Inside were dozens of faded photographs, their edges curled and yellowed by time. They depicted scenes of a past life I had never known about: people I did not recognize, standing in places unfamiliar to me, their faces marked with expressions of fear and desperation. My stomach churned as I sifted through the images, each one more disturbing than the last.
The first photo showed a group of people huddled together in what seemed to be a basement, their eyes wide and haunted. Another captured a man, his face twisted in anger or despair, holding a small, crying child. The setting was grim, like something out of a nightmare, the background shadowed and austere. My hands shook as I recognized the man—my husband—though he appeared much younger and more ragged than I’d ever seen him.
