Page 82 of The Lost Husband

“Understood.”

He replaces the receiver on the hook and turns around.

“A guard is at the bottom of the stairs. Go.”

I look back at Elias and Avi, their eyes wide with concern. I walk out into the corridor and make my way to the metal staircase and hold the railing as tightly as I can, ensuring my knees don’t choose to give out. Another Soviet guard waits forme at the bottom step and steps to the side, pointing for me to move ahead. He walks beside me, not saying a word, then stops as we reach a side door to the building. He unlocks the door with his key and pushes it outwards, propping it open with the toe of his boot.

The wind, cold and dry, slaps me in the face, but it’s a welcome change to being trapped inside for days. The prisoner field is footsteps away from this building, a metal fence the only separation between all those murderers and me.

I steal a glimpse at the prisoners’ rows, the ones that have been stagnant most of the day. One catches my eye, the fence a blur between us. He lowers his head but continues to look over to me from under his brows. Noah.You are here. My breath chokes through me and my lips part. I’m afraid to blink, thinking he might disappear…

A guard shoves an enamel cup into my chest, the broth sloshing so hard it might spill out of the sides. A dark roll of bread is dropped in my other hand. The door closes in my face even though I’m still staring through that fence. No, no, no. I need to get to him. Why are they treating us like prisoners here too? Haven’t we been through enough?

“Go. Now,” the guard says.

“I—”

“Go!”

I blink away the sunlight, readjust my eyes to the dim-lit corridor and turn back for the stairs.

The infirmary door closes and locks behind me as I continue to carefully watch my step, so I don’t spill any broth. I hand the chipped enamel cup to Avi and place the bread down beside her. “I can’t believe they gave you food,” Elias says.

“Did they hurt you?” Avi asks between sips.

“No.”

“Why are you pale? Something must have happened.”

All I can wonder is how many more blasts I’ll hear before a bullet goes through Noah’s head—if that’s why I can’t spot him amid the rows.

THIRTY-THREE

SEPTEMBER 1943

Auschwitz, Oswiecim, Poland

Herr Drexel stands behind me at the towering iron gates with the words “Work will set you free” bent into the iron, highlighted by the glow of the farmer’s moon.

The Drexels didn’t allow me the time to lie or come up with a story about the photograph of Noah and me. What lie could I come up with? Herr Drexel told me to gather my belongings and go to the door at once. “She’s capable of labor, a seamstress or launderer.” He hands the guard in front of me a paper and leaves without another word.

As if I hadn’t been working for them for over six months—as if I’m nothing.

By the time I’m on the inside of the gates, a woman in a blue-and-white smock dress approaches me, takes my suitcase from my hand and tosses it into a pile of others beneath a spotlight, as if the pile itself is something to showcase.

I watch my suitcase land among the others and try, instinctively, to memorize what surrounds it. A hard case with red and gold stripes on one side, and a brown leather bag witha black ribbon on the other. I tell myself it will make it easier to find later. Though, even as the thought forms, I know how foolish it is. From where I stand, they already all look the same. My photograph is in there…the last piece of Noah I have left. My heart pangs and my stomach sours, a familiar feeling that would normally lead me to tears. But here, tears won’t make me feel any better. They’ll be a sign of weakness and fear.

It’s all I feel.

The woman yanks me to stay by her side as she leads me to the front of a wide brick building where the line of hundreds of women snakes down the side of the edifice. Spotlights pin us from above, a warning more than a source of light.

“You wait,” the woman says, leaving me at the end of the line.

“I’m so tired, Mama. I could just fall asleep right here,” the young woman in front of me whispers, tugging at the long braid falling down her back. The curls slip loose between her fingers as she pulls at it again and again. My neighbor, Cora, used to do the same thing. I called her Curly Cora in my head and memorized the way the light caught each bend of her hair so I could recreate it later when I painted. She’s probably still playing with her hula hoop outside on the curb with the other children. She isn’t Jewish. She gets to live. Unlike this young girl in front of me, I’m sure.

“Soon, darling,” her mother murmurs.

I wonder what Mama would tell me now. Would it be the truth, or something to make me think we’d be all right? I’m not sure what I would tell my little love, but it’s clear she wasn’t meant to endure this.