Page 61 of The Lost Husband

TWENTY-FOUR

JANUARY 1943

Amsterdam, Netherlands

When a lie becomes life and all that it encompasses, the truth has never felt so far away. The convent—the walls around me—were supposed to keepmesafe. They have.

I’m not sure why Mother Superior has chosen to take mercy on me over the two-and-a-half months following my loss, but she has. She’s done more than offer mercy. A private room just outside the infirmary with a bed, a window with a view of old trees that dance with every passing breeze, and most importantly…silence. Time to think. About what could have been, should have been, and never will be.

As a child, Mama and Papa would tell me to go to my room when I wouldn’t listen or disobeyed them. Mama would say,“Go and think about what you’ve done so you don’t make the same mistake twice.”

She never made me sit in my room for long, and I learned my lessons just as most children do. But here, I could sit in this room for the rest of my life and not understand what I’ve done to deserve the loss of my husband and daughter within months ofeach other. My lies were to protect my life and my baby’s. I rest my hand on my stomach, telling myself her soul is still inside of me. I need her to know I’m still here and always will be her mama no matter what.

I wish my mama were here with me now too.

A quiet knock raps against the door. I never reply with a welcome. I never reply at all. I’m not sure if it’s proper to do so, or not. Regardless, Mother Superior still enters. Still pulls a chair up to my bedside. She places her hand on mine, traces the sign of the cross over herself, kisses her crucifix, and closes her eyes before praying.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, may God grant you healing, in body and in mind. We praise the life of your late husband to His mercy, and your child to His boundless care. May they rest in His light until the day you are reunited.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“We must talk, child.” Her words no longer filled with the confidence of prayer. “As you know, your role as a postulant is ending. Not because you are unworthy, but for the life you lived outside these walls. Those choices cannot be set aside in the way our vows require.” Choices… meaning devoting my life to the man I love, marrying him, and becoming pregnant with our baby. Living like this, now, was never a choice for me.

“I understand.” My heart races, wondering what she’ll say next. This is the first time she’s confirmed my assumption that I won’t be rejoining the others as a postulant.

“I wouldn’t allow you to leave without knowing you are physically well and have had time to grieve your losses. You are a good soul. A frightened woman. Though the infirmary has long since declared you recovered, I made exceptions to our common guidelines due to the conditions of war and your displacement as a widow.”

“I thank you for your kindness, Mother.” I wish my words were enough to prolong her kindness, but I fear that’s impossible.

I’ve written to Christoph several times, but my letters haven’t been answered. He hasn’t written to me or updated me on whether he’s found information about Noah. I don’t want to think he’s forgotten about me, but I didn’t expect silence. I’ve stopped writing to Mama and Papa in case they’re hiding, but they wouldn’t know where to find me if they were to look—if they could look. I’m truly alone.

“I have taken your circumstances into consideration, child,” she begins, her hands pressing firmly against her lap. “The church maintains quiet connections that sometimes lead to placements in trustworthy households for vulnerable women, where they may be kept safe and employed.” She straightens her shoulders and fills her lungs with a breath before saying the rest. “I have arranged a position with a family who has graciously donated to the church while seeking a young Dutch woman to care for their four children. Mr. and Mrs. Drexel will arrive tomorrow morning at eight o’clock to collect you and bring you to their home.”

Mother Superior stands from her seat and quietly glides out of the room, the door merely hushing closed behind her. Again and again, I’m given no say in the direction my life moves. Every form of safety I encounter is temporary.

A nanny isn’t a job I would have considered if asked. The last thing I want to do is go sit with children after just losing my own. They’ll be a constant reminder of what I should have had and never will.

I can’t imagine what Mother Superior was thinking when choosing this connection for me. She isn’t a woman of cruelty. In fact, she’s done nothing less than show me loyalty and kindness.

I should be grateful she isn’t pushing me out the door onto the street. Any position where I’ll remain safe and employed is more than I can ask for while still desperately trying to protect my identity…

* * *

Morning always comes too quickly when I wish for the night to last longer. For every change I go through, my past feels as though it’s shattering behind me, making it impossible to carry any part of it forward. I tiptoe back into my room after making a quick sweep through the sisters’ kitchen to pack my pockets full of bread. Noah was keen on telling me to always keep food on me, just out of precaution. The more we could collect, the better off we’d be. I started to feel like a chipmunk during the year leading up to—the last day together.

I pull out my small tweed suitcase that Christoph had gathered from my flat after I refused to leave his, fearful of getting shot for no reason like Noah. He was kind enough to find some of my sweaters, dresses, shoes, and coat, as well as our important documents that have no relevance now, a photograph of Noah, and a small ball of yarn with knitting needles attached to a single square of a baby blanket.

I’ve only had use for the clothing and coat here. My documents and photo of Noah live beneath the lining of my case, for safekeeping.

I remove the ball of yarn and the little yellow square. Maybe if I had finished knitting the blanket… I find a loose floorboard, lift it up just high enough to tuck the yarn, needles, and square inside. They can stay here, in the place where life never began, a half-knit blanket that will remain incomplete. A tear slips down my cheek as I clasp the suitcase shut and set it upright.

A knock at my door forces me to my feet. I take my coat off the corner of the bed and slip my arms through the sleeves. One of the sisters steps into the room. “Miss, Mother Superior would like you to meet her at the garden doors.”

“Thank you, sister.”

The stone walls in the corridor are damp and smell like old rain. In the distance, the organ plays a haunting tune, and then a choir picks up on a lost note. Mother Superior is waiting at the garden doors, staring outside into the winter air.

“Thank you for your kindness,” I say. “You didn’t have to take care of me, but you did and it’s something I’ll never forget.”