Page 62 of The Lost Husband

“Child, God has plans for each of us. Have faith that this end is only the start of another beginning. With time, our hearts?—”

“Ah, this must be Mother Superior,” a man says, his voice oozing confidence. She moves to my side as a man and woman approach us from a direction that I don’t think Mother was expecting. “One of your kind sisters brought us in through the chapel so we could see the beautiful stained glass.”

He speaks English with an indecipherable accent. Both are well groomed; a gray wool petticoat lined with fox fur for the woman and a tailor-made taupe three-piece suit and matching tie for the gentleman. They’re older than me, but not by much.

“You must be Kaatje,” the man says, addressing the lying mask I wear with a gentle glance. I will only ever be Celina, despite what anyone calls me.

“This is she,” Mother Superior says, nudging me forward a step. “A lovely young woman with a heart of gold who has a hunger for humanity and given back to her faith by taking care of God’s children.” Mother Superior places her hand on my shoulder. “We will miss her glowing spirit but know she will do good things for you and your family.”

“We will take care good care of her, Mother,” the wife says, her English sounding like her husband’s. “God bless you and all you do for our faith.”

Mr. Drexel opens the garden door, stepping to the side to allow his wife then me to pass through.

I turn to take one last look at Mother Superior over my shoulder, finding her hands in prayer and head bowed. “Goodbye, Mother.”

* * *

Mist from the canal fogs the air, blurring everything in the distance as I follow behind the couple. The couple who fell completely silent the moment the garden door closed behind us. Even their posture has changed. Straighter and more guarded.

We cross the bridge that winds toward the train station without any sign of where we’re going. Their quiet isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s deliberate. I tell myself it means nothing.

The unease I feel in their presence doesn’t compare to the discomfort rushing through my veins at the number of Nazis guarding the area. There are more of them now—twice as many as when Christoph dropped me off five months ago. Rifles hung low. Their hawklike stares overseeing every corner.

I want to ask where we’re traveling. The question forms on my tongue, but I bite it back, wondering why Mother Superior didn’t question where we would be traveling. I have a feeling it would only take one wrong word, one wrong question, and I could be left standing here between Jew-hunting soldiers.

I’ll have an answer soon enough when we get onto the train. The platform looks nothing like it once did. Full of chaos and people weaving between each other seamlessly like a fabric gliding through a sewing machine. Now, there are lines everywhere, segregation of families versus single womentraveling with children, and single men, all separated toward different cars. Soldiers tell people where to go rather than train attendants.

People seem to know where to stand despite the confusion and lines. But we don’t go into any of the lines. We move around them. The Drexels keep their sight straight ahead, never pausing or questioning where we’re to go, and don’t even stop before veering in toward an open car. As if perfectly timed, a soldier steps out, nods at Mr. Drexel then gestures us to board the train.

No tickets requested.

We sit along two benches facing each other, me staring at them.

The train door closes.

The sound of the engine rumbles.

Mr. Drexel stands from his seat and moves between the rows, addressing a train attendant. I can’t stop myself from watching, curious about what he’s doing.

“Yes, Herr Drexel. All is clear,” the attendant responds.

Mrs. Drexel clears her throat, pulling my attention away from the center row. “My husband’s work requires discretion.” Her English vowels hardening into a German accent.

I should have known.

I wanted to think I was safe. I’m never safe.

TWENTY-FIVE

CURRENT DAY

Ruda Slaska, Poland

Shaking, heart pounding, and nauseous, I sit inside the corner of the tipped over railcar, wooden window shutters dangling above as I hold Avi’s head in my lap. If Noah is already moving along with the Soviet column ahead of us, every minute we stay in this railcar separates us further. Igor, from the train depot, told me a week and a half, but there’s no saying his timeline was exact. I want to believe it is, which gives me a day or two at most to find these mills in Gliwice. Christoph said earlier it could take two days of walking to arrive there. Nothing is definitive, especially with so many obstacles.

Christoph left the three of us here and made a run for the other two railcars, scavenging for anything.

“She’s getting worse again,” Elias says, hovering over Avi to give her more warmth.