Sweet Sanctuary (11 page)

“But they have to be somewhere.”

“Yes, somewhere.” Micah's white face appeared grim in the muted shadows. “To what Jeremiah calls death camps. Or graves. Jeremiah talked to a farmer who hid in the trees and watched a group of soldiers force twenty to thirty Jewish men and boys to dig a pit. Then, when the pit was done, the men and boys were lined up in front of it and the soldiers shot them down like—”

“Stop!” Lydia covered her ears. “I don't want to hear it!”

“I don't blame you.” Bitterness filled Micah's tone. “I didn't want to know about it, either. No one in their right mind would
want
to know about it. If we don't know, then we can't be blamed, can we? But Jeremiah knows, and he told me. And I can't go on knowing without helping. Because knowing and not helping makes me just as guilty as those who are doing the killing. So I'll keep on doing whatever I can to bring Jewish children to safety.”

Lydia broke out with gooseflesh, fear turning her mouth dry. “But you and Jeremiah can't do this alone. Why doesn't America help? You said the children were on a Red Cross ship—can't the Red Cross do something? They help the prisoners of war—I know they do.”

Micah sighed tiredly. “Red tape, Lydia. The Red Cross is allowed to help prisoners of war. But the Jews have been declared people without a state and are therefore banned from receiving humanitarian assistance.”

“But that's ridiculous! They are obviously citizens of their own countries.”

“Not according to Hitler. And Jeremiah thinks no one is willing to force the issue for fear we'll be banned from helping our own military men who are held in prisoner-of-war camps.”

Lydia's mind reeled with this knowledge. She hugged herself tighter, shivering despite the warm summer night. “But where do you find these children? Does Jeremiah break them out of the . . . the death camps?” She shuddered, never imagining that such words would come out of her mouth.

Micah shook his head. “Jeremiah discovered that a group of Polish Baptists living along the Styr River were hiding a few Jewish children. The Baptists told him about some other area farmers who dared to do the same. Imagine—children living underground in root cellars, or in tiny attic rooms or barn lofts, never seeing the sunshine or breathing fresh air. Hiding—just hiding in fear.”

Lydia didn't want to imagine it. Suddenly children playing on a rooftop didn't seem so terrible.

Micah continued. “First he asked me to send food and clothing so he could provide assistance to the families who harbored Jewish children. Just like here, people are rationed on what food supplies they can purchase—having those extra mouths to feed is a real burden. But after a while, he realized that the longer the children remained in hiding, the more likely someone would find out and turn them in. There are rewards offered for turning in Jews or anyone harboring them. And the punishment for helping a Jew is death.”

Lydia gasped. “Micah, this frightens me! I'm not sure I want you involved—”

Micah gave her a look so full of disappointment, heat built in her cheeks. “‘Whosoever shall receive one of such children in my name, receiveth me.'” Micah's soft recitation was a knife in her heart. “Jeremiah included that reference from Mark in his letter when he asked if I would help. Would you be able to say no to such a plea?”

Lydia shook her head, her chin quivering. “But . . . but what exactly
is
your part in all of this?”

“I find people in the United States willing to take in a Jewish child, and Jeremiah finds a way to sneak them out of Europe. He's never told me how he arranges it. He's trying to protect his sources over there.”

Lydia ran her hands through her hair. Micah's ugly descriptions left her unsettled. Tainted. Would she ever feel safe and secure again? “How many children have you and Jeremiah brought out?”

“Only twenty-two. In almost two years, that's all. He has to limit himself to those who speak fluent Polish. If the child spoke Yiddish and someone overheard, the whole group would be in danger. It's nearly broken Jeremiah's heart to leave so many behind.” Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “Only twenty-two of the hundreds of thousands who have been rounded up and forced into horrible places where they aren't fed properly or cared for the way children should be—or worse. It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. . . .”

They sat in silence, the darkness of the parking garage surrounding them. Lydia had never been afraid of the dark, but with this new knowledge forcing its truth into her resistant conscience, she wanted to escape to a sunlit field or a beach or a mountaintop.

Lydia reached through the quiet shadows and touched Micah's arm. “How can I help?”

Micah whirled on her with a look so fierce she instinctively shrank back. “You can help by not telling anyone what I've told you about what Jeremiah is doing over there. The more people who know, the more likely we put Jeremiah's life—and the lives of those helping him—in danger. If Hitler's conspirators found out what my brother is doing, his life would be worthless, American minister or not. There are dozens of places for a man like Jeremiah to disappear, a dozen ways for a handicapped man
to die without anyone questioning it. And if he dies, his cause dies with him. No more lives saved.”

She closed her eyes to ward off tears. A longing to return home—to cradle Nicky—washed over her. She opened her eyes to find Micah staring blankly ahead, lost in thought. She touched his arm again. The muscles were hard, his body tense, but he didn't withdraw from her gentle touch.

