Page 27 of The Lost Husband

Notices are up all over the city, each blaring like a new landmark.

Don’t look. Just keep walking.

Noah had a trade to make at the port, and I wanted to mail my parents a letter. God only knows when I’ll see them again now that the borders are closed.

A crowd stoops around a lamppost, reading the crookedly glued paper with just a small corner rattling in the canal’s breeze. It’s taunting people, a blatant shout for attention.

The words are in an elegant font, one that may be seen on a formal invitation. I can’t help but stop and read, despite my efforts to ignore the others. My hand slips out of Noah’s as I stare between sets of shoulders.

All Jewish men sixteen to fifty are hereby required to report for Westerbork

Only necessary personal belongings may be brought

Noah retakes my hand into his and guides me away from the crowd and around the corner before I could read any of the smaller print.

“Don’t stare,” he murmurs in my ear. “Never stand still. We’ll become targets.”

“I wasn’t staring, but—” I fib, knowing he saw me reading the words. Knowing I was standing still. I couldn’t look away from the bold fact that Noah is within the age range that’s being required to report for labor service. That notice is directed at him.

We turn onto a side street, away from the canal between two towering buildings. A whiff of fried onions mixed with river water poke at me, adding to the unease brewing from within. Noah steps ahead, holding me close behind his back as if shielding me from the empty alleyway. His focus is never steady, always checking every direction, his jaw square and tight. He didn’t want me to stare at the notice, but he’s defensively walking around as if someone is going to reach out and grab us both.

“Westerbork?” I utter, the word sour on my tongue.

He doesn’t respond right away, but answers with the three infamous pops of cracking knuckles. He already knew what the notice said. As we’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that he tries to protect me by informing me only of what’s imminent and important. He tells me he doesn’t like to cause unnecessary panic. To which I say, I’d rather know everything he does, but my doctor told me stress could be the reason we’ve had trouble conceiving.

We turn the last corner toward our quiet street and Noah tugs me out from behind him and up to his side. “We’re not going anywhere.” I stop walking, as if someone has pulled me from behind, but Noah wraps his arm around my back and hurries me onto the curb as a bicycle rushes by.

“We?” I repeat part of his statement.

His forehead strains with deepening lines between his brows and his gaze flickers at my lips as if I’ve insulted him. “The two of us,” he says. “We aren’t turning ourselves in to anyone.”

There’s more to that notice. It seems obvious now. Turning ourselves in—he makes it sound like we’ve committed a crime.

Neither of us say another word until we’ve locked ourselves in our flat. He places his warm hands on my cheeks and stares down at me with his luring gaze. “I promised I will always take care of you.”

He lowers his hands, reaching into his left pocket, and pulls out a brown envelope, bending the flap backward to show me the crisp, folded papers. “Our new papers.” His hand trembles—so slightly that someone else wouldn’t notice, but I do. His nerves are clear as he pulls out the papers, unfolds them and presents the altered work. I didn’t realize how long the process would take, and I’ve felt like we’ve been holding our breath for almost three months while waiting.

The ink doesn’t match perfectly, or maybe I just know where it’s different and not supposed to be.

My stomach grows uneasy, realizing the time has come to give up our identities as if they are merely just names on paper. “This is all we need?”

“Yes, these papers will be the only proof of identity we have, and we rely on papers as fact.” Noah brings them into the kitchen and sets them down on the table side by side. “But lies can dry in ink too, and people will believe them.”

I reach for the one on the left. “So, this—” I stare up at him, feeling our flat spin around us—our lives shifting.

“This is your new identity.” He points to my paper, then moves to his. “And this is mine.”

Janseen, Peter

Janseen, Kaatje

Strangers, but still us.

I stare at mine first. A stranger’s name, a birth date in the wrong season, a trade I know nothing about. Seamstress. And his says he’s a printer and dock worker. A summer birthday instead of spring. At least our surnames match.

I reach down to take a closer look at one, but he snags them both up and slips them back into the envelope. “I’m putting this where it’s safe.” Under the floorboard between my side of the bed and the wall. Where our money is, letters, jewelry, watches, even photographs.

We plan in silence as much as we do out loud, both of us knowing we won’t be safe here, or anywhere, for much longer, but regardless, we’ll do everything we can to avoid danger.