayard
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62779-391-9
CHAPTER 1

Mama died hard, you should know that.

Nearly died alone, too. Now, most nights, she'd so much as groan, I'd come running, but this was late March, ten days shy of Easter and spring barely a thought, and a dream come and snatched me. I was the princess of a mountain people, and they come right into my bedchamber and asked if I could tame the dragon that was cleaning its teeth with people's bones, and I said sure. The dragon was living at the bottom of a cavern, half in water, and when it looked up with its yellow-purple eyes, I said, You got some nerve. That was all it took! The thing slunk away, its spiky tail dragging after. And the mountain people, they started cheering for me, calling for me by name, and that was the rub 'cause it took me a long time to hear the voice on the other side of theirs. Calling my name, too, only drawing it out as far as it could be drawn.
"Melia ... Meeeelia ..."
I scrambled out of bed, threw open the curtain. Mama was rolled over on her side, staring at me.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"I'm so sorry."

I set down next to her, ran my hand on her brow. It was cold like a pumpkin.

"Sorry for what?" I said.

"Your daddy," she said.

Her eyes were white and sweaty.

"What about him?" I said.

"He's ..." Her fingers were bent like talons. "Your daddy, he's ..."

She never finished, but I set there just in case she did. Then I felt something. I felt the bed settle.

You know how a mattress sinks under you when someone climbs in? Only there was no one else there climbing in. Just us two.

I don't know why, but my hand went straight to her hair. And I could feel, beneath the hair, her whole scalp crackling. I think now maybe that was her soul flying off. I'm nearly sure of it because when I looked at the rest of her - her face, her hands - her bare white legs - her eyes - she was empty.

Gone. That's what they always say about dead folks when they don't want to say dead. But that's how it was with Mama. Whatever'd been there a second ago, making her eyelids twitch and her breath hitch ... well, somehow or other it'd slipped away when I wasn't looking. Gone.

I rolled her onto her back. Settled her head on her pillow. Combed her hair one last time. Then I left the room.

Janey and Earle was still asleep when I slipped back into bed. I laid there all night, not an ounce of sleep in me now, trying to figure out how to tell them. At dawn, I shook them awake, same as usual. I said, "Guess what? No school today."

Which, looking back, was about the worst way I could've gone about it. 'Cause they got crazy excited. Is it a holiday? Is tomorrow a holiday? Are we going to miss school all the way clear to Easter?

I didn't say anything, but there must have been something in my face because Janey spoke up.

"It's Mama, isn't it?"

She's funny that way. Such an odd, dreamy thing you think she's not even part of the world, only she's more in it than anyone.

Well, Earle's face started to crumple, and then the rest of him crumpled, too. Janey set by the stove, wailing and clawing at her head. I tried to think of all the things a grown-up'd say. She's with God now. ... She's gone to a better place. ... We'll meet her on the other side. They just sounded sour on my tongue. I couldn't even say "She's at peace,"' cause when I thought back on how she'd looked - in that very, very last moment - there weren't a lick of peace in her.

"You got five more minutes to cry," I said. "Ten minutes to eat your oatmeal. Then we got work to do."

I wrapped Mama in her two bedsheets, and me and Earle carried her to the truck. Considering how thin she was, she weighed quite a bit. We laid her in the flatbed, and Earle and Janey climbed in the front with me, and we drove out to the hill overlooking Jenkins Orchard. This was Mama's favorite spot. Back when she was healthy, we'd come here every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine, with a basket of chicken and corn bread and dried-apple stack cake, and we'd sit and watch the sun set over Mr. Jenkins's silo.

This time, I drove the truck right up to the edge, so close I could hear Earle suck in his breath. We got out, and we were staring down at a hole. Six feet long, three wide, another three or four deep.

"It's magic," said Earle.

"Ain't nothing magic about it," I said. "I dug it myself."

Next to the hole was a pile of dirt, neat as I could make it. Janey tapped it with her shoe. "Must've taken you a month of Sundays, Melia."

"Took me five."

I never told them, but when Mama took sick, I kept coming out here every week. On account of it was just easier to think. After a time, I started bringing a shovel. If you'd asked me what I was going to do with it, I couldn't have told you. Even when I was digging, I never stopped and thought, This is where we'll put Mama.

On that fifth Sunday, I looked down, and sure enough, there was a big old hole and but one thing to do with it.

"Here, Earle. Give me a hand."

The boy give a little shudder, but he tucked his head down and set to work. Together we lifted Mama out of the flatbed and laid her in the ground. I pulled the top sheet off her face, and the three of us, we stood there on the lip of the grave, just looking. I don't know for how long. Ten minutes, an hour. All the time, I was thinking it was a mistake. She was taking a breather. Any second, she'd jump up and swear about ten thousand oaths (Mama was gifted that way) and ask us what the hell we were doing.

But she didn't do none of that. She didn't move a grain.

I knelt down by the hole and reached in until I could touch her forehead. Damn, but it was cold.

"She needs a coffin," said Earle.

"We can't afford one."

"Then we ought to say something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something holy."

"Well, don't look at me," I said. "When was the last time you saw me in church?"

"I been to Sunday school," said Janey.

"Then give it your best crack," I said.

She tugged on her collar and cast her eyes off.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down. I will fear no evil. Blessed are the poor. Do unto others as you would have them do. He who is without sin. For thine is the kingdom. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. The Lord is my shepherd. ..."

She kept going for a good spell, circling, circling. I didn't care. I was looking down into the valley, past the Jenkinses' silo, past the Hammonds' horse farm, all the way to the mountains at the other side. The dogwoods weren't out yet, but the tulip magnolias were just starting. I could hear bees and mockingbirds. A handsaw pushing through green wood. I could see Mrs. Jenkins carrying eggs in her apron and someone way out in the distance cutting hay. And a Studebaker crawling down the mountain road, with a little puff of smoke following. Stupid me, thinking the world would stop just 'cause of us.

I took one last look, then bent down and pulled the sheet over Mama's face.

"Reckon we better fill it up," I said.

Well, they didn't have the heart for it, so I took up the shovel myself. It was a queer business. I couldn't stop thinking she was feeling every little clod and pebble. It got so I'd have to stop every couple of minutes and wait. Listen for some faint little cry. Wait, stop. But there was nothing.

Sweat was coming off every part of me. I threw down the shovel and set there at the edge of the grave. From out of the woods came Janey, carrying a mess of wildflowers. Bedstraw and golden ragwort and wild phlox.

"They look nice," I allowed.

Earle come right after. He'd gone and whittled a couple of sticks and tied them into a cross with a strip of bark.

"Most fitting," I said.

We took some time arranging everything. We never did get it perfect. The dirt was loose, so the cross couldn't help but tilt a little, and the wind took a good share of the phlox blossoms.

"Well, now," I said. "Time to say good-bye."

Janey spoke first. Her voice was clenched like a fist. "Bye, Mama."

Earle, he spoke straight to the ground. "Bye."

I didn't say a thing.

Driving back home, I kept glancing at the other two. Janey was quiet and still. Earle's big jaw was working away, like he was chewing on turkey gristle, and his hands made fists and then unmade them.

"What?" I said.

"We done it all wrong, that's what."

"How do you figure?"

"She should've been buried at church."

"She wouldn't have wanted that. You know that."

"There should've been a preacher," he said. "And hymn singing. That's how God likes it."

"God don't care."

"He does, too. He's going to be pissed off. He ain't gonna let Mama in."

"Then the hell with him," I said. "After all he put her through."

Earle didn't answer.

"Listen now," I said. "Whatever we done wrong with the burying, that ain't on Mama's account."

He looked out the window. "What the hell do you know?"

By then we were pulling into the station. I saw a Cadillac V-16 two-door coupe parked by the pump. The driver was standing alongside it, his foot on the running board, a cigarette hanging off his lip.

"Closed!" I called out.

He straightened up, tossed his butt on the ground. Give me a dumbass smile.

"Can't you read?" I said. "We're closed."

"So you are," he said, squinting at the sign in the window. "But now you're not."

"We're closed all day."

"Listen, honey, you think you can make an exception? I just need a gallon to get me to Front Royal."

"Mister, we're closed. If you need gas" - Lord, how it pained me to say it - "you can try Blevins's Standard Oil, eight miles down the road."

"That's out of my way."

"Best I can do."

He looked at me awhile. Then, out of nowhere, give me a wink. "Listen, sweetie, is your daddy around somewhere? Maybe you can run get him for me."

Now, here's the deal. Any other day, I'd have told him how I felt about being called "sweetie" and how, if he wanted me to fetch my dad, he'd have to tell me who my dad was, and if he wanted to talk to my mom, I'd be glad to take him there, only she wasn't talking so much. I had it all lined up inside me, but it got stuck in my throat somehow, and my eyes was stinging so hard all I could do was go into the station house and lock the door after me.

I waited till I heard him drive away, and then I tried to stand up again, but the tiredness pulled me back down. So I set there, on the damn floor. Dozed off for a spell. Next thing I knew, Janey was standing over me.

"You hungry?" I said.

She nodded.

"Earle, too?"

She nodded.

"Okay, then," I said.

The real poser was what to do with Mama's eating chair. Didn't seem right throwing it away, but it looked awful creepy setting idle by the table. So we just kinda turned it around, and we picked at our Ralston wheat cereal (no milk) and Royal gelatin desserts, and every so often, we'd raise our heads like we was about to say something, only we forgot what it was.

At last Earle pushed his plate away. "Don't seem right," he said. "Eating when she can't."

"She'd want you to," I said. "So you can grow into a big strong feller."

"She won't be around to see," said Earle, lowering his chin to the table.

"Melia," said Janey, "you reckon you miss her more than me?"

"Well, it ain't no pie-eating contest. I reckon we can each miss her our own way. You don't quit loving somebody just on account of they're dead."

Janey stared at the back of that chair for a long while. Then she drew her arms round her.

"Melia," she said, "what're we gonna do?"

"Get to bed, that's what."

"Nooo." She always gives you the kindliest look when she thinks you're being a dumbass. "Without Mama."

"Carry on. What choice we got?"

"We gonna starve?" Earle asked in a dull, flat voice.

"What're you talking about? You don't think the station is clearing money? You think - what, we fix people's cars and pump their gas for free?" I give them a nod just to show I meant business. "God didn't make no petroleum trees that I know of. Long as folks got automobiles, they're going to need us, ain't they? And in case you were wondering, there's a plan. Me and Mama worked it all out."

"What?" said Earle.

"Well, I'm gonna run the business 'cause it's what I been doing anyways."

"You can fill a radiator faster than anyone this side of the Blue Ridge," said Janey.

"I suspect you're right. Now, Janey here's gonna learn how to cook and sew and garden, and then, when the time's ready, we're going to get her a husband."

"He can't be more than thirty," said Janey. "And he's got to have his teeth."

"Fine. As for Earle, he's going to college."

"What if I don't want to?"

"What if I don't care? I'm telling you it's been planned. You just got to do your part, that's all."

"When we gonna tell folks?" Janey asked.

"It ain't none of their business."

"But we need to tell 'em. They need to know."

I leaned across the table and glared at her. "You think this here town had any use for Mama when she was alive? How's it going to be any different now?"

"But Mama had friends," said Earle. "Minnie-Cora Harper and Mrs. Bean. And what about Mr. Gallagher?"

"He's gonna be all broke up," said Janey.

"When the time's right," I said, "we'll tell them all. I got stuff to take care of first."

Janey made a little tower of gelatin cubes on her plate. Then knocked it down, then built it up again.

"I know why you don't want to tell," she said. "'Cause if they find out, they'll split us up."

See what I mean? She's a silly child, but she'll surprise you.

"I never heard such foolishness," I said.

But Earle was looking mighty ashy. "Is that so, Melia?"

"'Course not."

"Hannah Smartt," said Janey.

"Who's Hannah Smartt?" said Earle.

"She was in fourth grade, same as me, and she set in the back, and her hair weren't never combed, 'cause she didn't have no ma. Then she lost her pa, and she didn't have no kin left, so Hannah and her two brothers, they got sent to Lynchburg, and what I heard?" Janey lowered her voice. "They didn't even get sent to the same family. They got split up. Fos. Ter. Care."

I could see Earle's lips forming the words.

"Listen, missy," I said. "You think I'd let 'em try such a thing? Anybody with eyes can see I'm the nearest thing to a mama as you brats is likely to get. Who's feeding and dressing you? Putting you to bed every night?"

"That don't count," said Earle. "You're not a grown-up."

"Oh, yeah?"

And to prove my point, I sent them right to bed. Oh, they made me tell them a story about Abdullah the Merman, but when they asked for more, I told them what I always told them.

"Show's over, folks. Come back tomorrow."

