Page 42 of The Lost Husband

EIGHTEEN

JULY 1942

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The sounds of bloodcurdling screams and dogs barking like caged animals drill into my ears. The smell of fear and blood drenches the heavy summer air. Overwhelming devastation wraps around me, stealing my balance and thoughts—direction. One hand pressed to my pounding heart, the other cradling my swollen stomach, I force myself away from the sweating brick wall and turn toward the street. My grocery tote dangles at my side, thudding against me like a sack of rocks. Was it Noah? Am I sure it was Noah?

I lift a heavy foot closer to the corner just as a German truck rumbles close by, tires crunching against cobblestone until it slams to a halt. Boots trample onto the road, and I go stiff.

If I run, I’ll be leaving him here.

My lungs collapse.

I can’t breathe.

They’re taking him…they’re taking him away.

Celina, go now!The words echo inside my head, but my feet won’t move.

“I can’t leave you. I can’t,” I gasp into my hand, muffling a sob that tears through me. Hot tears streak down my cheeks.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

No…stop…oh, God, please, stop shooting.

“Check the side roads!” a soldier shouts. “All Jews, come forward. Line up!”

My stomach burns, acid rising into my throat. I spin, eyes locked on the alley’s end where Noah lies crumpled. I pull myself away from the corner, fighting against the magnetic force that holds me to Noah.

Doing what’s wrong.

Leaving him behind.

My husband. My best friend. Father of our unborn baby.

The only man I’ve ever loved.

It’s not supposed to be this way. It can’t be this way. I won’t let it. He can’t be gone.

But each blink paints his body face down, bloody, and breathless.

I keep moving, dragging my knuckles along the coarse wall of the building until I reach the opposite end.

I peer around the corner. The road is too narrow for vehicles. Too narrow for most people to pass someone on a bicycle without stepping too close to the ledge of the canal.

My legs shake so violently, I fear my knees might give way. Every shallow breath is a fight. I should be running, trying to escape. But this is wrong. How could I just leave him to die? What kind of wife abandons her husband to these tyrants?

A piercing whistle breaks through the chaos, even on the narrow street until there’s one final, hollow pop.

By the time I reach the back door of Christoph’s building, my throat is drier than sand, every breath is like a razor slicing through my insides. My vision blurs, sweat and tears sting my eyes, and my arms dangle uselessly by my sides.

I pound my shaking fists against the door, needing someone to let me inside, but all I can think right now is that it’s locked shut forever.

A man hurries down the stairs, yanking open the door with a questioning grimace. “Who?—”

“Chr—Christoph Ha-Hagen,” I rasp, each syllable sounding like a dying animal.

He studies me with suspicion before stepping aside. I stagger in, each step up the narrow flights of stairs, a jab of agony. At the top, I fall against Christoph’s door, slapping my palm until the wood smears with sweat beneath my fingers. “Chri—st—oph—” I cough out his name.