Page 13 of The Lost Husband

Noah releases a heavy exhale as if he’s been holding it in all day. “Jerald told me Jews will be…reassigned and that my reports won’t be needed going forward.”

“Jerald, your boss?” I hiss his name. “He’s always been so fond of you, and a friend of your father’s. How could that be?”

“I tried to reason with him, but he couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

A nervous laugh tickles my throat. “He’s ashamed,” I scoff. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“He’s not.” Noah shakes his head while folding the cuffs of his sleeves into sharp creases at his forearms. “He’s relieved.”

In the past month there have been Nazi groups targeting and attacking Jewish people in cafés and restaurants. Then just two days ago, there were notices and bulletins banning all Jewish citizens from local theaters. We aren’t welcome. It’s clear.

Noah takes my hand and presses it between his, lifting it to his lips. He pauses a moment, his lips lingering, warm breath against my skin, as if memorizing the sensation.

In the kitchen, the challah waits beneath the lace cover, the unlit candles beside it. The roast and lidded casserole dishes sit untouched. The oven ticks behind me, metal adjusting from the varying temperatures. I hadn’t noticed it before.

“We should talk to my father,” I suggest.

“Yes,” Noah agrees, then quietly adds, “though, Christoph will be more useful as a practicing lawyer—he could have more information on our legal rights.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a folded paper, already worn at the creases. “This is what the German police were handing out at the door upon my departure.”

I don’t reach for it. I don’t want it.

“Celina, my love.”

His words are gentle but carry a firm undertone.

I swallow the lump growing in my throat and take the paper. My fingers tremble as I part the folds, the smell of ink and cold air waft around me.

ALL DUTCH PERSONS OF JEWISH DESCENT ARE REQUIRED TO REGISTER…

I refold the paper and hand it back to him without reading any further. “Oy! The government must need records for rationing, or an updated census. They’re always just making lists, for God’s sake. We’ve done nothing wrong, Noah.” I sigh with frustration. “We’re Dutch, educated, and good people. We’re Jewish, and that can’t be considered a crime.”

He cracks his knuckles, once, twice, and again, then clears his throat. “The German policeman at the door didn’t ask me who I was when he handed me the paper.” He stares down at the paper, creasing it once more, then refocuses on me. “Because he already knew.”

His statement takes the breath out of me. Even if I don’t want to believe the registry is something sinister, if the German police already know who we are, it means someone gave them the information… We can’t trust anyone now.

“We’ll find a way around this, and we’ll be all right because—because, well—we have each other. That’s all we ever need, isn’t that what we always say?” I suddenly need this confirmation from him more than hearing myself say it out loud.

Noah slides his palm along my cheek and leans in with a gentle kiss. “Of course.” The words catch in his throat.

He moves past me and takes the candlesticks out of the candle holders and moves them to the small hutch in the corner. It’s too late to light them. It feels as though Shabbat has begun without us, like the world has moved forward, leaving us behind. “Let us still take a break from this worry. You’ve outdone yourself with another irresistible dinner this week. Thank you, my love.”

He isn’t hungry. I can see it in his face.

Still, we eat and savor, together. The world outside these walls might change, but in here, we are still us—newlyweds, at the beginning of our forever. No one will stop me from gazingat him as I picture this table, more chairs, more noise, laughter, and joy around it.

As if sharing the same thought, he reaches across the table and laces his fingers between mine. “I still can’t believe you’re finally mine.” He chuckles. “God, if you could have heard the thoughts going through my head when we were younger. I was sure you’d eventually come to your senses and find someone better.”

“There’s no such thing as coming to one’s senses when in love, and I have loved you for as long as I can remember,” I say. “Maybe that makes me senseless, but I’m smart enough to know no one can get in the way of that.”

Noah smirks. “That explains so much.” He flashes me an adoring wink. “You’re right to think this way. We won’t allow a paper to decide how we’re allowed to live.” A hint of relief flickers in his eyes—not enough to dismiss his underlying fear, but a familiar quiet strength that has always carried him forward.

SEVEN

CURRENT DAY

Babice, Poland

Enemies and allies blur into one. There’s nowhere to hide. Not like the home Noah and I shared in Amsterdam—our safe haven.