Jonesy clattered down a narrow staircase, disappearing from view. Micah breathed the sea scent and stayed out of the way of the sailors carrying cargo to the gangplank. In a few minutes, Jonesy returned with the children, who clung to his rough hands as if they were lifelines. Micah approached slowly, unwilling to frighten the pair, his eyes bouncing from the boy to the girl. Jonesy was right—these two certainly were little ones, and as wide-eyed and thin-cheeked as all the others had been.
“Here they be, Micah.”
Micah withdrew a few bills from his shirt pocket and offered them to Jonesy, but the man took a backward step. “Nah. Use that to buy somethin’ nice—some new American clothes or play pretties. These li’l ’uns need the money worse’n me.”
Micah’s heart warmed toward the crusty sailor. With his weather-roughened skin and three-day growth of beard, the man looked as grizzled as an old bear, but underneath he possessed a tender soul. “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Don’t say nothin’ I don’t mean.” The man tugged loose of the children’s grips. Regret pinched his features as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Gotta tell ya, got myself kinda attached to these two. Might have to git hitched an’ have some young’uns of my own.”
“Maybe you should, Jonesy.” Micah went down on one knee and held his hands out to the children. They leaned against Jonesy’s legs, fear on their faces.
“When the war’s over. Couldn’t stand to raise kids durin’ a war.” He put his hands on the backs of the children’s heads and propelled them toward Micah. “Take ’em. Find good homes for ’em. Give ’em a good dose o’ happy. They deserve it.”
“Thanks, Jonesy.” Micah, still on his knee, smiled at the somber pair and gave his welcome message. “Powitanie, dzieci.”
They looked up at Jonesy, and he waved at them. “Go with Micah. I’m done with ya now.” He rubbed his finger beneath his nose and turned away.
“Wy jesteście bezpieczni.” Micah assured the little ones they were safe.
As others had done before them, they stepped forward and took his hands. Micah walked them to his coupe, tempering his stride to match their much shorter ones. He judged the boy to be five or six years old, and the little girl couldn’t be more than three. She was smaller than Nicky, but he’d glimpsed cotton drawers under her ragged dress, which indicated she was toilet trained. Still, so very, very young to be on her own. He hoped Rabbi Jacowicz had a wonderful family in mind for this little one.
Micah helped the children into the backseat of the coupe, then fired up the engine. He drove the quiet streets to the synagogue and pulled into the alley. Rabbi Jacowicz hurried out to meet him.
“You look tired, my friend,” the rabbi said.
Micah chuckled ruefully. “I’ll get some rest after we’ve seen to the needs of these new arrivals. A boy and a girl this time—neither of them bigger than nubbins.” He opened the back door to reveal the children. The two had coiled themselves into a ball and were sound asleep, with the little girl’s head resting on the boy’s hip. Micah smiled. They reminded him of two puppies in a basket. He turned to the rabbi to share his thought, but the older man’s frown silenced Micah’s whimsical comment.
“This child . . .” Rabbi Jacowicz pointed an arthritic finger at the little girl. “She has blond hair.”
Micah peered in again. In the pale glow of the car’s dome light, he could see the child’s hair was an ash blond color. He turned a confused look on the rabbi. “Does it matter?”
The rabbi shook his head, his beard swaying. “I cannot take a blond child.”
Micah furrowed his brow. “Why not?”
The older man clicked his tongue against his teeth. “The Jewish family which I have chosen has all dark hair and eyes. This child would not fit in.” Micah continued to stare at him stupidly, and the man’s tone deepened as he struggled to explain. “She does not look Jewish. She looks of the German coloring. She would not fit in.”
Anger rolled in Micah’s belly. “You mean this child was forced to leave her homeland because she is Jewish, but a Jewish family will reject her because she doesn’t look Jewish?”
The rabbi’s sad gaze fixed on Micah’s. “I know it sounds unreasonable, but it is true. All members of this sect are dark-haired. This child would be ridiculed by other children. She would not be accepted by her adoptive parents. I cannot take her.”
