Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The man shook his head. “Rabbi’s source says it is families. Will you help?”

  Micah didn’t hesitate. “Of course I will help. When will the ship arrive?”

  The man frowned and scratched his beard. “Early August. A day is not known by Rabbi.”

  Early August. Within days. But what of Lydia and the delivery of the journal and testimonial letter from Mrs. Fenwick? Micah sorted through possible solutions. He couldn’t be in two places at once. The most logical solution would be to ship the information to Lydia, but he’d anticipated seeing her and Nicky personally.

  Micah shook himself loose from his musings to address the man awaiting an answer. “Tell Rabbi Jacowicz I will do whatever I can for the Jewish refugees. Have him let me know when the ship arrives. I’ll provide whatever medical care they need.”

  The man clasped his hands against his chest and smiled. He bobbed forward twice, then silently stepped back out the door. Micah closed and locked it behind him, then leaned against it, his eyes closed.

  I won’t lie and say I’m not disappointed, God. You placed the plight of the Jewish people on my heart, and I will do whatever I can do help them, even if it means remaining here rather than going to Boston to help Lydia. But Lydia and Nicky are also in my heart. Help me find a way to put those feelings where You want them to be. Please show me Your will concerning Lydia and Nicky.

  19

  Nicky looked up at Lydia from his spot on the floor where he constructed a block tower, his face creased in puzzlement. “Mama, aren’t you gonna answer the telephone?”

  She tapped the end of his nose with one finger, forcing a smile to her lips. The phone blared again, and she cringed. She leaned close to his ear. “Want to play a game with Mama?”

  Nicky’s eyes lit with interest. “What kind of game?”

  “An I-can’t-hear-it game. Every time we hear a bell—a telephone ring, or a doorbell, we’ll pretend we can’t hear it. Does that sound like fun?” Lydia grasped at straws. Somehow they had to keep themselves hidden until Micah and Mrs. Fenwick arrived.

  The telephone’s persistent ring sounded again. Nicky grinned, his dimpled cheeks rounding with the upthrust of his sweet lips. “I didn’t hear that, did you, Mama?”

  Lydia rolled her eyes and flipped her hands outward. “Didn’t hear what?”

  Nicky giggled with delight. “Nothing! I didn’t hear nothing!”

  “Me either.” Lydia and Nicky kept up their nonsense dialogue until finally the phone stopped and silence reigned.

  Nicky threw himself into her lap. “That was fun, Mama. Will we play it again?”

  “Oh yes. Every time we hear a bell, we’ll play the I-can’t-hear-it game, okay?”

  “Okay!”

  Nicky’s enthusiasm nearly broke Lydia’s heart. He was so innocent. And somehow he must remain so. She gathered him tightly against her breast and kissed his soft curls. Lydia couldn’t allow him to sense her fear, to understand that until the arrival of Mrs. Fenwick they were prisoners in their own home. The thought led her to Micah and the children he and Jeremiah had brought to freedom. Her heart had ached at the fearful, miserable conditions those little ones suffered. Now, in a way, her own child had been forced into hiding.

  If Nic Pankin came before Mrs. Fenwick, Lydia would surely face separation from Nicky. The courts always favored blood relatives when deciding custody. Tears spurted into her eyes, and she wrapped both arms around Nicky and held tight, delivering a hug that bordered on desperate. How horrible it must be for Jewish mothers to be separated from their children! Her heart ached with empathy for those women, and as she held her son in her embrace, she sent up a prayer for the faceless, nameless throng of mothers whose children were not in their arms.

  Her mind drifted backward to the night in New York when she had asked God to allow her to help. She’d so clearly heard His voice telling her to be patient and wait, in time she would know. Her arms coiled ever tighter, fear writhing through her belly. How could she help those other mothers and children when she couldn’t even keep her own child safe?

  “Mama, you’re squishing me!”

  Nicky’s protest awakened her to reality. She forced a light laugh as she relaxed her hold. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She kissed his cheek, smoothed his hair, and attempted a quivery smile. “Mama just loves you so much, she almost squeezed the stuffing out of you.”

  Nicky’s dark eyes peered up at her, round and serious. “I need my stuffing. It holds my outsides apart.”