I tapped down their eyelids, and I set there until I heard their breathing. Then I walked over to the window.

The moon was fierce that night. I could see the shape of the leaves on the elm tree and the tire swings moving in the breeze.
Go home, why don't you?
That's what Doc Whitworth'd told Mama after he'd sprung the news on her. Go home, Brenda. Get things squared away. Make your peace.

Well, whatever she made, it weren't peace.
Fos. Ter. Care.
I closed my eyes and listened to the crickets. Then I felt a tug on my trousers. It was Janey. Skinny as a goddamned muskrat in her newly mended gray shift and half asleep in the moonlight.

"Come to bed," she said.

"I ain't tired," I said. (Though I was, I purely was.)

"You need your sleep," she said. "Ain't no man going to marry you with them nasty ol' coon rings under your eyes."

"Maybe I don't want no man to marry me."

Janey didn't answer right off. But when she was pulling the sheets back over her, she said, "Wanting's got nothing to do with nothing."

CHAPTER 2

I woke up when the sun did. Eyes blazing, hair heavy on my head. Janey was breathing into my neck, Earle's knee was gouging my hip. I laid there, waiting for the dark to peel away.

"Let's get this carnival on the road," I said to myself.

I fried up the last of the eggs, and then I rolled the kids out of bed. They each dragged a blanket to the table. Earle just stared at his plate.

"So help me," I said, "you make me throw that out, I'm gonna kill you."

"What'd you pack for lunch?" he asked.

"Apple butter sandwiches." And when he give me that scowl, I said, "Excuse me, Daddy Warbucks. Filet mignon'll be here tomorrow. You don't like my lunches, why don't you trade 'em?"

"He already does," said Janey.

It was a hair past seven when I shooed them out of the house. There was a hard wind coming down the mountain, right in their faces. They stood rocking in it.

"Listen now. Not a word. It's a day like any other."

"Then why aren't you open yet?" Earle asked.

"'Cause I got business in town, and that's the last nosy-ass question you get."

I give them each a light little kick in the butt. It's what I do every morning, and when they were littler, that kick would send him laughing up the hill - halfway to school. Today, they was like a pair of jennies in harness. I watched them just to the point where they disappeared around the bend, and then I called after them.

"Watch out for cars!"

It's a queer town, Walnut Ridge. Some half a century back, the citizens got a little cash in their pockets and a couple stars in their eyes and figured they was going to be the next big deal in Warren County - bigger than Front Royal, even. So they went and built themselves a main street. 'Course they couldn't run it but the two blocks before it reached the nearest cliff, but they was so keen on their prospects they decided to call it First Street. As in first of many to come.

Excerpted from Lucky Strikes by Louis Bayard. Copyright © 2016 Louis Bayard. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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With her mama recently dead and her pa sight unseen since birth, Amelia is suddenly in charge of her younger brother and sister-and of the family gas station. Harley Blevins, local king and emperor of Standard Oil, is in hot pursuit to clinch his fuel monopoly. To keep him at bay and keep...

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by Jennifer Donnelly

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The New York Times bestseller from the acclaimed author of A Northern Light, Revolution, Stepsister, and Poisoned. This thrilling mystery is perfect for fans of The Cellar and Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls. It's a story of dark secrets, dirty truths, and the lengths to which people will go for love and revenge.

Jo Montfort is beautiful and rich, and soon-like all the girls in her class-she'll graduate from finishing school and be married off to a wealthy bachelor. Which is the last thing she wants. Jo dreams of becoming a writer-a newspaper reporter.

Wild aspirations aside, Jo's life seems perfect until tragedy strikes: her father is found dead. The story is that Charles Montfort shot himself while cleaning his revolver, but the more Jo hears about her father's death, the more something feels wrong. And then she meets Eddie-a young, smart, infuriatingly handsome reporter at her father's newspaper-and it becomes all too clear how much she stands to lose if she keeps searching for the truth. But now it might be too late to stop.

The past never stays buried forever. Life is dirtier than Jo Montfort could ever have imagined, and this time the truth is the dirtiest part of all.

Praise for These Shallow Graves:

★ " Action-packed chapters propel this compelling mystery...[and] the injustices Donelly highlights remain all too relevant."- Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

" Lovely prose, historical intrigue, unique characters and setting. I devoured this book!" - Ruta Sepetys, New York Times bestselling author of Between Shades of Gray and Salt to the Sea

" A splendidly hair-raising tour of the brightest and darkest corners of Victorian New York." - Elizabeth Wein, New York Times bestselling author of Code Name Verity and Black Dove, White Raven

" A fast-paced Gilded Age crime thriller." - Julie Berry, award-winning author of All the Truth That's in Me

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780385737661

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

10/25/2016

Pages:

512

Sales rank:

136,296

Product dimensions:

5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.20(d)

Age Range:

12 - 17 Years

About the Author

Jennifer Donnelly is the author of three adult novels, The Tea Rose, The Winter Rose, and The Wild Rose, as well as the young adult novels These Shallow Graves, Revolution, Stepsister, Poisoned and A Northern Light, winner of Britain's prestigious Carnegie Medal, the L.A. Times Book Prize for Young Adult Literature, and a Michael L. Printz Honor Book Award. She lives and writes full-time in upstate New York. You can visit her at jenniferdonnelly.com or find @JenWritesBooks on Twitter.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Miss Sparkwell's School for Young Ladies

Farmington, Connecticut

September 17, 1890

"Trudy, be a dear and read these stories for me," said Jo Montfort, laying out articles for her school's newspaper on a tea table. "I can't abide errors."

Gertrude Van Eyck, all blond curls and dimples, stopped dead in the middle of the common room. "How did you know it was me? You didn't even look up!"

"Duke told me," Jo replied. Duke's Cameos were Trudy's favorite brand of cigarette.

Trudy sniffed her sleeve. "Do I smell?"

"You positively reek. What does Gilbert Grosvenor think of you smoking cigarettes?"

"Gilbert Grosvenor doesn't know. Not about the ciggies, or the bottle of gin under my bed, or that utterly swell boy who delivers apples," Trudy said, winking.

"Slang does not become a Farmington girl, Gertrude," sniffed Libba Newland, seated nearby with her friend, May Delano.

"Neither does that fringe, Lib," said Trudy, eyeing Libba's badly curled bangs.

"Well, I never!" Libba huffed.

"And I'm sure you never will," Trudy said archly.

"Stop being awful and read these, Tru," Jo scolded. "My deadline's tomorrow."

Trudy sat down at the table and helped herself to a jam tart from Jo's plate. It was three o'clock—teatime at Miss Sparkwell's—and the common room was crowded with students on break. Everyone was chatting and eating except Jo, who was busy finalizing the layout for the second edition of the Jonquil.

"What do we have this week?" Trudy asked. "The usual tripe?"

Jo sighed. "I'm afraid so," she said. "There's a piece on the proper way to brew tea, a poem about kittens, Miss Sparkwell's impressions of the Louvre, and advice on how to fade freckles."

"Ye gads. Anything else?"

Jo hesitated, working up her nerve. "As a matter of fact, yes. A story on the abuse of girl laborers at Fenton's Textile Mill," she said, handing one of the articles to her friend.

"Ha! So funny, my darling!" Trudy said, smiling. Her smile faded as she read the first lines. "Oh dear God. You're serious."

Trudy kept reading, riveted, and Jo watched her, thrilled. Jo was a senior at Miss Sparkwell's and had written for the Jonquil during her three previous years at the school, but this was the first important story she'd written. She'd worked hard to get it. She'd taken risks. Just like a real reporter.

"What do you think?" she asked eagerly when Trudy finished reading.

"I think you've lost your mind," Trudy replied.

"But do you think it's good?" Jo pressed.

"Very."

Jo, who'd been perched on the edge of her seat, shot forward and hugged Trudy, a huge grin on her face.

"But that's entirely beside the point," Trudy said sternly as Jo sat down again. "If you hand in the layout to Sparky with that story in it, you're done for. Detention for a week and a letter home."

"It's not that bad. Nellie Bly's pieces are far more provocative," said Jo.

"You're comparing yourself to Nellie Bly?" Trudy asked, incredulous. "Need I remind you that she's a scandalous lady reporter who meddles in other people's business and has no hope of marrying a decent man? You, in contrast, are a Montfort, and Montforts marry. Early and well. And that is all."

"Well, this Montfort's going to do a bit more," Jo declared. "Like write stories for newspapers."

Trudy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Is that so? Have you informed your mother?"

"Actually, no. Not yet," Jo admitted.

Trudy laughed. "Not ever, you mean. Unless you want to find yourself locked away in a convent until you're fifty."

"Tru, this is a story that must be told," Jo said, her passion clear in her voice. "Those poor girls are being mistreated. They're worked hard and paid little. They're practically slaves."

"Jo. How on earth do you know this?"

"I spoke with some of them."

"You didn't," Trudy said.

"I did. On Sunday. After services."

"But you went straight to your room after services. You said you had a headache."

"And then I climbed out of my window and went down to the river. To one of the boardinghouses there," Jo said, lowering her voice. She didn't want anyone to overhear her. "A farmer gave me a ride in his wagon. I spoke with three girls. One was seventeen. Our age, Tru. The others were younger. They work ten-hour days standing at these hellish looms. Injuries are common. So is exposure to coarse language and . . . and situations. I was told that some of the girls fall in with bad sorts and become wayward."

Trudy's eyes widened. "Josephine Montfort. Do you really think that Mr. Abraham Aldrich wants his future wife to even know that wayward girls exist, much less write about them? The future Mrs. Aldrich must be pure in mind as well as body. Only men are supposed to know about"—Trudy lowered her voice, too—"about sex. If news of what you've done gets around, not only will you lose your place here, you'll lose the most eligible bachelor in New York. For goodness' sake, be sensible! No mill girl, wayward or otherwise, is worth the Aldrich millions!"

May Delano looked up from her book. "What's a wayward girl?" she asked.

Jo groaned.

"Never mind," Trudy said.

"Tell me," May whined.

"Very well," Trudy replied, turning to look at May. "A girl who is with child but without a husband."

May laughed. "Shows what you know, Trudy Van Eyck. The stork brings babies after you're married, not before."

"Come, May, we're leaving" said Libba Newland, shooting Trudy a dirty look. "The common room is getting a bit too common."

"I'll bet you a dollar Lib tattles to Sparky," Trudy said darkly, watching them go. "I just finished my detention for smoking. Now you've earned me some more!"

Disappointed by Trudy's lack of enthusiasm for her story, Jo snatched it back. She wished Trudy understood her. Wished someone did. She'd read Bly's Ten Days in a Mad-House and Jacob Riis's How the Other Half Lives, and they'd touched her deeply. She'd been appalled to learn how the poor suffered and felt compelled to follow the examples those two reporters set, if only in some small way.

She thought about the mill girls she'd spoken with. They'd looked so crushingly tired. Their faces were as pale as milk, except for the dark smudges under their eyes. They'd been taken out of school and made to work. They weren't allowed to talk or to go to the bathroom until their lunch breaks. One told her she could barely walk home at the end of the day, her legs hurt so badly from standing.

Their stories had made Jo sad—and blisteringly angry. "Trudy, why did I become editor of the Jonquil?" she suddenly asked.

"I have no idea," Trudy replied. "You should've joined the glee club. Even you can't get into trouble singing 'Come into the Garden, Maud.' "

"I shall tell you."

"I had a feeling you would," Trudy said dryly.

"I did it because I want to inform my readers. Because I wish to draw back the veil that hides the injustices that surround us," Jo said, her voice rising. "We who have means and a voice must use them to help those who have neither. Yet how can we help them if we don't even know about them? And how can we know about them if no one writes about them? Is it so wrong to want to know things?"

Heads turned as Jo finished speaking. Girls stared. She glared back at them until they turned away. "They suffer, those mill girls," she said, her voice quieter, but her heart still full of emotion. "They are so terribly unfortunate."

Trudy took her hand. "My darling Jo, there is no one more unfortunate than we ourselves," she said. "We are not engaged yet, you and I. We're spinsters. Pathetic nobodies. We can go nowhere on our own. We must not be too forward in speech, dress, or emotion lest we put off a potential suitor. We are allowed no funds of our own, and most of all"—she squeezed Jo's hand for emphasis—"no opinions."

"Doesn't it bother you, Tru?" Jo asked, frustrated.

"Of course it does! Which is why I intend to marry as soon as I can," Trudy said.

She jumped up, snapped open an imaginary fan, and strode about the room imitating a society lady. "When I am Mrs. Gilbert Grosvenor and happily installed in my grand Fifth Avenue mansion, I shall do exactly as I please. I shall say what I like, read what I like, and go out every evening in silks and diamonds to smile at my beaux from my box at the Met."

