Page 78 of The Lost Husband

Gliwice, Poland

The lieutenant turns his back on me—us—the same way Herr Drexel did when his decision of my future needed no added thought.

“The prisoner remains where he is,” the lieutenant tells the younger soldier. “Under guard watch. No exceptions.”

Christoph takes a step toward the lieutenant and soldier. “What about the proof? The documentation.”

The lieutenant pauses but doesn’t turn to face us. He doesn’t respond for a long moment, as if he’s considering the question—or so I desperately want to believe.

When the soles of his boots squelch, pivoting toward us, his cold stare locks onto Christoph’s. “If you are so determined to prove this man’s identity,” he speaks slowly, each word clear and harsh, “you may retrieve whatever papers you believe will vindicate him. We will not kill him in the meantime.”

For a moment, hope inflates my chest and allows me a deeper breath.

“However, understand this,” the lieutenant continues. “As I said…these prisoners are scheduled for transport in seven days.”

“And if I don’t return in time?” Christoph asks. It’s the middle of February, the dead of winter, and I doubt transportation isn’t the only challenge.

The lieutenant sighs a heavy breath, filled with annoyance. “He will be transported east with the rest of the prisoners or removed from the column entirely.”

“Removed,” Christoph repeats, the word quiet, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Executed,” the lieutenant says, no inflection, no expression, casual. “If he is deemed a threat…or not needed for the move.”

The lieutenant looks at me now, just for a blink of a second.

“Seven days.” He repeats the deadline—the looming mark of fate. “After that, we will deal with him based on what he appears to be. A German prisoner.”

“I’ll return before then,” Christoph says.

The lieutenant lifts his chin, glints at me, and grits his jaw. “The woman stays.” It was never a possibility for me to leave. We’ve stayed behind the Soviets for a reason. They’ve yet to take down Germany, and I’m still a Jew.

Christoph closes his eyes for a moment as if just coming to terms with what he must do—leave me behind. “With him?”

“No.” The answer is quick, and final. “She will remain here. In this building. Separate from the prisoners.”

I open my mouth before I realize I have nothing to say. I wouldn’t have agreed to leave Noah here anyway. If the Soviets move him, I will follow. I’d rather stay a hostage in this building until Christoph returns—or until I must make that choice.

“Since you are attached to the man,” the lieutenant says, staring down at me. “That makes you either innocent or as dangerous as he is. All to be decided.”

I press my hand to my chest, knowing I’ve never had a choice in the matter, or allowed an opinion. I’m meant to stay here. But if Christoph can’t prove Noah’s identity, they will consider me an accomplice to what they believe to be a German prisoner.

The lieutenant clears his throat, gives the younger soldier a quick nod and walks off. “Keep her where we can see her.” His words float behind him his shadow.

“You will stay in the infirmary room. Keep the sick girl quiet,” the younger soldier tells me, pointing to the room Avi’s in. “That boy too. I don’t have time to deal with you three.”

Christoph takes my arm and pulls me to the side of the hall as if it would give us a moment of privacy, but we are always under watchful eyes and that soldier will hear every word.

“I won’t take any longer than I have to,” he whispers.

“Do you truly think you can make it back here in time? They’ll kill?—”

“I know how long it took me to get here and what I had to do, and I wouldn’t be leaving you here if I didn’t think I could get back promptly,” he says. “Celina, I never should have let it come to this.” He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my shoulder. I don’t embrace him in return. I… can’t. “I will be back this time. I promise. I know Noah’s life depends on me now.”

I don’t respond. I might regret that, but I know he regrets making promises. His footsteps continue to echo after he turns the corner for the front door. I stare at the vacant space he walked through, debating all decisions versus the lack of choices.

“Inside,” the younger soldier tells me, pointing to the infirmary room.

I don’t argue. There’s no point.