Page 51 of The Lost Husband

It was him.

“Avi, take it easy,” Elias says, his voice bouncing off the wall he’s facing.

My pulse quickens, cheeks burn, and my stomach turns into a knot. I can’t deny any of what she’s saying, but nothing I’ve done has been due to confusion. I’m sure of that.

“I’m not confused,” I say quietly.

Avi narrows her eyes at the admission of another sighting she was unaware of, but Natalia places her hand over mine and offers a small smile. “I’m going to have a doctor examine the bump on your head, but I believe you have a concussion based on the dizziness and nausea. Though given your recent dysentery and dehydration, symptoms may overlap.”

Natalia moves on to Elias, and I let my mind go dark, sinking into the cot to escape the pain in my heart, the gnaw of hunger, and the weight of having angered Avi.

* * *

On the eighth morning, the wait has become unbearable. Igor said the prisoners would be moving west in a week-and-a-half. More than half of that time is gone now. He could have been wrong. He might not have known the exact timing, and the transport could have already left. I could have missed him. But if it hasn’t, every hour matters now. I need to move toward the larch mills by the rail tracks.

I wake to the sound of gossip, whispers from different corners of the classroom. Everyone here seems to have different updates about the war. Timelines vary, and while there is an end in sight, there’s no saying when.

The people sharing the space with us have come in small groups, each talking only to each other. I suppose it’s easier to avoid the struggle of trusting new people if we avoid them altogether. I might agree with Avi on that matter.

Avi’s been coughing throughout the night, sniffling, and tossing and turning. She’s facing me, but she’s still asleep, or trying to sleep. I touch the back of my hand to her forehead, finding it as warm as it was last night.

She refused to change out of her wet clothes for hours on the first day but finally did when she went to the washroom. I don’t think that’s the reason she’s come down with something. Others in the room are sick as well. I don’t know how I’m going to get her out of here today, if she’d even agree to come. It wouldn’t be fair to move her. I might have to leave on my own.

“I’ll go get her a wet compress,” Elias says, pushing himself up from his cot. I didn’t know he was awake or watching, but he’s done nothing more than try to help us. Especially Avi, who is proficient at refusing help. She sees help as a masked package of devastation. However, Elias seems to get through to her more than I do.

He makes his way out of the room, leaving the door open a crack, allowing a rush of colder air from the corridor to break into the room that’s been sticky with body heat. The chatter continues. Someone mentions the Germans have been moved farther west. Another argues that she heard they’re still stopped, waiting for supplies. My throat tightens and chest aches. There could be more than one prisoner column. I must hope he’s still here.

The door opens again, and I expect Elias to walk back in, but instead a woman with a Red Cross band and fatigues pokes her head in, scans the room and settles on me. “Celina Felsheim?” she asks, confirming her assumption. She’s only been in this room a few times, but all the Red Cross volunteers are good at remembering names.

“Yes?” I ask, though my voice barely makes a sound. My heart races and my hands shake as I push myself upright.

“We need to verify some information,” she says. “It won’t take long.”

My pulse thumps. Verification means papers. Names. Lists of prisoners.

I pull my blanket around my shoulders and take another look at Avi. She’s still, and asleep. She won’t notice I’m gone, and Elias will be back in a moment.

The hallway is colder than I expected from the quick draft that carried into our room. Maybe it’s because the other doors are all closed. It’s still early in the morning, I suppose. My socks catch on splintered wood planks as I follow the Red Cross woman down toward the front of the town hall. Somewhere ahead, a man speaks in German.

The Red Cross woman stops at an open door and steps to the side, allowing me a narrow view of a desk with a ledger, and a pile of maps. A map hangs from the wall with red pins heavily dotted around Poland.

Taking a step closer toward the door, I spot a tall man in a long black coat, his posture too rigid for someone who has been worn to the bone like the rest of us. The woman taps her knuckles on the door frame, and the man turns.

A rush of blood to my head blurs the outline of the office, the maps along the wall, the desk, and the woman sitting behind it.

But not his face.

Christoph.

TWENTY-ONE

OCTOBER 1942

Amsterdam, Netherlands

After more than two months of playing the role of a strict Catholic, the convent is no longer jarringly unfamiliar. Though I still feel like I’m living someone else’s life. The papers that were to protect both Noah and me are nothing more than a reminder of what I lost. Christoph’s words ring through my head morning noon and night, a reminder of why I’m here.

“It’s the only way to keep you safe.”