Page 41 of The Lost Husband

I swallow the word, prisoner. The falsified papers Noah had made for us named me a seamstress. Does that have relevance now? “A seamstress,” I say, my heart aching for letting go of another piece of my soul. “And an artist.” Supposed to be an art teacher—a dream I will never see through.

“Are you connected to anyone dangerous?”

I haven’t laughed in over three years—cynical or true. The sensation wavers in my chest, a sense of hysteria I can’t control. Of all the questions to ask me… I drop my gaze to my damp uniform. “I’ve been held as a prisoner of Auschwitz for the last fifteen months of my life.”Are Jews still considered dangerous?I manage to keep the question between teeth. “No.”

“Do you have papers or proof of any kind?”

“I have nothing.” And even less than that.

“Why are you here in this precise location?” He must think I’m a spy. It’s clear now. Noah once told me that after a war, information is more valuable to the economy than weapons.

“We—I followed a road from Auschwitz. I was seeking food, supplies, and shelter. The journey home will be long and maybe impossible.” My cheeks burn, realizing I might have given too much information. If they haven’t already found Elias and Avi, I’m sure they’ll search for them now.

He pulls his hand out of his pocket with a scrap of paper and a pencil then tosses it to the ground at my feet. “Write your name and country of origin.”

My name isn’t on a registration list in Amsterdam anymore. It’s not registered anywhere. I’m a black hole in society. That might be better than being somebody in this war. I lean forward and take the pencil and paper and jot out my name, then Amsterdam, Netherlands. I’d like to toss it at him as he did to me, but instead, I push myself up to my unsteady feet and reach it over to him, hoping he might release me now that I’ve given him what he’s asked for.

“Sit back down. Wait here.” He turns away and leaves the way he came in.

I drop my head back against the wall, finding the reminder of the lump from the explosion in Auschwitz. The pain throbs through my head so heavily, I bite my tongue. I exhale throughmy nose, forcing out the air, and shut the world out for a moment, waiting for the pain to simmer. A flash of Noah’s eyes slips through my mind. His hands. The German sleeves leading to his hands. Is this all my mind’s undoing? I’ve been grieving for three years. I’m broken in every human way… Can I even trust my own instincts?

* * *

Footsteps outside the door return. More than one set this time. It’s still dark, but I don’t know if it’s closer to dusk or dawn. The door opens. I lift my head away from the wall, focusing on the sound of boots that move with an unfamiliar pattern. A switch flips like the strike of a match, and a buzz wavers overhead before a dome light draws a halo over me. I wince and hold my hand in front of my eyes, blinded after sitting in darkness for so long.

“Stand.”

The soldier’s voice is grating, salty, older than the last. His hair is black and oiled against his hatless head. With thick brows that meet in the middle, and a mustache covering his entire top lip, there’s no hint of any emotion in his eyes.

I push myself up again, my knees wobbling like I’ve never used them before. Neither of them steps in any closer to me. They just watch and wait until I’m stable. The soldier who told me to stand stares at me as if he can suck the soul out from my eyes. His arm swings to the side, his finger pointed to the door.

I take a step forward, and he takes two, walking ahead as the other soldier follows behind. They guide me back down the stairs, but instead of the exit, we turn toward the open center of the depot where German slurs echo.

The soldier opens another door and escorts me into the next room before I can catch a full glimpse of the rows of Germans waiting for orders.

The new room is a windowless square area with cement walls, floor, and ceiling. The space smells like something fermented steeping in boiling water. It’s thin and brewed. We aren’t alone. There are other women, and a few men. They aren’t in prisoner uniforms, just tattered civilian clothes with borrowed coats that are too big and shoes without string or buckles. They’re still, leaning against the walls, staring at me as if I’m a target and their enemy.

One of the women clutches a clipboard as she takes notes.

“Your name,” the gruff soldier demands.

“Celina Felsheim.” For a moment I question if I gave them my true name earlier, but I think I did.

I watch the woman scratch the lead against the paper, scripting the letters across the paper.

“Sit,” the soldier demands.

I sit because my body knows to obey uniforms. My body also knows it might be the only thing that’s kept me alive longer than standing ever did. And because defiance can cost more than my life.

The other people in the room remain standing, still staring at me.

The door I came in through opens again, and an old woman with a hunched back waddles in with a metal cup and presses it into my hands. The warmth shocks my system. I look inside, finding a clear liquid with the same smell I met upon entering the room. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t ask before drinking it. My fingers crave the heat from around the sides of the cup, and I hold it tightly, afraid it will disappear.

The soldiers retreat without another word.

I stare into my broth, my reflection swirling within the tin.

And I wait.