Page 67 of The Lost Husband

I turn to follow Avi, but I’m reminded quickly that I wasn’t meant to move any further as the first soldier snags me by the elbow with a firm hold. “Stay.”

My stomach knots into a wave of nausea, realizing I’ve gotten Avi help, but also given up the right to decide anything else for her. “We’re worried for our friend,” Elias speaks up, his voice quivering.

The soldier still holding on to my arm looks over his shoulder at his comrades and nods to one of them. “You will wait behind the infirmary.”

We’re escorted in the direction the others took Avi, but to the side of the building. A soldier opens a tall metal gate and waves us forward. The moment we’re all contained, the gate secures behind us, leaving us penned between metal fencing, topped with barbed wire.

Christoph paces. Elias stands in the center of the snow-covered field, hands on his hips, staring up at the dark windows along the schoolhouse building. I’m at the fence, watching three lines of German prisoners spill into the adjacent yard.

Soviet guards tear them apart, dragging men into groups that form smaller uneven lines. They grab prisoners’ collars, inspect insignia then decide whether to shove them left, right, front or back—by rank, perhaps—but I can’t quite follow the pattern.

“Down!” a Soviet guard shouts. “Knees!”

The command echoes between the two buildings and is then repeated by someone’s attempt to speak German in the back row. One by one, the German prisoners drop down.

“Coats off!” German prisoners fumble with the buttons and stiff sleeves. Anyone moving too slow is struck with a rifle butt.

Soviets circle the rows, shoving heads down into the snow, forcing them to wait for their next order.

I can’t seem to look away as something inside of me steadies rather than unravels. The insignia branded to their clothes say enough. It was a choice to take part and show devotion. I wouldn’t be able to live with the memory of this scene if I allow myself to wonder how many of them were forced into it, like everyone else within this war.

These prisoners marched through our streets, took our loved ones, homes, and names. They decided who should live, who could serve them, and who could be erased. Whatever happens to them now will never give back what was taken from me. I will never return to the person I was before they decided my future.

Therefore, I have to allow myself to believe this is justice to the deserving.

Soviet guards meet in a small circle, one with papers in hand, hissing orders while another one eyes one of the prisoners. His stare quickly shifts to another prisoner. The Russian holding papers slaps his hand against them, his eyes bulging. He points behind him and shakes his head.

The Soviet guards listening take direction and drag three German prisoners from their groups, out of the pen to the far side of the building. Out of sight.

A moment later, shots fire beyond the wall—the blasts splitting through the air like lightning. I gasp silently, but no one looks toward the sound. Not the soldiers, nor the prisoners.

The uniforms mean they already know what’s coming.

And then one man in the front row, his head hanging toward the ground, shifts his knees in the snow, his shoulders folding inward as he rebalances himself. The movement pulls his sleeve back.

Just enough.

A smear of dark ink blurs along the inside of his forearm—something hand-done.

Tattoos like that don’t belong beneath Nazi coats. Not the kind meant to mark someone as less than human.

I can’t see his face. Many have dark hair.

I don’t know when I tangled my fingers through the metal grates of the fence, but I need the man with the tattoo to move his head. I need to see his face.

I need to know if it’s Noah.

The Soviet guard with the papers in hand stills as his cold stare fixes on the row where the tattooed prisoner kneels. He’s not scanning, nor passing it over. He stops. His hand lifts, the papers shifting between his fingers as if he’s about to point.

My body stiffens and I hold my breath, watching…waiting. I know that look. It’s reason for action—a pause before deciding an outcome. Whether that’s Noah or someone else, I’m certain I’m running out of time.

Igor said they would be here waiting for transport once the rail lines opened. If Noah is here—if he survived whatever they’ve already done to him, he won’t stay here long. They’ll move him. Put him on a train and send him somewhere I won’t be able to reach him.

TWENTY-SEVEN

JANUARY 1943

Amsterdam, Netherlands (Eastbound train)