by Marta Perry
“He’ll settle down when he’s ready to join the church.” Isaac wasn’t sure how comforting that was, with five or six years, most likely, before young James came to that point. “We all did.”
“You just wait until Joseph is ready to start his rumspringa,” Lige warned. “He’s fourteen already, and the years fly by fast. One minute they’re sitting on your knee and the next you have to look up to talk to them. Remember how you felt at that age—”
Lige stopped abruptly, as if realizing a moment too late that he was on rocky territory.
Isaac felt his face freeze as he sought for words. “I should go help—”
Onkel Simon put a firm hand on his arm. “Lige didn’t mean anything.”
“I know.” He made as if to pull his arm away, but his uncle didn’t seem to be finished yet.
“You have a new home now.” Onkel Simon nodded toward the farmhouse. “A happy home, and it was built on the foundation of the home that used to be there. That’s a wonderful gut way to use the past, Isaac. Not to forget, not to cling to. But to make a foundation for what’s to come.”
Onkel Simon meant well. Isaac knew it. But he also knew he couldn’t talk about it, especially not today of all days.
“Denke.” He pulled free without looking at his uncle’s weathered face. “I must say good-bye to Judith’s grandmother. I see they’re almost ready to leave.”
He walked away steadily, trying not to let his face show his feelings. All that remained was to say all the good-byes and do the cleanup. Then this long day would be over. After a good night’s sleep, tomorrow would be better.
As always, that job was easier to say than to do. People lingered, chatting, while the young ones chased each other around the yard. Only when the sun had nearly reached the ridge did folks start getting ready to leave in earnest. No one wanted to be driving a buggy home after dark if they could help it.
And then there was all the cleaning up to do. Despite the fact that folks helped, it took an eternity, it seemed, until the last dish had been put away.
Finally the family was alone in the house. While Judith put the boys to bed, Isaac finished up in the kitchen, feeling as if he’d been trampled by a runaway horse.
Judith returned quietly, and she gave him what he thought was an apprehensive glance. “Everyone’s settled for the night. I just hope Levi isn’t up with a bellyache after all he ate.”
“He’ll be fine.” Isaac tried to sound normal. “I think I’ll get to bed soon, too. We’ll be up extra early to get the cows milked before it’s time to leave for worship tomorrow.”
She nodded, her gaze still on his face. “Are you . . . are you all right?”
Isaac’s jaw clenched. Like Onkel Simon, Judith meant well. They just didn’t understand that he was handling the painful memories the only way he could.
“Fine,” he snapped, and then was sorry when he saw the hurt in her eyes. “I’m going up,” he added, trying to soften his tone, but it seemed to him that the hurt look followed him all the way upstairs.
Later, lying next to Judith in the double bed, he had to try deliberately to relax his muscles so that he could sleep. The windows were open to let in the night breeze, and the monotonous chirping of the crickets was soothing—almost as soothing as Judith’s warm body lying next to him.
He turned his head silently to look at her. She lay on her side, as she always did, and a thick braid crossed her shoulder to shield the delicate curve of her breast. Her hand was partially curved in sleep, and her breathing was slow and even. Listening to it, he slid into sleep.
The next thing he knew, Judith was shaking him, calling his name. He jerked out of the dream, feeling the sweat on his face chill in the night air. He unclenched his fists, half fearing what Judith had seen and heard.
The nightmare was familiar even though he hadn’t had it in years—of struggling through the smoke and flames, the floor hot under his bare feet, following the sound of the baby crying almost by instinct. He twisted against Judith’s restraining arms, shaking his head from side to side, sure he smelled the smoke again. The house—
“Isaac, it was a nightmare. Nothing but a nightmare. It’s over now. You’re safe. We’re all safe.” Judith’s hands clutched him as if she’d pull him bodily away from the dream.
“Ja,” he muttered. He drove his fingers through his hair. “Ja. Not real. Not now.”
