Page 55 of The Lost Husband

He glances down at my stomach as if I would still be carrying my daughter after all this time, and I place a protective hand over the hollow cavity. “Mother Superior found out my past was a lie, and I became a risk to them all.”

He continues to stare at my stomach as he grips his hand around the back of his neck. “Wh—where did you go?”

I shake my head as a tightness constricts my chest. “Mother Superior released me to a couple in need of a nanny. The husband turned out to be a commanding SS officer. Things didn’t end well.” My voice croaks and I drop my stare, unable to keep watching the sympathy reel through his eyes.

He clears his throat—a segue to change the horrific topic. “You’re hungry.” He swallows so hard I hear the struggle.

I’ve been starving. For over a year.

“There are food queues down the corridor,” the man sitting at the desk finally speaks up. With Christoph blocking my view, I only see his hand pointing to the left.

“Come on,” Christoph says, ushering me out.

I move along, out the door and down the corridor where the food lines wait. He’s staring at me while he walks. I doubt it’s intentional, but his disbelief is my discomfort.

“Did you cut your hair?”

“They shaved my head. That also wasn’t my choice.”

The end of the food line curves into the corridor. Waiting is nothing new.

The silence between us steals every unspoken question and answer. However, his discomfort is loud. Unable to stand still, constantly looking over his shoulder. Watching people pass by—people who look more like me than him.

I notice he’s lost some weight, his clothes are dirty, boots covered in mud. His facial hair is overgrown, and his hair no longer has a style, just a ragged mess. I’d like to think he found out I was missing through the post I pinned, then took a slew of trains to the area, and sought me out from there, but I don’t think that’s true. Not by the looks of him.

“There are tables inside. I’ll wait in line. You go sit down. I’ll bring the food to you,” he says as the line weaves into a recreation-sized room.

I scuff my socks across the floor until reaching an empty spot at one of the tables.

Time passes in immeasurable beats I can’t track when I allow my mind to drift toward the cracks of sunlight spilling in between heavy linen drapes. Christoph places a tin bowl down in front of me with a scrap of brown paper napkin and a slice of bread.

With a shaky reach and grip, I snatch up the tin cup and bring the rim to my lips, forcing myself to take measured gulps rather than mouthfuls that will make me sick. As the weight of the cup fights against my forearms, broth dribbles down my chin, but I don’t let it stop me from consuming the warm liquid entirely. I take the bread and break it into a dozen small pieces, knowing it will feel like a larger portion if I feed it to myself a little at a time. I chew until my gums become sore, then force the lump down my dry throat.

“This isn’t enough to live on,” Christoph says, not knowing I’ve lived on far less. “There are masses of refugees heading in this direction.”

I assumed as much but didn’t ask to avoid knowing for sure. I clean up the crumbs with the tip of my index finger, making sure I get them all into my mouth.

“There are other shelters,” he says. “If we head toward the Czechoslovakian border, we’ll find more food and aid and can wait there until Germany is safe for you to travel through so we can get back home.” Safe for Jews to travel through, is what he means.

I’m not leaving Poland without Noah.

“No, I must go west. I was planning to leave today or tomorrow,” I tell him. Igor said a week-and-a-half. Today is the eighth day, which leaves me two days to find the larch mills in Gliwice.

“West? The same direction the Soviets are pushing through?” he questions me, a crease of concern appearing between his eyes. “And the woman in the administration office said they would be moving people within the next twenty-four hours. You might not even make it here another day.”

“I have to go west.”

“Celina, I’m not leaving you here, and I’m not letting you follow the warpath.”

“I have Avi and Elias here.” I doubt they’ll want to go with me either, but it’s all I can think to say.

“Are they your friends?”

I shrug. Is that what they are to me now? I suppose.

“They can come with us, but in a safer direction. I need to keep you safe.” It takes everything within me to tell him that’s the only thing he hasn’t done. But it isn’t his fault. I know that.

I shake my head. “I’m following Noah. I’m following him west. That’s where he’s going.”