Page 24 of The Lost Husband

If they take him now, my last memory will be the single quiver in his lips as fear coils around us.

The flicker of the candle catches my eye as it weakens and smoke spindles toward the ceiling.

The thudding steps stall on the second floor.

A woman’s shout travels up the walls. “My children aren’t home. It’s just me,” she cries out.

A trample of footsteps travels beneath us, moving deeper into the flat as furniture scrapes against the floor with vengeance, then something heavy crashes. A shrill scream from two little girls follows—the sound traveling back through the flat and into the stairwell.

I cup my hand around my mouth and move closer to Noah, unable to stand still through my panic. He presses a finger to his lips.

The screams fade into silence until the main door opens and closes.

A Jewish single mother with two little girls—gone, just like that.

Noah reaches for me and pulls my back into his chest as he slides down against the wall, curling me into his hold, his forehead pressing into my shoulder. “This won’t be the last of the Nazi raids in our building.” His heart pounds against my spine, trembling through my body. “We’re out of time. We need to move our money. Then, I’ll handle the rest.”

I don’t want to ask what the rest means.

I’m afraid if he tells me, I might see the future in his eyes.

ELEVEN

CURRENT DAY

Kopciowice, Poland

My eyes burn against the thick smog, blurring the vicinity. Ahead, voices crash into one another, loud and erratic, funneling between a group of scattered trees.

“Shh, if we listen in for a minute, we might be able to get an idea if they plan to stay or go. We can wait them out and search for what they might leave behind,” Elias says. “We stay behind them. Always behind. That’s the only way to survive.”

I don’t even remember deciding to move closer after questioning what we’re walking into, and I don’t turn to see if the others are behind me, but I find a wide trench bordered by elevated mounds of snow packed dirt.

As the smoke thins, I trudge up the mounds, crouching forward to get a peek into the trench. A cough bucks through my chest, but I pinch my lips and swallow against the grit as the sight of uniformed men comes into view. All of them are talking or shouting in a mix of German, Russian, Polish, and Yiddish.

The smoky scene twists into something out of expressionism—elongated, misshapen faces, mouths split open in accusation,the sky and surrounding trees a battered smear of it all. They did put out a fire, like Elias had thought—the smoke is blooming from a pit behind rows of prisoners.

Avi tugs me backward, but I fight against her, trying to figure out what I’m looking at—or who, for that matter.

They’re like us, but not us. There are no blue-and-white striped uniforms. No emaciated bodies. Just men in Nazi uniforms, hands and ankles bound, sitting in rows as Soviet soldiers pace back and forth in front of them.

Their hands are clean and cared for rather than used for daily labor—not like the ones that pulled me from the rubble after the explosion.

“They’re going to see you,” Avi hisses in my ear. “Get down.”

For so long, the German soldiers have had unlimited power over us, imprisoning the Jewish population, killing as many as possible. And now, overnight, it seems, they’ve become the prisoners under Soviet power. So, the hunter becomes the prey…

I can’t break my stare from what’s in front of me, the sight of these ruthless monsters, now paying for their sins.

Except one.

One who isn’t talking to anyone else.

One whose stare is fixed on the ground. His right shoulder dipped lower than his left; dark hair. His bound hands clench, the pad of his thumbs pressing into his knuckles.

Is it…?

Nausea strikes again, triggering a cold sweat down my spine.