“No, of course not now.” She ran her hands along his arms. “It was over long ago.”
Her words seemed to jangle in his ears, and he shook his head. “No. No. It’s not over. Not for me.”
“Isaac, don’t.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “What happened was terrible, but you must accept it.”
“I went for Joseph. He was crying, so I went for him.” The words felt as if they were ripped from his heart.
“You saved your little brother. He’s alive because of you.”
She didn’t understand. How could she?
“If I’d gone for Daad first, maybe we could have gotten everyone out.”
He felt Judith stiffen as she absorbed the words. “Don’t, Isaac. Don’t think of it that way. You don’t know—”
He jerked away from her, rolling out of bed, his bare feet hitting the hooked rug next to it. Cool, not hot, but still, he couldn’t pull free of the dream.
“Need some air.”
If he didn’t get out in the fresh air, he’d choke. He bolted from the room, past the doors of the children’s rooms. Grabbed the railing and stumbled down the stairs. Was it now, or was it years ago?
Across the kitchen, bumping into the table. Finally he reached the door. He burst through it and out onto the porch, sucking in a long breath of the night-scented air, telling himself it was over. There was nothing wrong, not now.
It didn’t help. He could still taste the acrid tang of fire.
No matter how far he ran, it wouldn’t be far enough. He couldn’t escape it. He never would.
• • •
Judith sat on the backless bench in the Shuman family’s barn the next morning, holding Noah against her and keeping her back straight through long practice. Rebecca was next to her in the row of young mothers, and there was comfort in having her cousin so near. Her thoughts should be on the main sermon, but instead they kept wandering to Isaac.
He was sitting opposite her in the men’s section, with Levi and Paul on either side of him. Levi sat up straight, eager to prove that soon he’d be capable of sitting with the other boys instead of with his parents. Six-year-old Paul was drooping a bit, his head resting on Isaac’s sleeve.
Judith’s heart clenched, looking at Isaac’s solemn face. She’d tried to stay awake until he came back to bed last night, but she’d nodded off after an hour or so, and she’d been berating herself for that since she woke.
Still, she couldn’t convince herself that he’d have said anything more even if she had been awake. The little Isaac had said seemed to have been torn from him, probably by the fierce reminder of what had happened on his sixteenth birthday. No wonder he’d had a nightmare. Her heart actually ached, so that she longed to press her hand against it to ease the pain.
There had been no opportunity to speak to him alone this morning, not in the rush to get all the chores done before they headed down the road for worship services. The kinder had been with them in the buggy, of course, and when they’d arrived they’d separated, she to go and join the women, greeting each one, while he did the same with the men.
She glanced at Joseph, in the front row with the other boys under the eyes of the entire congregation. He’d been proud when he’d been deemed old enough to sit away from the family. Like most mothers of boys in that group, she prayed he’d behave properly and not embarrass them.
Noah stirred restlessly at her side, and she patted him. It was hard for anyone to sit for three hours, and even
adults had been known to doze off on a hot summer day. Noah had been playing with a piece of yarn and a handkerchief, but now he let the yarn drop to the floor.
Rebecca’s daughter, Katie, bent to pick it up. With a quick smile at Noah, she began to weave the yarn into a cat’s cradle. He stopped wiggling to watch, fascinated, and then grabbed for the yarn, clearly wanting to do it, too. With the patience of a big sister, Katie wound the yarn on his hand, guiding his small fingers in the movements. Above their heads, Judith exchanged smiles with Rebecca.
What would her cousin say, she wondered, if Judith told her about what had happened with Isaac last night? She wouldn’t, of course. That was private between husband and wife. But if she did, somehow Judith knew what Rebecca’s advice would be. The same advice she’d get from her mother or from Grossmammi. She could hear their voices in her head.
Geh lessa. Let it go. Let it be. Accept.
Judith sighed. Gelassenheit was at the root of most things Amish, it seemed. To be yielded, to be surrendered, and to accept whatever happened as God’s will.
