Page 77 of The Lost Husband

He takes the paper from his son’s hand and inspects it before smoothing it out on the table.

“I found this in the lining of our nanny’s suitcase,” Conrad says, lowering his voice as if playing the role of a grown man.

Herr Drexel smooths the paper covered photograph down on the table and unfolds the flaps. “Mr. and Mrs. Noah and Celina Felsheim, the sixteenth of November 1941. Mazel Tov,” he readsout loud. “Should I know who these people are, son?” He turns the photograph over.

An icy chill burns through my core, freezing my bones and muscles, the realization paralyzing me at once.

Conrad continues to stare at me, a sickening show of pride in his rigid posture.

Herr Drexel leans back in his seat, straightens his glasses and studies the photograph in his hand.

“A beautiful synagogue for a Jewish couple. I spent time in Amsterdam when I was younger. That’s the one near Sarphatipark—the one settled between the row houses, yes?”

My lungs constrict. He knows exactly what he’s looking at.

I stay silent, knowing nothing I say will help me now.

“You haven’t aged since this photograph was taken, but I suppose that makes sense since you were just wed two years ago.” His eyebrows lift and he presses his tongue to the bottom of his front teeth. “Celina Felsheim, not Kaatje Janseen.”

I haven’t heard my real name spoken in so long. Hearing it now sounds like a death sentence.

“Dear, what are you mumbling about?” Frau Drexel interrupts.

“The Jewish star on your necklace clears up any possible doubt—and your husband’s tiny hat, what are they called again?”

I can’t find my voice, or anything to make me speak an answer. My pulse beats so hard, I’m certain everyone in this room can hear it.

Herr Drexel slams his fists on the table, the photo falling from his hand and landing on his dinner plate. “I asked you what the tiny hat is called by you people…” he barks.

“A—a yarmulke,” I utter, a response that formed on its own.

“You are a married Jewish woman posing as a Catholic widow and a practicing postulant.” Herr Drexel sighs. “We wanted to believe you had suffered an unfortunate series ofevents with the loss of your child too, but it’s clear now that it was all a lie that went terribly wrong. For you.”

Every lie I’ve been living with collapses at once.

“I never claimed to be anything other than what I was at that time,” I say. “A grieving woman searching for shelter. I followed a path to aid.” My fingers interlock beneath the table, nails biting into my knuckles to stop my hands from shaking. Neither of them says a word, as if waiting for me to continue my explanation. They already have me pinned into a corner. Why look for more? “I believed that if I devoted myself to the church, God would understand.”

“What a sinful act for Jew, and an insult to the Catholic faith. You thought you could hide your identity under my roof because you claim not to have papers? This is why the Jews have earned a bad name. You’re all liars and cheats. And you’ve been hiding under my own roof.” He spits toward me.

The heat surging through me is enough to raise the temperature in the dining room. I’m sure the distress is written cleanly across my face in red splotches as well. How will he punish me? Does he even know?

Herr Drexel squeezes his fingers around his temples and shakes his head. “So unfortunate.” His eyes graze up and down the upper half of my body as he snarls with disgust.

“Her name isn’t even Kaatje. A Jew has been in our home. My God,” Frau Drexel groans in disgust.

Herr Drexel doesn’t look at me again. He pushes his chair back and stands. “Children, go to your rooms.” The room grows unbearably hot like I’m standing beside an open oven. My heart quakes so hard, I might pass out and fall to the floor. And knowing how ruthless the SS are, I may never wake up again. Though it may not be worse than whatever he plans to do with me.

None of the children look at me as they leave.

“Please, let me leave. I won’t return. You never have to see me again,” I beg.

Herr Drexel scoffs. “You already know what we do with Jews. You know quite well, in fact. Too much. Now you’ll have to see for yourself, firsthand.”

“No, no, you—please… I won’t say a word—” But there isn’t a hint of pity in either of their eyes.

THIRTY-ONE

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