  Lydia burst into laughter. Real, heart-lifting, soul-cleansing laughter. “Oh, Nicky . . .” She hugged him again, but gently this time, rocking him from side to side as she buried her face against his moist neck. How she loved this child.

  God, please let me always be Nicky’s mama, and let me find a daddy for him—a man who will treasure him for the gift he is. Together, let us keep him safe and happy, the way he is right now, always.

  Without warning, Micah’s face appeared behind her closed lids. Her breath caught. She must stop looking at Micah as an answer to her problems. Allowing herself to fantasize about creating a family with him could lead only to further heartbreak. Her prayer continued, nearly begging.

  Take these whimsical ideas about Micah out of my heart, God. But please bring him to Boston with Mrs. Fenwick quickly.

  The morning of August fourth, Nic put on his cleanest pair of trousers and a plaid shirt that had all its buttons and no frayed spots. Using a safety pin, he secured his empty sleeve to the shoulder so it wouldn’t flap around his waist. Most days he didn’t let the dangling sleeve bother him, but today he didn’t want anything to give the impression of slovenliness. The day a man added five thousand dollars to his pocket was a day worthy of a little spiffing up.

  He grunted as he tucked in the tails of his shirt—always a challenge with only one hand. But if he couldn’t tuck shirttails as neatly as a two-handed man, he could still swing a hammer, cut a steak when he was able to afford one, and even drive his old truck one-handed. He’d figured out that for most things, he didn’t need his left arm. But not having it sure left him needing something else. The familiar hunger rolled through his gut. A growl escaped his clenched lips. Fool doctors anyway, pumping him full of a medicine that left him aching and wanting and always short on cash.

  But thanks to his arrangement with Mrs. Darwin Thaddeus Bachman, he’d have cash for a good long while.

  Crossing to the small cracked mirror hanging above his bachelor chest, he examined his reflection. Rosy cheeks from a fresh shave. Hair too long—thick blond curls lay across his collar—but clean and combed. Presentable. He took a step backward and glanced down his front, scowling when his gaze encountered the scuffed toes of his old brown boots. Maybe he’d splurge and get a shoe shine before picking up the kid.

  His head bounced up and he caught a glimpse of his satisfied smile in the mirror. Another hour—maybe two if he had trouble finding a shoeshine man, and then . . . He released a low whistle, turning toward the door. “Then I’m gonna be rich.”

  Micah cleared out the storage cabinet and then reorganized it. Normally he delegated cleaning assignments to a volunteer, but the mindless task was a welcome respite from his worries. Every day for the past week, he’d called Lydia’s home morning, noon, and evening. Each time, the phone rang incessantly, but no one answered. Where could she be? A constant prayer for her safety played in the recesses of his heart.

  He’d placed the journal and Mrs. Fenwick’s letter in the mail the morning after visiting with Mrs. Fenwick, sending it on its way with a prayer for speedy delivery. With mail now being delivered by train, it should have taken only a couple of days for the bulky envelope to reach Lydia’s home. He hoped when she read the letter he’d also enclosed, she would understand why the package came by postal service rather than hand delivery. He twisted his face in frustration as he stacked rolled bandages on the cabinet’s middle shelf. If only he’d known trying to help the Jewish refugees was pointless—he co
uld be with Lydia right now.

  On the first day of August, he’d left the clinic in the hands of volunteers and traveled to Fort Ontario at Oswego, his trunk filled with first-aid supplies, only to be informed by a uniformed guard that arrangements had already been made for medical care. Micah had tried to persuade the man in charge that one more doctor would be a help rather than a hindrance with so many people, but the man had remained firm. Micah was not allowed in. Irritated, Micah had been forced to turn around and head home.

  But he’d received a glimpse of the thin, sallow-faced people in ragged clothing, and his chest had tightened with desire to help them. According to the man at the gate, the people would stay at Fort Ontario until the war was over. Micah huffed in aggravation. They’d merely traded one prison for another, as far as he was concerned. But at least they were no longer under threat of death. Those nine hundred eighty-two people were safe and receiving help, even if they were confined behind barbed wire.