It was Jo's turn to raise an eyebrow. "And Mr. Gilbert Grosvenor? Where will he be?" she asked.

"At home. Sulking by the fire with a copy of The Wall Street Journal," Trudy said, imitating Gilbert's eternally disapproving expression.

Jo laughed despite herself. "I'll never understand how you were passed over for the lead in the school play. You belong on stage," she said.

"I wasn't passed over, thank you. I was offered the lead and declined it. Mr. Gilbert Grosvenor frowns upon theatricals."

For a moment, Jo forgot about her own worries. She knew Gilbert. He was smug and disapproving, an old man at twenty. He was also stinking rich.

"Will you really marry him?" she asked. She could no more see beautiful, lively Trudy married to Gilbert than she could picture a hummingbird paired with a toad.

"I mean to. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you . . . You'll have to . . ." She couldn't say it.

"Go to bed with him?" Trudy finished.

Jo blushed. "That is not what I was going to say!"

"But it's what you meant."

Trudy looked out of a nearby window. Her eyes traveled over the lawns to the meadows, then farther still, to a place—a future—only she could see.

"A bit of nightly unpleasantness in exchange for days of ease. Not such a bad bargain," Trudy said, with a rueful smile. "Some of us are not as well off as others. My papa can barely manage my school fees, never mind the dressmaker's bills. And anyway, it's not me I'm worried about. It's you." Trudy turned her attention back to Jo. "You know the rules: get yourself hitched, then do what you like. But for heaven's sake, until you get the man, smile like a dolt and talk about tulips, not mill girls!"

Disappointment settled on Jo like a heavy woolen cloak. She knew Trudy was right. Sparky would be appalled if she ever found out what Jo had done. So would her parents, the Aldriches, and the rest of New York. Her New York, at least—old New York. Well-bred girls from old families came out, got engaged, and then went back—back to drawing rooms, dinner parties, and dances. They did not venture into the dangerous, dirty world to become reporters, or anything else.

The boys got to, though. They couldn't become reporters either—that was too grubby an occupation for a gentleman—but they could own a newspaper, run a business, practice law, breed horses, have agricultural interests, or do something in government like the Jays and the Roosevelts. Jo knew this but couldn't accept it. It chafed at her spirit, as surely as the stays of her corset chafed her body.

Why is it, she wondered now, that boys get to do things and be things and girls only get to watch?

"Jo?"

Jo looked up. It was Arabella Paulding, a classmate.

"Sparky wants to see you in her office," she said. "Right away."

"Why?" Jo asked.

"She didn't say. She told me to find you and fetch you. I've found you, so go."

"Libba tattled," Trudy said ominously.

Jo gathered up her papers, dreading her interview with the headmistress.

"Don't worry, my darling," Trudy said. "You'll only get a few days' detention, I'm sure. Unless Sparky expels you."

"You're such a comfort," said Jo.

Trudy smiled ruefully. "What can I say? I merely wish to smoke. Sparky can forgive that. You, on the other hand, wish to know things. And no one can forgive a girl for that."

Chapter Two

Jo hurried out of Hollister Hall, crossed the grassy quad, and entered Slocum, where the headmistress's office was. A tall gilt mirror stood in the foyer. It caught her image as she rushed by it—a slender girl wearing a long brown skirt, a pin-striped blouse, and lace‑up boots. Wavy black hair formed a widow's peak over a high forehead, and a pair of lively gray eyes stared out from an uncommonly pretty face.

"You'd be a beauty," her mother often told her, "if only you'd stop scowling."

"I'm not scowling, Mama, I'm thinking," Jo always replied.

"Well, stop. It's unappealing," her mother would say.

Jo reached the door to Miss Sparkwell's office and paused, steeling herself for a thorough dressing down. She knocked.

"Enter!" a voice called out.

Jo turned the knob and pushed the door open, prepared to see the headmistress wearing a grave expression. She was not prepared, however, to see her standing by a window dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Had the mill girls story upset her that much?

"Miss Sparkwell, I don't know what Libba said to you, but the story has merit," Jo said, launching a preemptive strike. "It's high time the Jonquil offered its readers something weightier than poems about kittens."

"My dear, I did not summon you here to talk about the Jonquil."

"You didn't?" Jo said, surprised.

Miss Sparkwell passed a hand over her brow. "Mr. Aldrich, would you? I—I find I cannot," she said, her voice catching.

Jo turned around and was astonished to see two of her oldest friends—Abraham Aldrich and his sister, Adelaide—seated on a divan. She'd been so preoccupied with defending her story, she hadn't even noticed them.

"Bram! Addie!" she exclaimed, rushing to her friends. "What a lovely surprise! But I wish you'd have let me know you were coming. I would've changed out of my uniform. I would have . . ." Her words trailed off as she realized they were both dressed entirely in black. A cold dread gripped her.

"I'm afraid we have some bad news, Jo," Bram said, rising.

"Oh, Jo. Be brave, my darling," Addie whispered, joining him.

Jo looked from one to the other, her dread growing. "You're frightening me," she said. "For goodness' sake, what is it?" And then she knew. Mr. Aldrich had been in poor health for some time. "Oh, no. It's your father, isn't it?"

"No, Jo, not ours," said Addie quietly. She took Jo's hand.

"Not yours? I—I don't understand."

"Jo, your father is dead," Bram said. "It was an accident. He was cleaning a revolver in his study last night and it went off. Addie and I have come to fetch you home. We'll get your things, and then . . ."

Editorial Reviews

Praise for These Shallow Graves:

An Amelia Bloomer Project Award Book

★ " These Shallow Graves succeeds as a wonderfully paced thriller, a heart-pounding romance and an unflinching look at the hard choices one young woman must make when society disparages her dreams." - Shelf Awareness, Starred Review

★ "Fast-paced and thrilling... a smart, insightful, timely depiction of a young woman poised on the brink of a new world after the shattering of another."-Booklist, Starred Review★ " Action-packed chapters propel this compelling mystery...[and] the injustices Donnelly highlights remain all too relevant."- Publishers Weekly, Starred Review" A beautifully written mystery."-SLJ

"[A] fast-paced thriller...the story races to its surprising conclusion."-Kirkus Reviews

" A heroine you can't help cheering on."-The Horn Book

" A twisted tale of secrets, murder, love, and revenge. This historical thriller delivers...[and] Donnelly will keep you on the edge of your seat with this fast-paced, tightly written page turner."-USAToday.com

"Donnelly returns with a powerhouse of a whodunit. Her eighth novel strikes hard against poverty, sexism, classism, and gree, driving as relentlessly as Jo in her pursuit of truth and freedom."-BookPage.com" These Shallow Graves delivered all that I adore: lovely prose, historical intrigue, unique characters and setting. I devoured this book!"-Ruta Sepetys, New York Times bestselling author of Between Shades of Gray and Salt to the Sea

" An intelligent, personable heroine-Jo Montfort's hopes for an enlightened future uncover a dark past, resulting in a splendidly hair-raising tour of the brightest and darkest corners of Victorian New York."-Elizabeth Wein, New York Times bestselling author of Code Name Verity and Black Dove, White Raven

"Jo Montfort is a gutsy modern heroine in a beguiling tale of old New York. Money, murder, betrayal, and family secrets....I loved spending time in this world!"-Elizabeth Ross, author of William C. Morris Award finalist Belle Epoque

" A fast-paced Gilded Age crime thriller that plunges its intrepid investigative-journalist heroine into the sordid underworld of nineteenth-century New York City and into her own family's dark secrets."-Julie Berry, award-winning author of All the Truth That's In Me

From the Publisher

★ 08/17/2015
Josephine Montfort, one of the wealthy elite in 1890 New York City, is supposed to finish school, marry a suitable gentleman, raise a family, "and that is all." But smart, self-assured Jo desires more from life-and wants to become a reporter like Nellie Bly. When Jo's father unexpectedly dies, and she discovers that his death wasn't an accident, she teams up with an intrepid reporter named Eddie to find out what really happened. They uncover secrets that upend everything she has known, and Jo risks her reputation as they visit checkered parts of the city and she starts to fall for Eddie. While this isn't a short book, Donnelly's (Revolution) action-packed chapters propel this compelling mystery. Through Jo's sheltered perspective, readers learn about class disparity right alongside her, and Donnelly is as adept at describing an opulent ball as she is a seedy neighborhood. Though some of the constraints placed on female behavior during that time period have faded, the injustices Donnelly highlights remain all too relevant. Ages 12-up. Agent: Steven Malk, Writers House. (Oct.)

Publishers Weekly

Kim Bubbs skillfully gives voice to Josephine Montford, a wealthy young woman in late-nineteenth-century New York, and her love interest, an aspiring reporter named Eddie. Together, they set out to track down the man who murdered Jo's father, a newspaper publisher. Donnelly describes Jo's "porcelain coolness" as a "veneer" under which lies a "fierce intelligence," and Bubbs's portrayal deftly reflects those traits. She reveals Jo's education and privilege through genteel enunciation and a level tone, which make her moments of naïveté more believable. Jo's intelligence especially comes through in her fast-paced, passionate exchanges with Eddie. The poor denizens of the city, also competently portrayed, are effectively juxtaposed with the privileged. E.M.C. © AudioFile 2016, Portland, Maine

JANUARY 2016 - AudioFile

2015-07-15
In 19th-century Manhattan, socialite Jo Monfort's wealthy father meets an untimely death. Seventeen-year-old Jo, like her literary namesake in Little Women, aspires to be a writer, but her itch to learn about the world outside her social class threatens her family's expectation that she'll marry Bram, the most eligible bachelor in New York. When Jo's father is found dead of a gunshot wound in his study, it's assumed to be an accident, but Jo wonders how her safety-conscious father could possibly have been cleaning a loaded gun. She overhears a rakish young reporter declare that her father's partners in a shipbuilding firm paid hush money to keep the fact that it was murder out of the press. Jo won't rest until she gets to the bottom of the story, despite the risk to her reputation. Melodrama and intrigue drive this fast-paced thriller with a Wharton-esque setting and a naïve young protagonist willing to be exposed to the shadier side of life-prostitutes, uncouth men, and abject poverty-on her way to solving a mystery and asserting her right to claim her future for herself. The author keeps the clues coming at a rate that allows readers to be one small step ahead of Jo as the story races to its surprising conclusion. Readers who love costume dramas will relish this one. (Historical mystery. 13-17)

Kirkus Reviews

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The New York Times bestseller from the acclaimed author of A Northern Light, Revolution, Stepsister, and Poisoned. This thrilling mystery is perfect for fans of The Cellar and Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls. It's a story of dark secrets, dirty...

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by Walter Mosley

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Read an Excerpt

47
By Walter Mosley
Little Brown For Young Readers

Chapter One

I lived as a slave on the Corinthian Plantation my whole life up to the time that Tall John ran out of the back woods and into my life. I have no idea exactly how long the time before Tall John might have been, but I was most likely about fourteen years old at that time. Slaves didn't have birthday parties like the white children of Master or the white folk that either worked for Master or lived on the larder of his home.

Slaves didn't have birthday parties and so they didn't have ages like the white people did. Big Mama Flore always said that "White peoples gots as many ages as you can count but slaves on'y gots four ages. That's babychile, boy or girl, old boy or old girl, an' dead."

I loved Big Mama Flore. She was round and soft and always gave me a big hug in the morning. She was one of the only ones who ever showed me kindness when I was little. My mother died when I was too young to remember her face. Big Mama told me that my mother, her name was Psalma, had a boyfriend over at the Williams Plantation but she would never tell anybody who he was because she didn't want him getting into trouble for sneaking out to see her in the big house at night.

Flore also told me that that man nobody knew was my father.

"She didn't even tell you his name, Big Mama?" I asked when she would tell me the sad story of Psalma Turner when I was still too little to have to work in the cotton fields.

"No, babychile," Big Mama said. "Master Tobias would'a give a Christmas ham to the nigger tole who had fathered his wife's favorite maid's baby. He'd walk through the slave quarters at night sayin' that he would give the man who looked like Psalma's baby to Mr. Stewart for punishment. So if some slave knew who it was that yo' mama was seein' he would'a done hisself a big favor by tellin' Master Tobias his name. An' onceit Tobias knowed who that slave was he was sure to end up in Mr. Stewart's shack."

Tobias Turner was Master's name and Mr. Stewart was his overseer. The overseer made sure that all us slaves worked hard and didn't cause any ruckus or break the Rules. The Rules were that you did as you were told, didn't talk back, never complained, and stayed in your place.

Mr. Stewart had a shack that stood out in the middle of a stand of live oaks behind the slave quarters. And if you were ever unlucky enough to get sent back there then you were in serious trouble. Many a slave never returned from Mr. Stewart's killin' shack. And those that did come back were never the same.

