The Homestead

by Linda Byler

  Then for a fleeting instant, she heard her mother’s beautiful voice and saw her happy, serene face as she sang to Abby in the crude house, rocking in the armless rocking chair that had ridden in the covered wagon, the whole way out there. Was there a peace, an underlying happiness that blossomed like a rare and beautiful flower after you did the unthinkable—surrendered your own will?

  Hannah’s own will, getting out of life what she wanted, was what made her happy, so there. She wasn’t like Mam.

  She did get dressed, then, in her own haphazard, slipshod way, her dark hair sliding out the back of her covering, loose strands on her forehead, her apron crooked, too low in the back, too tight.

  She kept the brick wall of belligerence firmly around herself. She thought that if Ben wanted to drag her to the singing, he wasn’t going to be rewarded with a different person.

  The home where the hymn singing was held was a typical Amish farm, with a white house and barn, a cow stable, corn crib, outbuildings that housed chickens and pigs, and some horse-drawn farm equipment. Dusk was falling, enveloping the farm’s perfection in a glow of sunset, before the mist of twilight set in.

  The thought of being married, gardening, milking cows, having a dozen children, living in this congested valley of rich soil and expectations, set Hannah’s teeth on edge.

  “Now what am I supposed to do?” she asked Ben, after he had pulled up to the farm, surrounded by other open seated buggies and horses being led to the forebay of the barn. Groups of young men stood around wearing colorful, long-sleeved shirts with black vests and trousers, black hats set at rakish angles, pretending they didn’t know she sat in Ben Stoltzfus’s buggy like an oddity.

  Ben hopped off the buggy, told her to go into the house and look for someone she knew. Rebecca Lapp would likely be there.

  Wishing she hadn’t come, or could go sit in a cornfield until this dreadful singing was over, she climbed off the buggy, walked across the driveway and up the sidewalk to the house, carrying herself as if the chip on her shoulder was more important than anything else.

  It didn’t get any easier once she was inside. The kettle house was lined with girls of every description, the only difference being the absence of white capes and aprons, which were worn only to church. Now they all wore capes that matched their dresses, with black belted aprons around their waists. A colorful gaggle of hopeful geese, she thought.

  A dark-haired girl stepped forward, proffered her hand, gripped Hannah’s, and said, “Welcome. Are you Mose Detweiler’s daughter?”

  Hannah nodded, her reserve masking any relief she may have felt.

  “I’m Katie Esh. We used to be in the same church when you still lived here in Lancaster. Remember Simon Eshes?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father?” The sentence was spoken as a question.

  Probably wonders if I’m sorry he died, knowing he failed at farming and then did something as despicable as that whiskey thing with the leftover grain.

  “Yeah, well, things happen.” She didn’t need to know more than that. The poverty, the homestead, the crude house, was all hundreds of miles away, hidden from their scrutiny, so that was the end of the conversation.

  Rebecca Lapp found her and set up a hysterical giggle of greeting that chafed Hannah like an ill-fitting shoe. Held to Rebecca by duty and good manners, they exchanged news of the past year, insipid words like dandelion fluff blown on a stiff breeze.

  What did Hannah care about her job picking produce on their farm? If she wanted to break her back picking strawberries and beans under the hot sun in the humidity of Lancaster County, it was none of Hannah’s business, or her interest. So that conversation melted away as well.

  Relieved to be sitting at the long table made of church benches on wooden racks built for that purpose, opening the thick, black Ausbund, the book of old German hymns written by their ancestors in the prison in Switzerland, in Passau, to be exact, where they were imprisoned for their Christian faith.

  That’s what happened to history, Hannah thought. Way back then, the Amish were persecuted, hunted for their beliefs, and thrown into prison for believing on the Lord Jesus. They were real Christians, saintly in their martyrdom, tortured and burned at the stake, their passage into Heaven secured by their unshakable longsuffering faith.

  Now, through many reprints of this very same book, these songs remained in use at every hymn singing, every church service, still honored and loved. But so much had changed since then.

