Page 45 of The Lost Husband

More than an hour has passed since I was left in this windowless cement room. The tin cup of broth has grown cold between my palms.

Across the room, a man with a scar sliced through his eyebrow has been watching me since I arrived.

The others glance at me infrequently and whisper among themselves. I wonder if there are other spaces in this building holding people—if that’s where Avi and Elias are waiting.

“Where have you come from?” the man with the scarred brow finally speaks and steps in closer to me before squatting to my level.

His hair is dirty, wet from oil and grease, stiff and dark. His facial hair looks to be a week old, and he’s covered in a chalky black substance, making the whites of his eyes so bright they glow beneath these warm lights. He looks older than Papa, but perhaps not by much.

I’m not sure how old Papa would even look now. I haven’t seen him in four years. Neither he nor Mama would recognizeme. I’m not sure I would recognize them either if they’re even still alive.

“Auschwitz,” I say quietly, my words directed to the staring man.

He nods, but it’s such a slight movement I might be imagining it. “What did they do to you there?” His voice is phlegmy as if he hasn’t spoken out loud in days.

The question is so large and heavy, my mouth opens but words don’t come to me right away. “Dehumanized us. Made us prefer death over life,” I begin. His eyes are wide, waiting for what I’ll say next. “It started with my name—they replaced it with a number. Then they took my clothes, the few belongings I had on me, even my hair.”

“Your hair?” he interrupts, touching his own as if questioning how a person could take that from another.

“To prevent the spread of lice.” The man scratches his head, something I forced myself to stop doing when I began leaving cuts along my scalp.

“Where’d you sleep?”

“In a barrack with wooden bunks. Three to five women in a space that should fit one person.”

“How long?—”

“Fifteen months for me.”

The man lowers his voice, making our conversation more private. “That’s a long time to live like that.” The lines on his forehead deepen and his stare drops to the inside of my exposed arm—the ink-laced blood—my identification cheapened to numbers.

“Most didn’t survive that long. Being capable of work meant they kept us, but most died from typhus, hunger, cold, or heat. Whoever couldn’t work, was… they sent them to their death. Survival was based on luck. I’m just lucky,” I say bitterly. Andnow a prisoner once again, but for Allies of the Dutch. Allies we should be able to depend on.

“The Soviets found you in Auschwitz, didn’t they?” he asks.

“Yes, but I don’t think intentionally. I could see the surprise on their faces. I don’t think they knew what to make of us.”

“I fought alongside them in the Great War. They operate with caution, calculation, and proof. Keeping us here isn’t a goal, just part of their system.”

“Why are you here?” I ask. He could have been grabbed along the way just like I had been. My uniform doesn’t mean much now. No one can be trusted.

“I volunteered to aid them however I could when they arrived at our village, but gaining their trust is a slow process.” He’s Polish. His accent is thick. “I helped them sort the German collaborators when they first came through. You know—translation, identifying ranks, figuring out who served willingly, and who didn’t.”

“What—what will they do with the prisoners?” I shouldn’t be asking questions.

“Interrogate them first,” he says. “Here, in this building.” He shifts his weight, leaning back against the wall. “When they’re finished, they’ll move the SS west along the rail lines toward the coal loading site at the larch mills in Gliwice where they’ve been staging transports to German detention camps.”

“How long until you think the trains will be working again?” I ask, careful to take breaths between words.

The man exhales. “The rail line took heavy damage during the German retreat. Men are repairing it now, but it’ll be a week-and-a-half or so before there’s any movement.”

Ten, eleven days. Or so.

“Don’t worry. They won’t keep them here,” he adds. “This is only a temporary holding. Nobody wants them in this country.”

“Right,” I say, trying to memorize everything he’s said.

The man reaches to my shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure you’re eager to get away from the SS even more than the rest of us. And of course, find a way home. You’ll get there. You will.” The man stares directly into my eyes as he leans in closer. “You’ve been fighting a war you didn’t ask to be a part of. You aren’t just a survivor. You’re a fighter.” He presses his hand to the ground and pushes himself back up, groaning at his knees on the way. At the door, the only way to enter or leave this holding space, he pounds his fist three times. “Privet! Izvinite!”