I hadn't seen Mr. Stewart's torture chamber at that time but I knew about it because I had heard stories from those few souls that survived his torments. They said that he had a pine table that was twice as long as a tall man is tall and that there were leather straps on both ends that he would tie to a slave's wrists and ankles. The straps were attached to baskets filled with heavy stones that would stretch a poor soul's legs and arms out so far from their sockets that afterward the slave could hardly even lift his feet off the ground to walk and he would have to use both of his hands just to get the food to his mouth to eat.

"Yes, sir," Big Mama Flore would say in the backyard under the big magnolia tree that Una Turner's great grandfather planted when he settled the land back before any living slave, even Mud Albert, could remember. "Yes indeedy. If Master Tobias knowed who your father was that man wouldn'ta stood a nigger's chance on the main road at midday."

I was brokenhearted when Big Mama would tell the story about my mother and her sad end. When Psalma died giving birth to me, Una Turner told Master Tobias that I was to remain on her family's plantation for as long as I lived as a remembrance to my mother.

Una loved my mother because of her voice. It was said that Psalma Turner had the most beautiful voice that anyone on Corinthian Plantation had ever heard. Miss Una had a weak constitution and bad nerves and when she would have an attack it was only my mother's singing that would keep her from despair.

Miss Una loved my mother so much, Big Mama Flore said, that she would have been sure to keep me up in the big house with her - if she had lived. But three years after my mother died Miss Una had one of her attacks and without Psalma's singing she succumbed to the malady and passed over to the Upper Level and back to the place that all life comes from.

Some time after Miss Una died Master Tobias named me Forty-seven and told Big Mama that when I was big enough I was meant to live out in the slave quarters and work in the cotton fields with all the other slaves. Master Tobias didn't like me because he blamed my mother for getting pregnant and stealing herself from his property by dying. But he didn't want to sell me off because it was Miss Una's dying wish to keep me on her plantation near my mother's grave.

Until I grew Master Tobias made me live in the barn, feeding and grooming the horses and running any errands that the house slaves had for me. I made myself pretty scarce out there because whenever Master saw me he'd remember my mother and then he'd get mad and look to see if I'd done something wrong. And if there was one straw out of place he would tell Big Mama Flore to get her razor strap and whip my backside. Big Mama didn't want to beat me but she did anyway because Tobias was watching.

After these beatings, when Master was gone, Big Mama would fold me in her arms and apologize.

"I sorry, babychile, but if'n I didn't make you cry he would'a took the strap," she'd say, "and whip you hard enough to draw blood."

"Why he hate me so much, Big Mama?" I'd whine.

"He blame you for his wife dyin'," she'd say. "He just hurt so much inside an' you the on'y one left alive that he could blame."

"But I din't do nuthin'."

"Shhh, baby. You just stay outta Tobias's way. Don't look up when he's around an' always do all your work an' more than that so you don't give him no reason to have me beat you."

We both knew that when I got big enough to work in the fields he'd give me over to Mr. Stewart when he got mad. And Mr. Stewart would use a bullwhip on my bare back. He might even stretch my bones until I was dead.

We both knew that I was safe from Mr. Stewart until I grew big enough to pick cotton, so Mama Flore didn't feed me meat or milk so that I'd stay small and not have to go to work in the cotton fields.

I wasn't allowed in the big house. The only times I was ever there was when Big Mama sneaked me in so I could see how grand the white peoples' lives were.

So I lived in the barn my whole life until just before Tall John came to the plantation. In that time Big Mama Flore made my acquaintance with Mud Albert and Champ Noland. Mud Albert was the oldest slave on the plantation and Champ was the strongest. Champ once carried a fullgrown mule across the yard in front of the mansion. Albert and Champ loved Big Mama and so they told her that they would take me under their wings when I had to go out in the slave quarters and live with the rough element out there.

I spent most of my time working hard and avoiding Master's angry attention. But it wasn't all hard work and beatings. The barn was very large and it had a little window at the very top for ventilation. When nobody was looking I used to climb up to that window and pretend that I was in the crow's nest of some great ship coming from Europe or Africa. I had heard about these ships from some of the slaves that had been brought in chains from across the seas and from some of the house slaves who had seen pictures of the great three-mast sailboats in books from Master's library.

I'd sit up there at the end of the day, watching while the slaves picked cotton in the fields, pretending that I was the lookout put up there to tell the captain when there was some island paradise where we could drop our anchor.

And sometimes, if I was very lucky, I would catch a glimpse of Miss Eloise - Tobias's daughter.

Eloise. She was dainty and white as a china plate. Her pale red hair and green eyes were startling. In my mind she was the most beautiful creature in all of Georgia.

When Eloise would come out to play I'd squeeze down behind the sill of the open window and watch. Even when she was alone she laughed while she played, swinging on her swing chair or eating sweets on the veranda.

Every time I saw her in the yard behind the Master's mansion I got a funny feeling all over. I wanted to go down there and be happy with her but I knew that a nigger (That was back before I met Tall John and he taught me about the word "nigger" and how wrong it was for me to use such a term.) like me wasn't allowed even to look at someone like Miss Eloise.

One day, when Eloise was sitting in her swing chair alone, I stuck my head out to see what she was doing. But I didn't realize that the sun was at my back and that it cast the shadow of my head down into Miss Eloise's lap.

She looked up, squinting at the sun, and said, "Who's up there?"

I ducked down under the windowsill but that didn't stop her from calling.

"Who's up there spying on me?" she cried. "Come out right now or I'll call my daddy."

I knew that if Miss Eloise called her father I'd get more than a whipping from Big Mama's razor strap. He might whip me himself until I was knocked out and bleeding like the slaves I'd seen him bullwhip while they were tied to the big wagon wheel in the main yard.

I stood up and looked out.

"Yes'm, Miss Eloise?" I said. "I been workin' up here. Is it me you want?"

"You were spying on me," she said.

"No, ma'am," I assured her. "I's jes' workin'."

"Doin' what?"

If ever you tell a lie you should know where it's goin'. That's what Mud Albert would tell me. I should have heeded those words before telling Eloise that I was at work. Because there was no work for a groom like me up in the high part of the barn.

"Breshin' the horses," I said lamely.

"There ain't no horses in the top'a the barn," she said, pointing an accusing finger at me. "You're malingering up there, ain't you, boy?"

"I's sorry," I said, near tears from the fear in my heart.

"Come down here," Eloise said in a very serious tone.

I climbed down the ladder from the roof and ran through the barn and to the yard, where the young white girl stood. She wore a yellow bonnet held under her chin by a red ribbon, and a yellow dress with a flouncy slip underneath the skirt. She was eleven years old and pretty as a child can be.

I came up to her with my head hanging down and my eyes on the ground.

"Yes'm?" I said.

"Were you spyin' on me, boy?"

"I was jes lookin', Miss Eloise. I didn't know you was down here."

"Why you lookin' at your feet?" she asked. "You know it's rude not to look at someone when you're talkin' to 'em."

"I ain't s'posed to look at you, ma'am. You's a white lady an' niggers ain't s'posed to look at white ladies."

It was true. Even Fred Chocolate, Master Tobias's butler, was not supposed to look at a white woman straight on.

"You were lookin' at me from up in the barn," she said.

"No, ma'am," I lied. "I mean I looked out but I didn't know that you was there."

"That's not true," she said.

"I swear it is," I said, still looking at my feet.

"Look up at me this instant, you insolent boy," she said then.

I raised my head slowly. I had to look up because Eloise was elevated above me, on the porch. When I saw her face there was a big smile on it.

"Don't be scared," she said. "I won't tell."

My heart skipped at her kind words. I felt as if she were saving me even though it was her threats that I was afraid of.

"Do you want a molasses cookie?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

From a tin can on the swinging chair she brought out a big brown cookie. She knelt down in her pretty dress and handed it to me.

"Now run along," she said. "And don't worry, I won't tell that you were lookin'."

I ran back into the barn and up to my crow's nest. Mama Flore had let me taste the crumbs from cookies before but I never had a whole one, or even a proper piece. I sat up next to the window and ate my cookie, thinking of young Eloise.

I was hoping that somehow she would remember me and make me her page. That way I could always be near her and eat sugary cookies every night of the week.

That was all before I met Tall John and learned that no man or woman should serve another because that made them a slave.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from 47 by Walter Mosley Copyright © 2005 by Walter Mosley. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Master storyteller Walter Mosley deftly mixes speculative and historical fiction in this daring New York Times bestselling novel, reminiscent of Colson Whitehead's The Underground Railroad. 47 is a young slave boy living under the watchful eye of a brutal slave master...

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by Patricia Reilly Giff

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SEWING! NO ONE could hate it more than Dina Kirk.

Endless tiny stitches, button holes, darts. Since she was tiny, she's worked in her family's dressmaking business, where the sewing machine is a cranky member of the family.

When 13-year-old Dina leaves her small town in Germany to join her uncle's family in Brooklyn, she turns her back on sewing. Never again! But looking for a job leads her right back to the sewing machine. Why did she ever leave home? Here she is, still with a needle and thread-and homesick to boot.

She didn't know she could be this homesick, but she didn't know she could be so brave either, as she is standing up to an epidemic or a fire. She didn't know she could grow so close to her new family or to Johann, the young man from the tailor's shop. And she didn't know that sewing would reveal her own wonderful talent-and her future.

In Dina, the beloved writer Patricia Reilly Giff has created one of her most engaging and vital heroines. Readers will enjoy seeing 1870s Brooklyn through Dina's eyes, and share her excitement as she discovers a new world.

ISBN-13:

9780375890550

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

11/30/2004

Sold by:

Random House

Format:

NOOK Book

Pages:

160

Sales rank:

707,440

File size:

334 KB

Age Range:

8 - 12 Years

one

Outside was war. I could hear the pop-pop-pop of the cannons.

Inside was the sewing room. Gray cloth forms of Mama's clients stood along one wall, reminding me of the soldiers we saw on the streets outside, but without their spiked helmets, of course, or their splendid blue tunics with the gold trim.

War! How exciting it was. Our own German soldiers from the Fifth Infantry Regiment had swarmed into our sleepy little town, determined to take on the French who lived just on the other side of the Rhine River.

And that sparkling river flowed so close to our front door I could have tossed a stone from my window and seen the ripples it made in the water.

I didn't care two pins about our Otto von Bismarck and his determination to unite all of Germany in this war. What difference could it possibly make to me?

But I did love to think about those soldiers, who looked so fierce and elegant . . . and who wandered up and down the street so close to the sewing room that I was tempted to tap on the window with my thimble and wave to them.

Mama would have had a fit!

Being a soldier would certainly be better than sitting here in this room sewing buttons on Frau Ottlinger's winter bodice--ten brass buttons from collar to waist--running the thread through the tallow to give it strength.

Frau Ottlinger, Mama's most important client, thought she was going to be a fashion plate this Christmas, dressed in the style of those infantrymen. She was more likely to look like a breakfast bun studded with raisins.

"Dina!" Mama said. Even with her back turned she knew my mind was wandering. And I knew exactly what she was going to say next: "Christmas is almost upon us, and we have dozens of orders still to fill!" As she spoke, she rubbed the already spotless sewing machine wheel with a soft cloth.

That sewing machine! It was like a cranky member of the family that had to be cleaned, and polished, and fed with oil whenever I turned around. And every two minutes it seemed we had to put a new piece of felt underneath to save the rose rug from being worn away.

Today there was a fire in the grate, and smoky lanterns for light--smoky because I had forgotten to wash them. Mama had swished the curtains closed in anger at the first burst of gunfire. "These dresses must be finished tonight," she had said to my sister, Katharina, and me. "Pay no attention to those ruffians out there."

Anyone who disturbed Mama was a ruffian.

Luckily the curtains were opened the width of one of Mama's business cards: Frau Kirk and Daughters--Tailors. I could see part of our little southern German town of Breisach nestled between the mountains and the river, and once in a while a cannon flash as our soldiers fired across that river at the French.

France would be defeated, we knew that. Someone had told Mama the French had no harnesses for their horses, no bullets, and, worse, they were fighting smallpox, a disease so terrible it made me shiver to think about it.

Poor Elise, my French friend for so many years. She lived on the other side of the river, and we had met at a fall festival in happier times, when we were less than ten years old. How often on early sunny mornings we rowed back and forth across the river to trade patterns, and cookies, and gossip.

Mama leaned over me now. "Those buttonholes look like cabbage heads."

I looked down guiltily.

Mama took the bodice and my needle. Carefully she made invisible blanket stitches around the edges of the top hole, filling in the space to make it smaller. "You know how to do this as well as I do." She patted my shoulder. "You are thirteen years old. Stop dreaming. We have no time for it."

