Page 76 of The Lost Husband

The lieutenant’s chest puffs out as if he’s holding on to a breath too large for his lungs. He rolls his shoulders back and squints an eye at me. “You’re attached to the man.” It isn’t a question he’s asking. It’s a fact he’s underlining.

A breath stumbles in my lungs, choking me from air. The space between us shrinks and sweat beads along the back of my neck.

His eyes narrow, studying the expression on my face before his gaze drops to the tattooed number on my arm.

“That,” he says, “is unfortunate.”

THIRTY

SEPTEMBER 1943

Auschwitz, Oswiecim, Poland

It’s as if I was never married.

Never Noah’s wife.

Never a mother.

Never Celina.

For six months, I’ve been serving in the Drexels’ home, silently following orders. I rise before the children, return to my bedroom after they’re asleep. I warm milk, slice apples, and smooth hair with my fingers. I speak when spoken to, and smile when expected. Then I disappear to be alone.

That is the role I serve. I’m a Catholic nanny brought from Amsterdam through church contacts, after Frau Drexel insisted she would not have a Polish girl raising her children. By the time the parish responded with my name, my language skills, education, and my experience with children, I was the only one available to travel east.

I had no say in the matter, and most of what the parish said about me wasn’t even true. I know enough German to get by, I’m educated in Art History, and I’ve never cared for a child—asidefrom my own that didn’t live long enough to make it out of my womb.

But the children have grown accustomed to me, they listen and obey. They’re kind and accepting and never ask questions about where I came from or why my German slurs across the wrong syllables.

All they know is I’m there when they wake up, or afraid of passing thunder, I wave goodbye as they run into school, and I’m waiting for them right outside when it’s over. It’s simple. So simple, I could go on forever believing only the lies my mind has been rebuilt upon. The truth of who I am, who I was, where I came from, and how broken I am inside, could remain swept beneath a carpet if it weren’t for the oldest Drexel child.

Conrad. A child who lives in a house where my kind—Jewish people—are spoken of like rodents. I know if I say one wrong word to him, anything that might tip him off, there would be German soldiers waiting for me at the door by morning.

He refuses to accept my lies as truths. He’s ten. Just ten. But he acts as if he’s ready to step right into his father’s footsteps—a man who walks into a room and expects a crowd to stand and bow at his presence.

From the moment I set foot in this house, he has been watching me like a hawk. From doorways and the top of the stairwell. He watches his father ask me questions at the dinner table, as if studying his form. Then he’ll add his own questions like… “Why is your hair shorter than the other women like you?”

Each night it’s something more direct, and more terrifying than the night before. As if he’s figured out how to extract the information I keep locked away in the back of my head. But he’s ten.

“You speak differently than the other women on the street.”

I answer each question carefully, with as few words as possible. The way Noah always reminded me to speak whensomeone was prying. I’ve gotten good at keeping my stare steady on whatever I’m doing, and my hands even busier, leaving his question on the table as a pesky fly I’ll pretend isn’t circling around my head.

“Why don’t you have more belongings in your suitcase?”

I’ve never left my suitcase unattended or out in the open.

Or so I thought.

* * *

It’s evening. The house smells like overboiled carrots, and the children are finding their seats at the dining room table while Herr Drexel studies a ledger, his glasses hovering low on the bridge of his nose. Frau Drexel straightens the linen tablecloth then takes her seat.

Conrad is the last to approach the table, and before taking his seat, steps up behind his father with a paper folded and pinched between his fingers.

He stares at me, his eyes lifting along the outside corners, concealing a burgeoning smile. My gaze floats back to the paper, the pink and brown hue, folded only once, wrapped around a photograph from mine and Noah’s wedding day with our names and the date written along the back.

“Father, I have something for you,” Conrad says, holding it out by Herr Drexel’s side.