Sweet Sanctuary (10 page)

11

M
icah breathed in short, nervous spurts. Someone tailed him. The hairs on the back of his neck had been tingling for the last three blocks. The person walked with a light step, but the steps had dogged him relentlessly since he'd left the apartment. His heart beat in his throat. Who was it? The police? Someone who had discovered what he was doing and wanted to stop him?

Fists balled so tightly his fingers ached, he forced himself to keep moving, circling blocks and forming a meandering path meant to confuse his pursuer. This was exactly what he'd feared would happen when Stan came in with that message. Whoever followed was certainly up to no good, and Micah couldn't afford to have his plans disrupted. What would happen to the package if he didn't retrieve it? None of the dockworkers knew how to reach Rabbi Jacowicz.

He set a deliberate pace—not so fast as to alert his pursuer he knew of his presence, but fast enough to make the follower work to keep up. Every fiber of his being strained to break into a run, but he didn't dare—if the person following was armed, he might be antagonized into shooting. Micah wouldn't risk
anyone being hurt. He clung to hope the person would tire of following him if he continued an aimless journey. But he couldn't keep it up forever—he needed to go to his vehicle and then to the docks.

Micah turned another corner, making careful note of street names so he'd be able to bring himself back on course. In and out of the soft glow cast by hooded streetlamps he went, his shadow running ahead and then falling behind, his ears constantly tuned and alert, his pulse pounding in worry. The mysterious follower turned wherever he did. How long would this continue?

Then Micah's heart leaped in his chest. Ahead, a gloomy alley opening beckoned. If he ducked in there, might he be able to hide long enough for the person to give up and leave? If so, he could get to his coupe and the ship docks. He maintained his same brisk pace as he approached the alley. Then, sending up a silent prayer for success, he abruptly dove into the dark passageway between towering buildings.

He paused, disoriented. The absence of streetlamps left him temporarily blinded, but after a few seconds his eyes adjusted and he spotted a haphazard stack of wooden crates leaning precariously against the side of one building. He dashed behind them, then peeked out to watch the alley opening, his heart threatening to burst through his chest.

In less than a minute he was rewarded with the appearance of his follower. Micah couldn't make out the person's features in the shadows, but the pursuer was slight in build—shorter than Micah—and very slender. The person paused, tipping at the waist and peering into the alley, apparently hesitant to enter it. Micah held his breath.
Go away. Please go away.
But the shadowy figure took two slow steps forward, head swinging back and forth, seeking. One hand came up, and it appeared he scratched his head. Micah stifled a satisfied snort—he'd
managed to bamboozle the mysterious tail. Now if he'd just leave . . .

Micah watched, hoping, as the person's hands went to his hips. In a rush, recognition dawned. Fury roared through Micah's middle. He burst from his hiding spot. “What do you think you're doing, Lydia?”

Lydia let out a strangled yelp and leaped backward. Her hand flew to her chest and she released her air in a whoosh. “Oh! Micah! Thank goodness it's you! You frightened me out of a year's growth!”

“You deserve it.” He spoke through gritted teeth. His fingers itched to shake the daylights out of her. “I had no idea who trailed me. Don't think
I
haven't been scared.”

“Well, I didn't
intend
to frighten
you.
You needn't have jumped out at me that way.” Defensiveness colored her tone, which only added to Micah's ire. She stepped closer. “What are you doing out here?”

“None of your business.” He grabbed her arm and ushered her into the light, where he could check his watch. Not enough time to return her to the apartment and then get himself to the dock before ten. He'd have to take her with him. He nearly growled in aggravation.

Hand still curled around her elbow, he marched her toward the garage where he stored his coupe. “Listen, I've got a package to pick up, and as much as it irks me, you're going to have to come along. But you're going to stay in the car, and you aren't going to ask questions. Not even one. Do you understand?”

She looked at him, her slippered feet slapping the concrete as he pulled her along. Her wide brown eyes communicated unease. “Micah, you aren't involved in something illegal . . . are you?”