Stop dreaming. Stop thinking. I stretched my cramped fingers. I remembered the first buttonholes I had made at the age of four, practicing on a piece of toweling, first Mama, then Katharina showing me patiently. How many buttonholes had I made since then? A thousand?

Mama was sympathetic. "I know it takes forever to do all those buttons when you'd rather be--"

Reading the letter that's propped up on the fabric table was what I wanted to say. "Having morning muffins," I said instead so that I wouldn't be accused of having more curiosity than Ksnig, our cat.

My eyes kept going to the letter that had arrived this morning: a tissue-thin envelope covered with stamps from America. Mama had said, "I'm too busy adding the braid to Frau Ottlinger's skirt to open it. It has nothing to do with you anyway, Dina." But she smiled to take the sting out of her words.

And my older sister, Katharina! She didn't have as much curiosity as the piece of tailor's chalk on the table. With barely a glance at the letter, she had picked up a package of flannel sheets, neatly hemmed, and gone out the back door to deliver them to a family on Mettau Street.

I was on the fifth button, holes newly drawn in, when at last Mama stood up, arching her back and running her hands over her waist as she left the sewing room for the kitchen. I'd have about three minutes alone while she stirred the soup and added the marrow balls she had prepared an hour ago.

Out of my chair in an instant, I picked up the letter, which crackled in my hand, and tried to read the words through the envelope.

In my mind was a picture of the uncle who had sent it: Mama's rich older brother, who lived in luxury. No wonder! Everyone who lived in Brooklyn, New York, probably did. After his first wife died, he had married again and sailed immediately for America. How romantic it was. I hadn't seen him since I was a little girl, but I imagined him handsome and funny, and the young second wife, Barbara, slim and lovely.

I held the letter up, turning it one way and then another. The name Katharina jumped out at me. "Katharina," I said aloud. "What is he saying about Katharina?"

And I was caught, of course.

Mama plucked the letter from my hand.

"Well, what do you think it says?" I asked.

"I know what it's about," Mama said, "and Katharina does, too."

"Why don't I know? Why is it that everything is kept from me?"

Mama shook her head impatiently. "Nothing can be kept from you for very long." She sighed. "My brother is offering Katharina a place with him and his wife."

I sank down on the chair, my heart thumping in my chest. "And I? Will I go with her?"

Mama shook her head. I could see she felt a little sorry for me. "Only Katharina."

Katharina to go to America! I loved my older sister; she was my best friend. Katharina to go, and not me?

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SEWING! NO ONE could hate it more than Dina Kirk. Endless tiny stitches, button holes, darts. Since she was tiny, she's worked in her family's dressmaking business, where the sewing machine is a cranky member of the family.When 13-year-old Dina leaves her small town in...

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by Michelle Cooper

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"There's a fine line between gossip and history, when one is talking about kings."

Sophie Fitzosborne lives in a crumbling castle in the tiny island kingdom of Montmaray with her eccentric and impoverished royal family. When she receives a journal for her sixteenth birthday, Sophie decides to chronicle day-to-day life on the island. But this is 1936, and the news that trickles in from the mainland reveals a world on the brink of war. The politics of Europe seem far away from their remote island-until two German officers land a boat on Montmaray. And then suddenly politics become very personal indeed.

A Brief History of Montmaray is a heart-stopping tale of loyalty, love, and loss, and of fighting to hold on to home when the world is exploding all around you.

"Once in a while, a special book will cross our paths and make us grateful for life and the ability to read. I'm talking about A Brief History of Montmaray by Michelle Cooper. I'm calling her Australia's next stroke of literary brilliance." -Viewpoint

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About the Author

Michelle Cooper lives in Sydney, Australia.

Read an Excerpt

23rd October 1936

Dear Sophie,

Happy birthday to my favorite little sister! I've been trying to recollect the day you were born so I can gush about it in an appropriately sentimental fashion, but I'm afraid it's all a blank. I must have been too busy pulling Veronica's hair or smearing stewed apple over my smock to notice you popping into existence. I do remember Henry's arrival ten years ago, and if you were anything like her, you were a most unattractive baby--wrinkled, red-faced, loud, and rather smelly. Lucky for all of us that you've improved somewhat with age.

Now, did the presents arrive safely? I had to go all the way to Knightsbridge for the journal, and then I got detention for sneaking off from Games, so I hope you appreciate it. You can use it to write down your thoughts. You must have plenty of them at the moment, given Aunt Charlotte's letter--I assume you've read it by now. Are you thrilled? Terrified? Well, it's all your fault for turning sixteen--you gave Aunt Charlotte quite a shock when she realized how old you'd suddenly become. She had to sit down and have an extra-large sherry to recover.

As for me, this new school is almost as ghastly as the old one. I suppose I'd been hoping Rupert would come too when I was thrown out of Eton, but his parents keep saying no, worse luck. The House Masters have finally sorted out dormitories, and now I share with three boys. Two are in the Rugby First XV, ugh. The other has noxious feet and learns the bagpipes, so is nearly as bad. I have already had two detentions, one for missing Games on Saturday and one for not doing Latin prep. The Latin prep wasn't my fault. I didn't know there was any prep because the Latin Master told us about it in Latin and I didn't understand a word he said.

Remember, I am in MarchHare House, so please make sure you put that on the address when you write, otherwise the letters might get lost. It's a good House to be in because it inevitably comes last in the House Cup, so no one cares much when I lose House points. The other good thing about MarchHare is that we can climb out the top-story windows onto the roof and look into the hospital next door, which is very educational. Also, sometimes the nurses come out onto a balcony to smoke, and they throw us a cigarette if we beg nicely.

It's almost lights-out, so I'd better finish. Tell Veronica to come and live in my trunk so she can secretly do my Latin prep for me. She could write my History essay as well, it is on the Restoration. And ask her to bring Carlos with her so he can eat the bagpipes.

Love from your wonderful brother,

Toby

As usual, Toby's letter was coded in Kernetin, which Toby and my cousin Veronica and I invented years ago so we could write notes to each other without the grown-ups being able to read them. Kernetin is based on Cornish and Latin, with some Greek letters and random meaningless squiggles thrown in to be extra-confusing. Also, it is boustrophedonic (I adore that word and try to say it as often as possible, but unfortunately it hasn't many everyday uses). "Boustrophedonic" means you read one line left to right, then the next right to left. Veronica can translate Kernetin straight off the page into English, but I find it easier to write it out, so there it is, my first entry in my new journal. It has a hundred blank pages thick as parchment, and a morocco binding, and is almost too lovely to write in.

I did get some superb birthday presents this year. Veronica gave me a pen with my initials on it. From my little sister, Henry, came a new Pride and Prejudice, because I dropped my old one in the bath and it hasn't been the same since. (Henry, who wishes she'd been born a boy, looked quite disappointed when I opened the journal from Toby--she'd probably told him to get me one of those pocketknives with attached magnifying glass, screwdriver, and fish-scaler, hoping that I'd then lend it to her.) The villagers presented me with a honey-spice cake, a lavender pillow, and a beautiful comb carved out of driftwood. Uncle John doesn't even know what year it is, let alone the date, so I never expect so much as a "Happy birthday" from him, but Rebecca, our housekeeper, gave me the day off from washing up the breakfast dishes. Even Carlos, our Portuguese water dog, managed a birthday card, signed with an inky paw-print (now I understand why Henry was being so secretive yesterday and how the bathtub ended up with all those black streaks).

And then there was Aunt Charlotte! I opened her letter long after breakfast was over because I couldn't imagine her approving of anything as indulgent as birthdays, but that turned out to be the most exciting part of the whole morning. I won't copy it all out, most of it being her usual scoldings about our idle, extravagant lives here on Montmaray, and do we think she's made of money, and so on. But here is the important part:

._._._and now that you are sixteen, Sophia, I am reminded yet again of the sad burden I have been forced to bear since my youngest brother and his wife were so cruelly torn from this world, God rest their souls. My only comfort is knowing how grateful Robert and Jane would be if they could see all that I have done for you children.

However, my responsibilities are not yet complete, and your mother in particular, Sophia, would have wanted you to be given the same social opportunities she had. As for Veronica, it is not her fault that her feckless mother is who-knows-where and quite unable to make appropriate arrangements regarding a matrimonial match. I feel it is my duty, then, to sponsor your debuts into Society. We cannot postpone this event much longer, in light of your advancing ages.

I expect early in the new year would be the best time for both of you to travel to England. I leave it to Veronica to write to Mr. Grenville regarding steamer passage and railway tickets. In the meantime, I shall begin perusing the Almanach de Gotha for eligible prospects_._._.

Editorial Reviews

Starred Review, Booklist, September 15, 2009:
"A smart and stirring choice to usher fans of the Brontës into the twentieth century."

From the Publisher

Gr 8-10-The year is 1936 and, on her 16th birthday, Princess Sophia of Montmaray receives a journal and begins chronicling her life on the tiny island kingdom in the Bay of Biscay. The population has dwindled-the impoverished royals nearly outnumber their subjects-and those remaining get only sporadic updates on the Spanish Civil War and the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany. With the eldest male and heir at school in England and the current monarch most often found locked in his room or throwing chamber pots about, it falls to Sophie and her cousin Veronica to deal with the ominous arrival of a German scholar and his SS guard. In the first title (Knopf, 2009) of a planned series, Michelle Cooper seamlessly weaves in historical facts of the period with the fictional account of daily life on Montmaray which is populated by original and interesting characters. Emma Bering believably voices Sophia's diary as she deals with her first crush, attempts to understand the political upheaval in Europe, completes her daily chores, and experiences an eerie recurring dream. She gives each character his or her own intonations and subtleties, but is at her best with Sophie, a teen whom listeners will relate to as her life quickly goes from monotonous to tumultuous.-Amanda Raklovits, Champaign Public Library, IL

School Library Journal

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"There's a fine line between gossip and history, when one is talking about kings."Sophie Fitzosborne lives in a crumbling castle in the tiny island kingdom of Montmaray with her eccentric and impoverished royal family. When she receives a journal for her sixteenth...

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by Laurie Halse Anderson

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Read an Excerpt

Wednesday, May 29- Thursday, June 6, 1776

...we have in common With all other men a naturel right to our freedoms without Being depriv'd of them by our fellllow men.... we were unjustly dragged by the cruel hand of power from our dearest friends and sum of us stolen...and Brought hither to be made slaves for Life in a Christstian land Thus are we deprived of every thing that hath a tendency to make life even tolerable...
— Petition for freedom from a group of slaves to Massachusetts Governor Thomas Gage, His Majesty's Council, and the House of Representntatives, 25 May 1774

The days started early in the Lockton kitchen. Since Becky lived in a boardinghouse on Oliver Street, it fell to me to wake first and build up the fire. She did the proper cooking, and I did near everything else, like washing pots and plates and beating eggs till my arms fell off for Madam's almond jumbles and plum cakes with icing. If not in the kitchen, I was removing colonies of spiders, polishing tables and chairs, or sweeping up a mountain of dust. I saved the cobwebs, twisting them around a rag and storing them by our pallet in the cellar.

Cobwebs were handy when a person had a bloody cut.

Madam complained every time she saw me: I left a streak of wax on the tabletop. I tracked in mud. I faced a china dog toward the door after I dusted it, which would cause the family's luck to run out. At the end of every scolding, I cast down my eyes and said, "Yes, Madam."

I kept careful track of her the same way as I used to mind the neighbor's bull when I took the milk cows out to pasture. She had not hit me again, but always seemed on the edge of it.

Mostly Madam slept late, wrote letters, and picked out melodies on a badly tuned spinet. A few times, she and her husband conversated fast and quiet about Mr. Washington and when the King's ships would arrive for the invasion. They argued fierce on Thursday night. Lockton shouted and called Madam rude names before storming out of the house, the front door crashing behind him.

Ivowed not to cross neither of them.

Madam went to bed early that night, so we did too. Ruth snuggled next to me and fell asleep quick. I lay awake, praying hard but gaining little comfort.

I was lost. I knew that we were in the cellar of a house on Wall Street, owned by the Locktons, in the city of New York, but it was like looking at a knot, knowing it was a knot, but not knowing how to untie it. I had no map for this life.

I lay awake and stared into the darkness.

Madam called for tea in her bedchamber the next morning and sent for Ruth, who was pumping the butter churn with vigor.

"Why would she need Ruth?" I asked as I wiped my sister's hands and face with a damp rag.

"Why does she do anything?" Becky asked. "I'm to climb to the attic to fetch the cast-off clothing in an old trunk. Maybe she'll set the little one to rip out the stitches so the dressmaker can use the fabric. This best be the last of the day's fanciful notions. My knees don't like all this upping and downing of the stairs."