  Micah paused in his work, pondering anew why the government wasn’t doing more. Of course there were those who protested immigration generally and Jewish immigration specifically. They spouted things like “keep America for Americans.” He scoffed at their attitude. If such an attitude had existed a hundred years ago, his own family would have been banned from entering the country. The same applied to countless others, many of whom now screamed the ridiculous litany. What made an American, anyway? Was it birthright, or was it devotion? Micah preferred to believe it was the latter. He’d worked with so many immigrants who embraced this country as their own—immigrants who gladly sent their sons to war to defend it.

  He closed the cabinet, scooped up the empty boxes, and headed to the trash bin behind the building. One thing he knew for sure—God had called him to work with the immigrants. Serving them was his ministry, just as standing behind a pulpit and delivering sermons was Jeremiah’s ministry. Jeremiah had been tugged in a different direction with the war raging, but as soon as peace reigned, he’d return to preaching. Until God told Micah otherwise, he’d be right here in this clinic, serving the people in Queens.

  Tossing the boxes into the trash bin, he wrinkled his nose at the foul smell in the alleyway. He squinted upward and watched a wispy cloud float through the slice of sky exposed between the tall buildings. Longing for Texas swept over him and he released that longing with a sigh. What he wouldn’t give to lay his gaze once more on its open spaces and on his family—Mama and Pop, his brothers. He hadn’t seen his older brothers in over three years, even longer for Jeremiah. In that time, two nieces and one nephew had joined the family, and he still hadn’t been introduced to them.

  He turned back toward the interior of the clinic, making a promise to himself that as soon as the war ended, he’d get somebody to fill in for him so he could make a journey home and spend time with his family. Maybe start a family of his own.

  His feet came to an abrupt halt. He’d been considering his lack of a family ever since the letter from Allan Eldredge had arrived. Being accused of paternity, then meeting Nicky and reacquainting himself with Lydia had caused him to reconsider his bachelor status. There was a ready-made family waiting to be adopted.

  He plunked down in the chair behind his battered desk, propped his elbows on the wooden top, then rested his chin in his hands, allowing his thoughts to roam. He’d dated his fair share of women as a young man, but the thought of settling down with one of them had never appealed to him. Yet lately, when he was too busy to date, matrimony constantly played in the corner of his mind.

  With the thought of marriage came an image of Lydia, and beside her stood Nicky with his bright eyes and stubborn curls. What would his folks think if he brought the two of them home as his new family? A smile tugged at his cheek. He knew what Mama would say—“If you prayed about it, son, and your heart said ‘yes,’ then I’m celebratin’ with you.”

  Well, his heart sure seemed to be wrestling him in Lydia’s direction, but his head knew better. Better to keep praying for Lydia to marry someone else, so he could stay focused on his work here. Heaven knew he had plenty to keep himself busy without adding a wife and son to the list.

  His chest gave a painful lurch, but before Micah could fully examine the reason, the clinic door opened, and a woman and two children entered. He bounded around the desk to help them in any way he could. He was needed once more.

  20

  Lydia pulled back one curtain just a bit and peeked out in both directions. No sign of Nic Pankin. Relief flooded her frame, followed closely by a rush of frustration. No sign of Micah and Mrs. Fenwick, either. Father’s lawyer had paperwork ready to petition the courts to make Nicky’s placement with them permanent, but they couldn’t proceed without Mrs. Fenwick’s testimony. When would the woman finally come and bring an end to this living in concealment? The constant worry ate a hole through her stomach. And the walls were starting to close in on her.

  Not once in the past week had she, Mother, or Nicky ventured out of the house. Father crept out the back door, a pistol in his pocket, at the crack of dawn, drove to the factory, and completed whatever work he deemed absolutely necessary, then returned well before lunch. The unfamiliar routine—and the loaded pistol always at the ready—had them all on tenterhooks. They’d taken to snapping at one another, the tension too much to bear.

  Fingers descended on Lydia’s shoulder, and she released a squawk of surprise. She spun as her mother leaped backward, her eyes wide. Lydia let out a huge breath of relief. “Goodness, Mother, you scared me out of a year’s growth.”

  Mother’s face creased in remorse. “I didn’t intend to startle you. I just wanted to let you know your father took Nicky for a short drive.”

