Page 30 of The Lost Husband

“Why don’t you two stay up here while Avi and I go search the trench to see if they left anything behind,” Elias suggests, watching as I help Gerda back up to her feet.

Before I agree with a nod, the two of them are skidding down the steep hill to the basin.

“What I wouldn’t give to have a fraction of their strength and energy at this moment,” Gerda says with a sigh. “I want back the healthy years of my life that were stolen from me, but it’s a selfish thing to say when we’re lucky enough to have survived at all.”

“It’s not selfish. None of us deserve to be standing here like this,” I tell her.

Not even a few minutes pass before Elias and Avi are clawing their way up and out of the trench with a broken branch in each hand. “Not a single breadcrumb,” Avi says.

My fingers, numb and clumsy, fish around in my coat pockets. The potatoes feel like small rocks, and my stomach clenches. We should eat. It’s been too long.

“Here.” I press two potatoes into Gerda’s red hands, then into Elias’s shivering ones.

Gerda shakes her head as her eyes well with tears. “No, no. These are yours.” She holds her hands out to Avi. “I can’t take food from your mouth, dear.”

“You must,” I insist, my voice hoarse from the damp air.

“I can try and find us more at the next field we pass,” Elias says. “I don’t feel right…”

“Stop.” Avi thrusts a potato into each of their hands, and mine as well, so we each have three. “This isn’t a barter.”

They’re still partially frozen inside so we gnaw at the half-frozen lumps as we trudge back to the beaten path along the railway.

The glares of orange and red at our sides, weaving between the trees as the sun sinks lower toward the horizon. Our shadows grow leaner and longer behind us.

I’m not sure how far we’ve walked, or how long, but we’ve taken a handful of breaks, slowed to a snail’s pace, then picked up our speed to try and find shelter along this route before nightfall. We’ve all been quiet aside from the swish of snow beneath our feet and heavy breaths, but I’m sure we’re all wondering if we can survive another night without shelter. I’m wondering if the Soviets and Germans are walking through the night as the footprints carry on without a break.

“There won’t be a shelter right along the rail lines. We should cut through the trees to find an open road before the light is gone,” Elias says.

More than a day full of walking should have taken us somewhere, but it’s hard to imagine the distance when the dark forest draws on like a repeating pattern.

“He’s right,” Gerda says.

“Agreed,” Avi follows.

I know we can’t walk through the night, nor will we survive sleeping out here again. So long as we return to the tracks in the morning. I have to believe the Soviet column will stop for the night somewhere too.

I follow alongside them until we spill out of the woods onto a road where snow has gathered in tire-tracks. It stretches on until the gray sky bleeds onto the ground. Frosted trees, frozen grass, and no sign of life.

For so long, I had no space, not enough to twist my body onto my side while trying to sleep. Not enough to block out the whispers of how many people died in a single day. I couldbarely take a full breath without choking on the stench of so many unwashed bodies. Yet here, there’s too much loneliness, too much air to breathe within this vast space. It’s like standing out here naked.

“More smoke,” Avi says. “Let’s pray it’s the good kind.”

Thegood kindhas different meanings to us both, I believe.

Elias and Avi move ahead of us, an eagerness in their steps. Gerda and I stay at the same pace, exhausted, pushing with every step.

“My husband,God rest his soul,” Gerda says, “loved to hike. He would set out on the coldest days of the year and call it a refreshing minty breeze. I never wanted to join him. I prefer being warm and by a fire.” She sighs. “If he saw me right now, he’d tell me to ‘Embrace nature and live off what God left for us.’”

Her words crack a smile along my chapped lips. “Sounds like he loved life.”

“He did. Everything was a miracle to him, and I took so much for granted. Now I question if that’s why I’m still here and he’s not.”

Her words battle in my mind, leaving me to wonder if she’s speaking from reflection or grief.

“I don’t think you took anything for granted. He might have seen miracles in colors—ones without names that are impossible to describe. Perhaps, those very same colors are still somewhere out there waiting for you.”

It’s the same for all of us.