The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

and he closed his mouth on his words.
Mam swore. “That idiot woman,” she said. “Probably trying to cheat me.
Probably using all your coupons up right now, buying all the sugar and meat
she can.”
I said nothing. I went to the window, sat down on the chair, looked out.
Nothing to see. No children playing in the streets. Sandbags up to the
windows of the few shops. Women walking briskly, not sitting down on the
stoops to gossip.
War.
Mam gave me a more congenial look. “You can’t help it,” she said, “but
with a foot like that, there’s nothing useful you can do. You’ll be a cripple all
your life.”
When they left I became a spy. The flat was filthy, and I wanted to clean it,
at the very least the sink and the floor, but I decided not to. Mam would notice
and be angry. Better she thought I stayed in my chair.
There weren’t many places to hide things. A few kitchen cupboards with
the pots and plates Mam had had for years. Clothes in the wardrobe—new
clothes, for Mam, and some older things too. A small table in the bedroom
with a larger new mirror hung in front of it.
My hair looked a mess. I brushed it with Mam’s hairbrush and plaited it
neatly. My face was dirty, so I found a cloth and soap at the kitchen sink, and
washed. I had to use the bucket again, but I moved it to the door and covered
it with a plate to keep down the smell.
Back to the table with the mirror. It had a drawer. The front of the drawer
was a mess of bobby pins, pencil stubs, and odd scraps of paper. I pulled it all
the way out. At the very back I found a small pasteboard box. Inside, a stack
of papers.
I unfolded the top one.
Certificate of Birth, it said. Ada Maria Smith.
I drew a deep breath. Scanned the paper quickly. Found what I was looking
for. May 13, 1929.
We’d gotten my birthday wrong, of course, but we’d guessed right on the
year. I really was eleven.
Jamie’s birth certificate was beneath mine. Beneath that, my parents’
marriage certificate.
I heard a loud noise on the stairs. Jamie singing at the top of his lungs.