Page 68 of The Lost Husband

Noah used to roll up his sleeves carefully, one cuff at a time, smoothing the fabric where it creased at his wrist. I can still picture it so clearly, especially as I watch Mr. Drexel do the same, settling himself in for the train ride.

The train lurches forward, committing me to this car. And to an unknown destination. East. That’s all I know.

His wife takes his hand and weaves her fingers between his, her polished red nails a stark contrast against his dark pants. I used to hold Noah’s hand the same way, sometimes watching the glisten of my wedding ring hit the lights reflecting off windows. I wanted everyone to know we were married even if they didn’t know who we were. I was lucky. So lucky to have such an incredible man who wanted to spend his life with me.

Used to. How long has it been? Five months. A lifetime.

“Do you think we—” Mrs. Drexel whispers to her husband.

I watch him squeeze her hand so tightly her skin blushes beneath.

I look away before they notice my gaze, holding my stare toward the windows, already noticing how the passing landscape seems to play like a film, on repeat. Each time the train stops, I watch and wait to see if they move. But each time the doors open and close, I sense them becoming more comfortable in their seats. There’s no use in measuring time.

Mr. Drexel stands first. The train is still moving but he releases his jacket from a hook near the door behind him and slips his arms through the sleeves. He helps Mrs. Drexel with her coat next. “We’re departing at the next stop,” Mrs. Drexel says, a tight smile sealing the end of the statement.

The doors open, and the wind has gotten progressively colder with each stop, and standing by the opening, is almost startling. Night has fallen heavily by the time a house appears on a simple street with large houses set in a row on each side of the road. Lights glow from behind the curtained windows, and smoke plunders into the sky from the brick chimney.

Inside, a dry heat draws me in. A woman in a faded blue striped dress with patchy short hair takes Mr. and Mrs. Drexel’s coat and boots then waits for mine. She avoids looking at my face, her head bowed during the entire silent exchange. No introductions.

A woman in a black dress with a white apron descends the stairwell to my left. “The children are cleaning their bedrooms. They’ll be down for dinner right away,” she says simply—no inflection in her voice, bowing her head toward the couple before slipping between us and leaving the house in one breath.

Mr. Drexel strides toward the thin decorative table beneath a tall mirror, slips his leather gloves off his fingers and places them down next to a black cap, its brim stiff, and a polished silver skull at the center. I stumble, my hands finding my hollow stomach, pain gnawing where my baby used to be. I’ve seen that hat before, the insignia. I know what it stands for.

I’m inside of an SS officer’s home, with no choice but to work for them. To pretend I am Kaatje, and that I’m happy to be here.

Mr. Drexel lets out a soft chuckle, more sigh than sound. Mrs. Drexel touches the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding a smile.

“You mustn’t look at the insignia like that,” Mr. Drexel says, his voice amicable as if talking to a close friend.

Mrs. Drexel nods. “Whatever you’ve heard about the SS is much worse than what it truly means, I assure you. People will always be afraid of uniforms and symbols,” Mrs. Drexel adds.

I would like to inform them that the SS are the ones who killed my husband, but I’m sure they would find a way to twist it into being Noah’s fault, before they killed me too.

Mr. Drexel loosens his tie, stretching his neck from side to side as if it had been strangling him. “My role is purely desk work,” he adds. “I oversee records and correspondence for the SS administration. Structure and order are imperative in a time when Europe is falling apart.”

“Germany needs men who are willing to make the hard decisions,” his wife continues where he stopped. “Not everyone understands the weight of this work from the outside.”

Mr. Drexel casually shoos his hand at me and smirks. “Politics always look pitiless to those who don’t have the opportunity to see the full picture.”

Through all the back and forth, I’ve yet to blink or make a sound. Mostly because I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

They speak as if none of it is happening. As if streets aren’t already blood-stained. As if plans to annihilate an entire race haven’t already been declared.

A cold sweat trickles down the back of my spine as my cheeks burn.

“The house is very safe,” Mrs. Drexel says, as if that ties up the loose ends of this conversation. “You’ll see.”

Safe. Only because they don’t know who I truly am. That I’m Jewish. Otherwise, I would already be dead. But for now, I must rely on my false papers, and pray they continue to hold up.

* * *

After showing me around the house, Mrs. Drexel opens a door next to a washroom. The small room smells like soap and house cleaner. The narrow bed fits snuggly in the corner with a green quilt squared around the corners with defined creases. A short walnut dresser, topped with a stack of old books, rests beneath the square window. I step inside and place my suitcase down against the nearest wall.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Mrs. Drexel says. “It’s quiet down here, and the children are familiar with the routine of having a nanny.”

I turn to face her then offer a simple nod, so she doesn’t confuse my silence for belligerence. She reaches for the doorknob and closes me inside, not completely, but enough for privacy. Just not enough to think I’m alone.

I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hands against my knees to stop them from shaking. My eyes skate to the dark window, knowing Noah would be assessing that first to create an escape plan. No matter where we went, he would find the exits before anything else. He would know how many seconds it would take us to make it from where we were standing to the exit. Noah would already know how to get me out of here. Every choice he made was calculated.