Page 36 of The Lost Husband

Food. That was all this was for. A necessity.

I loop my arm around Noah’s as he carries the tote in his other hand. He’s sweltering hot, but I may be too. The sun is blaring and reflecting off the canal like a prism.

“When we get home, I want you to put your feet up. Read a book or sketch. Something to clear your mind. I’ll make us some lunch while you do. Does that sound all right?”

“You spoil me,” I reply, keeping my voice as soft as his.

“No, I’m taking care of my loves. That’s all.” He peers down at me, a smile pressing into his eyes, possibly forced, but therefor my benefit to ease my concerns and nerves so that we may continue convincing ourselves all is fine in the world.

He’s been doing all the housework, all the cooking, laundry, and keeping track of our finances. Anytime I’ve tried to lift a finger, he’s asked me to sit down and put my feet up. For him. I feel helpless, but however I can take care of our little love, I will.

“I’m going to send my parents another letter today. I think that’s what I’ll do with my time. I wish they would let me know they’re safe… or at least that they’re still in Zurich.”

“I’m sure the post is just slow right now. Nothing to worry about,” Noah assures me.

I try to assure myself too, but I’ve never gone so long without talking to them.

We turn the corner toward our neighborhood, hearing whistles shriek down the road. Noah locks his arm around mine, stopping me from going any further. “Take the tote,” he says.

Up ahead, two soldiers yank a man by the back of his collar, clawing at his pockets, searching for whatever is on him, or isn’t. Another woman drops her purse when another whistle sounds, followed by a direct command to show her papers. “What’s happening?” I utter.

Noah looks over his shoulder, behind us, then back to what’s happening up ahead. “They’re hunting.” That word. The meaning. I want it to feel surreal but all I sense is overwhelming fear.

A soldier points his rifle toward our end of the street, shouting for identification, while another studies the woman’s papers. The few people walking ahead of us slow down, bottlenecking the narrow road.

“They’re inspecting and verifying documents. Our forged papers will only hold up to a quick glance, not an inspection.”

He said that when we first got them.

“The Nazi’s looking right at me.” Noah keeps his stare straight ahead, speaking through his teeth. “He isn’t looking away. He’s waiting.” Noah’s exposed in the middle of the road, and I’m half-shielded by two men arguing over how to conceal an expired document. “Celina, listen to me. Go down that alleyway.” His voice is soft and frail, almost unfamiliar. “If they pull me forward, they’ll pull you too.”

A cloud casually drifts across the sky, clarifying a scene that makes my knees weak, my stomach ache, and the nausea I’ve been fighting return with ferociousness. “No, no, I’m not going to leave you. Come with me.”

“Take the back roads to Christoph’s flat and go right inside. He’ll know what to do.”

“We’ll both go to Christoph’s. Noah, no.”

“Celina, go now! I love you. I love you and our baby. I love you so much. I need… I need the two of you to live,” his voice cracks, eyes pleading. I’ve never seen such desperation on his face.

“You! Jood! Halt! Step forward,” a German soldier shouts.

Noah squeezes my hand once then thrusts me toward the mouth of the alley. He continues forward, reaching for his papers.

It’s not real.

But it is.

I’m hidden within the shadows of the alley. My heart stalls and my lungs forget how to work. The whistles and shouts grow louder.

Noah’s out of my line of sight as I shuffle along the wall away from the street. I only know he’s making his way toward the barrel of a gun—toward the Nazis manhandling people with and without yellow stars. More Nazis race past the narrow opening of the alleyway, too fast to notice me. None look down the alley.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The sound rips through the air, bouncing between the brick walls. I cradle my stomach and clench the tote in my other hand. My eyes bulge, throat closing around a gasp. I try to steady myself through a breath. I need to know the unmistakable sound of bullets wasn’t meant for him. I need to know. Please, God. Please. Don’t let it be him.

I shimmy along the wall, back in the direction I came, toward the edge of the buildings.

Toward the edge of the building.