“Micah, I know you're angry at me for following you. I shouldn't have done it, but I'm not sorry. I won't tell a soul what you've told me. You must be silent to protect your brother. How well I understand that.” She thought again of the secrets of Nicky's parentage. Micah nodded, and she sensed his thoughts aligned with hers. “But whatever you need—money, clothing, food, medical supplies—you tell me, and I'll get it for you. Father gives me a monthly stipend that well exceeds Nicky's and my needs. Please let me help you and Jeremiah.”

Her voice quavered and tears blurred her vision, but she refused to give in to emotion. With her hand on Micah's arm, she kept her gaze aimed at his, awaiting his answer.

At last Micah released a sigh, his chin dropping. Then he raised his face, and his brow furrowed. “Lydia, what are you doing here?”

13

L
ydia tipped her head, scowling. Micah rephrased his question. “What business has brought you to New York?”

“Oh.” She slid her hand from his arm and shifted in the seat to face forward. “We can discuss it tomorrow. You said you'd take me to the clinic and we'd talk there, remember?” She glanced at him, her expression apprehensive.

An unexpected wave of relief rolled through Micah. He was too tired to think straight right now. “Okay, let's talk tomorrow morning.” He peeked at his watch and grimaced. “Or, rather, later this morning. It's already tomorrow.” He pulled himself out of the car, then went around to open her door. Lydia curled her hand around his forearm, and they left the garage together. After the intense evening, he found it healing to stroll along empty sidewalks, yellow lamplight glinting on Lydia's dark hair, silence around them.

At his apartment building, he waited for her to retrieve a key from her pocket, then took it and unlocked the door for her. “Sleep well. I'll knock on your door around eight thirty. I need to be at the clinic by nine.” She crossed the threshold, and he started to move on. Then he remembered something and turned back.
“We'll walk to the clinic, so wear something comfortable on your feet.” He looked at her slippers. “The sidewalks will wear out those flimsy things. I trust you brought something else?”

A weary smile graced her face. “Good, serviceable Oxfords. Any other directions for my apparel?”

Micah shrugged, hiding a yawn with his hand. “Wear whatever you'd like if you plan to be an observer. If you'd like to get your hands dirty, however, and perform a few nursing duties, dress accordingly.”

“Fine, although I'm sure my nursing abilities will be a bit rusty. I've only practiced them on Nicky since returning from Schofield.”

“You did just fine with the little girl who came in.”

To his gratification, color bloomed in her cheeks.

She offered one more timorous smile. “Good night, Micah. Thank you for a—” The blush on her cheeks exploded into a bold red. Micah's face heated, as well. They hadn't been on a date. Her voice faltering, she finished, “For an . . . enlightening evening.”

He nodded, and she closed the door. He scuffed to his own apartment, let himself in, kicked off his shoes, and fell facedown across the bed without undressing. Jeremiah's letter pressed against his rib cage. He rolled onto his back and reached beneath his shirt to remove the envelope. Sliding his thumb under the flap, he opened the envelope and pulled out the single handwritten sheet. Jeremiah's brief message shared that he was well and he planned to collect more “souvenirs,” so Micah should expect another “package” when shipment could be arranged—he would be in touch.

Micah sighed and placed the letter on his chest. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for safety for his brother. Then another thought followed. “And, Lord, please allow me to do
more than collect packages for Jeremiah. Give me a bigger task.” A feeling of fulfillment touched him, and he scowled, trying to sort out the emotion. But before understanding could be reached, tiredness took control and he fell asleep.

Lydia lay wide awake on her side on the lumpy mattress, her fists beneath her chin. She'd never been so tired, yet she couldn't close her eyes. Pictures flashed through her mind—of those three older-than-their-years children in the backseat of Micah's coupe; of Nicky, safe and warm in his bed at home while Nic Pankin prowled the city, trying to find him; of the children Micah had mentioned who survived hidden in cellars away from the sun; of death camps and guns and burning buildings and families ripped apart.

What a task Micah and Jeremiah had undertaken. She searched her memory for news articles pertaining to Jewish deaths. She knew she'd seen a few sporadic articles, usually tucked toward the back of the newspaper, but none of them had impacted her the way Micah's words had. Perhaps it was hearing the horrors spoken aloud, seeing the faces of the innocent ones who had been impacted, that had made the difference. She didn't think she would ever look at a newspaper again without seeking information on this topic. How could anyone ignore the situation once they'd been exposed to the reality of it?

In an anguished whisper, she prayed aloud. “Oh, Lord, what can I do to make a difference?”

You'll know in time. Be patient and wait.

Lydia sat bolt upright in the bed, the springs twanging with the sudden movement. She searched the dark room. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. She had
heard
a voice as clearly as if the person stood next to her. Yet she was
alone. Grasping the sheet in both fists, she braved a question. “Who . . . who is there?”

Only silence greeted her ears, but a feeling of calm flowed from her head to her toes. Tears filled her eyes. She knew Whose voice she'd heard. She looked to the cracked plaster ceiling. “I will do whatever You ask. I will welcome the task, in Your name.”

The distressing visions cleared, no longer haunting the darkness behind her eyelids. Curling into a ball, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

At half past eight in the morning, Micah tapped lightly on Lydia's door. If she still slept after their late night, he didn't want to disturb her, but almost immediately the door swung wide. His eyebrows flew high, and he blurted, “What are you wearing?” He couldn't hide the laughter in his voice.