“Nor would I leave her, knowing she wouldn’t be treated well.” Indignation colored Micah’s tone.
“There are other places for orphaned children in the city,” the rabbi said. “You should take this child and leave her there. She would find a home.”
But what kind of home? Micah trusted the rabbi to place the children with loving families. If he simply dumped the little girl at one of the orphanages or foundling homes, he’d have no control at all over where she went.
Their voices must have roused the children. Both sat up, rubbed their eyes with dirty fists, and then peered at the two men with wide, uncertain eyes. Micah looked into the face of the little girl. Her blond hair tumbled around her thin cheeks in disarray. Her big blue eyes fixed on him, the long lashes throwing a shadow on her pale skin. She tipped her head, blinked twice, then held out her little arms toward Micah. “Papa?”
Micah’s heart dropped into his stomach. He reached into the car and lifted her out. She weighed next to nothing, her bones as fragile as a baby bird’s. As he held her against his chest, she brought up a tiny hand and touched his cheek. “Papa?”
Tears gathered in the rabbi’s eyes. “She thinks you are her father.”
Micah nodded. He didn’t have the language to tell her otherwise, and he discovered he didn’t want to correct her. Lord, let me do more. The prayer he’d offered months ago whispered through his memory, and peace flooded him. He wouldn’t hand this precious little girl to strangers in some orphanage. The child would come home with him.
He turned to the rabbi. “Take the little boy. I’ll be responsible for the girl.”
“I thank you, Micah. And I am sorry I cannot take her.”
Micah opened the front passenger door and placed the child on the seat. “Stay there, sweetheart.” He held up both palms, hoping she would understand. To his relief, she leaned back, her little legs straight out in front of her, her skirt riding up to expose filthy knees.
Micah opened the trunk and removed a bundle of donated clothing, which he gave to the rabbi. The two men said their good-byes in the alleyway, and then Micah slid behind the steering wheel. He looked at the little girl. For a moment, panic struck. What was he thinking? Could he really keep this child? Then she turned her chin to look at him, her little hands clasped in her lap, her expression wary. Her uncertainty pained him. He must reassure her. But how?
Micah offered a hesitant smile.
She tipped her head, her fine brows coming together.
Micah winked.
Her face puckered. She stared hard at his eyes.
He winked again, and she carefully closed both eyes in a tight squint, then popped them open.
Micah clapped his hands. “Good job, sweetheart!”
She hunched her skinny shoulders and a hesitant grin creased her face.
Smiling broadly, Micah started the coupe’s engine. The little girl scooted next to his hip, rested her head against his ribs, and fell asleep.
31
By the time Micah reached his apartment, the midnight chimes from the big Catholic church had already sung their greet-the-new-day song. He carried the girl upstairs, her little head snug against his shoulder. Once inside the apartment, he looked around. Had he lost his mind? He had no bed for her, no toys. But he did have clothes. Boxes of clothes, all stored along the back wall of his living area, waiting to be shared with Jeremiah’s packages.
Very gently, he laid the sleeping child on the sofa and then began opening boxes. In the third one he found a nightgown that appeared to be the right size. A little more digging turned up several ridiculousl
y tiny pairs of white cotton underpants. When he turned, items in hand, he discovered the child had awakened and was sitting up, watching him.
“Well, hello, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re awake.” Micah knew the little girl couldn’t understand anything he said, but it felt natural to talk to her, so he did. He moved to the sofa and held out the gown. “Look what I found. We can get you dressed for bed.”
The little girl touched the white flannel with a grubby finger. Micah frowned. If she was as dirty all over as her hands and knees indicated, she needed a bath. But he’d probably scare her to death if he plopped her in a tub. Deciding one more night of filth wouldn’t be a catastrophe, he whisked her tattered dress over her head and reached for the nightgown. But his hands stilled as he caught sight of her ribs clearly protruding. Her arms and legs seemed to be skin stretched over bone. Her rounded belly stuck out, but Micah knew it wasn’t food creating the fullness—such swelling indicated a lack of proper nutrition. Tears threatened, and he slipped the nightgown into place before they took control.