Well, Lord, there's one of those questions I didn't want to have to answer.
He ground his teeth together as he entered the
parking garage. At his coupe, he assisted her none too gently into the passenger's seat, slammed the door with more force than was necessary, and stomped around to slide behind the wheel. Not until the car was in gear did he offer a terse response. “Never mind. Just sit there and be quiet.”

Lydia, to his great relief, leaned into the corner and sat in stony silence while he drove the familiar streets to the docks. The ship's outline loomed ahead, and he prayed Jonesy had waited for him. He'd never been late before.

He parked the car in his usual spot and turned to Lydia. She slumped in the seat, arms crossed and mouth set in a firm line. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. She had no reason to pout. “I'll be back soon. You stay here.”

Her chin lifted. “I heard you the first time.”

He still wasn't sure how he was going to explain all of this to her later. “Just stay put,” he said once more, ignoring her huff of irritation. He closed his car door and trotted to the dock. The gangplank met the dock, and Micah trotted onto the ship's deck.

Two men looked up at his approach, and the first one broke into a smile, nudging the second. “See, told ya he'd be here. Never misses a pickup.” He grinned at Micah. “Tucks thought we was gonna hafta care for your delivery ourselves, but I told him you'd turn up. Get waylaid, Micah?”

Micah managed a wry grin. “You might say that, Jonesy. Where is it?”

Jonesy gestured with his head, since his hands were full. “Over there. Three of 'em this time. I took good care of 'em on the way over.”

Micah recognized the hint. He reached into his pocket and withdrew several bills, which he held out to the sailor as Tucks turned away, busying himself with moving boxes.

Jonesy shoved the bills into his pocket without counting them.
“Got a letter for you, too.” He handed over a rather damp, crumpled envelope. “Got it from Jeremiah himself.”

“You saw Jeremiah?” Micah's pulse skipped into eager double beats. “How was he?”

Jonesy's brow furrowed for a moment. “He's thin. Don't think he hardly eats. Don't know how much longer he can keep this up.”

Tucks looked over his shoulder, his narrow face creased with worry. “He's gonna get us all in trouble, Micah. You gotta tell him to stop.”

Micah shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “You've met my brother, Tucks. You know he won't stop as long as he still draws breath.”

“Well, from the looks of 'im, that might not be much longer.”

Tucks's gloomy words sliced straight to Micah's heart. But Jonesy gave Tucks a firm smack on the shoulder. “Oh, get on with you. It weren't that bad.” He swung his gaze back to Micah, his expression brightening. “Sure he's thin, an' his legs are botherin' him—limp is worse'n ever—but his spirits was good. He said to tell you not to worry.”

Warmth flooded Micah's frame at Jeremiah's strength. How typical of his brother, telling Micah not to worry. Micah had the easy part, though, and they all knew it. He asked, “When will you head out again?”

“Be here a week, the captain said. Got more supplies to send to that brother of yours?” Jonesy stood in the wide-legged pose of a seasoned sailor, his arms crossed on his chest. “I'll make sure we got room.”

“Thanks. I have six crates, at least. I'll be in touch to arrange a time with you to leave them here. But”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“you've got to make sure the messages come directly to me from now on. The last one came through one
of my clinic volunteers. He didn't ask any questions, but you never know. . . .”

Jonesy frowned. “Don't know how that happened, Micah. Everybody involved knows they're not to share any of our work with someone new. Not without your go-ahead. I'll check into it. It won't happen again.”

“Good.” Micah slipped Jeremiah's letter inside his shirt. “I better get my package out of here before someone else comes along.”

“Take care, Micah,” Jonesy called as he turned back to his work.

Micah moved toward the stack of crates Jonesy had indicated. Behind the pile, three children sat in a silent row. At Micah's approach, they crunched together. The one in the center—a girl who appeared to be about ten—wrapped her arms around the other two. Three pairs of eyes widened in obvious distress, and the littlest one tucked a finger into his mouth. Although they huddled mostly in shadow, Micah could make out their haunted faces and fearful poses. Tears stung behind his eyes. Jesus had told His disciples,
“Suffer little children to come unto me.”
So why did God allow cruelty to touch innocent children? He'd never understand. But he'd do whatever he could to help.

