On Christmas Eve, a card arrived in the mail from New York. Lydia crept into the front room to open it in private. Her hands shook as she removed the brightly colored card from its envelope, and when she read the signature—“Love, Micah & Justina”—the breath squeezed from her lungs. Pain stabbed, and she crushed the card to her chest.
Nic ambled around the corner. His brow furrowed when he caught sight of her, frozen in front of the fireplace. “You all right?”
Unable to speak, Lydia shook her head. She opened the card and gave it to Nic.
He squinted at the writing. “Who is Justina?”
Lydia forced a reply past her tight throat. “Micah’s wife.”
Nic’s eyes widened. “He got married to someone besides—?” He stopped without adding the word “you,” but it hung in the air between them.
Tossing her head, Lydia assumed a cavalier attitude. “It’s okay. Really. It’s been months since I’ve seen Micah. And how could anything develop between us when we live in separate states? He was never meant to be more than a friend.”
Sympathy softened Nic’s gaze, but he didn’t argue with her. As their eyes locked in understanding, she couldn’t help but wonder if God was thinking of Nic when He’d told her to be patient and wait. Was Nic’s the life she was meant to touch?
She looked deeper into Nic’s eyes, hoping to find the answer there, but then Nicky galloped around the corner, straddling a hobby horse Father had given him several days ago. Directly following Nicky’s entrance, Mother stuck her head around the corner.
“Nicky, put Squirrel in her stall. It’s dinnertime. Come along, Lydia and Nic.”
Both reluctant and relieved, Lydia pushed away thoughts of Micah.
Mother had prepared a succulent beef stew thickened with barley and seasoned with garlic and basil. Served with fresh biscuits dripping with honey, the meal should have pleased everyone’s palates. But midway through their meal, Father pushed his plate away and growled, “I can’t eat. I wish I hadn’t read the newspaper.”
“What is it? Bad news?” Lydia cleaned Nicky’s face with a napkin and sent him upstairs to play.
Father’s cheeks flushed with indignation. “Over eighty American prisoners of war were massacred a week ago near Malmedy, Belgium. The SS men in charge didn’t want to be burdened with feeding them, so they just shot them—slaughtered them like animals.”
The words reminded her of the story Micah had told her about the Jews, and she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. “Oh, Father . . .”
Father slammed his hand on the table hard enough to rattle the teacups. “I don’t understand. It’s Christmastime—a time when people spout peace and goodwill to men, but look what’s happening. Peace? Bah! The world’s gone mad!”
Nic placed his arm carefully on the edge of the table. The doctor had removed his cast a few days earlier, but he still treated the arm gingerly. “The world needs to recognize the Savior who came on Christmas Day. His goal was to bring peace. I read the Christmas story to Nicky last night. Then I did some readin’ on my own. Found a verse in John—John 14, I think—that spoke of peace. I don’t remember it word for word, but it was Jesus talking and it said somethin’ like, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. . . .’”
He shook his head, his expression sad. “All that fightin’ goin’ on, all those failed attempts to win peace—the ones who refuse to embrace God’s ways are the ones who create this madness.”
Lydia expected Father to roll his eyes and bluster at Nic, but to her surprise her father’s eyes took on the sheen of unshed tears. “What else does it say?”
Nic closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pressed tight in deep thought. “The end of the verse seems particularly fitting. It says, ‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ That’s a good thought to hold on to while so many things are goin’ wrong around the world.”
Father sat quietly for a few moments, seemingly absorbing Nic’s words. Lydia’s chest puffed with appreciation for the message Nic had shared. Why Father accepted this kind of teaching from Nic when he refused it from anyone else confounded her, but it seemed Nic’s words were impacting her hardheaded father.
One of Micah’s favorite verses flitted through her mind—“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” She’d been so frightened when Nic located Nicky, forcing his presence into her life. Oh, how she’d fought against his intrusion. Now she welcomed him. God had used this big one-armed ex-morphine addict as a tool to reach her father.
She glanced at Nic, who picked up his spoon and lifted a bite of stew. How at ease he appeared, sitting at her table as if he’d always belonged here. Was Nic meant to be more than a friend to her in the future? She replayed his final words to Father—“Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
Right there at the table, she winged up a prayer. Lord, remove these troubling thoughts from my heart, and let me find Your peace. Show me where I belong. Show me where I’m meant to make a difference.
Micah’s face appeared in her mind’s eye, but she steeled her heart against the remembrance. Micah was another troubling thought that must be dispelled. The sooner the better.
January 1945 passed in a blur for Micah. An outbreak of influenza wreaked havoc among the Italian immigrants, and he spent much of his time visiting quarantined apartments, providing treatment and teaching mothers how to care for their ailing children. The wind blew strong in the city, cutting off his breath as he moved through the streets, and he longed for springtime and an end to this illness.
He also longed for an end to the war. He hadn’t heard from Jeremiah since early November, and his worry increased daily with the newspaper reports of German attacks on Allied airfields in France, Belgium, and Holland in what the German leaders called The Great Blow. It was, indeed, a great blow, destroying over one hundred fifty British and American aircraft. Hitler had also launched attacks in the south near Strasburg, attempting to overtake the American Seventh Army.