When she was dressed, she wriggled off the couch and scurried to the kitchen. She paused beside a chair, tipped her head, and babbled something unrecognizable. Micah didn’t need to understand Polish to know what she wanted. “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll get you a snack.”
Micah helped her into a chair, then placed a plate with two pieces of buttered bread in front of her. She gobbled the first piece so quickly he feared she would throw it up. Then, as Micah watched in puzzlement, she got down from the table with the second piece of bread in her fist. Cradling the bread against her stomach, she scurried to the corner and buried it between the folds of the dirty dress Micah had discarded.
He feared his heart would break. “Oh, sweetheart, how will I make you understand that you will have enough to eat now?” He knelt beside her, intending to retrieve the bread and carry her back to the table. But she squawked in alarm, slapping at his hand. She’d need time to realize she needn’t hide food. He wouldn’t upset her now. He put his hands behind his back. “Okay, sweetheart, I won’t take your bread. It’s all right.”
She glared at him, her blue eyes clearly expressing fear and fury for a few minutes. But when he made no further attempt to take the bread, she seemed to understand it was safe. She pushed the dress farther into the corner, then sat down beside it. A wide yawn squeezed her eyes closed, and she coiled into a ball with the wadded clothes and the hidden piece of bread wrapped tight in her arms.
Micah crouched near, gazing at her tiny frame in its protective pose. “Oh, my poor little sweetheart . . .” He whispered the words, crooning them like a lullaby. “It will take some time for you to be a regular little girl, won’t it?” He waited until he was sure she slept, then he removed the soiled items from her grasp and lifted her into his arms. She made a soft mewling sound as he laid her on the sofa but didn’t rouse. Curling onto her side, she brought up her little fists beneath her chin, and he covered her with the afghan that lay across the back of the sofa. He paused, frowning. Would she roll off during the night?
He searched the room for a better place for her to sleep, and when he spotted the kitchen chairs, an idea struck. He placed two chairs against the front of the sofa, their high ladder backs forming a makeshift crib. Then he stood, looking down at her as she slept. Her fine hair was matted into snarls. He hoped he’d be able to get a comb through it in the morning, or he might be forced to cut it short.
“I’d hate to shear your locks, sweetheart,” he whispered, enjoying talking to her, even though she slept through the conversation. He stroked her tangled curls, his heart lifting in his chest. She looked like a little angel. “Lord, I hope I did the right thing. I hardly stopped to think about it. When she called me Papa . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the rush of emotion the simple word had evoked. He gazed at her again, affection flooding his heart. “Having her here feels right. Help me give her a good home.”
He yawned. What a night it had been! He longed to drop into his own bed, but he shouldn’t leave her alone her first night in a strange place. Instead, he retrieved the blanket from his bed and stretched out as best he could in the overstuffed armchair across from the sofa. He kicked off his shoes, flipped the blanket over himself, and within minutes, drifted off to sleep.
It seemed he’d barely closed his eyes when something—not a sound or anything he could pinpoint—jarred him into wakefulness. A soft glow from the single bulb he’d left burning above the kitchen sink bathed the room. Micah sat up, confused. Why was he in the chair? Then, remembering, he looked around. And he saw what must have brought him so abruptly out of sleep.
The little girl sat straight up, staring at him from between the crossbars on the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs. Her pale face and golden hair appeared almost ghostlike in the dim room.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Micah rose and took two steps toward her. She cowered against the back of the sofa. Although she made no sound, the fear in her taut body and wide eyes spoke more loudly than words. “It’s okay.” Micah kept his voice low, soothing. His movements became as slow as if he were slogging through molasses. He reached one hand toward her. She allowed him to touch her hair, but her breath puffed in little spurts of terror. His heart melted. How must she feel, waking up in a strange place?
