Page 4 of The Lost Husband

“We are here to help,” the words come in clearly over the loudspeaker now. The accent is undoubtedly Russian.

“We mustn’t believe them,” the woman cries out again, a cough rippling through her words. “They’ll shoot us the moment we step outside.”

The barrack whirs with agitation, a storm of anger, pain, despair, and questions. No one speaks for a moment, but the tension squeezes in every direction. It’s impossible to know whether it’s more dangerous to stay here or seek the truth out there.

The man at the door leaves, wasting no more time proving a point we won’t believe unless we see it with our own eyes. A fewclamber down from their bunks, staring at the door as if it’s the gate to heaven.

I push myself upright, and pain tears through my entire body. The room sways. Or I sway. Blood rushes to my head. I might black out again. I brace my hand against the cot, waiting for the room to steady and the floor to straighten beneath me. I can’t stay here. Not waiting or wondering. I must see if the man is correct, if the world outside these walls has truly changed, or if this is just another lie told for favor, reward, or survival.

I won’t give up, and I won’t waste this chance. Whatever it is.

The sun bleeds through the doorway, harsh and blinding. White light swallows the world in front of me. My eyes burn as I trudge forward into the snow, leaving the barrack I don’t remember entering.

Soviet tanks are parked in lines inside and outside the gates, one with a man repeating the same words through the loudspeaker: “We’re here to help.”

People are running in every direction toward the Soviets. A group of Soviets are beating several German guards. Field gray coats, rope-bound wrists, and soot streaking down their faces. Soviet soldiers yank them to their feet.

One of the German soldiers glances in my direction and holds my stare. I falter, eyes squinting. Before I can stop myself, I call, “Noah?”

No. No. I screw my eyes shut and shake the thought from my head. My husband is dead. He was Jewish, and he was caught. He is not here in a German uniform.

But… I don’t have anyone else, do I? I can’t bring myself to think about what has happened to my parents, but I’m quite sure I’m alone now. And that man—the one who looks like Noah,just looks like, told me to run. No German soldier would tell me to run. I wouldn’t even know where to run or what I’m running from or toward, but there must be an answer.

He didn’t have to help me. I need to know why he did it. And—why I thought he looked so much like Noah. I have nothing to lose by getting a closer look. I just want to be absolutely sure of what I saw and heard…

Before I take another step, someone slams into my back. There’s nothing to catch myself on. I fall hard to my knees, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. Snow, ice, and gravel bite into my palms.

“Move!” someone shouts from behind me.

Bodies surge forward in slow motion.

A boot slugs my ribs. Then another.

My short hair falls into my eyes, brushing over my cold nose as I try to push myself up, but my arms give in. The noise around me swells, not with screams or gunfire, but with something unfamiliar. Voices crying out in disbelief and reckless hope.

My chin collides with something sharp hidden in the frozen snow. Ice cracks under my weight, and I sink lower as the crowd pushes forward—over me. I open my mouth to call out for help, but there’s no sound.

They don’t see me, and I’m disappearing beneath them.

THREE

CURRENT DAY

Auschwitz, Oswiecim, Poland

A stiff hand grabs my collar, lugging me up just enough for the arctic air to strike my damp, snow-covered cheeks.

“Dear God,” a girl groans. “Everyone is running in their haste to be saved—you’re going to get knocked over again.” Her dark-eyed stare is blunt and impassive. “Roll onto your side.”

My efforts are futile as my limbs struggle to heed her command. She doesn’t wait long before jerking my arm so hard a cry rips from my throat.

“You’re bleeding, or you were bleeding. Your head—your hair is coated in dry blood.” Her words are more of a statement than a concern. She crouches beside me and shoves her shoulder under my arm to hoist me enough to yank along with her.

“I’ll be all right. I hit my head yesterday. That’s all.” I don’t know how hard I hit my head aside from my self-evaluation of a large bump, and now knowing there was a lot of blood too. I’m alive, so I have no choice but to move. “Where are we going?” I’ve yet to see what the man was shouting about, soldiers beinghere to save us. All I see are others like me, lining the fences, staring through to the outside, just as we’ve always done.

“Out of here before someone locks us back up.”

“Who? A man said soldiers were here to rescue us,” I argue, my voice ragged, drowning in the wind.