Ruth stayed in Madam's chamber for hours. I spilled the fireplace ashes on the kitchen floor, then kicked over the bucket of wash water I brought in to clean up the mess. I stubbed my toe and near cut off my finger whilst peeling an old, tough turnip.

When I could stand it no more, I snuck out of the kitchen and tiptoed down the hall. I could hear the sound of Madam's voice from the bottom of the stairs, but not the words she was saying. I wanted to march up there and tell Ruth to come back and finish the butter.

I did not. I forced myself to work.

Becky took a tray of cookies and a pot of tea upstairs late in the afternoon. I pounced when she returned to the kitchen.

"Is Ruth well? Why does Madam keep her?"

Becky chose her words with care. "Madam has taken a liking to your Ruth, on account of her being so tiny and quiet." She sat at the kitchen table. "She means to use her for a personal maid."

"Pardon me?"

"Most of Madam's friends have a slave to split wood and carry chamber pots, like you. If Madam has a slave dressed in finery, well that makes her more of a lady. Ruth can fan her when she's hot, or stir the fire when she's cold."

I forgot myself and sat down across from Becky. "She's making Ruth into a curiosity?"

Becky nodded. "Aye, that's a good word for it."

I went cold with anger, then hot, then cold again. It wasn't right. It wasn't right for one body to own another or pull strings to make them jump. Why was Madam allowed to hit me or to treat Ruth like a toy?

"Take care," Becky warned, pointing to my lap.

I looked down. My hands were clenched into fists so tight the cords that held my bones together could be seen. I released them.

Becky leaned across the table and spoke quiet. "I don't imagine you like this much. Can't say I blame you. But don't lose your head. Madam is not afraid to beat her slaves."

I rubbed my palms together. "Do they own more than us?"

"Half a dozen down to the Charleston place, none up in Boston. Never been to the Carolinas, so I don't know how they get along. But you need to calm yourself and heed what I am about to tell you."

"Yes, ma'am," I said stiffly.

"Two, three years ago, there was another girl here, slave like you. She talked back. Madam called her surly and took to beating her regular-like. One day she beat her with a fireplace poker."

"Did she die?"

"No, but her arm broke and didn't heal right. It withered and hung useless, so Madam sold her."

I could not hold the hot words in my mouth any longer. "She best not come after me with a poker. Or hurt Ruth."

Becky leaned back and studied on me a bit. "You ain't never going to say something like that again, not in my kitchen. I get paid decent here, and I won't let some girl like you get in the way of that. Wearing pretty dresses ain't going to hurt the little one, so wipe that look off your face and fetch me some more wood."

After that, Ruth's every waking moment was spent with Madam. Though we worked in the same house and slept under the same blanket, we had little time to talk. Ruth was permitted to sleep until the sun rose, went to bed when Madam retired, and rarely had to work in the kitchen or garden.

I lay awake every night, heart filled with dread, recalling the dangerous offer made by the boy in the floppy red hat.

Copyright © 2008 by Laurie Halse Anderson

Thursday, June 6, 1776

...hundreds in this [New York] Colony are active against Us and such is the weakness of the Government, (if it can deserve the Name) that the Tories openly profess their Sentiments in Favour of the Enemy, and live unpunished.
— Letter of William Tudor, Washington's chief legal officer, to John Adams

I was stuck on the back steps with a pile of dull knives and a whetstone. It was a dreary job. First, spit on the stone. Next, hold the knife at the proper angle and circle it against the stone; ten to the left, ten to the right, until the blade was sharp enough to slice through a joint of beef like it was warm butter.

As I sharpened, I imagined using the knife to cut through the ropes that tied us to New York. I'd slice through the ocean, and Ruth and me would walk on the sand all the way home. Ten circles to the left...

Ruth was abovestairs, standing by whilst Madam prepared herself for company. The master was locked in his library. Becky was somewhere in the crowd watching General Washington parade down Broadway with five regiments of soldiers. The sounds of beating drums and whistling fifes, and the cries of "Huzzah! Huzzah!" blew toward me over the rooftops.

I pushed everything out of my mind, save my task. Ten circles to the right...

Becky came back from the parade an hour later, overflowing with stories. She nattered on about the spectacle whilst assembling the tea things for Madam and Lady Seymour, who had come again to call. I pretended to listen. Truth be told, I didn't notice when she left carrying the tray.

Ten circles to the left, ten circles to the righty, all make the blade sharp and mighty. Ten circles to the left, ten to the right...

Becky called for me twice before I heard her proper. Her voice was high and tight. "...I said to hurry! You want to get me put on the street? Madam wants you in the parlor."

T he knife near slipped from my hands. "Is it Ruth?"

"No, the Lady Seymour wants to see you. And the master just arrived with gentlemen friends all calling for food and drink. Hurry!"

I washed up in the cold water bucket, quickly pinned on a clean apron, checked my kerchief was on proper and followed Becky to the parlor. She rapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. "The new girl, ma'am," she said, setting a plate of fresh-baked strawberry tarts on the table.

"Show her in," Madam said.

Becky waved at me to enter.

Madam and an older woman sat at the table, but my eyes were drawn behind them, to my sister, dressed up as Madam's pretty pet in a bleached linen shift, a navy-blue brocade short gown, and a full skirt patterned with lilacs. When she saw me, she clenched her hands together and bit her lower lip. Her eyes were red and swollen with crying.

My belly went funny and my mind raced. Why had she been crying? Was she sick? Scared? Did Madam hurt her?

Becky poked me gently in the back. This was not the time for questions.

I quickly dropped into a curtsy, bowing my head. When I stood up, the older woman, the lady aunt with all the money, gave me a shadow of a smile. She was smaller than Madam and wore a silk gown the color of a mourning dove and gray lace gloves. Her hair was curled high and powdered snow white. A necklace set with black stones shone from her neck. There were deep lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but I couldn't tell if they were from laughing or from crying.

She turned in her chair and looked at Ruth, then back at me. "And these two girls are the sisters?" she asked.

Madam reached for a tart. "That's what the man said."

The older woman sipped her tea. "What is your name, girl?" she asked me.

"Isabel, ma'am," I said. "Isabel Finch."

"Ridiculous name," Madam said. She opened her fan and waved it in front of her face. "You are called Sal Lockton now. It's more suitable."

I forced myself to breathe in slow and regular instead of telling her that my name was not her affair. "Yes, ma'am."

She glanced at my feet. "And you must wear your shoes. This is a house, not a barn."

Ruth stepped out of her corner. "Isabel."

Madam snapped the fan shut and rapped it against the edge of the table, startling us all. "What did I tell you about silence?" she said roughly.

Ruth raised one shaking finger to her mouth and said, "Shh."

"Precisely." Madam set the fan in her lap and reached for a piece of sugar with silver tongs. When she plopped it in the cup, the tea overflowed into the saucer.

Ruth stood there like a carved statue, her finger still held to her lips. I took another breath, slower than the first, and tried not to think on the newly sharpened knives on the kitchen steps. Lady Seymour curled her fingers around the teacup, her gaze marking first Madam, then Ruth, then me. She said nothing.

"Would you like Sal to serve you and Lady Seymour while I wait on the gentlemen?" Becky asked.

"Absolutely not. Show her the library and make sure the men are fed. And bring fresh tea. This has already gone cold."

We curtsied and left the parlor. Ruth's sad eyes followed me to the door.

Ten circles to the left, ten circles to the righty, all make the blade sharp and mighty.

Back in the kitchen, Becky took a large silver tray off a high shelf in the pantry. "Hold this." She loaded the tray with plates of cold sliced tongue, cheddar cheese, brown bread, and a bowl of pickles. I could not stop thinking about the way Ruth had jumped when Madam shouted, nor the tears in her eyes.

Becky took down a second tray and set upon it four goblets, two bottles of claret wine, and a crock of mustard. She swung the kettle back over the fire to heat up more water, picked up the tray with the wine, and said, "Hop to."

I followed her to the front of the house. "But, what about my shoes?"

"The master won't notice long as he gets his grub." Becky balanced the edge of the tray on her hip and knocked on the door on the right side of the front hall. When a deep voice answered, she opened it.

Lockton looked up as we entered. "Oh, good. Sustenance," he said, pushing aside a stack of newspapers to clear off the desk.

The room was the same size and shape as the parlor, but two of the walls had bookcases built into them. A large painting of horses jumping over a high hedge hung on the third wall. A thin layer of dust lay over everything. The front windows were open, bringing in fresh air and noise from the street; carts rolling over the cobblestones and church bells in the distance mingled with the voices of the four men who sat around the enormous desk.

One man looked poorer than the others; the cuffs of his coat were frayed and his hands were stained with ink. Next to him sat a man with suspicious gray eyes and a liver-colored coat with a double row of gold buttons fastened over a large pudding-belly. The third man wore something on his head that looked more like a dead possum than a wig, but his coat was crisp and new and the buckles on his shoes gleamed. The fourth was Master Lockton, looking like a cat who had just swallowed the last bite of a juicy mouse.

Becky set her tray on a sideboard. I held mine as she poured the wine and served the gentlemen. Then she had me hold the food tray so that she could serve the tongue and cheese. Talk halted as the men started in on their meal.

"Becky!" Madam called from across the hall.

"Go see to her," Lockton told Becky. "The girl can stay here. Does she know where the wine is?"

"Yes, sir," I said. Becky and Lockton both stared at me. I had spoken out of turn. My job was to be silent and follow orders. Ruth had already learned that. Shhhhhh...

"Keep the wine flowing and the plates full," Lockton said. "My friends eat more at my table than their own."

As Becky left, Goldbuttons drained his wine, then raised his goblet. I hurried to pour him another, and topped off the drinks of the other men. Lockton gave me a curt nod when I was finished. "Stand over there," he said, pointing to the corner where the two bookshelves met each other.

I gave a wordless curtsy and took my place.

The men dove back into their conversation. "Who has been arrested because of the oath?" demanded Lockton.

"Fools unschooled in the art of fence-sitting," said Goldbuttons.

"Plank-walking, you mean," said Inkstained.

Shabbywig leaned forward and pointed his finger at Inkstained. "Don't you turn the coward on us. Not when we're this close."

"Close?" argued Inkstained. "Do you see His Majesty's ships in the harbor? I don't. I might argue that England has fled and the rebel traitors have won."

"Lower your voices," Lockton said with a scowl. He closed the windows with a loud bang, then returned to his seat.

"His Majesty's ships are very close, closer than you know. This rebellion will be smashed like glass under a heavy boot, and the King will be very grateful for our assistance."

The mention of the King caught my ear. I studied the wide boards on the floor and listened with care.

Goldbuttons popped a piece of cheese into his mouth and talked as he chewed. "I sincerely hope you speak the truth, Elihu. These rebel committees are multiplying faster than rabbits in the spring. They've just about ground business to a halt."

"Have they interfered with you directly?" Lockton asked.

"Every waking moment," Goldbuttons said. "The latest bit of nonsense is a Committee to Detect Conspiracies. They've sent the hounds after us, old friend."

"Have you written to Parliament? They need the specifics of our difficulties."

"Parliament is as far away as the moon," complained Inkstained.

As the other men argued about Parliament and letters of protest and counterletters and counter-counterletters, Shabbywig stabbed at the last pieces of tongue on his plate and shoved them into his mouth. He turned in his seat to look at me, held up his plate, and grunted. If I had ever done such a thing, Momma would have switched my behind for having the manners of a pig. Even Miss Mary Finch had asked with a "please" and a "thank you" when Momma served her dinner.

This is New York, I reminded myself as I crossed the room and took the plate from his hand. The rules are different. I loaded his plate down with the last slices of tongue and set it in front of him before retreating to my corner. Everything is different.

My belly growled and grumbled in its cage. The smell of the tongue and mustard and the cheese filled the room and made my mouth water. I had eaten a bowl of corn mush at sunrise and only dumplings at midday. To distract the beast in my gullet, I tried to read the names of the books on the shelves without turning my head. My eyes were as starved for words as the rest of me was for dinner.

It was hard to read from the side like that. I wanted to pull down a book, open it proper, and gobble up page after page. I wanted to stare into the faces of these men and demand they take me home. I wanted to jump on the horse in the painting and fly over the hills. Most of all, I wanted to grab my sister by the hand and run as fast as we could until the cobblestones disappeared and there was dirt under our feet again.

"Girl," Lockton said. "Bring us more bread, sliced thin. And some of Becky's apricot jam. I've missed the taste of that."

I curtsied and hurried out of the room, leaving the door open a crack so I could easily open it when I came back with my hands full. Across the hall came the quiet conversation of Madam and Lady Seymour. I paused but heard no mention of Ruth.

Shhhhh...

