“To understand how we came to Apple Creek, you must first ask, ‘Where did the Amish come from?’ This book was first printed in the year 1660 in Holland,” Hannah said. “It tells the story of the Anabaptists and their fight for religious freedom.
“And this book,” Hannah continued, holding up a small volume with a plain leather cover, “tells the story of Jonathan and Joshua Hershberger. It tells of the choices the twin brothers made after Indians massacred their family near Fort Henry on the Ohio, and the effect those decisions had on generations of Hershbergers. One brother forsook the Amish church, and all his descendants went out into the world, so there are many with the name Hershberger who are not Amish. The other brother, Joshua, stayed in the church and remained faithful, even under the most difficult conditions. Joshua was your great-great-great-grandfather. His grandson, my father, came to Apple Creek in 1860 as a boy. It is because Joshua stayed true that you are here today.”
Jerusha lifted her chin and said proudly, “Grandmother, I will always stay true to our family and our ways. I swear it.”
“Be careful what you swear, child,” said Hannah softly as she stood up and put the books back into the chest. “One day God may hold you to it.”
Jerusha shifted in the backseat of Henry’s car and moaned slightly. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed again. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. There was an accident. A cow. She pushed herself up in the seat and stared around.
The memory of her grandmother’s words resounded in her mind. “Be careful what you swear, child. One day God may hold you to it.”
Jerusha realized with a start that she was breaking the vow she had sworn to Hannah so many years ago.
But I’m not the guilty one! You’re punishing me, and I didn’t do anything! I was a good Amish girl. I kept the ordnung, and I’ve been faithful in all my ways. You are the one who is wrong. But since You’re God, You don’t get punished, is that it?
Jerusha felt the flush of anger rise in her face. The empty days since Jenna’s death and Reuben’s disappearance crowded in on her, and her thoughts became incoherent and jumbled.
Get hold of yourself, Jerusha. Conserve your energy. You have to wait patiently until Henry returns.
Jerusha clutched the blanket closer around her and found herself thinking about her grandmother again.
It all started when You took her from me. She was my teacher and my friend and I loved her so, and yet You let her die a horrible death.
Suddenly Jerusha was startled to realize that her anger had begun that day, the day her grandmother died.
That was the day I started to see You as you really are—vengeful, controlling, and to be feared. You are not the God I thought I loved, but a God who has taken everything I held most dear. I won’t forget and I’ll never forgive...
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reuben
SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD JERUSHA stood in front of her mirror. The black dress was simple and severe, and yet it couldn’t hide the lovely young woman she had become. Even in her sadness, her face shone.
Outside her bedroom, a plain wooden coffin stood in a room that had been stripped of all furniture. In the coffin lay her beloved grossmudder, Hannah. Hours after her death, Jerusha and her mother had carefully washed Hannah’s body and then dressed her in the plain white dress Hannah had worn on her wedding day.
Even in death, Grandmother’s face was serene and gentle, and somehow she looked younger than the years that had finally taken her. When the family learned Hannah was dying of cancer, they began preparations for this day. Two days before her death, Jerusha’s father made the coffin with his own hands. Jerusha watched with a heavy heart as he skillfully prepared the simple pine boards.
“We all face this day, dochter,” he said to Jerusha as he worked. “Your grossmudder has lived a rich life and is beloved in her community. She lived the way our people have been taught to live for three hundred years—love your enemy, do good to those who harm you, and pray for those who despitefully use you. She planted seeds of love in the hearts of many members of our church and will leave treasures behind that will work in people’s lives for many years to come. She lived by a simple rule: Alli mudder muss sariye fer ihre famiyle. She especially loved you and has imparted a special gift to you. Now that she’s gone, you must never forget what she taught you. The gift you have is from God and must be given back to Him with each quilt you make. You have become well known in this area for your skill, but you must always remember that Jesus is the vine and you are only the branch. Without Him you can do nothing. There may come a day when you must give all back to Him. Do not let pride take root, dochter.”
Jerusha’s heart ached with sorrow as she stood before the mirror. Her grandmother had not only taught her to be a quilter, she had schooled her in the practices and roots of their faith.
“Jerusha, it’s time,” her mother called from the next room.
Jerusha opened the bedroom door and entered the viewing room quietly. It was the third day since Grandmother’s death, and four older men who had been friends of her grandfather stood next to the coffin, preparing to carry Hannah outside to the plain black horse-drawn hearse. Jerusha went to the side of the plain pine box and stared down at Hannah, trying to fix the image of her grandmother’s beautiful face in her mind forever.
I must not cry or show emotion, she thought. Her hands clenched the edge of the box, and as the grief rose in her she began to feel something she had never felt before—anger toward her God.
This is blasphemy, said a strident voice within her, and she found herself trembling in fear as she stood there. She wanted to cry out or fall sobbing on Hannah’s breast, but instead she gripped the coffin until her knuckles turned white. Then she felt her father’s hand on her shoulder and heard his quiet voice in her ear.
“Come, dochter, we must let her go,” he said.
