Page 6 of The Lost Husband

She loops her arm around mine. “Avi.”

I don’t ask her where she plans to go or how she plans to get there, and I don’t tell her who I might be looking for—or leaving behind.

FOUR

FIVE YEARS EARLIER – SEPTEMBER 28, 1939

Amsterdam, Netherlands

I settle onto the stone steps of the university’s front terrace, slipping my sketch pad onto my lap. The sight of smudged graphite along the side of my hand catches my eye, and then of course, the black stain on the cuff of my cream blouse. The evidence of an artist that can’t be erased.

The slate slabs still hold the morning’s chill, but the high autumn sun warms my knees through the folds of my wool skirt. A silken chestnut mare with its jingling harness clops past with a two-wheeled carriage, carrying the twang of damp hay. At the curb, the street trolley squeals to a stop. A trio of businessmen stride by in dark overcoats and polished boots, hushing their voices as each tips their bowler hat in a silent greeting. Amsterdam turns in its usual rhythm like the slow sweep of a clock’s second hand.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Christoph says, jogging down the steps two at a time, his satchel bumping against his hip. He’s been doing that since we were all kids—always stirring up a debate, always convinced he’s right. He tugsa folded newspaper from beneath his arm and presses it into Noah’s chest, its front page dominated by a stark bold headline:

September 28, 1939

BERLIN DEFIES TREATY AGAIN?

Noah studies the words for a quick second and raises his brows. “I believe it,” he says. “I told you this would happen when we were fifteen, and we’ve been having the same argument since then.”

“My point is that you shouldn’t believe every headline, never mind live by them,” Christoph scoffs. “Germany won’t risk violating another treaty. They know Britain will have no choice but to react. The nation’s laws are binding treaties and can’t just be disregarded,” Christoph continues arguing.

Noah’s dark strands brush his collar as he straightens his shoulders. “Laws can easily be violated when the world is still recuperating from the last war. While I don’t believe Britain will readily step into another war unless forced, Germany’s aggression can still do enough damage to affect the trades, which could be the cause for force. Law won’t help us there—” Noah stops the banter with our closest friend and offers me his hand, his hazel eyes piercing into mine. I tuck my sketch pad under my arm and let him pull me upright. He presses close, the faint spice of his aftershave brushing my cheek as he kisses me just above my jawline. I catch the familiar arc of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the faint kind that only someone up close would notice. I notice. I always have. “How was class, my love?”

He always calls me “my love” with a gentle inflection. Each time, a small thrill flutters through me, even though we’ve known each other since childhood, back when I could stand on tiptoe and still tower over him as he blushed a shade of scarletwhenever our eyes met. Of course, Christoph would be the one to call out the height difference just to tease Noah, always pulling me into the joke like I belonged there.

Our friendship grew the way oil paintings do. Mama always said the world reveals itself slowly, in layers, each taking its time to settle if you’re patient enough to see it. She was right. Toward the end of secondary school, Noah shot up two heads above me, his once lanky limbs filling out, and he no longer slunk away under my gaze. Instead, I was the one suddenly aware of the warmth that grew between us.

“I’m afraid art history isn’t as riveting as economics and law, but inspiring, nonetheless. Perhaps Käthe Kollwitz should be required reading,” I say. “Her work is a warning, and a reminder of what could happen if we don’t pay attention to what’s happening around us.” When I finish my classes and become an art teacher, the first thing I plan to do is teach the future generations of all the warnings depicted in works of art. The law and economics can tell many stories, but works of art hold the secrets.

“Käthe who?” Christoph chuckles, running his fingers through his caramel hair.

“Oy! You spend so much time studying for the bar, but know nothing of the arts,” I tease, smoothing out the pleats of my skirt. “Typical.”

Christoph holds up his chin, refusing to take an insult from me. “At least the future generations will have a brilliant art teacher who can fix that problem,” Christoph says.

Laughter rolls between the three of us, unfurling into a humming sigh.

“Well said, both of you,” Noah adds. “But truly—” He huffs and takes my hand in his as we head west toward the canals. “The trends in the market tell a story we can’t deny. The hardships may begin in Poland. Then?—”

Christoph lifts a hand in contempt, unable to let Noah finish his sentence. “Despite what Britain does, the Netherlands will keep neutrality, keeping us away from the war. You can’t say there’s any economic trend suggesting otherwise.” His words hang between us for a moment, but I know Christoph hasn’t had the last word just yet. “These headlines are intended to stir fear in every European country. And it’s working.”

“The headlines are our only form of prediction, a warning to plan, for a disruption in trades and goods, which would lead to another war,” Noah counters, his grip tightening on the newspaper gripped in his other hand. The other side of the paper broadcasts an even larger bold headline, sitting just above his thumb.

September 28, 1939

GERMANY AND SOVIET UNION

FORMALIZE PARTITION IN POLAND

“International law and treaties exist for a reason, and just as it held up during the Great War, it will continue doing so now,” Christoph pokes with laughter. “All you economists see is collapse and destruction. By upholding the law, there won’t be any sharp economic shifts.”

Noah gives him a sidelong glance. “The law won’t stop what’s coming. War or not, any type of divide will have an economic effect, and what follows…isn’t written in ink.” Noah pauses a moment. “But the numbers suggest it won’t be in our favor.”

I bump my elbow into Noah’s side. “You’re going to give him an ulcer before he passes the bar.”

“Too late, miss Celina. Too late,” Christoph replies. “Every time someone suggests that the market will influence monetarypolicy…it’s an act of buying into hysteria. There won’t be another war. You’ll see—I’ll be right.”