  Prosperity in America had directed the Amish down a new path of farming, building, other thriving businesses, and the Ausbund was no longer understood and revered the way it was hundreds of years ago. As is the way of all people, one slowly gets off track from the devotion of these writers, composing in dank prisons. God was everything then. God was all they had.

  Very nearly, Hannah could identify with their forefathers. Her family surely hadn’t had much more, there in North Dakota. Plus, her father had held true faith and a real belief that God would look after—fa-sark—them all.

  Had God done that? Had her father given his life for his faith? Or was the generosity of the Jenkinses and the Rochers the only thing that pulled them through? Was everyone too blind to see the real part of life?

  The sacks of flour, cornmeal, and the other provisions she toted home from the town of Pine were real; they didn’t fall from the sky like manna for the children of Israel. They were given by the generosity of an English person, an ausricha. Her father had eaten the corn pone like a starved person, lifting the spoon rapidly, convinced his fasting and prayer had secured it. Pensive, her lips in a tight line, without joining the singing, Hannah sat along the table with dozens of other girls, like a mystery.

  The young men filed in, hatless now, their hair combed very carefully, parted in the middle, hanging loosely halfway down over their ears, cut round in the back. The collars of their purple, green, and blue shirts were closed according to the rules set for men’s clothing. Their rich baritones enhanced the girls’ voices, until the room was filled with a beautiful cadence.

  Later, the wild boys filed in, seated themselves along the benches in the back against the wall. Their hair was combed up over their ears, bangs fluffed and combed sideways, shirt collars hanging open, a few in short sleeves. They slouched against the wall, talking to each other, laughing, openly having a great time, disregarding the watchful eyes of the gray-bearded elders in their presence.

  They didn’t hold Hannah’s interest. She was curious, watching them with dark eyes that smoldered, her thoughts miles from this room, in North Dakota. Tall and upright, her wide shoulders in their usual position of defiance, her mouth closed and not singing, she bided her time, filling her thoughts with subjects that mattered.

  The first youth that led the pack of ungehorsam—young men—was much older than the rest, Hannah could tell. He was scruffy looking, as if he hadn’t shaved well. His hair was dark as midnight, as were his eyes. Big eyes, with lowered black brows and no smile. While the others carried on with their pinching and punching, he brooded.

  Hannah noticed this all without a trace of interest, merely observing in passing his unhappy face.

  His name was Jeremiah Riehl, and he was twenty-three years old this past March. His father could see no other alternative than to ask him to leave, not being able to raise a family of nine boys with his rebellious example like poison, spreading it around without fear of parental authority.

  Like a weed in a field of young rye grass, he was torn out and disposed of, his father white-faced and grim, his mother dry-eyed and staunch, like a post shoring up his father’s decision. A well-meaning relative took him in and regretted it later. The boy had no scruples, no conscience. He ran with the town boys, got drunk, drove a car, returned to his relative’s house to eat and sleep and sneer in his face.

  But years of patience paid off. The relative’s wife wrote Bible verses on scented stationery, left them on his nightstand, lo
ved him unconditionally, and saw through the veneer of evil rebellion. Here was a hurting child; here was a soft-hearted boy who sought his parents’ approval in strange ways that neither understood.

  The soft heart was coated with the steel of nonconformity and the need for vengeance. His saving grace was the relative’s interest in good horses, the gift of a fine thoroughbred, presented with eyes blinking back tears, received with surprise, and resulting in the first chip in the coat of steel surrounding his heart.

  By the age of twenty-two, he was known as Jerry, the horse dealer. He bought and sold horses trucked into Lancaster County and bred his own line of Standardbred road horses for the Amish and riding horses for the English.

  He developed a keen eye for good horseflesh, inheriting his sense of business from his father and the drive to succeed from his steel-willed mother, who managed the house and surrounding gardens with an iron hand. Cuffed and pinched from the time he was a toddler in diapers, belted by his father for every misstep, his soft heart bruised, then broke, then covered itself with hard rebellion, taking a long and difficult journey beset with wrong choices.