Lydia glanced down her own length, attempting an innocent look that developed into a knowing smirk. “What? You've never seen a woman in coveralls before?”

“Well, sure, on the posters of Rosie the Riveter.” Micah chuckled. “But Lydia the Riveter? Never would have expected that.”

She gave a feminine shrug that contradicted the masculinity of her apparel. “I would think you'd know by now to expect the unexpected where I am concerned.” He snorted, and she plunked her fists on her hips. He held up a hand in apology, and her forbidding demeanor melted. She smoothed the legs of the coveralls. “I'm just glad I thought to bring them along. I wear these when I go to the plant with Father. They should be perfect for ‘getting my hands dirty' today, as you said last night.”

Micah stood in her doorway, unable to turn his gaze from her. Her flashing eyes and the trim-fitting uniform painted a more
beguiling picture than he could have imagined. Would he be able to walk down the street beside her and not take her hand?

Stay focused, Hatcher. You've got enough on your plate without adding a romance with Lydia Eldredge to the mix.

“Do you know a good laundress?”

Micah blinked, uncertain he'd heard her correctly. “What?”

“A laundress.” She disappeared for a moment, returning with a folded yellow skirt in her hands. “I got blood on my suit, and it needs to be laundered.”

Micah took it from her. “There's a laundry service around the corner. We can drop off your suit on the way.” He glanced at the smudge of dried blood. “I'll pay to have it cleaned.”

“Micah . . .” Her tone held mild reproof.

Firmly, he said, “It was soiled at my clinic helping with one of my patients. I'll cover the bill, and that's final.”

She clicked her tongue on her teeth, shaking her head. He braced himself for an argument, but she sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Dr. Hatcher.”

“You're welcome. Now let's go.” He gestured toward the staircase and she locked her door, clipping along beside him with an eager bounce in her step. Just to be on the safe side, he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.

They stopped at a bakery and purchased sweet-smelling sticky buns for their breakfast, munching on them as they walked. When they rounded the corner leading to the clinic, Lydia pointed to a woman and two children waiting outside the doors. “Customers already.”

Micah nodded. “Let's get busy.”

Customers, as Lydia had called them, kept them occupied for most of the morning. Micah appreciated Lydia's assistance. She stepped in without direction to clean and bandage scraped knees, take temperatures, and—after only brief instruction—file
the records for each visitor. Remembering her prissy demeanor when he'd worked with her at Schofield, he marveled at her willingness to do anything that was asked of her.

At one o'clock, Micah left the clinic in the hands of a volunteer and walked Lydia to a small café, where they sat outside under a striped awning. Lydia refused to go inside the way she was dressed, and Micah didn't argue. He preferred the outdoor setting to the smoky interior anyway.

They feasted on towering roast beef sandwiches dipped in a rich juice that dribbled down his chin and speckled his trouser legs. But what were a few juice drops when he had the chance to sit across the table from Lydia and gaze into her pretty face? The pleasure of their sunshine-splashed lunch contrasted with the shadowy activities of last night, and Micah discovered a real joy in basking in today's bright moments.

When they'd finished eating, Micah leaned his elbows on the table and prompted, “Okay, it's been long enough. Now you have to tell me what you're doing here.”

Lydia swallowed, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and fixed him with a somber look. “I came to ask for your help.”

Micah raised one eyebrow. “You had to come all the way to New York to ask? A letter or telephone call or telegram wouldn't suffice?”

Lydia released a wry laugh. “I suppose it does seem odd, doesn't it? But I didn't want you to have to handle it all alone—so I'm here to do my part, too.”

Micah laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his knuckles. “Suppose you tell me what the two of us are in cahoots about.” Again, last night's mission tripped through his brain. How quickly she'd become entangled in his life. And he discovered he was eager to entangle himself in hers.

Lydia leaned forward and assumed a conspiratorial air.
“Father and I went to see Mrs. Fenwick—the midwife who delivered Nicky—as you suggested. We intended to ask her to testify that Eleanor wanted me to take Nicky. But she wasn't there. A neighbor said she had packed her bags and left out of fear of Nic Pankin, who had been coming around and threatening her.”

A swell of sympathy tightened Micah's chest. “Poor lady. It must have been awful for her.”

Lydia grimaced. “She left without leaving word for Father. The neighbor told us Mrs. Fenwick has no husband or children, but she does have a sister. And the only clue to this sister's whereabouts was a picture of the Statue of Liberty on a postcard she had sent to Mrs. Fenwick.”

“So you came here hoping to find Mrs. Fenwick?”

Lydia nodded eagerly. “Yes. I know it will be rather like hunting for a needle in a haystack—”

Micah gave a brief snort of laughter.

“But the Bible says that if we have faith like a grain of mustard seed, nothing will be impossible for us. So I'm stepping out in faith that I will find Mrs. Fenwick, and I'll be able to take her back to Boston. Then, with her help, I'll gain legal custody of Nicky.”