There was fresh bread on the kitchen table, but it took a piece of time to find the crock of jam. I used one of my sharp knives to slice the loaf, set out the slices on a clean plate, and put the plate and jam on a tray. It was taking me too long to finish a simple chore. I feared the master would be angry with me, and I was angry at myself for being afraid.

I was just about to push open the library door with my foot when the master said, "Compliments of His Majesty, gentleman. There's enough money here to bribe half of the rebel army."

I stopped and peered through the crack.

Madam's linen chest, the one that she had fussed about when we arrived, was in the middle of the library floor, the top thrown open. Underskirts and shifts were heaped on the floor beside it. Lockton reached into the chest and pulled out two handfuls of paper currency.

"Huzzah!" said Inkstained as Goldbuttons let out a low whistle.

"Do you have a man ready?" Lockton asked.

"Two," Shabbywig answered. "One will operate out of Corby's Tavern, the other from the Highlander."

"Good." Lockton crossed back to his desk. I could no longer see him, but his words were clear. "Every man willing to switch sides is to be paid five guineas and two hundred acres of land. If he have a wife, an additional hundred acres. Each child of his blood garners another fifty."

"Makes me want to marry the next lady I clap eyes on," Goldbuttons said.

Lockton chuckled.

I gave the door a little push and it swung open. "Sir?" I asked in a hushed tone.

"Enter," Lockton said.

I walked in. The other men did not look my way. I was invisible to them until they needed something.

"Jam," he said with a smile. "Put it right here."

I placed the tray in front of him and took my place again in the corner. The men spread the jam on the bread and drank their wine, discussing politics and war and armies over the stacks of money on my master's desk. The smell of apricots filled the warm room. It put me in mind of the orchards down the road from Miss Mary's place.

I kept my face still as a plaster mask, but inside my brainpan, thoughts chased round and round. By the time the men rose to leave, I knew what I had to do.

Copyright © 2008 by Laurie Halse Anderson

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Chains (Seeds of America Trilogy Series #1)|Paperback

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From acclaimed author Laurie Halse Anderson comes this compelling first novel in the historical middle grade The Seeds of America trilogy that shows the lengths we can go to cast off our chains, both physical and spiritual.As the Revolutionary War begins, thirteen-year-old Isabel...

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by Barbara Wright

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The summer of 1898 is filled with ups and downs for 11-year-old Moses. He's growing apart from his best friend, his superstitious Boo-Nanny butts heads constantly with his pragmatic, educated father, and his mother is reeling from the discovery of a family secret. Yet there are good times, too. He's teaching his grandmother how to read. For the first time she's sharing stories about her life as a slave. And his father and his friends are finally getting the respect and positions of power they've earned in the Wilmington, North Carolina, community. But not everyone is happy with the political changes at play and some will do anything, including a violent plot against the government, to maintain the status quo.

One generation away from slavery, a thriving African American community-enfranchised and emancipated-suddenly and violently loses its freedom in turn-of-the-century North Carolina when a group of local politicians stages the only successful coup d'etat in US history.

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780375873676

Publisher:

Random House Children's Books

Publication date:

03/12/2013

Pages:

320

Sales rank:

460,668

Product dimensions:

5.10(w) x 7.50(h) x 0.90(d)

Lexile:

800L ( what's this?)

Age Range:

10 - 12 Years

About the Author

What People are Saying About This

Starred Review, School Library Journal, January 1, 2012:
"The expert blending of vivid historical details with the voice of a courageous, relatable hero makes this book shine."

Starred Review, The Horn Book Magazine, January 1, 2012:
"Wright has taken a little-known event and brought it to vivid life, with a richly evoked setting of a town on the Cape Fear River, where a people not far from the days of slavery look forward to the promise of the twentieth century."

Starred Review, Publishers Weekly, December 12, 2011:
"This thought-provoking novel and its memorable cast offer an unflinching and fresh take on race relations, injustice, and a fascinating, little-known chapter of history."

Starred Review, Kirkus Reviews, November 15, 2011:
"Relying on historical records, Wright deftly combines real and fictional characters to produce an intimate story about the Wilmington riots to disenfranchise black citizens. An intensely moving, first-person narrative of a disturbing historical footnote told from the perspective of a very likable, credible young hero."

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The summer of 1898 is filled with ups and downs for 11-year-old Moses. He's growing apart from his best friend, his superstitious Boo-Nanny butts heads constantly with his pragmatic, educated father, and his mother is reeling from the discovery of a family secret. Yet there are good times, too....

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by Seth Grahame-Smith

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Indiana. Moonlight falls through the dense woods that surround a one-room cabin, where a nine-year-old Abraham Lincoln kneels at his suffering mother's bedside. She's been stricken with something the old-timers call "Milk Sickness."

"My baby boy..." she whispers before dying.

Only later will the grieving Abe learn that his mother's fatal affliction was actually the work of a vampire.

When the truth becomes known to young Lincoln, he writes in his journal, " henceforth my life shall be one of rigorous study and devotion. I shall become a master of mind and body. And this mastery shall have but one purpose..." Gifted with his legendary height, strength, and skill with an ax, Abe sets out on a path of vengeance that will lead him all the way to the White House.

While Abraham Lincoln is widely lauded for saving a and freeing millions of slaves, his valiant fight against the forces of the undead has remained in the shadows for hundreds of years. That is, until Seth Grahame-Smith stumbled upon The Secret Journal of Abraham Lincoln, and became the first living person to lay eyes on it in more than 140 years.

Using the journal as his guide and writing in the grand biographical style of Doris Kearns Goodwin and David McCullough, Seth has reconstructed the true life story of our greatest president for the first time-all while revealing the hidden history behind the Civil War and uncovering the role vampires played in the birth, growth, and near-death of our nation.

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Indiana. Moonlight falls through the dense woods that surround a one-room cabin, where a nine-year-old Abraham Lincoln kneels at his suffering mother's bedside. She's been stricken with something the old-timers call "Milk Sickness." "My baby boy..." she whispers before dying....

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by Laurie Halse Anderson

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Chapter Two: August 16th, 1793

...the first and most principal to be, a perfect skill and knowledge in cookery...because it is a duty well belonging to women.
— Gervase Markham
The English House Wife, 1668

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Mother started her lecture.

"Too much sleep is bad for your health, Matilda." She slipped a freshly made ball of butter into a stone crock. "It must be a grippe, a sleeping sickness."

I tried not to listen to her. I had not cleared the wax from my ears all summer, hoping it would soften her voice. It had not worked.

"You should be dosed with fish oil. When I was a girl..." She kept talking to herself as she carried a steaming pot of water outside to rinse the butter churn.

I sat down at the table. Our kitchen was larger than most, with an enormous hearth crowded with pots and kettles, and two bake ovens built into the brickwork beside it. The size of the room did not match the size of our family. We were only three: Mother, Grandfather, and me, plus Eliza who worked for us. But the roomy kitchen could feed one hundred people in a day. My family owned the Cook Coffeehouse. The soon-to-be famous Cook Coffeehouse, Grandfather liked to say.

My father had built our home and business after the War for Independence ended in 1783. I was six years old. The coffeehouse sat just off the corner of Seventh and High Streets. At first we were lucky if a lost farmer strayed in, but business improved when President Washington's house was built two blocks away.

Father was a carpenter by trade, and he built us a sturdy home. The room where we served customers filled most of the first floor and had four large windows. The kitchen was tucked into the back, filled with useful shelves and built-in cupboards to store things. We could have used a sitting room, truth be told. Father would have added one on if he had lived. But he fell off a ladder and died of a broken neck two months after the coffeehouse opened. That's when Grandfather joined us.

A coffeehouse was a respectable business for a widow and her father-in-law to run. Mother refused to serve spirits, but she allowed card games and a small bit of gambling as long as she didn't have to see it. By midday the front room was usually crowded with gentlemen, merchants, and politicians enjoying a cup of coffee, a bite to eat, and the news of the day. Father would have been proud. I wondered what he would have thought of me.

"Good morning," Eliza said loudly, startling me. "I thought you were going to sleep the day away. Have you eaten?" She set a sack of coffee beans on the table.

"I'm starving," I said, clutching my stomach.

"As usual," she said with a smile. "Let me get you something quick."

Eliza was the coffeehouse cook. Mother couldn't prepare a meal fit for pigs. I found this amusing, considering our last name was Cook. In a manner, though, it was serious. If not for Eliza's fine victuals, and the hungry customers who paid to eat them, we'd have been in the streets long ago. Mother's family had washed their hands of her when she ran off to marry a carpenter, a tradesman (the horror!), when she was but seventeen. So we were very fond of Eliza.

Like most blacks in Philadelphia, Eliza was free. She said Philadelphia was the best city for freed slaves or freeborn Africans. The Quakers here didn't hold with slavery and tried hard to convince others that slavery was against God's will. Black people were treated different than white people, that was plain to see, but Eliza said nobody could tell her what to do or where to go, and no one would ever, ever beat her again.

She had been born a slave near Williamsburg, Virginia. Her husband saved up his horseshoeing money and bought her freedom right after they were married. She told me that was the best day of her life. She moved to Philadelphia and cooked for us, saving her wages to set her husband free.

When I was eight, she got a letter saying her husband had been killed by a runaway horse. That was her worst day. She didn't say a word for months. My father had only been dead two years, so Mother knew just what lay in Eliza's heart. They both supped sorrow with a big spoon, that's what Mother said. It took years, but the smile slowly returned to Eliza's face. She didn't turn sour like Mother did.

Eliza was the luckiest person I knew. She got to walk from the river past shop windows, market stalls, and the courthouse up to Seventh Street every morning. She told stories even better than Grandfather, and she knew how to keep a secret. She laughed once when I told her she was my best friend, but it was the truth.

She dished up a bowl of oatmeal from a pot that hung by the side of the hearth, then carefully set it in front of me. "Eat up," she said. One corner of her mouth turned up just a bit and she winked.

I tasted the oatmeal. It was sweet. Eliza had hidden a sugar lump at the bottom of the bowl.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You're welcome," she whispered back.

"Why is Polly late?" I asked. "Have you seen her?"

Eliza shook her head. "Your mother is in a lather, I promise you," she warned. "If Polly doesn't get here soon, she may need to find herself another position."

"I bet she's dawdling by the forge," I said, "watching Matthew work with his shirt collar open."

"Maybe she's ill," Eliza said. "There's talk of sickness by the river."

Mother strode into the room carrying wood for the fire.

"Serving girls don't get sick," Mother said. "If she doesn't appear soon, you'll have to do her chores as well as your own, Matilda. And where is your grandfather? I sent him to inquire about a box of tea an hour ago. He should have returned by now."

"I'd be happy to search for him," I offered. "I could look for Polly, too."

Mother added wood to the fire, poking the logs until the flames jumped. The delicate tip of her shoe tapped impatiently. "No. I'll go. If Father comes back, don't let him leave. And Matilda, see to the garden."

She quickly tied a bonnet under her chin and left, the back door closing behind her with the sharp sound of a musket shot.

"Well," said Eliza. "That's it, then. Here, have some veal and corn bread. Seems like you've a long day ahead of you."

After she cut me two slices of cold veal and a thick piece of fresh corn bread, Eliza started to make gingerbread, one of her specialties. Nutmeg and cinnamon perfumed the air as she ground the spices with a pestle. If not for the heat, I could have stayed in the kitchen for an eternity. The house was silent except for the popping of the applewood in the fire, and the tall clock ticking in the front room. I took a sip from a half-filled mug on the table.

"Ugh! It's coffee!" Black coffee, bitter as medicine. "How can you drink this?" I asked Eliza.

"It tastes better if you don't steal it," she answered. She took the cup from my hands. "Pour your own and leave mine be."

"Are we out of cider?" I asked. "I could get some at the marketplace."

"Oh, no," Eliza said. "You'll stay right here. Your mother needs your help, and that poor garden is like to expire. It is time for you to haul some water, little Mattie."

Little Mattie indeed. Another month and I'd be almost as tall as Eliza. I hated to be called "little."

I sighed loudly, put my dishes in the washtub, and tucked my hair into my mob cap. I tied a disreputable straw hat atop the cap, one I could never wear in the street, and snatched a bite of dough from Eliza's bowl before I ran outside.

The garden measured fifty paces up one side and twenty along the other, but after six weeks of drought it seemed as long and wide as a city block, filled with thousands of drooping plants crying for help.

I dropped the bucket into the well to fill it with water, then turned the handle to bring it back up again. Little Mattie, indeed. I was big enough to be ordered around like an unpaid servant. Big enough for mother to grumble about finding me a husband.

I carried the water to the potato patch and poured it out too fast. Big enough to plan for the day when I would no longer live here.

