Page 31 of The Lost Husband

Gerda sniffles and draws a finger beneath her eye. “You’ve been so quiet all day, but I see why now. You’re searching for your miracle and you’re afraid you’ll miss it if you aren’t paying attention. You must be an artist.”

I suppose there is still an artist living somewhere within me. “I was. Maybe I will be again someday, but my quiet is only because my mind has been too loud to notice much else.”

“What’s his name? Your husband?” she asks.

“Noah.”

I hate how his name is now the end of a sentence, and just a simple answer.

“There’s shelter!” Elias shouts from dozens of steps ahead of us. “An old farmhouse.”

“A miracle?” Gerda gasps.

We can only hope.

* * *

There are people, ordinary people, not Soviets or Germans prisoners, sitting on the front step outside the old wooden structure, bundled up, maybe enjoying the minty breeze like Gerda’s husband would have. On the window, the word shelter is scrolled out in big chalk letters. We stumble inside as if invited. No one pays much attention to us as we scan our surroundings. Piles of straw are strewn on the floor, army blankets in all different shades of green. People sleeping. People staring up at the lopsided roof. Others are whispering to one another.

We know we belong by the sight of blue-and-white striped pajama uniforms, skeletal figures, and flesh too pale to hold enough blood. I spot tables toward the back of the open space then smell a faint aroma of broth. A meek woman donning a red-cross patch on the breast of her coat is hunched over a large pot, stirring a ladle next to a stack of tin cans and a mangled loaf of bread. The bread doesn’t look much different here. I’m not sure it ever will again.

Dark bread, broken by a barrack kapo into uneven pieces. Sawdust flaking from the bottom. Flies settling on top. A sliverfalls into our hands, weightless, and the only means to survive the day.

The other long table looks to hold medical supplies, with a man just as a frail as the woman there, sorting supplies.

Without exchanging a word, the four of us head down toward the two tables. The three of them reach for the food but I stop in front of the man at the medical table. “Excuse me?” I ask in Yiddish, hoping it’s a common language between us.

He peers up, gloomy light blue eyes surrounded by a web of red veins. “Yes, dear. Do you need aid?”

“No.” Well… most likely, but not yet. “Do you by chance have a radio?”

He lifts his arm, trembling as he points to the side wall where a rusty green metal box with dials sits atop a wooden crate. “We also have a displaced person bulletin for posts over to your right.” I turn the other, finding a board with pinned messages.

“Thank you for what you’re doing here.”

As if there’s a choice on moving left or right, I turn toward the bulletin—a slab of wood with torn pieces of paper pinned and stacked beneath a small sign that says Red Cross. A typewriter rests behind the board.

I take a scrap of paper and a chewed-up pencil and press the lead to the paper, with too much to say and no idea what word to start with.

I can’t draft a novel. Not even a letter. Maybe not even to a living person. I could be seeing things, but in case I’m not…

To: Noah Felsheim of Amsterdam, NL

Alive. Looking for you. 28-January.

Following Soviets/POW on northwestern route from Oswiecim, PL. Stopped at old farmhouse/shelter. Will continue to follow Soviets/POW northwest.

From: Celina Felsheim of Amsterdam, NL

I stare at the letters, feeling like they look out of order. Like Noah’s name had changed and I don’t know what it should be now. He’s Noah to me. He’ll always only be Noah to me. I don’t know if a German prisoner would have access to these posts, but just in case…

I pin the note to the board and take one more scrap of paper, letting the pencil hover for a moment. This is what Noah would have wanted me to do.

To: Christoph Hagen of Amsterdam, NL

Alive. 28-January.

Followed Soviets/POW on northwestern route from Oswiecim, PL. Stopped at old farmhouse/shelter. Will continue northwest.