Page 75 of The Lost Husband

“We aren’t executing anyone based on uniform.”

“Then you must have a form of proof to go by,” Christoph argues.

“How would you have papers for a Jewish prisoner?”

“I don’t,” Christoph says. “That’s why I need your help.”

The soldier sneers and widens his stance. “I can’t help you.”

“Because you don’t have authority,” Christoph continues, “which means if you know information about one of those men and don’t report it, someone above you will have to answer for it later.”

“You are pushing too far, comrade,” the soldier grits.

“No,” Christoph says. “I’m pursuing this situation carefully.”

Silence grows between Christoph and the soldier, thoughts stirring. A cough echoes from down the hall, following a creak and groan.

I want to tell the soldier we’re talking about my husband. Noah would tell me toallow the silence to fester. It cracks people from the inside.

“If the man I’m speaking of is in fact a German soldier,” Christoph presses on, “you lose nothing by waiting to kill him. He’s already beaten and detained.”

“And if he’s not a German soldier?” the soldier shrugs.

Christoph doesn’t blink as he stares straight into the soldier’s eyes. “Then your unit will have executed a Jewish prisoner who survived Auschwitz by hiding in plain sight. And no one thought to question him first.”

The soldier’s jaw tightens and grinds back and forth.

“That’s not a decision you want to carry on your own,” Christoph says.

The soldier glances down the dark corridor toward the front of the building then back at Christoph, then to the numbers on my arm.

“You have papers to prove his identity?” the soldier asks.

“Yes, along with marriage records, proof of residency, and witness testimony,” Christoph says. “All of it in Amsterdam.”

“That will take weeks,” the soldier says, tossing his arms to the side.

“I’ll return within the week,” Christoph replies, “if you let me go.”

“Do what you want. But if you don’t return before the rail line reopens in seven days, we’ll kill him. One less problem to deal with.” The soldier groans and tips his head back. “I’ll get a lieutenant.”

Christoph nods. Just once.

This isn’t a win.

It’s a challenge that may have a deadly outcome.

* * *

An older soldier, wide eyes, and a dark stare, takes evenly paced strides through the corridor toward us, staring over my head as if I don’t exist. He stops in front of us but turns his attention entirely to the younger soldier Christoph was speaking to. It’s as if they’re carrying a silent conversation between their stares. My palms itch, damp with sweat, and I squeeze my fingers into fists.

The lieutenant finally turns back toward us, his nostrils flaring as he takes in a harsh nasal inhale. “You assume this tattooed man is not a German officer,” he says, making it clear his words don’t form a question.

Christoph gives the lieutenant a quick, stern nod. “I’m sure of it. He’s a Jewish man. Not part of the German army.”

“I don’t care who he is. I care about whether he becomes paperwork.”

His stare then falls onto me, cold, heartless, dead inside. Words roll off my tongue before I realize I’ve opened my mouth to speak. “The man has a name,” I tell him.