Slowly she let go of the coffin and stepped back. The four men picked up the box and walked slowly and silently out the door. Jerusha and her parents and brothers followed. Outside, a long row of wagons and buggies was stretched along the road. The coffin was placed into the hearse, and the pallbearers climbed on board. The wagon started off at a slow pace, and the mourners stirred up their horses and fell into line. The solemn caravan began to make its way south toward Millersburg and the Amish cemetery. The twenty-mile journey took three hours, and Jerusha dreaded every minute. The rising of the sun burned off the early morning coolness. Jerusha felt the sun’s heat on her back. Ahead of them was a wagon with a family she didn’t recognize. She leaned over to her mother and asked, “Who are those people, Mama?”
“That’s the Springer family. Mr. Springer is a widower with two sons. He’s come from Wooster to court Abigail Verkler, who lost her husband last year.”
Jerusha looked with curiosity at the buggy ahead. She could tell that the woman in the buggy was Abigail, for her mourning clothes didn’t conceal her small stature and stout body. The man seated beside her wore the black broad-brimmed hat peculiar to her people. Seated in the back of the buggy were two boys, one a young man already. They stared straight ahead, their longish hair curling out from under their hats.
The miles crept by, and Jerusha found herself thinking about the moment of anger she had felt while she was standing by the coffin. She felt ashamed that such a strong emotion should arise in her heart. She had always been a child of God, and to feel anger toward Him was a new and puzzling sensation.
Will I have hope of salvation if I show anger toward God? I’ve tried to be a good and faithful girl. I know He died for me, and I hope I’m saved, but can I offend Him enough that He would keep me out of heaven?
She pondered on that for a while until the rhythmic clopping of the horse’s hooves lulled her to sleep on her mother’s shoulder.
They arrived at the cemetery at midday. The graveyard was on a private farm because her people didn’t like being buried with the Englisch. The people climbed out of their wagons and b
uggies and slowly made their way to the simple farm building where the service was to be held.
The pallbearers carried the coffin to the front of the room, placed it on two sawhorses, and opened it so the family could view Hannah one last time. None of the mourners showed any emotion as they sat on the simple benches. A Volliger Diener, a bishop, delivered the two-hour sermon in Pennsylvania Dutch. His words were not a eulogy of Hannah and her goodness but rather an exhortation to give thanks and praise to God. No one shared stories about Hannah, but Jerusha wished she could go up to the front and tell everyone how much her grandmother meant to her. At the end of the service, the bishop mentioned Hannah’s name, the name of her husband, and her birth and death date, and that was the end.
Jerusha looked around at the people, and to her surprise, she felt the anger rising in her again.
She was so good to me, Lord, she prayed. Why did You take her from me in such a horrible way? Did I do something wrong? Are You punishing me?
She wished with all her heart that the people would cry out and throw themselves weeping on her grandmother’s coffin, but the room was still as the pallbearers picked up the pine box and carried it out to the gravesite. Small beams of light came through cracks in the wall and lit up the dust motes floating in the air.
There was no music. The shuffling of feet on the dirt floor made the only sound in the simple farm building as the people followed the coffin out. Breathing hard, Jerusha leaned forward and slowly stood to her feet with her elbows bent and her fists clenched. Just as she was about to scream the name of her grandmother, a firm hand took hold of her shoulder, and she heard a quiet voice say in her ear, “Don’t.”
Jerusha turned slowly and saw the chest of someone very tall. She lifted her head and looked into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Dark, long hair framed a face that was remarkable in its symmetry and strength. The black hat, tilted back on his head, gave the young man a slightly rakish look. Behind the stern set of his face, Jerusha saw that his eyes were kind toward her.
“I know you want to scream, but don’t,” he whispered. “My mother died last year, and I wanted to scream at her funeral too. Believe me, now is not the time.”
In the grip of his strong hand, Jerusha felt the tension and anger drain out of her, leaving an empty, aching sorrow, and then she found herself walking slowly along with him out to the grave.
The bishop who led the funeral went ahead of the mourners to the graveyard. When all had gathered beside the grave site, he gave a final prayer, and the pallbearers closed Hannah Hershberger’s coffin for the last time. They placed ropes under the coffin and used them to lower the coffin into the ground. Members of Jerusha’s family stepped forward and threw a handful of earth onto the coffin. Jerusha stood a long time with the dirt in her hand before she dropped it into the grave. When the clod hit the top of her grandmother’s coffin, it sounded like a door slamming. A knife twisted in her heart as in that moment she came to grips with the reality of death and its finality. Jersusha stepped back, and as the mourners watched, the pallbearers filled in the grave. And then it was over. There were no flowers or foliage near the grave. The plain tombstone lay on its side, waiting to be set in place.
Hannah Hershberger, 1862–1941, 79 years, 2 months, 5 days.
That was the summation of her grandmother’s life. Somehow it seemed not enough.
As Jerusha slowly walked back to her father’s buggy, the young man who had stopped her from crying out stepped in beside her and spoke to her. The sound of his voice was rich and masculine, and she suddenly felt herself blush. She plucked up her courage and looked into those startling blue eyes. They were still smiling at her, and then she heard his words coming to her as though from a long distance away, and slowly she realized what he was saying.
“I’m Reuben Springer, and you’re the girl who makes those quilts,” he said. Then he turned and walked back to the road.
