Page 3 of The Lost Husband

Who brought me into this barrack?

A groan scrapes against my throat, and I wince, peeking through half-lidded eyes. The light burns as if I’ve been in the dark for years.

Damp walls surround me, tiered bunks with a scattering of prisoners, a clog, and a pair of women’s underwear lying in front of me. Muffled words blare through a speaker outside. I claw myself forward along the ground until I reach the wall and hoist myself to the frostbitten window. I smear my palm in circles along the cold glass. Outside, prisoners drag their heavy bodies through the snow, all moving in one direction. Where are they going?

My heart races as I lift my hand to the back of my head, afraid of what I’ll find. I comb my fingers through my short strands of hair, stiff from sweat and filth, matted along the area that hurts the most. I flinch upon contact with the swelling, hot and tender beneath my skin. Not just swelling, but a bump the size of an orange. Pain surges across my entire scalp, blunt and undeniable.

A flashing memory of the exploding crematorium; the pressure that sent me flying. How I hit my head. Then, the German guard grabbed me. His eyes, which seemed so familiar.

But Noah is dead.

I know he is.

And even if he wasn’t, he would never wear a German uniform. Would never be one of them.

The head injury explains it. And hunger—never ending, insistent hunger too. But still, the way he looked at me… That felt real.

I twist around, keeping my grip on the window frame. My shoulder screams in pain as I face the section of bunks still full of people like me. They stare back at me with lost, bulging eyes weighted with suspicion. We’re all wondering the same—what has happened to the camp? Why are we still here, and what are we waiting for?

I open my mouth to speak, fighting against grit and phlegm. “Did anyone see a man…a German guard who brought me here?”

I want to take back my words the second it becomes too late. I don’t want to imply that one of the SS has saved me, after the torture and beatings that we’ve all endured at their hands. People around me shift uncomfortably, taking in ragged, uneasy breaths.

A woman releases a broken, croaky laugh. “A German?” she asks, her inflection bitter, the question shrouded in mockery. “You think one of them came back here for one of us?”

“I—I di—didn’t mean that,” I stutter, knowing it’s too late to defend myself.

“No German brought you here,” the woman says. “You were lying in the snow behind the barracks. Two of us hauled you inside before the smoke choked us all to death.” She sighs. “We’re not fit for transport, but we still managed, somehow.”

“Fit for transport…” I repeat.

“They left the sick and weak-looking ones behind…” She points to herself. “We’re the weak-looking ones. The SS had reasons for taking most and leaving some behind.” She shakes her head and grumbles, “No one knows which of us is better off.”

I slink back against the window, the muffled shouts returning.

Another woman, further down the row, pushes herself up on her elbow, her mouth ajar but not from shock. Loss of muscle. “The Germans don’t rescue Jews,” she croaks out. “They don’t even bury us.”

“After the crematorium exploded, who pulled me away from the blast?”

“You’re just confused,” a woman says, swatting a hand in the air.

Murmurs waver through the room—a slew of insults, prayers, and disgust blending into one droning sound.

“Hope like that gets people killed,” someone says before dropping back down to their cot. “Keep it to yourself.”

Hope should keep us alive, I want to tell them. But there’s no use in arguing. No one listens to each other anymore.

I slide down against the wall and draw my arms in over my face to block out the noise. The darkness pressing into my eyes brings forward an image of an officer from a long time ago, staring down at me while I scrubbed uniforms. “None of you will leave this block alive,” he’d said.

His words live inside of me, clear as if he were standing here now, threatening my life with his icy stare and cruel smile. I wanted to believe his words were just another weapon of cruelty to control our every breath and step, but I could only convince myself of that for so long.

There’s no better truth than the sight of twitching bodies, others pale and lifeless, the rest squirming with discomfort. The SS knew what they were doing. But I can’t be the only one of us who believed we had a chance to make it out of here alive…only to now settle on the reality before us.

The door to my right squeaks open, a man in a prisoner’s uniform falling in through the opening. He catches himself on the threshold of the door. “There are soldiers—good ones. Here. They’re here to help us. All of us who remain,” he shouts through ragged breaths.

“What soldiers?” a woman calls out. “It’s a trick! Don’t listen to him!”

“No, it’s not a trick,” the man replies. “Soviet soldiers. Russians. They’ve captured the remaining guards.”Remaining guards. Captured. “They’re taking them away right now. The gates are finally open!”