“If ever there was a book primed to show American children why families from other countries are often desperate to reach our shores, this is it.” — Booklist (starred review) “A timely reminder about conditions in our current world.” — The Horn Book “A worthy introduction to an important slice of history.” — Kirkus Reviews Through the eyes of twelve-year-old Lorraine this “moving personal story” ( Booklist , starred review) from the award-winning author of Hidden and Hush gives insight and understanding into a little known part of history—the Irish potato famine. It is the autumn of 1846 in Ireland. Lorraine and her brother are waiting for the time to pick the potato crop on their family farm leased from an English landowner. But this year is different—the spuds are mushy and ruined. What will Lorraine and her family do? Then Lorraine meets Miss Susannah, the daughter of the wealthy English landowner who owns Lorraine’s family’s farm, and the girls form an unlikely friendship that they must keep a secret from everyone. Two different cultures come together in a deserted Irish meadow. And Lorraine has one question: how can she help her family survive? A little known part of history, the Irish potato famine altered history forever and caused a great immigration in the later part of the 1800s. Lorraine’s story is a heartbreaking and ultimately redemptive story of one girl’s strength and resolve to save herself and her family against all odds. Donna Jo Napoli is the acclaimed and award-winning author of many novels, both fantasies and contemporary stories. She won the Golden Kite Award for Stones in Water in 1997. Her novel Zel was named an American Bookseller Pick of the Lists, a Publishers Weekly Best Book, a Bulletin Blue Ribbon, and a School Library Journal Best Book, and a number of her novels have been selected as ALA Best Books. She is a professor of linguistics at Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband. Visit her at DonnaJoNapoli.com. Hunger CHAPTER ONE Green We crested the hill and Da stopped. He slid his bulging sack on the ground, wiped his big palm down his mouth, and put his fists on his hips. The stony bunching in his cheeks that had been building up as we approached the top now melted smooth. The thumping of my heart suspended. Please please let it be good news. Da jerked his chin toward the fields below. Oh, thank the heavens. I swallowed, turned my head from Da, and dared to look down. Green. Green green green. As green as it had been this morning when we’d left here—a fond farewell—and now an even fonder welcome back in late afternoon. Lush Irish green, as Granny used to say. She said the green of forests like the one we stood in now and the green of pastures beside the long, long road going north and south—the road I’d traveled only into town, but never beyond—that green helped her not to grieve the green of the sea way past that field to the west. The green she’d grown up with, but was too far from to see once she’d come to live with us. Ireland was green everywhere. And, best of all in this moment, the field below was green. That field was healthy. Our spud field was still healthy! Each day we worried anew, and each day it had stayed green. With any kind of luck, we’d have a good harvest this year. In another month, no more growling bellies. We’d be eating our fill. Yes, it had been a grand Sunday after all, despite my initial disappointment. I had yearned to spend the day playing with the other children after church. But for the past two weeks, I’d had extra chores on Sunday, so it was pure stubbornness that made me allow myself to hope for a reprieve. Da was always finding new ways to earn a bit of money and lately he’d decided to pull me along. Today he’d even brought little Paddy. It was good, though, in the end it was good, because so long as the field stayed green, life would get better again. We kids would have plenty of Sundays to play. “Look, Paddy,” I said, pointing to the Aran Islands, which were way off in the bay near Galways. This was the only point around here where you could get such a view. The islands were flat on top, as though the sea winds had worn them down. I imagined I could hear the wind blowing across those rocks—whistling secrets, howling sorrows. “That’s where I lived as a boy. On the one called Inis Mór.” Da put his hand on top of little Paddy’s head. We both knew this, of course, but we nodded reverently all the same. “If you look hard, you can see the Cliffs of Moher beyond.” Obediently, we stared southward. I’d never caught a glimpse of the cliffs before, and today was no exception. “See? See that plume of spray there? That one, there? That’s the sea crashing against the cliffs.” I leaned forward and concentrated. Sometimes I wondered if anyone could really see the spray or even the cliffs from here. But I didn’t question Da. He was proud of the fact that he’d visited those cliff