Although Jeremiah wasn’t in any of those areas, Micah worried that Germans were also busy in places too small to warrant coverage. Fear for his brother’s safety as well as for Jeremiah’s health became his constant companion. The winter months had always been hard on Jeremiah—his polio-weakened legs ached terribly in the cold—and each time an icy blast blew Micah’s coat away from his own legs, he sent up a prayer for his brother.
As the month continued, reports showed Allied forces fighting fiercely to keep Hitler’s army on the run. Airplanes bombed Berlin almost daily, and on the streets of New York people cheered the loss of life in the German city. He couldn’t understand their pleasure. Maybe it was his vow as a doctor to preserve life—all lives, even Germans—that made his heart cry when he heard others celebrating the death of German civilians.
His daytime hours were filled with doctoring the immigrant population, caring for Justina, and tracking the war. But nighttime. Ah, nighttime. Those hours stretched long and empty.
As he settled beneath his covers, his thoughts carried him once again to Boston. Since Lydia’s telephone call asking his advice concerning Nic’s care, he’d only received one communication from her—a Christmas card. She’d enclosed a brief note informing him her father was home and recovering well, Nic had been released from the hospital and was staying with the family, and Nicky was happy and healthy. She’d closed with, “Nicky sends his love.” But there was nothing personal to him from her. It had disappointed him.
He rolled over in his bed and snapped on his bedside light. Lydia’s card lay next to his Bible, and he lifted it, smoothing his fingers over the embossed cardinal on the card’s face. Bright. Cheerful. In direct contrast to the emotionless note inside. He read her words again. Slowly. Hoping maybe he’d missed something. But no—the stilted message was the same. He flumped onto his pillow and sighed at the ceiling, the card still in his hand.<
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Lydia . . . If he closed his eyes, he could picture her on the curb, the sun shining on her hair, her eyes bright as she blinked back tears, a smile quavering on her lips. Behind her, Nicky loped around the yard, hard at play, riding an imaginary horse named Squirrel. He’d sent the boy a hobby horse for Christmas, but she hadn’t acknowledged it. Maybe it hadn’t gotten through. He propped himself up on one elbow and punched his pillow, then folded it in half before lying down again.
He wanted to visit her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her now. But he had to wait until he wasn’t so busy. Then he’d have time. Time to visit. Time to court. Time to . . . propose. His heart thumped erratically at the thought of asking Lydia to be his wife. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with anyone else. He smiled in the dusky room, considering how quickly his love for her had blossomed. It must be a God-given love. What else could explain it? War and busyness and distance hadn’t changed his feelings for her. If anything, his affection had deepened, becoming so rooted in his heart nothing could pluck it out. And he’d been certain she held affection for him, too.
So why did she remain so aloof? Why hadn’t she called to ask who Justina was? Might she be avoiding him because her heart had changed? Maybe having Nicky’s father under her roof had turned her heart elsewhere. It would be good for Nicky to have his daddy and the woman he called mama truly united.
Give me a chance to talk to her again, Lord, to settle these feelings that wage like a personal war inside of me.
The patter of little feet interrupted his prayer. A small shadow slid across the floor and then the little girl followed. She padded directly to the side of the bed and reached out a small hand. The hand stilled midway to his nose as she looked into his open eyes. She blinked twice, her expression innocent. “Papa?”
“Do you want to come up?” He patted the bed beside him. “Up? Come up?”
Justina smiled her beaming smile that lit the room and then clambered onto the bed. She curled herself against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “Papa. Sweet-heart.” A contented sigh whisked from her lips.
Micah brought up the edge of the blanket to cover her. He let his thoughts continue, but he spoke them aloud, sharing them with the little girl who snuggled beneath his arm. “Yes, I love Lydia. And I love you, too, sweetheart.” Justina nodded, tipping her head to peer attentively into Micah’s face. He went on, as if telling a bedtime story. “I wish I’d had a chance to tell Lydia about you when she called. I think she’d love you, too. She has a little boy named Nicky, and he’s just about your age. You two would get along great, I reckon. He’s very articulate, and with your wide vocabulary”—he released a quick chortle at his own joke—“Lydia and I would probably never get a word in.”
Justina’s big blue eyes locked on Micah’s. “Sweet-heart.”
He patted her little back. “That’s right. I’m surprised she hasn’t written to ask about you. I signed your name to the Christmas card I sent her. Lydia’s usually full of questions.”
He slapped a hand to his forehead as understanding smote him like a club landing on his head. Justina sat up, stared at his hand for a moment, and then imitated his gesture.
Micah groaned, gently pulling her against his shoulder. “Yes, sweetheart, Papa did a dumb thing.” How could he have been so foolish? He’d signed the card “Micah & Justina”—with no explanation of who Justina was. It had seemed so natural he hadn’t given it a second thought. The signature painted a clear picture in his mind of himself and this beautiful little blond-haired girl. But what must Lydia have thought?
“I know what she thought,” Micah railed aloud, shaking his head. Beside him, Justina shook her head, making her curls bounce. Micah hugged her, laughing at the ludicrous idea that must be planted in Lydia’s mind. “She thinks I married someone named Justina!”