He approached slowly to avoid frightening them, a smile quivering on his lips. He stopped a few feet away and went down on one knee, reaching his hand out to them and offering a simple message of welcome.
“Witajcie, dzieci.”

The children exchanged glances. Micah knew his Polish was poor, but he hoped they understood. He kept his hand extended and assured them they were safe. “
Jesteście tutaj bezpieczni.
” The oldest child tipped her head inquisitively, as if trying to ascertain if he spoke truth. Her large, dark eyes appeared much older than her years. He repeated the words, noticing how the girl
looked beyond him to the ship, then back at his face. She made not a sound. Her thin arms tightened around the other two.

Micah finished with the last of his memorized Polish phrases.
“Proszę ze mną.”
Would they heed his invitation to come with him?

The littlest one must have decided Micah wasn't a threat, because the child slipped away from his siblings and placed his hand in Micah's. Tears stung behind Micah's nose. After everything the child had been through, he still found the courage somewhere inside himself to trust a stranger. Micah curled his fingers around the tiny hand and gave the child a warm smile. He lifted his gaze to the other two. After a moment they, too, rose and came to him, although much more slowly.

Micah stood, continuing to instruct them to come with him, assuring them they were safe. He moved slowly across the dock toward the walkway leading to his coupe. He held the littlest one by the hand, and the other two followed obediently, clinging to each other. Micah wondered if they were brother and sister, and he winged up a brief prayer that if they truly were siblings, they would be able to stay together here in the States. When he reached the coupe, he realized Lydia stood beside the vehicle. Irritation built. Hadn't he told her to stay put?

At his approach, she stepped forward. Her gaze swept across the children, and her eyes widened. “This is what you call a package? Micah—”

He held up one finger. “Huh-uh. Remember? No questions.”

12

N
ic hunkered near the bushes at the edge of the Eldredges' Back Bay property. Even at half past ten, lights glowed behind several windows—some upstairs, some down. So somebody was awake in there. Probably high-and-mighty N. Allan Eldredge himself. Nic released a grunt of derision. A man who never toiled with his hands didn't need the rest required by those who did his bidding. Resentment pricked as Nic recalled the day Eldredge had issued Nic a pink slip and told him to never show his face at the factory again, taking away his dignity and his means of providing for himself.

And if Nic's suspicions were right, the man had also squirreled away Nic's most prized possession: Eleanor's child. Nic swallowed, eagerness to burst through those doors and see if his instincts were correct nearly turning him inside out. It'd please him beyond words to see shock and fear on Eldredge's face. To take something from him that mattered. And as soon as those lights went out, he'd do it.

Crouched low, his full focus on the house, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand clamped over his shoulder. He jolted upright and spun, squinting against the bright glare of a flashlight.

“What're you doin' out here, mister?”

The stern voice was unfamiliar, so he hadn't been spotted by Eldredge. The relief made his knees weak. Nic held his hand in front of his face. “Turn that wretched thing off, would ya? You're blinding me.”

The bright beam lowered, illuminating the sidewalk, and Nic blinked into the unsmiling face of a street cop. The man tapped the flashlight against his blue-striped pant leg, the circle of light bouncing. “I asked you a question.”

Nic cocked his weight on one hip, assuming a lazy pose he hoped hid his underlying nervousness. “Lost my dog. Just lookin' for it.”

The policeman scowled. “Oh yeah? What kind of dog?”

Searching for a believable description, Nic rubbed the underside of his nose with one finger. “Brown. 'Bout knee-high. Kind of shaggy.” He shrugged. “Just your regular dog.”

The man flicked a glance at Nic's hand. “Where's his leash?”

Nic thought fast. “On him. He's draggin' it.” He gestured to the bushes. “Thought he might've got tangled up, but . . .”

For a moment, the officer's brow crunched and he examined Nic's face, as if seeking the truth. Nic remained square-shouldered and untwitching beneath the glare, his legs aching with the desire to turn tail and run. Finally the man took a backward step. “Well, your dog isn't here, so keep movin'. Where do you live?”

