Page 80 of The Lost Husband

I reach for him, feeling a burn against my fingers when I touch the uniform. He pushes me backward, one step at a time. I shake my head, pleading with him to stop, grasping his sleeves. “It’s me. Don’t you know me? I’m your wife. It’s me, Celina.”

“I know who you are. And who I can no longer be,” Noah says.

He thrusts his hands against my shoulders, again, and again until the flames begin to lick my back, burning me slowly. Then he shoves me so hard, my lungs go flat.

A rattling blast startles me into a gasp and my eyes open. My face, cheek-down on the cold floor, staring at particles of dust dancing along the splintered wood. I push myself up, my back hitting a wall, and scan the space, waiting for recognition to hit me. The infirmary floor next to Avi’s cot. That’s where I am.

I was asleep.

The crematorium…and Noah, a nightmare.

I stand up, knees weak, back sore, neck pinched, and I look out the window, finding the same scene. The German prisoners lined up in groups.

They all look like the same person from up here—filthy gray uniforms with insignias of death. Still, I scan each row, wondering if I can find Noah in the crowd from up here. It’s hard to see details, but I can tell some of them are growing weaker by the day, either by illness or beatings. They always stay in their rows, but some are standing and others are curled into a lifeless ball. The lifeless-looking ones are those who would have been killed on the spot at Auschwitz.

If we weren’t standing and able to work, we were worthless to keep. But the rows and roll calls were our foundation—where each day started and ended. The SS punished the innocent in this way, but being stuck in rows like this isn’t a suitable punishment for those who have tortured, and murdered.

Were these men all guards or officers at Auschwitz, or have some come from another labor camp? I wonder if the other locations were as horrific as Auschwitz, or worse. With as much as they tried to destroy before fleeing, there isn’t enough proof to tell a full story unless someone like me speaks out, recalls the memories I wish I could burn with those buildings. I’m not sure any of us will ever want to retell what we’ve seen.

Avi stirs in the bed. Her cheeks are paler than they were yesterday and a sheen of sweat glows across her face. The fever should be gone with the penicillin treatments. I press the back of my hand to her head, finding a mild warmth. I don’t know what she needs to turn a corner into recovery.

“How are you feeling?” I ask as her eyes flutter open.

“Hunger,” she tries to say, though her voice fails her.

Elias sits up against the wall in the corner and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Is she all right?”

I turn to look at him, shaking my head just enough to answer without worrying Avi. “Is there any broth or bread left from what they gave us yesterday?”

Elias pushes himself up and trudges across the small room, staring down at the tin bowls and stacked plates by the door.

He lifts a bowl and swirls whatever is inside around. “Not much.” He brings Avi the bowl and helps her hold it to her lips to take in the last of what’s there.

Boots stomp and squeak up and down the metal stairwell and through the corridor. The sun has been melting some of the snow, leaving grimy puddles to charge through outside.

Only one person has stopped by the infirmary room since Christoph left yesterday. A medic who brought us the broth and bread and administered a dose of penicillin to Avi. No words were exchanged.

I return to the window, searching again for the one who stands out. I stare so long, I watch the guards switch places. Iwatch as they throw them scraps of bread, just enough to keep them alive until they decide what to do with them.

“You think he found a working train?” Elias asks me.

“He found one coming here.” I don’t know where exactly he came from since he seemed to disappear from Amsterdam after leaving me at the convent.

“Do you think he’ll truly make it back before the week’s up?”

With all the hours we’ve spent walking, I haven’t asked him any of the burning questions that kept me awake for so many nights after we parted ways. He was supposed to come back for me. Write to me. Keep me informed. But when he left, he was as gone as Noah.

I’m not sure whether to be honest with Elias or lie to him for the sake of holding on to a slice of hope.

“He said he would be,” I respond, knowing it’s neither the truth nor a lie. Not on my part.

The footsteps in the corridor stop for a moment. “Any communication?” a Soviet soldier asks from outside the infirmary door.

“Nyet. Our supplies are low. If they don’t send a drop, we’ll move sooner.”

“Shut up. They’re listening.”

They’re speaking Yiddish rather than Russian. For what purpose? They must want us to hear them.