Sweet Sanctuary (16 page)

Micah chewed the inside of his mouth. How could he convince her? Before he had a chance to formulate an idea, she asked, “Could I write it all down—everything I remember—and sign my name to it and then send it with my birth journal for you to show the judge? Would that help?”

“That would be better than what they have right now, Mrs. Fenwick. I appreciate your willingness to help. A little boy's future rests on your testimony.” Micah heard the fervency in his own voice and tears pressed behind his eyes, proving just how emotionally involved he had become with Lydia and Nicky.

“All right, Dr. Hatcher. I'll get started right now writing down what I remember, and get my journal from 1940 out for you. When will you pick it up?”

“Is tomorrow morning too soon?”

“No, I'll have it ready by tomorrow morning.”

Micah asked for her address and recorded it. “Thank you, Mrs. Fenwick.”

“You're welcome. Hope your friend gets to keep that little boy. His father surely doesn't deserve a sweet boy like you described.”

He hung up, clapped his hands once, and announced to the empty room, “Thank you, Lord!” Then he dialed Lydia's number. He let it ring twelve times before hanging up, disappointed. Well, he'd try again. After collecting the written testimony and birth journal from Mrs. Fenwick, he'd check out train schedules and deliver the items himself to Lydia.

He'd barely finished formulating his plans when someone banged on the locked clinic door. Micah crossed to the door and pulled up the shade. He recognized one of the members of Rabbi Jacowicz's synagogue. His heart thumped in a rush of worry—could one of the children be ill? Swinging the door
wide, he waved his hand in invitation. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

“Rabbi Jacowicz asked me to come share news with you of which he learned.”

Micah crossed his arms. “News?'

The man nodded, his thick beard bobbing. “Jewish refugees have been granted asylum in New York. In Oswego, at Fort Ontario. Rabbi's sources tell him nearly a thousand of our people are on a ship called
Henry Gibbons
along with wounded American soldiers. The Jewish people will remain at Fort Ontario. Rabbi thought you would be interested in providing medical care to the people.”

Micah uncrossed his arms, eagerness swelling in his chest. “A thousand people? Are they all children?”

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

N
icky 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 could 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.