Nic scowled. “Why you wanna know?”

The cop raised one eyebrow. “If I find your dog, I'll bring him on home for you.”

“Oh.” Nic sought another lie. He bounced his hand in the direction of the second house down the street. “Just put 'im inside the fence there. Thanks.” Pushing his hand into his jacket pocket, Nic scuttled up the sidewalk. He muttered a curse. Why'd that fool cop have to come along and foil his plans?
Now he'd have to come back another night to claim what was rightfully his.

Lydia thought she might explode. The questions pressed against her lips like water straining against a dam. Who were these children? What were they doing on that ship? What was Micah to them? Why was he keeping them a secret? He had accused her of hiding the truth—it appeared he was just as guilty as she. He had said no questions, and she would honor it. Until they were alone. But then he'd better prepare for a barrage, because she wanted answers.

She looked over her shoulder at the three silent children wedged together in the center of the backseat. Two boys and a girl, all solemn with dark eyes full of fear and thin cheeks that spoke of hunger. Young children, yet there was something distinctly
old
in their appearance. While Lydia watched, the girl opened her arms and pulled the boys close against her sides in a protective gesture. The action raised a mighty lump in Lydia's throat, and she turned forward again.

They drove through silent streets with minimal traffic. Micah seemed to take a winding route, and Lydia wondered if he knew where he was going. It seemed hours before Micah pulled the coupe into an alley and glided to a stop behind a beautiful building Lydia recognized immediately as a place of worship. The back door opened the moment Micah turned off the engine, and a man wearing a long robe and a black skull cap over gray hair emerged. The long gray curls of his beard lifted slightly as the night breeze swept around the building. A Jewish rabbi—so this must be a synagogue. Her curiosity mounted as Micah stepped out of the vehicle and the two men greeted each other warmly with smiles and clasped hands. They obviously knew each other well.

Micah guided the old rabbi to the car and opened the back door. The children still huddled together, but the two little ones now slept on the girl's shoulders. The rabbi reached in and lifted the smallest one from the backseat, and the child continued drowsing in his arms. He spoke softly to the girl in a language Lydia didn't understand, and she shifted the head of the other sleeping child to the backrest of the seat before sliding across the seat. Micah then reached in to pick up the third child. The boy startled awake, looked at Micah with wide, frightened eyes, and began to wail.

Lydia started to get out, but Micah shook his head. “Stay there.” He cradled the child close, rubbing his back and murmuring, “
Jesteœ tutaj bezpieczny.
You're safe.” The child quieted, but he clung to Micah as if he would never let go.

The rabbi turned toward the synagogue, the girl trailing him with her sparrowlike hand clinging to his robe. Micah followed. All went inside the building. Lydia sat, drumming her fingers on the armrest and watching the door, until finally Micah emerged. She sat up eagerly.

But instead of climbing into the driver's seat, he went to the back of the coupe and opened the trunk. He rustled around back there and then slammed the lid, and he headed back into the synagogue with a bundle of some sort in his hands. Worry, curiosity, and an unnamed fear made Lydia wish to crawl right out of her skin. Seconds turned into minutes while she waited, watching the door, heart pounding and palms sweating.

At last the synagogue door opened and Micah came out again and climbed into the car. She sat, biting her tongue, while he turned on the lights, started the engine, and reversed out of the alley. Once he was on the street, Lydia's dam broke.

“I know you told me not to ask questions, but you certainly can't expect me to pretend I didn't just witness you taking three
foreign children from a ship and carting them to a rabbi in the middle of the night.” The muscles in Micah's jaw clenched and he grasped the steering wheel, his eyes straight ahead as Lydia continued. “Micah, are you involved in some—some sort of international child market?”

He swung his gaze in her direction. His blue eyes were like granite. “Is that what you really think? That I could be loathsome enough to sell a child?”

Lydia bit her lip, shame rising in her chest. She didn't want to think ill of Micah, but his actions—so secretive, under the cover of darkness—brought images of espionage and illicit dealings. “I don't know what to think. Why are you sneaking around at night, pretending to pick up packages, when clearly you are involved in something much . . . much bigger?”

