Page 34 of The Lost Husband

I turn around, finding a woman, hair not shaven, long enough to pin back, wearing Russian army fatigues, and holding a clipboard. There couldn’t be less of an expression on her face. Her pencil is already moving, as if my answers are a simple formality to the job she’s forced to do. It’s clear that she isn’t here by choice, and she doesn’t see us for what we are—tortured and neglected refugees still fighting for our lives. “Why?” I ask.

“We’re registering people. To help reunite loved ones. We need to take down names as well as some other information.”Reunite loved ones.Here I am, chasing after a man who looks like Noah, who I want to be Noah, despite how unlikely it should be.

My stomach pinches, the familiar nervous ache of not knowing who I should be known as after Noah changed our identities. None of what he worked so hard to accomplish has mattered at all. I’m still Celina, and Celina is a Jewish woman, imprisoned for being—just that.

“Celina Felsheim.”

“Place of origin?” the woman continues pressing with questions.

“Amsterdam.”

“Destination?” This question has a tone of finality.

There is no destination. Only a desperate search for the man who looks like my husband—if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, that is…

“Enough. We do not need to give the Soviets our information so they can hunt us down later,” Avi says, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of line. “We don’t need to fall for this registration enforcement again,” she tells the other two. “We’re leaving. Come or stay. Whatever you think is best.”

She doesn’t wait for permission, and she doesn’t wait for my agreement. I let her pull me away.

“I’m—I’m going to stay,” Gerda says, her decision thought through. “But I wish you well.”

Elias stares at Avi for a long moment. “I’ll come with you.” Avi doesn’t respond to him. She just keeps pulling me toward the door. I shrug out of her hold and return to Gerda to give her a hug. “I hope you find your miracle, and it was worth all of this.”

Gerda kisses me on the cheek. “We’ll both find our miracles and those indescribable colors you speak of. I won’t forget you, Celina.”

“I won’t forget you either,” I say, my throat tightening.

I pass by the rest of the line, soft conversations murmuring. “Amsterdam,” someone whispers.

I look over, unsure who was talking because everyone just stares at me as I continue by them. “I wouldn’t, either,” another person says.

I blink for a long second and shake the voices out of my head.

Outside, the cold air slaps my face. Behind us the line out the door wraps around the building, disappearing out of sight.

Noah believed names on a paper could save us.

I believed him.

Now I understand the truth, just too late. There was nothing we could carry, no name we could claim, that would have made us less disposable.

FIFTEEN

JULY 1942

Amsterdam, Netherlands

“This city is magical, my little love. During the day, people are always passing by our windows. Children play on the curbs, hopscotch, and with jump ropes. Even when the sky isn’t blue, the city is always bright. And at night, the canals reflect so many lights it looks like the water glitters. I can’t wait to show it all to you,” I utter, rubbing the small swollen bump on my belly.

“The world and Amsterdam will look the way you describe again someday. Maybe by the time he, or she, is old enough to walk,” Noah says from behind, wrapping his arms around me and placing his hands over mine.

I talk to the baby daily, but sometimes I feel as though I’m trying to convince him, or her, that life will be wonderful and that the war has no effect on us or anyone. But it isn’t the truth.

Far fewer people are passing through the city than ever before, and the scarce Jewish residents are forced to wear a yellow star with Hebrew letters spelling out the word “Jood” in the center. Many choose to wear dark clothing, as if it might help them fade into the background, become less noticeable.However, Noah wears white shirts, and I opt for colored patterns on my dresses. It feels as if we’re betraying the others, but Noah says it’s a matter of survival and that’s the only way to think about it. If we don’t look like we have something to hide, we’ll be less suspicious.

We don’t even have yellow-star patches because Celina and Noah Felsheim no longer exist in the city of Amsterdam. At least on paper. We should consider ourselves safe, but if that were the case, Noah wouldn’t be so hesitant to leave the flat. We only leave when necessary now.

The ration cards and coupons sit neatly on the bedside table behind us. “If we don’t go soon, there won’t be anything left.” Since acquiring and registering our new papers and identifications, we’ve used them sparingly. Christoph has been going to collect our weekly rations for us, but he’s come down with the stomach flu and can hardly stand. We need to pick up some food for him as well.