Page 12 of The Lost Husband

“If they find us here…” Avi whispers.

“They won’t care who we are or what we’re doing. They’re clearing the area.”

We’re still in prisoner uniforms. They’ll see that much. It’s not wrong to hide. It’s all we know how to do.

The fence creaks again.

Someone steps in closer, and I brace myself for what comes next, something I’ve had to learn the hard way.

SIX

JANUARY 1941

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The city is no longer ours. Since the Germans came last spring, everything changed slowly at first, and now, all at once.

Yet, our new flat smells like home, a roast in the oven, carrots stewing, potatoes boiling and warm challah bread waiting by the candles on our table, set for two. Having only two chairs makes the table look too large, but someday we’ll have a need for more. That’s our plan. “We can always buy more chairs for this table,” Noah said as we made the purchase. “Our children will need a place to sit too.” The twinkle in his eye left me with flutters in my stomach that lasted for days.

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of the day I would greet my husband at the door after work, take his briefcase and coat, and let the aroma do the rest.

Last week, while Mama and I were having tea at a café, she leaned forward, keeping her voice to a whisper as if divulging some big secret no one else should hear and said, “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be your mother if I didn’t tell you that you and Noah are in a honeymoon phase in your marriage. You will alwayslove each other deeply, but the desire to wait on him hand and foot will grow old. I want you to make sure you don’t give up on your ambitions to become an art teacher just to be a housewife.”

I understand what she was saying and the reason, seeing as she still waits hand-and-foot on Papa, but I won’t give up on my dreams. I’m just content living the one I’m in now. “It hasn’t been long since we wed and moved in together. It’s all still new, and quite heavenly to me.”

I’m eagerly watching out the window for Noah to return home from the port station after a weekly meeting to discuss trading trends and hand in his reports. I check the clock on the wall behind me, then stare back out at the sky, noting the sun will be setting soon. Noah wouldn’t miss the start of Shabbat unless—unless something has gotten in his way. He wouldn’t. He’ll be home.

I twirl in front of the hand-me-down gilded mirror by the front door, tucking my curls neatly behind my ears. I return to the kitchen and strike a match, staring at the candles, then blow out the flame. He’ll walk through the door in a moment. I’ll wait.

A half hour into the night, the candles are still unlit, and my stomach is in knots as I pace every small nook of our flat.

* * *

The roast is cold, the carrots are soggy, and the potatoes are mush when someone enters the building. I hurry to the front door, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps continuing up to the fourth floor.

Relief trickles in when the sound grows closer, but I know it could still be one of the other residents in the building, especially since the footsteps are slow and tired, not eager and quick like Noah’s. He always skips every other step. He says it saves himtime. I tell him he’s going to end up tripping and falling flat on his face.

The key scrapes the lock, and I open the door with haste, my heart racing with worry and wonder.

Noah stands before me, peacoat buttoned, briefcase in his hand, and his hat tipped too low.

“I’ve been worried sick. All you all right?” I ask, wrapping my arms around him, inhaling the scent of smoky wood and sleet against his neck as if the winter night is a part of him.

He scoops me into his arms, lifting my feet off the ground and carrying us past the threshold to close the door behind us.

“Celina.” I frown at the use of my name rather thanmy love.

I slip down against his torso and release my arms from his neck. “What is it?” I ask, taking a step back.

He removes his hat and reaches it to the coat hook to my side. His eyes don’t meet mine when he speaks. “They posted a notice today.”

His words weigh heavily on me. “What?—”

He hangs his coat next. “About the registry,” he says, lowering his briefcase against the side wall. “And about work.”

Since German uniforms have become a fixture along the streets, Noah and I have learned not to make eye contact with the occupiers, but things are escalating quicker now.

My heart collapses into my stomach and I can’t find my next breath. “What do you mean?”