She looked again at Isaac. It was ironic, in a way. Isaac obviously had never truly accepted the fire that had claimed his family. And she couldn’t accept the barriers that had been placed between them.
And between him and Joseph? She groped her way to understanding, going over and over the few words Isaac had spoken as he’d come out of the dream. He blamed himself, thinking he should have gone for his father first instead of following the sound of crying. Probably that made him doubly determined to do what he thought his father would have wanted.
As for Joseph—what did he want? She’d had no chance yet to question him about the vocational course information Barbie had seen him take. She had to do that, and soon, before it came out in another family explosion.
The minister began the closing prayer. Judith slid down to kneel facing the bench, trying not to wake Noah, who’d fallen asleep with the yarn still wrapped around his fingers. But he stirred and muttered something and then seemed to realize where he was. Unprompted, he slid to his knees, bringing his hands together on the bench. The simple gesture warmed her heart. Why could she not just relax and trust in God, reflecting on how many blessings He had brought into her life?
But as they stood for the final hymn, her thoughts were already racing ahead. She had to find out what Joseph was up to. Knowing that she was failing in acceptance by trying to manage the situation herself, she ought to be asking forgiveness. Still, it was hardly being honest with God to ask forgiveness when she planned to do it anyway.
Sometimes it was hard to be Amish. Judith thought of the letter she’d read that had been written over sixty years ago. It had sounded as if Mattie had struggled with how to live Amish in her time as well.
Lancaster County, August 1953
Adam clucked to the mare as they neared the lane to the farm he ran with his daad. She’d turn automatically if he didn’t let her know they were headed on to Mattie’s place.
His errand could probably have waited until later, when he came to help with the afternoon milking, but what he’d heard in the village had troubled him, and the concern he felt over the school situation was building. Too bad that Mattie’s Rachel was the only child in the family just turned fourteen. It might have been easier on both Mattie and Rachel if some of the cousins were affected as well. Of course, it would affect all of the Leit eventually.
Be patient. Be humble. Live separate. All the standards by which the Amish lived didn’t seem to offer enough guidance in this situation.
He heard a car approaching from behind him, the engine roaring as it neared. Betsy flapped one ear, as if hearing it, too, and kept on with a steady trot. The car zoomed past, sending up a cloud of dust, and the driver beeped with what seemed a note of scorn.
It was one of those newer models, he noticed, with lots of shiny chrome, and painted a bright red. Made to draw attention, Adam supposed, just as the black and gray Amish buggies of Lancaster County were meant to be indistinguishable from one another.
There were more cars on the road every year since the war ended, even on a back country road like this one. The world around them was changing, but their command remained the same. Live separate. Be not conformed to the standards of this world. Sometimes he thought that grew harder all the time.
Betsy turned into Mattie’s lane, seeming to know where he was headed. That was a comment in itself as to the amount of time he spent here. Still, it was up to the family to help Mattie and her kinder since Ben’s death, and he was freer than most, since he had neither wife nor child. Five years he’d been alone now, and folks kept hinting it was time he was marrying again.
But not Mattie, who was unable to think of him as anything but Ben’s little cousin.
He drew up at the back porch of the farmhouse and the boys came running.
“It’s not milking time,” Toby said. “We just had lunch.”
“You’ve been to town.” Nate patted the mare, knowing Adam wouldn’t have hitched her up to come here. “What did you do?”
“Went to the hardware store is all.” He jumped down in time to scoop little Anna up as she hurtled toward him. “You boys want to give Betsy a drink?”
“Ja, right away.” Toby raced for the bucket while Nate held the mare’s harness.
“Is Mammi in the house?” He headed for the porch, carrying Anna.
“I’m right here.” Mattie opened the screen door and stepped toward him with a smile of welcome. “What takes you out and about?”
“Trip to town.” He set Anna down and held out the small brown paper bag he’d been hiding.