Lord, help me show her she’s safe now. The prayer helped calm his own rapidly beating heart. Micah pulled away the chairs and sat on the sofa. Very gently, he slipped his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her onto his lap. She sat as stiffly as if she were carved of stone. Her hands and feet were icy even though the room was warm. He draped the afghan around her and cradled her against his chest. When her hair brushed his chin, he remembered the feel of Lydia’s silky locks, and he wished Lydia were here right now to help him with this little girl.
Holding her close, Micah began to rock gently back and forth. He sang the lullaby his mother had sung to soothe him to sleep when he’d been roused by a bad dream as a boy. He sang and rocked and stroked her hair, murmuring in between, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Wy jesteście bezpieczni.” Over and over he assured her she was safe.
Eventually she relaxed in his arms, leaning fully into his embrace. Her eyelids quivered shut, and she slipped back into sleep. Micah sang the lullaby once more to her sleeping form, his chest tight with emotion. Even when he was positive she slept soundly, he didn’t lay her on the sofa. If she wakened again, he wanted her to know the security of his arms. He prayed his touch would assure her no harm would come.
He slid downward, seeking a more comfortable position. Please don’t let me drop her, God. Then Micah, too, slept.
32
Lydia sat at the foreman’s desk, which was set at an angle on the loft so the person seated in the creaky wooden, wheeled chair could easily survey the work floor of the Eldredge Crating Company. Pounding hammers, buzzing saws, and muffled thuds of wooden boxes being stacked together mingled with the voices of the workers, creating a familiar thunder in her ears. The only difference from her childhood remembrances was the number of female voices in the throng—the women far outnumbered the men. And among the men, one stood head and shoulders above the rest.
Resting her chin in her hand, she watched Nic grab a three-foot-square slatted box and swing it into place on the stack, his movements as smooth as if he were performing in a ballet. Just as he had been five years ago, Nic Pankin was a man who garnered notice. A smile pulled at her lips. Nic was still handsome. Still strong. Still commanding. But now he glowed. His eyes sparkled with an inner light. He carried himself with his shoulders held back and his chin held high as if he had the world by the tail.
From shift start to end, he never slowed. When things got hectic, Lydia counted on Nic to keep an even temper and a sensible head. She found herself depending on him more and more as Father relinquished responsibility to her. Although he never verbalized it, Father was priming her to take over the company. Before the war, Father probably never wou
ld have considered allowing a woman to run the plant—not even his own daughter—but having so many trustworthy, hardworking women on the floor had altered Father’s viewpoint.
She doodled in the margin of the work order on the desk as she thought about last Sunday’s dinner. For the first time, Father had addressed Nic in conversation. On previous occasions, he’d tolerated his presence but studiously ignored him. But suddenly, in the midst of consuming his roasted potatoes and boiled carrots, Father had looked directly at Nic and asked what he thought about changing the wood in their largest crates from pine to cedar. Lydia could still remember the startled look on Nic’s face and the way his gaze darted around as if to ascertain Father was asking him. Then he leaned back and expressed not only his opinion but the reason for it. Although Father hadn’t disputed or agreed with Nic’s words, Lydia had seen it as a turning point.
“Lydia, is that order finished?” Father’s voice behind her shoulder startled her into dropping the pencil.
“Almost.” She snatched it up, her cheeks flaming, and quickly turned it to the eraser side to remove the incriminating squiggles. Father moved to the railing and scowled down at the floor. Lydia shook her head, releasing a soft huff of amusement. “He’s doing fine, Father. You needn’t drill holes through him.”
Father sent Lydia a chastising look. “I’m hardly drilling holes through him. I told him I would watch him.” He shifted his gaze to the work floor again. “If he looks up, I want him to see it still holds true.”
Lydia pushed from her chair and joined her father. Below, Nic strode from the stacking area to the scrap pile, conversing with one of the other workers. He picked up a length of wood and gestured toward the saws, his forehead creased in concentration. Even from this distance, she noted his skin glistened with perspiration, the muscles beneath the sleeve of his work shirt bulging. Why couldn’t Father see how hard Nic worked?
Sweet Sanctuary Page 24