  Here he was, then, tempered by his difficult past, seeing in front of him the only girl who had ever held his glance.

  He blinked, blinked again. His heart rate picked up considerably, his hands became sweaty, his breath shallow. Pride lowered his eyes, caution kept them glued to the thick book in his hand.

  Eventually, he looked up. Like a wild, unkempt mustang she was. Untamed, her free spirit evident in the set of her shoulders, the set of her mouth. She was more than beautiful. She was like a vision. Her eyes were huge, set in her small, heart-shaped face. A perfect mouth. So different from the other girls, with that hair.

  Who was she? Where had she come from?

  When the other girls began their ridiculous water drinking and giggling, passing around hard candies and chewing gum, she merely sat without a trace or sign of interest. Obviously unhappy, she was like a tethered, untamed horse, pawing at the ground, resenting the halter and rope that held her to the singing table.

  How long did the singing keep going? He had no idea. His whole world stopped, held by the vision of this mysterious girl in front of him. When his group of young men rose to leave the room, for the first time in his life he wanted to stay.

  If he left, she might not be there when he returned. He had to know who she was. Always the last one to return for the remainder of the singing, he had to stay, talking, laughing, spending time outside, away from the parents and more obedient ones.

  To hide the fact that he was eager to return, he was the last one in, now seated much farther away. When the cookies and popcorn were served, she rose from her seat on the bench and made her way to the door with Rebecca Lapp.

  Tall. She was much taller than Rebecca. She moved like a princess, her head held high, gliding, not walking. She didn’t speak to anyone. Quiet. She was a quiet girl.

  Jerry did his best to hide his interest, now much more than a spark. A flame had begun, and he was swayed by his lack of power in the face of it. Inwardly he writhed helplessly as the sight of her hammered painfully at his efficiently armored heart. All of his failure and inability to please accosted him like a river of molten steel, ready to replace any sign of breaking away the coating that was already secured.

  The cookies and popcorn passed through his hands unnoticed. “S’ wrong with you, Jerry. Aren’t you hungry?” Laughing, Jerry grabbed a cookie and bit off half of it. Oatmeal, like sawdust in his dry mouth.

  She returned. He choked on the crumbling cookie. Laughter and backslapping. He looked up in time to see those large, black eyes on his own red, spluttering face, holding so much disapproval.

  Then her eyes slid away with a lowering of her eyelids, an unconscious natural look that set his heart to its accelerated racing, as if it was not a part of him but a mere projection of his weakness.

  So he stood in a dark corner of the yard and watched. It was Ben Stoltzfus who came to claim her for the ride home. His girlfriend from another county? There were Amish in Berks County, where they had originally settled when they emigrated from Switzerland.

  Nonchalantly, on the outside, every sense honed for a response, Jerry dropped the question. “Ben after a woman?” He had to repeat himself, before anyone heard, the boisterous crowd rife with Sunday evening shenanigans, as usual.

  “Naw, that’s his niece.”

  Words like ambrosia. A sweet nectar sipped from the cup of promise. “Really? That’s his niece?” He could have slapped little Amos when he snorted about all that happiness about only a niece. What was up with that?

  So, he was more observant, but spoke nothing afterward. He watched Ben back his horse into the shafts, the tall girl holding them aloft, expertly lowering them, quickly fastening traces and britching. Ben said, “Better watch it, Hannah. He rears when he’s riled up.”

  Hannah. That was her name.

  “Want me to hold him?” Her voice was low, almost like a youth. Low and husky.

  “Afraid you can’t get in.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  And sure enough, the nervous horse rocked on prancing legs, gathered himself on his hind legs, ready to rear and come up on those muscular hind quarters to paw at the air with his front feet. But the girl was too quick. Without fear, she yanked down on the bit and said, “Hey. Oh, no you don’t.” She stood her ground like a soldier.

