Page 17 of The Lost Husband

A couple of the men in the group approach my sides and flip the dead soldier onto his back and search his pockets as I step away. “A wallet, knife, and a hard candy. It’s something,” one of them states.

“There’s smoke up ahead. Does anyone else see that?”

I spot the charcoal smudge pluming above the trees. It looks contained. Not from a fire pit.

Avi’s hand locks around my wrist and squeezes. “It looks like it’s coming from the other side of the tracks, but I don’t think that’s shelter,” she utters.

She’s right. That smell doesn’t belong in the woods.

EIGHT

JULY 1941

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The summer season with its warm weather, flowers in bloom, and street markets has arrived as if nothing has changed in Amsterdam. People and boats soak up the sun along the glistening canals. Bikes whir past our building with the sound of damp laundry snapping along clotheslines.

Yet we feel like intruders in the only city we’ve ever called home.

It’s as if people can sense we’re Jewish. Maybe they know. Word of mouth is like a contagious disease here. People stare when we pass by, or worse, try to act like theyaren’tstaring.

I keep looking in the mirror, wondering how people know. I trace my finger down the length of my nose, searching for a bump, questioning if it’s too long, or if it’s my eyes that are deep-set, or just my dark hair. Something must make me stand out.

The sun spills in through the windows of our flat, flooding the walls with light until even the floorboards feel warm beneath my feet. We keep the windows open despite knowing we shouldclose and drape them for the sake of our privacy. The air feels too peaceful to shut out.

“Good morning, my love,” Noah says, coming up behind me. His arms loop around me, hands settling at my waist, fingers furling into my closed fist. He kisses my neck then the tender spot just below my ear—his favorite spot, and mine. “What time did you want to visit your parents this morning?”

“Soon. Their train leaves mid-afternoon.” Papa’s sister isn’t well, and they’ve offered to go stay with her a while.

“I’m glad they’re only going to Zurich.” Noah breathes a quiet sigh, hiding yet another thought I may never hear out loud. “No safer place than there.”

“Yes, but there’s no saying what might happen—here or there.” I turn toward him, placing my hands on his chest. “I suggested they bring Aunt back, but they said the trip would be too much for her.” Noah’s lips press into a smile that doesn’t quite stick. The uncertainty still lingers behind his confidence despite the reassurances he’s been bringing home.

“I need to run an errand near the market after our visit with them. Would you mind joining me?”

“Of course not.”

An errand is now a word used for a private job that brings in money, and I don’t ask for details.

* * *

Mama and Papa’s flat is barren, artwork taken down, personal items stored away, and the fine china is missing from the dining room hutch. “It looks as though you’re leaving for good,” I say, holding Mama’s hands in mine.

She stares back at me with her mirroring gray-blue eyes, pink cheeks, and bronze locks pulled into a twist. “You know yourfather. He doesn’t like leaving anything around when we’re out of town.”

“Can’t trust anyone these days,” Papa echoes.

“You have the address if you need anything, though it’s a comfort to know you’re always well cared for by this handsome man.” Mama gushes over Noah—has done ever since we became inseparable years ago. Mama kisses me on each cheek, then moves to Noah. “As for you, sir, if you need anything, please call on us.”

Papa grasps Noah’s shoulder before giving him a hug, one longer than necessary, the way he did when Noah helped him repair the shop window after someone shattered it a couple months ago.

“Everything will be just fine while you’re gone. I’ll ensure Celina doesn’t wander off into the tulip fields without me.” Laughter ensues at my expense, but I won’t argue or disagree. I’d gladly become lost in a tulip field any day, so long as I have a canvas or sketch pad.

“When we return, might there be news of our family expanding?” Papa asks, his question so casual it’s as if he’s asking about new furniture.

“Papa!”

“We aren’t getting any younger, dear,” Mama follows. This might be the first time my parents agree on anything. Of course.