If I was going to work as hard as a mule, it might as well be for my own benefit. I was going to travel to France and bring back fabric and combs and jewelry that the ladies of Philadelphia would swoon over. And that was just for the dry goods store. I wanted to own an entire city block — a proper restaurant, an apothecary, maybe a school, or a hatter's shop. Grandfather said I was a Daughter of Liberty, a real American girl. I could steer my own ship. No one would call me little Mattie. They would call me "Ma'am."

"Dash it all." I had watered a row of weeds.

As I returned to the well, Mother came through the garden gate.

"Where's Polly?" I asked as I dropped the bucket down the well. "Did you pass by the blacksmith's?"

"I spoke with her mother, with Mistress Logan," Mother answered softly, looking at her neat rows of carrots.

"And?" I waved a mosquito away from my face.

"It happened quickly. Polly sewed by candlelight after dinner. Her mother repeated that over and over, 'she sewed by candlelight after dinner.' And then she collapsed."

I released the handle and the bucket splashed, a distant sound.

"Matilda, Polly's dead."

Text copyright © 2000 by Laurie Halse Anderson

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An epidemic of fever sweeps through the streets of 1793 Philadelphia in this novel from Laurie Halse Anderson where "the plot rages like the epidemic itself" (The New York Times Book Review).During the summer of 1793, Mattie Cook lives above the family coffee shop with her...

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by Carolyn Meyer

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The scandalous and tragic life of Mary, Queen of Scots. Read her incredible story before seeing the major motion picture starring Saoirse Ronan and Margot Robbie!

Mary Stuart was just five years old when she was sent to France to be raised alongside her future husband. But when the frail young king dies, eighteen-year-old Mary is stripped of her title as Queen of France and set adrift in the harsh world, alone.Determined to reign over what is rightfully hers, Mary returns to Scotland. Hoping that a husband will help her secure the coveted English throne, she marries again, but the love and security she longs for elude her. Instead, the fiery young queen finds herself embroiled in a murder scandal that could cost her the crown. And her attempts to bargain with her formidable "sister queen," Elizabeth I of England, could cost her her very life.

About the Author

Read an Excerpt

I At the Center of Disastrous Events The midnight hour being well past, the day is now Wednesday, the eighth of February, 1587. The sound of hammering in the great hall of Fotheringhay Castle has not ceased. In a few hours the most important day of my life will dawn. I have written letters to those I love. My red petticoats and my black gown lie ready. My women, dressed in black, sit with me, and I ask one of them to read aloud the story of the good thief crucified beside our Lord.

When she has finished, the women are weeping. "It is true that the thief was a great sinner," I remind them, "but not so great as I have been." I lie down and close my eyes, though I have no wish to sleep. Outside the door of my dreary chambers, the guards tramp back and forth, back and forth, stationed there lest I try to escape. They need not worry. My body remains here, but my thoughts have already flown away, back to my earliest beginnings and all that has followed.
Chapter 1 Farewell, Scotland
I was the cause of my father's death.

My father, King James V of Scotland, drew his last downhearted breath and died when I was just six days old. "He had not been ill," my mother explained to me years later, "but was deeply saddened by his defeat at the hands of the terrible English." Henry VIII, king of "the terrible English," was determined to take over Scotland. In the bloody battles between the two countries that shared a border, the outnumbered Scots always got the worst of it. After my father's humiliating loss at his last battle, he took to his bed. My father had badly wanted a son who could be the next king. When he married my mother, a French duchess, he already had three illegitimate sons, but by law a bastard could not inherit the Scottish throne. My mother bore him two more sons; both infants died. I was my father's last hope, and when the news reached him of the birth of a lass-a girl-that bitter disappointment was more than he could endure. Had I been a boy, he would still be alive. I have no doubt of that. From my earliest days I have too often found myself at the center of disastrous events. That was the first. My birth killed my father, and I became queen of Scotland. * I was playing with my friends when the guard rushed in from the watchtower and announced to the queen, "My lady, the ships flying the colors of France are moving up the Firth," and my mother burst into tears. "Mither?" I jumped up from my game and ran to her. I touched her cheek. "Maman?" I asked, changing to French, my mother's language. She dabbed at her eyes and tried to smile. "Shall we go see the ships, Marie?" Her voice trembled. She took my hand, calling to my friends, "Come, dear little Maries!" All four of my friends were named Mary, as I was, but my mother called us by the French version of the name-even Mary Fleming, who was pure Scots. To everyone, they were the Four Maries. Trailed by governesses who always seemed to move too slowly, we dashed eagerly out of the castle and peered down over the stone parapet to see for ourselves these foreign ships far below us. A strong north wind, chilly even in July, whipped our skirts and petticoats and blew our long hair into our faces. "Look," my mother said, "the king of France has sent his own royal galley for you. This shows how much he honors you." "Me?" I gazed up at my mother, puzzled. It was the summer of 1548, a few months before my sixth birthday, and there was much I did not yet understand. Maman sighed deeply and pulled me close. "The time has come to explain it to you, ma chère Marie." * At the age of nine months I was carried in a great procession to the royal chapel at Stirling Castle and crowned Mary Stuart, queen of Scotland, in a solemn ceremony. I remembered none of it, of course, but the event was described to me so often-how I reached out and tried to grasp the scepter; how I did not stop wailing throughout the ceremony-that in a few years I came to believe I actually could remember it all. I was barely a year old when the Scottish Parliament signed an agreement with England declaring that when I reached the age of ten I would marry Prince Edward, the son of King Henry VIII. I was pledged to marry the "auld enemy"! That promise was not enough to satisfy King Henry. He demanded that I come to live in England until my marriage-for my safekeeping, he said. My mother refused to allow it. Fearing that King Henry would have me kidnapped, my mother moved me from Linlithgow Castle, where I was born, to Stirling Castle, far north of the border and better fortified against an English attack. But still my mother did not feel easy. We moved again, to an even more remote castle. While we were there, news came from England that Henry VIII had died. Nine-year-old Edward was the new king. I was four. "I am certain it is safe now," said my mother. "We can go home to Stirling." But she was wrong. The English continued their attacks along the border. They mowed down ten thousand Scots in the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh and began the march to Stirling. In the dead of night my mother and I were bundled onto a litter and carried to an Augustinian priory on a quiet lake far from the smoke and noise of battle. Within a few days the Four Maries and their mothers joined us on the island of Inchmahome. I would have happily stayed on that pretty island, unaware of the bloody fighting that still raged, chasing butterflies, gathering eggs from the hens' nests, and devouring the rich buns the monks baked for us every morning. My mother now made a decision that would determine the course of my life: Instead of marrying Edward, the new king of England, I would marry the future king of France. But the future had its beginning in the present. "Until you are old enough for marriage, you will live at the French court and learn their language and their ways," said my mother. "Someday the king's son, the little dauphin, will become king, and you will be queen of France." "What is the laddie called?" I asked-my first question. "His name is François de Valois. He is four years old, a little younger than you." "You are coming too, are you not, Maman?" I asked. " Non, Marie," she said. "I must stay here. But your nurse and your governess will go with you, and Lord Erskine and Lord Livingston as your guardians, and the Four Maries, and your three Stuart half brothers, and many others who know and love you. When you arrive in France you will have your grandparents and your uncles to look after you, and the king of France and his children will welcome you into their family. You will not be lonely, Marie-I promise." "Then you will come later," I insisted stubbornly. " Oui, my darling child," she said, smiling. "Later." Her smile was a lie. I sensed the tears behind it, ready to pour again at any moment. I knew without asking that once I left Scotland, my life would change. I could not possibly imagine how much. * To prepare for my departure for France, we moved again, this time to Dumbarton Castle, in the far west of Scotland. The ancient fortress was built high on a rocky mound where winds howled and rains lashed, and no English soldier would dare scale the steep rock face that jutted straight up from the water and overlooked the Firth of Clyde, where the river joined the sea. To avoid the English ships, the French fleet had taken a long and dangerous route to reach me, sailing around the northern end of Scotland before heading southward to Dumbarton. I hated to see my mother weep, but on the day those French ships appeared in the firth, I was too filled with excitement to be overly concerned. The king of France had sent his ships to fetch me! I was going to marry the king's son, and one day I would be the queen of France! I loved the sound of that: queen of France. Even my mother did not have such a splendid title. While my father was alive, she had been titled the queen consort of Scots. Now she was known as the queen mother, meaning that her husband, the king, was dead and she was in charge of things in the kingdom until I, her child, was old enough to rule as queen of Scots. My own little court was made up of the Four Maries; my father's three bastard sons; and a number of others. My nurse, Janeen Sinclair, would accompany me, as would my governess, Lady Janet Fleming, Mary Fleming's mother. Mary Livingston, the daughter of Lord Livingston, one of my guardians, was in my party as well. Mary Seton and Mary Beaton were the other two Maries, and Seton's younger brother Robbie was coming too. The Marie dearest to me was Mary Fleming. Because of her reddish curls and mischievous smile, we called her La Flamin. A little older than I and "irrepressible," in my mother's opinion, La Flamin made it her duty to keep me informed of what was really going on. It did not occur to me that she might have been inventing some of her stories, or at least embellishing them a little. Her father had been killed at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh. "You and I had the same grandfather, you know," she told me proudly. "King James the Fourth." "I do know that," I said, not wanting her to think I was ignorant, but in fact I was not sure I did know. "He was killed in battle too," I said, eager to show off my knowledge of Scots history. "Fighting against the English at Flodden Field." "He was married to Queen Margaret, so he couldn't marry my grandmother," added Mary Fleming with a deep sigh. "And so my mother is a bastard." "Pity," I said, nodding sympathetically. Queen Margaret was my grandmother. It was indeed unfortunate that a person born out of wedlock could not inherit titles and property-like my three older Stuart half brothers. "But you and I are still cousins, are we not?" "Aye, of course! But I am pure Scots on both sides of my family," she boasted, tossing those red curls. "The other Maries have Scottish fathers and French mothers, like you. When Marie of Guise came to Scotland to marry your father, the others came with her as her ladies in waiting." "I know that too," I said. "And did you know that your father had another wife, before your mother?" Sometimes I had to pretend I knew more than I did; this time I did not. "Her name was Madeleine," I said, "and she was the daughter of the previous king of France. She was sixteen when she came here to marry my father, and within forty days she was dead of a fever, poor thing. They blamed it on the Scottish air." "The air in France is said to be much more pleasant," said La Flamin helpfully. "My mother's first husband, the duke of Longueville, died as well, when she was expecting her second child. Poor Mither! That baby died when he was only four months old. But her older boy still lives in France. I suppose I will meet him when I go there." "That must have been so sad!" Mary Fleming said, her brow furrowed sorrowfully. "And then your mother, the duchess, received a proposal of marriage." She leaned toward me eagerly and took my hand in both of hers. "My mother told me about it. Do you know who her suitor was?" "My father? The king of Scotland?" I hoped I was right. I did not like La Flamin knowing more than I did about my own family, even if she was my dearest friend. "No!" she cried. "You are wrong! He was a king, it is true, but not of Scotland!" Mary Fleming was bursting with her triumph in our storytelling. "It was Henry the Eighth of England!" "That horrible man wanted to marry Mither?" I was so shocked by that bit of information that I flung Mary's hand away. Why had my mother never told me this? "Aye, but she refused him! My mother knew all about it!" La Flamin struck a pose that she considered queenly. "This is what Marie of Guise said: 'I may be a big woman, but I have a very little neck.' King Henry had had his second wife, Anne Boleyn, beheaded, you see, and before the swordsman cut off her head, Queen Anne said, 'I will be easy to kill, for my neck is little.' Your mother had heard that story, and she was not about to have her head cut off." "Then I thank a gracious God that she refused him and I did not have Henry the Eighth for a father!" I exclaimed. "How horrible to have one's head cut off!" My friend agreed that it was horrible. "But still you had him for a great-uncle, you know. King Henry married three more times before he died. Six wives all told!" she went on, sure of my interest. "He divorced two of his wives and had two beheaded. One died-that was Edward's mother-and one outlived him. I would never have married that dreadful man-would you?" I shuddered at the thought. "Or his son either," I added. "A wicked lot, the English." My cousin clearly enjoyed shocking me with her grisly tale. I shivered at my mother's good fortune in escaping the clutches of the evil King Henry. I did not stop to wonder then how she must have felt when she left France for Scotland, a country she had never seen, to marry a man she had never met, leaving behind her little son without knowing when she would be with him again.

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The Wild Queen: The Days and Nights of Mary, Queen of Scots (Young Royals Series)|Paperback

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The scandalous and tragic life of Mary, Queen of Scots. Read her incredible story before seeing the major motion picture starring Saoirse Ronan and Margot Robbie! Mary Stuart was just five years old when she was sent to France to be raised alongside her future husband. But when the...