“Sweet-heart!” Justina crowed.
Micah pressed his nose to Justina’s. “Well, I’ll just have to set her straight, won’t I? And when I tell her the truth about you, I’ll tell her the truth about me at the same time. I’ll come right out an’ tell her I love her. Is that a good idea?”
Justina grabbed Micah’s nose. He shifted his chin, trying to catch her fingers between his lips. She giggled wildly and then began bouncing on the bed. Realizing she was getting wound up, he scooped her into his arms and carried her back to her bed. “It’s nighttime. You need to sleep. No”—he gently pressed her back against her pillow and kept his hand on her chest, shaking his head—“not play, sleep.”
He closed his eyes and let his head flop to the side, pretending to snore. One more little giggle escaped. Opening his eyes again, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sleep now, darling girl. And in the morning, I’ll call Lydia and set things right.”
36
The next morning, while Justina sat at the table munching her breakfast toast, Micah crossed to the telephone, ready to call Lydia. A clamor on the street captured his attention. Brow furrowed, he moved to the window and pushed it open, allowing in a cold blast of air that swept the curtains out on either side of him. A newsboy stood on the sidewalk, waving a paper and bellowing at the top of his lungs.
“German atrocities exposed! Death camp liberated by Russian army! Jewish victims of German cruelty set free!”
Micah cupped his hands beside his mouth. “Boy! What are you talking about?”
The youth looked up. His wind-chapped cheeks glowed red. “Someplace called Auschwitz—the Russians released a bunch of Jews who’d been kept prisoner there. They tell some awful things.”
Micah gasped. Exactly what Jeremiah had described! And it had become front-page news? He hollered to the boy, “Stay there. I’m coming down.” He turned to Justina and held up his palms, a signal she had learned. “Sit still, sweetheart. Papa will be back.” Micah ran down the stairs and onto the frigid porch. Frost stung the bare soles of his feet, and he danced in place while he traded a dime for a newspaper. Back in his apartment, he read the article so many times he nearly memorized it, and certain passages painted images in his head that pierced his heart.
For the next week, everyone who entered the clinic buzzed about the place called Auschwitz. “Can you imagine?” one woman gasped. “I would never have thought such things possible in this civilized world!”
Of course, Micah knew Auschwitz was just the tip of the iceberg, but he kept the knowledge to himself. The nations’ leaders would need to fully divulge the horrors inflicted on innocent people during this terrible war. He wondered if any article would incite greater indignation in his neighborhood than the one about Auschwitz.
And then, almost a month later, the news turned to Yalta. Although the information was kept hushed, rumors spread that the three Allied leaders—President Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin—were meeting to discuss Europe’s postwar reorganization. Though no one knew the details of this meeting, it seemed clear to Micah that if agreements were being made for a postwar time period, then the war must surely be coming to an end. The idea almost made him giddy.
Every day from the morning the news article of Auschwitz hit the front page, Micah dialed Lydia’s number first thing in the morning. But each time, Allan Eldredge answered and agreed to ask Lydia to return the call. Yet she never called. Micah could only assume she was refusing to speak to him, and his frustration grew. But he didn’t give up. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t.
Valentine’s Day arrived—a day for cupids and romance. And someone had sent Lydia a dozen red roses. Nic paused in the office doorway, absorbing the sight of Lydia seated behind her father’s massive desk. She knew the business—she’d grown up around it and she handled things as well as her father ever had, in his opinion—but somehow she just didn’t look comfortable in Allan Eldredge’s chair.
He watched her pinch a rose petal between her fingers, her brow puckered in either confusion or disapproval. He couldn’t be certain which. Or maybe the crunch of her brow had something to do w
ith her reason for calling him to her office. He wouldn’t know until he asked.
Clearing his throat, he took a forward step. She spun toward him, the wooden chair creaking noisily with the sudden movement. He chuckled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He bobbed his chin at the roses. “Somebody thinks you’re special.”
“And you just confirmed for me that it isn’t you.”
Nic drew back in surprise. “Me?”
Lydia sighed. She rocked back in the massive wood chair, the spring popping, and crossed her arms. “I’m fairly certain these came from Father, but the fact that there’s no card tells me he wants to keep it a secret.”
Nic smirked, shaking his head. “You know, I’ve come to like your old man. Cagey. Knows how to get things done.”
Lydia scowled. “If he’d limit himself to business dealings I’d admire his caginess a bit more. But I resent his intrusion into my personal life.” She gestured toward one of the chairs along the wall, assuming a professional air. “Thank you for coming up. Sit down for a minute, would you, Nic?”
Nic settled himself in the chair closest to the desk and peered at Lydia. “You look awful serious. Are we talkin’ boss to employee, or is it somethin’ else?”
“I realize we’re on company time, but this is important. And it’s something else.” Lydia leaned forward, cringing when the chair released another loud pop. “Now that the office is officially mine”—did unhappiness flash in her eyes with the statement?—“I intend to shop for a new chair.” She drew in a deep breath, blew it out, then pinned him with a frown. “Nic, do you love me?”
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