Page 35 of The Lost Husband

“Poor Christoph. We should make him some soup if possible.”

“He looks terrible. I can only imagine how he feels,” Noah adds before taking the ration cards, studying them for a moment, then folding them neatly into a small square. “Our assigned location is just a few blocks from here, so it’s closer than before.” Before changing our identification, when we were Jewish on paper too, we had to go to the only few shops that didn’t restrict Jews within the Jewish district on the other side of the canal. Those shelves have been barren since the segregation began last year.

“Remember, there’s no place or time for nerves. We both wear stress on our faces too well, and need to hide it,” Noah says.

I click my tongue. “Well, I’ll just tell myself we belong at the non-Jewish grocery store, like we always had before lastyear.” I huff, irritation and exhaustion from these unlawful rules implemented to inspire antisemitism.

The Germans of the Reich treat us as if we’re an insignificant thread of society—unwanted, and unneeded. They treat us as if we’re weak and helpless, but only after they’ve stripped us of every human right, taken any assets they’ve been able to get their hands on, stolen our jobs and homes, and torn families apart at the borders.

For what? Power. Money. Fame. To create a legacy that someone else will think they should follow someday to take what they want when they can’t just have it? We have nothing to fight back with because they took all of that too. And that’s all this is.

“My love, you’re turning red. I know you’re angry. So am I. We should all be free to shop in any grocery store. They can keep taking from us, but we’ll continue to add to our reserves and continue to collect our rations. We’ll be all right.”

Noah saw this coming. He knew before the invasion of Poland. Then Denmark and Norway. He knew they were coming for us after that and he was right. Now he’s quiet. He doesn’t know what comes next. Or maybe he does, and it isn’t healthy for me to know.

We set out down the street, and I find myself paying more attention to the sidewalk than anyone we pass. It’s hard enough knowing we don’t belong on this side of the canal, especially while all Jews are pushed to the other side into the Jewish quarter. Our behavior—it’s an act of resistance. To go without wearing a Jewish star on our clothing is against the “law.”

Noah squeezes my hand every couple of minutes, a reminder that he’s aware of the silence, and how unnatural it feels.

“It’s all right to talk, isn’t it?” I whisper between passing others on the road.

“It’s better to keep our heads down,” he replies.

We find the end of the line to the grocery store, wrapped around the block. Just as I’d done the entire walk here, I avoid making eye contact with anyone in line. We’ve lived in Amsterdam all our lives and it’s too easy to recognize acquaintances.

After an hour, my back starts to ache from standing, a sign of things to come when the baby grows bigger. I don’t want Noah to worry though, so I’ve kept the complaint to myself as we make our way toward the entrance.

“We’ll stay together and go down the list,” Noah whispers in my ear as if checking something out over his shoulder.

Bread, potatoes, butter, and milk. Plus, one general item—flour if available.

The shelves aren’t as empty as they were in the Jewish marts, but they aren’t overflowing with goods either. People weave through the shop, up and down the small aisles collecting their allotted items, stacking them in their arms, protecting them dearly.

The two men at the counter stare at us, waiting for our ration cards and coupons even though our arms are full. We place the items down and Noah pulls the folded cards out of his pocket. The blonde-haired man working behind the register stares at the ration book then back up at us. “New in the city? I never forget a face.”

“Yes, we are,” Noah answers for us.

“Why is it taking so long? If these gentlemen would move quicker, the line wouldn’t be wrapping around the building,” a woman behind me says.

“I heard they’ve been warned to ensure accuracy with the rations. They’re compensating people to report systematic errors,” another woman says.

“What does that mean?” the conversation continues.

Neither continue talking, leaving me wondering what the woman meant too.

The second man sorting through the items reaches for the tote bag I have pinched beneath my arm. I hand it to him, and he begins placing the food in the bag one item at a time. He also takes a moment to nudge the cashier with his elbow, no words exchanged.

My heart races as the cashier tears the coupons from the serrated fold, moving too slowly for me to take a full breath. I can either hear my heart beating in my ears or Noah’s heart is pounding loud enough for everyone to hear.

The cashier tears the last of the coupons and switches back to the ration card, holding it up to catch the sunlight, staring at it for another long second, then hands it back to Noah.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Noah says, slipping the ration cards back into his pocket.

Despite the fresh canal air breezing by as we step out of the store, I still can’t find my breath. “Do they just stare at everyone, hoping they’ll leave their items on the counter and run?”

I hiss with frustration. Only guilty people would feel that way.

“Everything is fine. We have food,” Noah soothes in a whisper.