Page 69 of The Lost Husband

I keel forward, pulling my arms around my middle.

A curt knock at the door startles me upright. Back in the short corridor between the washroom and the kitchen, I find the woman in the striped dress moving about so I follow her into the dining room, unsure if I should be in here. Every seat but oneis taken. Mr. and Mrs. Drexel sit complacently, similarly to their four children.

“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Drexel says, pointing to the empty chair.

The youngest, a little boy, is playing with a toy airplane, making swooshing sounds with each swoop.

Next to him is a girl, not much older, but focused entirely on my presence with big smile.

The empty seat falls between another girl slightly older than the first, and a boy, double the age of the little ones. I ease into the seat, the proximity of the children’s shoulders making me squirm for space.

“Did you sleep on the train?” the young girl next to me asks.

Before I can figure out how to explain that I believe I slept with my eyes open, the older boy chimes in. “She didn’t,” he says. “It’s obvious she was too busy watching.”

Mrs. Drexel clears her throat as she straightens the silverware at her setting. “You’re very observant, dear,” she says, her voice strained.

Her statement doesn’t stop him from staring at me, even at a finger-length distance.

The woman in stripes brings in bowls of soup, setting one down in front of each of us. I don’t dare lift my spoon until the others have despite my raging hunger after not eating since last night. I take a small spoonful, careful not to drip as it feels like they’re all watching me intently.

“You look pale,” Mrs. Drexel says, placing her spoon down alongside her bowl. “I suppose travel will do that.” She lifts her napkin and dabs her mouth. “And of course, stress.” A quiet sigh leaves a pause before adding, “Loss too.”

My hand shakes, the spoon dripping broth over the bowl. “Pardon?” My reply is so quiet, I’m not sure the overly observant young boy heard me.

“It is truly remarkable what women must endure,” Mrs. Drexel continues, taking another spoonful of soup. “Especially those who were never meant for motherhood. The body knows more than the mind and simply rejects what’s not meant for us. It’s nature’s way of protection, I suppose.”

The bit of broth I’ve been holding in my mouth dries to my tongue, forcing me to try and swallow too hard.

The boy stares at me out of the corner of his eyes.

Mr. Drexel grasps the napkin from his lap. “That’s enough, dear. Not at the dinner table.” He grasps the stem of his wine glass and takes a swig. An empathetic exhale follows and a slight tilt of his head. Sympathy, not empathy. A show of sympathy, if that.

“You are safe here,” he tells me. “That’s what matters now. In fact, the whole area is guarded and protected since we do important work nearby. You’ll help my wife with the children and take on some housework.”

“Safe until a Jew escapes Auschwitz,” the boy next to me says. “They try often but never succeed. I wouldn’t worry.”

“Conrad, enough,” Mr. Drexel says.

I’ve heard the name Auschwitz. An internment camp, labor camp—something of the sort.

Conrad shrugs then continues spooning broth into his mouth. Silence fills the room and clings until the last spoon clatters inside a bowl.

As everyone funnels out of the dining room, Mrs. Drexel gestures for me to walk ahead of her. “I’ve left some toiletries for you in the washroom.”

I close myself into the washroom quicker than if I was being chased by a mountain lion, bracing myself against the wall, trying not to let my knees give out on me as my chest tightens and burns.

I press myself away from the wall, moving my grip to the sink basin, staring into the mirror. My cheeks are pale, lips colorless. The whites of my eyes are pink, the lids heavy, and dark circles draping beneath my bottom lashes. I don’t recognize this person I’ve become. With a shattered heart, a broken soul, and barely enough hope to help me survive this placement I didn’t ask for.

My hair has grown a little since I cut it a few months back. It was too short, just above my chin. This was the length I wanted, but now it’s matted to my head and dull. I look worse than I’ve ever looked in my life. As if I’ve been sick for months.

I suppose I have, just not from infection.

If Noah were standing here with me, he’d cup my cheeks in his hands, tilt his head down so we were eye to eye, and tell me he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. I’ll never hear those words again.

I settle into the narrow bed, and keep the quilt folded tightly over my chest, the compression helping more than hurting. The moonlight paints a faint yellow streak along the door, and I stare at the imperfections highlighted along the wood.

A train groans in the distance.