“Penny candy,” Anna crowed, knowing immediately what it was. “Denke, Cousin Adam.”
“Share with your brothers and sister now,” he said as she ran off.
“You spoil her,” Mattie chided.
“Ach, a bag of penny candy is nothing.” His little Sarah would have been Anna’s age, if she hadn’t been gone before she’d had a chance to take a breath.
Maybe Mattie knew what was in his mind, because she said no more about it.
“Is Rachel around?” he asked.
Mattie shook her head. “She’s over to Mary Ann’s, helping her with the canning. Did you need to see her?”
“Just wanted to be sure she didn’t overhear what I have to say.” The words brought a shadow to Mattie’s eyes, but it was better if he told her about the talk before she heard it from someone else. “Let’s sit a minute.”
Face grave, Mattie seated herself on the porch swing. He had helped Ben hang it so many years ago, laughing at Ben’s insistence that a house wasn’t a home unless it had a porch swing. Adam took the place next to Mattie, trying not to think that it was where Ben used to sit.
“Tell me, whatever it is.” She seemed to brace herself.
“It’s not too bad,” he said quickly. He hadn’t meant to alarm her. “It’s just that I heard a bit of talk while I was at the hardware store this morning.” He frowned, trying to think of the best way to tell her. “There were some Englisch there, hanging out in the store.”
There always were, picking up the latest news, he guessed. He sometimes thought men were worse than women for gossip.
Mattie’s hands clasped each other tightly, and he felt an urge to take them in his. But he didn’t.
“Talking about us? About this business of the school and us not wanting to send our children?”
“Ja. One of them was a bit of a loudmouth. The others tried to hush him when I came in, but he wasn’t having it. He seemed to think I was a dumb Dutchman who couldn’t even understand them.”
“Most Englischers aren’t like him,” she said quickly.
“No. But I’m worried that too many might share his opinions about this school business.” He frowned. He wasn’t doing this right. “That was the whole gist of what he was saying, that
we were dumb and didn’t know enough to take proper care of our own kinder. And it worried me that nobody spoke up against him, not even Mr. Matthews, and he knows the Amish as well as anyone, running the hardware store like he does.”
“What? Why would any of them think we can’t take care of our children? Nobody could possibly love my little ones more than I do.” Mattie’s lips trembled for an instant, but then she pressed them together as if to defy anyone to argue the point with her.
Adam had been trying to figure that out all the way here from the hardware store. “It’s this whole idea of progress, I think. Since the war ended, Englisch folks seem like they’re all caught up in this notion of everything being bigger and better. Faster and shinier.” He remembered the car that had passed him. “They seem to think if a school is bigger, it has to be better.”
“Well, fine. Let them have their bigger schools then, if that’s what they want. Just leave us alone.”
“That’s the trouble, Mattie.” Again he felt the urge to take her straining hands in his. “They won’t leave us alone. They—some of them, anyway—think it would be a really good idea if our kids were sent off to a big school where they’d learn about modern Englisch ways of doing things. Then they wouldn’t be backward, like us.”
“Why is it backward to want to live as Jesus commanded?” Mattie’s rare temper flashed. “We don’t try to tell other folks how to live.”
“We’re outnumbered.” He couldn’t help smiling a little at her indignation. “I know what you mean, and I agree with you. But I’m not sure we should pin too much hope on this meeting the bishop has set up for him and the ministers to explain our point of view to the school board president.”
Mattie looked honestly surprised at his pessimism. “But the board president is an educated man. He’s not like one of those lazy loafers in the hardware store. Surely he’ll listen to Thomas Beiler’s words. Everyone respects Bishop Thomas, even the Englisch.”
“Maybe not everyone. It’s apparently common knowledge that the bishop asked for a meeting with the school board president.” He frowned. “I don’t know the man, so I can’t say that the folks I heard had it right. But according to what they were saying, this Walter Graham is all for the new school plan, and he’s not likely to be swayed by Bishop Thomas or anyone else.”