“‘Much bigger' doesn't begin to describe it.”

“Is the clinic involved?”

“No! The clinic is not involved, and I want to keep it that way! If someone thought the clinic was involved, they might shut it down, and then hundreds of immigrants would go without health care. Lydia, don't even mention something like that.”

Stung by his tone, Lydia shrank into the corner. “But, Micah, it's just the two of us right now. No one else is listening.”

Micah groaned, his distress breaking her heart. “You don't understand. . . .”

“Then help me understand. Who were those children? What are they doing here? Why did you take them to the synagogue?”

Micah gripped the steering wheel and remained silent, his teeth clamped together so tightly the muscles in his jaw bulged. He drove to the parking garage and pulled the coupe into the slot it had occupied earlier. His hand trembling, he turned off the engine, then slowly swiveled his face to meet her gaze.

“Against my better judgment, I'm going to answer your
questions.” The anger had fled, and in its place a sad resignation resided. For reasons Lydia couldn't understand, she preferred the anger. He sighed. “Do you recall asking me to keep private your situation with Nicky?” She gave a quick nod. “I'm now asking you for the same favor. This must remain between us. It's crucial.”

His face, shrouded in shadow, carried such an expression of desperation her blood seemed to chill. She hugged herself. “Is someone in danger?”

“Yes.” Micah's grim tone sent a tingle of apprehension down Lydia's spine. “Several people could be in danger. My brother Jeremiah is at the top of the list. Do you promise not to repeat what I'm about to tell you?”

“I promise.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze boring into hers as if he were still trying to decide if he could trust her. She met his gaze head-on without flinching. Finally he gave a small nod, took a deep breath, released it, and found his voice. “Lydia, those children are Polish Jews. They're either orphans or they've been separated from their parents by the war. My brother is a minister who has served as a missionary in Russia for the past four years. He worked out a deal with the crew of an American Red Cross ship to sneak children into America. I take them to Rabbi Jacowicz, and he places them with Jewish families here in New York.”

Lydia frowned, almost disappointed. After the tense night of secrecy, the explanation seemed anticlimactic. “But why must this remain a secret? Other countries have been providing sanctuary to German children.”

Micah shook his head. “You're not paying attention. America has chosen not to allow European children of the Jewish faith to come into the country. In fact, according to Jeremiah, we've
tightened the immigration laws to the point that it's almost impossible to enter America legally if you're a Jew.”

Lydia nodded. “That's not surprising. Think of all the anti-Semitism. It's probably wise not to allow more of them in.”

Micah dropped his head against the seat's back. A long, anguished sigh heaved from his chest. He angled his face to meet her gaze, and the stark pain in his eyes made Lydia catch her breath. “Do you realize Hitler is trying to eradicate the entire Jewish race?”

Despite his serious tone, Lydia released a little snort of disbelief. “I know there's been some trouble over there, some real mistreatment, but—”

“Haven't you read anything of the number of Jewish deaths in Europe?”

“Yes, of course. But there's a war waging. As deplorable as it seems, there are always civilian casualties in war.”

Micah leaned toward her, his low tone taking on a fervency that she found chilling. “Lydia, this is beyond civilian casualties. Hitler and his henchmen are systematically rounding up groups of people who don't meet with Hitler's Aryan standards and taking them to their deaths. This includes Jews, Gypsies, anyone with a handicap . . . My own brother could be included in the last group. Jeremiah depends on leg braces and crutches to walk. He is crippled. Only his title as an American minister has protected him thus far.”

Lydia shook her head. There was always propaganda during wars. Surely Micah had been misinformed. “It's beyond the scope of reasoning that a country's leader would deliberately kill off his own countrymen. It's got to be a mistake.”

“That's what everyone wants to believe. But my brother is there. He's witnessed it in both Russia and Poland. He's heard about it happening in other European countries—wherever Germany has
overtaken the area. Entire communities of Jews, gone overnight. Or marched through the center of town and loaded on trains, carted away to who knows where.”