  Fear attacked, creating a metallic taste on Lydia’s tongue. “Is that wise?”

  “I asked the same question, but Allan insisted he’d stay away from the city, where Nic might spot him.” Mother shook her head, a soft smile tipping up the corners of her lips. “Nicky needs to get out, the poor little boy. He’s so restless. Allowing him to take a drive with his poppy is the least we could do, since his birthday had to slide by largely unnoticed.”

  They’d celebrated Nicky’s fourth birthday very quietly two days ago with a cake and a few presents. He had asked to go to the zoo, but they couldn’t risk taking him out in public. His acute disappointment had pierced Lydia, and she wished they could explain everything to him in a way he could understand without frightening him. But all they could do was wait and hope to have it all settled without alarming him.

  Lydia gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Mother stepped forward and glanced surreptitiously up and down the street. “We haven’t emptied our mailbox all week. Should I go see to it? The street appears very quiet.”

  Even considering stepping outside raised a prickle of apprehension after their days behind locked doors and pulled window shades. But the postal deliveryman would begin to worry if they left the items uncollected much longer. Lydia held up her hand. “You stay here and watch. I’ll fetch it.”

  Her heart pounding like a bass drum in a Sousa march, she cracked the front door and looked left and right. Nothing appeared amiss. She sucked in a breath and raced to the mailbox at the end of the walk. She turned the key, removed several small envelopes and one large brown packet, then dashed back to the house. After slamming and locking the door, she leaned against the sturdy wood, her chest heaving.

  Mother plucked the items from Lydia’s hands and riffled through them. Her eyebrows rose when she reached the larger packet. “This is from Micah Hatcher.”

  At the mention of Micah’s name, Lydia’s stomach fluttered. She wanted to snatch the packet back—to examine his penmanship and imagine his blunt-tipped fingers holding a pen—but her trembling hands refused to cooperate. “What is it?”

  “Let’s go sit down and see.” Mother headed for the kitchen, and Lydia followed. Sliding into a chair, Mother used a butter knife left on the table from breakfast t
o slit the top of the packet. She spilled the contents onto the table. A bound leather book of some sort, a sealed envelope with the words “Mrs. Fenwick’s testimony” printed in block letters on its front, and a folded lined sheet of paper slid across the smooth tabletop.

  Lydia reached for the book first. She flipped it open and scanned its entries. She let out a little gasp of surprise. “Mother, look, this is Mrs. Fenwick’s records of births for the year 1940.” She leafed forward until she found August. A smile tugged at her lips when she spotted Nicky’s. “See? Here’s Nicky’s birth information. Eleanor’s name, the time of birth, and also a record of Eleanor’s death.” Her face clouded. “How sad that Nicky won’t ever know Eleanor.”

  Mother touched Lydia’s hand. “He will, darling, through you. You’ll tell him someday.”

  Lydia nodded, blinking against tears. She would need an extra dose of courage the day she told Nicky she wasn’t his real mother. She hoped it wouldn’t change his feelings toward her. She fingered the sealed envelope, frowning. “Do you suppose this means Mrs. Fenwick isn’t coming?”

  Mother shrugged, her narrow shoulders barely lifting. “I . . . I don’t know. Does the other paper say anything about her travel plans?”

  Lydia picked up the last item and unfolded it. Micah’s bold script filled the page. She quickly scanned the letter, her hopes fading with each line of print. She relayed the news to her mother. “Mrs. Fenwick is reluctant to leave New York because she is just beginning to work again, and she’s fearful about facing Nic.” The next paragraphs explained Micah’s reason for being unable to make the trip, but she shouldn’t share the information with anyone. Not even Mother. She remained focused on the section involving Mrs. Fenwick. “So he sent the journal and Mrs. Fenwick’s testimony in the hopes it would be enough. He advises us to leave the envelope sealed until it’s handed to a judge.”

  Although Lydia understood and fully supported Micah’s reasons for not coming—of course he’d want to be available to the misplaced Jewish people—she couldn’t put aside the immense disappointment of receiving only a letter in place of seeing him. Loneliness for him created a physical ache in the center of her chest.