  Jerry knew expert horsemanship when he saw it. His chest felt constricted, choked with emotion.

  The horse stood, recognizing her fearless command.

  “Get in!” Ben called.

  “I will when I’m ready. He needs to learn to stand.” By this time a crowd had gathered. Hannah was oblivious. She held firm to the bit, stroked the horse’s white blaze, and murmured something.

  Someone called out, “He’s not a dog! He’ll come up the minute you stop that, you know.”

  She never bothered answering. Jerry watched as she slowly loosened her hold on the bit and said, “Whoa,” firmly, then walked to the buggy step and climbed in without hurrying.

  Ben lifted the reins, and in a flying leap they were off in a spray of gravel, the light courting buggy swaying, fishtailing, righting itself before disappearing into the dark night.

  They rode through the warm summer night at a fast clip, the humid air turning Hannah’s schtrubles into curls, moistening her skin, and ruining the crisp white organdy of her covering.

  Ben whistled, enjoying the fast trot of one of his best horses, thinking of a perfect time to ask Rebecca Lapp for their first date. He already planned on Hannah helping him out, which was the real reason he had urged her to go to the singing with him in the first place.

  “My covering is ruined,” Hannah lamented.

  “The other girls wear bonnets. That protects them from the damp night air.”

  “I hate bonnets. They smash your covering worse than the night air.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t know.”

  “I guess not. You don’t normally wear one.”

  They laughed. Ben thought she had an attractive laugh, deep and genuine. Too bad no one hardly ever heard it.

  Then Ben said, “Hey, go along to Stephen Zook’s on Saturday evening. There’s a hoedown in their barn.”

  Hannah’s voice caught, faltered. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to play.”

  “You don’t have to. You can sit and watch.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Probably not. You know I don’t have much interest here. I will be going back to the homestead as soon as I can. I have no intention of letting those 320 acres go to waste.”

  “But Hannah, you have to think reasonably. Your mother will never want to go back. How can you think of going, with or without her? Give up those acres of land. You can’t do it.”

  “Manny and I could.”

  “How?”

  “Cattle. A windmill. Horses. Ben, the land is free! Think of it. Free! All it takes is a bit of gut
s to get started. Once those cattle get going, we’ll be rich. Acres and acres of free grass. You know we don’t have a penny. If we stay here, we’ll be sponging off grandfather for the rest of our lives. Or I’ll be slaving in produce fields, teaching school to a bunch of snot-nosed little kids who don’t listen to the teacher. I don’t want to get married like everyone else. I’d be tied to housework and diapers for the rest of my life. Besides, what if I end up with a genuine loser and have to live the way my mother always has?

  “I’m going back, Ben, and no one will stop me. I’m different than most of the girls you know, so get over it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Hannah’s grandfather approached her about getting a job. In September, picking was at its peak, and she could make good money picking tomatoes and lima beans at Uncle Henry’s. He was concerned that Sarah didn’t have enough to do, her grieving turning her into a thin, sorrowful person.

  “It seems as if you do the biggest share of the work, which gives her too much time to sit and think. I don’t believe this is good. Everyone has to move on, forget about themselves. Hard work is a good cure for grief. It is as the Lord intended. Besides, you need to think of footing some of your own expenses soon. It doesn’t sit too well with the other children that I am your sole provider.”

  Hannah felt an instant surge of rebellion. “Oh, they don’t think you should provide for your widowed daughter, do they? Well, then, I suppose I’d better get to work, huh?”

  “Yes.” Her grandfather failed to take the hint of sarcasm in Hannah’s voice, merely accepted her response as a willingness to comply, went peacefully on his way with the two brown mules and the wagon, back to loading corn for silo filling, the heat of the day marking his straw hat with a darker rim of perspiration around the crown, where the black band was tied with a knot.

  Safely out of her grandfather’s hearing, Hannah let loose with a volley of rebellious words like bullets pinging across the kitchen.