The upside-down car teetered back and forth in the wind like an old rocking chair. Inside, buried in a pile of clothing, blankets, and a seat cushion, lay the little girl. She had reddish-blonde hair and a determined chin. Her skin was blue from the cold, and over the hours she passed in and out of consciousness. The front of the car lifted up, settled down again, and then lifted up again. The wind blew harder and then eased off. The car moved a little, sliding a few inches more out onto the ice. The snow had blanketed the surface of the pond, hiding the hole that had been there only hours before.
As the car rocked gently, a picture came into the little girl’s mind. She was warm and safe in her mama’s arms, and her mother was singing a song as she gently rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Suddenly the wind picked up again, and a strong gust hit the car. The front end reared up like a horse and then smashed back down onto the ice. The ice groaned and cracked, and then a small fracture began to run out from under the front of the car like a lightning bolt.
CHAPTER NINE
Changes
IN THE SPRING OF 1941, distant rumblings of the conflict in Europe had come to Apple Creek from time to time, but for the most part the Plain People did not involve themselves in discussions about England’s battle against the Nazis. Their firm belief in nonresistance precluded any discussion of a possible global war. The people remembered that in World War I the government had drafted Amish men, but most refused to fight, and the whole community had suffered persecution and scorn as a result.
And now, before another war erupted, the elders of the faith were working with the government to provide honorable alternatives to actual combat. However, the possibility of being forced into combat was a source of some concern among the young people. Even so, on this lovely spring morning, thoughts of the war and the world outside Apple Creek were far from Jerusha’s mind.
Jerusha hadn’t seen Reuben Springer since her grandmother’s funeral, but she thought about him often. She remembered his gentle touch and soothing voice. She especially remembered his deep blue eyes and the effect they had on her. She was bothered that someone of the opposite sex could command her thoughts the way he did, for she had kept herself apart from the company of young men, even at the Sunday night singings, where discrete courtship was encouraged for young people past the age of sixteen.
Jerusha had no interest in marriage. Her life was centered in her family, the dawn-to-dusk work of a farmer’s daughter, and quilting. As a result, this newcomer’s constant intrusion into her thoughts was aggravating. Yet she also found her heart being stirred in a way she had never known before. She remembered the smile hidden behind his stern eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, and the easy, confident way he carried himself. Jerusha was not a young woman without passion and had experienced moments of deep love and wonder in her young life—for her family, for her God, for the beauty of a sunset, for her grandmother. But these feelings she had when she thought of Reuben were unlike anything she had ever known. In one moment they were deep and still, like her father’s millpond at sunset, and the next minute they would carry her over rushing rapids, tumbling her thoughts and shaking the very foundations of her emotions.
And so it was that she was lost in reverie as she walked the familiar path into the village to visit the store, not paying attention to what was going on around her.
“Well, here’s one of them Amish gals,” said a thick voice, startling her. Ahead of her on the path stood two men, one holding a half-empty bottle in his hand.
“And a mighty pretty one at that,” said the second man.
The first man stepped forward into Jerusha’s path. He towered over her, his eyes bloodshot and his face grizzled with several days’ growth of beard.
“They told us over in Indiana that there was some holy gals out here, unspoiled, so to speak,” the first man said. “But we didn’t reckon they was as pretty as you.” He leered at Jerusha with a sly grin.
“Please excuse me so I can go about my business,” Jerusha said, uncertainty in her voice.
“Well, we was
thinking we might go about some business with you, say...in those trees over there. Just a few minutes of your time, and then we’ll be on our way. What say you?” As he spoke he reached out and caught Jerusha by the arm.
The second man, who was small and thin, had edged around behind her and suddenly clapped his hand over her mouth. “Like he said, just a few minutes of your time, darlin’,” he whispered thickly in her ear, “and then we’ll be off. We’ll never tell, and you can keep your secret. It’s mighty lonesome out on the road, and we’re in great need of some female companionship.” His breath was foul, and he began to paw at her, his filthy hand fumbling at the snaps of her dress.
Jerusha tried to scream, but the man tightened his grip on her mouth. She struggled in his grasp, but he was too strong for her. She bit down on his hand as hard as she could and tasted his blood in her mouth.
“Owee! She’s a spitfire!”
“Hold her. I’ll quiet her down,” the first man said. He drew back his fist, but suddenly there was a thud, and he seemed to disappear. The second man suddenly loosened his grip on Jerusha and turned away from her. Jerusha collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. There was a series of cracking sounds, another thud, and then quiet. A gentle hand touched her shoulder.
“Come along, little Miss Quilter,” said a familiar voice. She looked up into Reuben Springer’s face. Behind his blue eyes she saw the same smile she had seen before.
“But those men,” she gasped. “They...they wanted to...”
“They appear to be taking a little nap, so that’s probably the last thing on their minds right now.”
Jerusha looked behind her and saw the two men stretched out along the path. The first one began to stir. Reuben stepped over and slapped the big man’s face. His voice took on a dangerous edge as he roused the semiconscious man. “Get up, you pig, or this will be the last place you’ll ever sleep.”
A Quilt for Jenna Page 4
