by Linda Byler
He kissed her goodnight, told her he loved her, then fell into a deep, restful sleep, the grateful slumber of a weary man after a hard day’s work. He’d commented to Annie before he fell asleep what a good feeling it was to be finished cleaning out the box stables just as this rain turned to ice.
It was the baby’s coughing that woke Annie, sleeping with her senses alert, the way young mothers do.
By that time, the fire had reached the horse stable, where the driving horses had been tied to keep them warm and dry, out of the harsh elements that night.
Annie was bewildered by the banging at first, then terrified by the high screaming of the panicked horses. She flung the bedroom door open, rushed to the hall window, and beheld a sight she would never forget.
She called to her husband in panic, her voice coming from deep in her throat, hoarse and primal, a cry of complete disbelief.
Enos felt the horror before he saw it, fumbling with his clothes, crying out, croaking words of defeat in Pennsylvania Dutch as he pulled his shoes blindly onto his bare feet. He stumbled, slid on the ice, fell, crying out again and again as he made his way to the barn, yanked open the door, and was met by a wall of raging fire, consuming the air he had given it.
The hellish situation encompassed his senses and imprinted into his memory, the smell of burning cowhide and the black smoke, the screams of his animals in indescribable pain and suffering, the icy rain pelting his back, the red-orange inferno driving him back, away from any attempt at saving even one cow, one calf, one horse.
Still sobbing, he slid across the gravel driveway, his mind clearing enough to propel him toward the phone shanty set halfway out the driveway between the poplar tree and the wagon shed.
Just as he reached the shanty, his feet gave way on the dangerous slickness, and he fell hard on his hip, saved from a mean break by the youthful resilience of good strong bone and muscle. He crawled, then pulled himself up by the handle on the door, wet, shaking, his teeth chattering. He directed the fire trucks, giving the address, 177 Heyberger Road.
Everything moved slower that night.
The cinder trucks went ahead of the fire trucks as the township worked together with the local fire companies to allow them access to the Enos Miller farm, set back on rural roads, around turns, up hills and down, every inch of the roadway slick with ice and snow.
Mercifully, the two oldest children slept through the worst of it, their angelic little faces turned toward each other in the safety of the room at the top of the stairs, covered with a heavy flannel comforter. It was one of the ones Annie’s mother, Sadie, had knotted with her sisters that day, after they found out there would be a new baby, at the age of forty-six.
The baby had settled down with his pacifier, and Annie was grateful for that as she stood inside the front door, alone, crying helplessly. She watched their hopes and dreams consumed by roaring flames, disappearing into the wet, icy atmosphere in great black billows of smoke.
Annie was quick-witted and intelligent. She remembered the last time she’d paid the fire tax. It had come in the mail, stating the amount they would owe, the Amish method of paying for their own catastrophes at times such as this.
Yes, God would provide.
As the flames leaped and danced and licked the night sky, she felt the safety of their heritage, a net designed by caring individuals, their hands intertwined to form a safe haven of care. At the root of it was God’s love, the kind human beings could only obtain from a heavenly father and rely on to make life better for one another.
So she remained calm when the fire company could not respond immediately. She opened the door to call Enos and was grateful when he came up on the front porch, away from the pelting ice and rain.
She comforted her husband, fulfilling the duty of all wives, being a helpmeet, a bolster to her beloved in this time of need. He slowly regained his composure before he heard the wail of the fire sirens down on 896.
“Ess mocht sich (It will be alright),” Annie said, and he knew he had never heard sweeter words.
Yes, they would make it. Everything would be alright.
That statement, however, did nothing to prepare them for the days ahead, the unbelievable loss buried in the wet, blackened, stinking pile of debris. When the rain finally stopped and the cold, merciless sun shone through the clouds, it illuminated the remains of things that tore at Enos with claws of pain.
The hay wagon had been his grandfather’s. His dat had given it to him, smiling, pointing out the heavy oak boards worn smooth by generations of men toiling in the hot summer sun. Now it was reduced to twisted steel wheels.
The feed cart and the wheelbarrow had both been repaired, used long past their primes, but they had served as beacons of Enos and Annie’s careful planning, their balancing of a meager budget.
As always, the help arrived with horses pulling gray and black buggies, the iron clad hooves ringing in the icy wetness, the mud splashers hanging between the buggy shafts and catching all the bits of grey ice and mud before they slid off and fell back onto the road.
They disembarked, these men dressed in black doubleknit coats and black felt hats, their black trousers tucked into tall, rubber muck boots, their hands encased in brown work gloves, their ruddy faces alight with kindness yet again.
Women came, too. They turned, reached under seats, pulled out long aluminum cake pans or Tupperware containers of pies or cookies. They brought Walmart bags of crackers and pretzels, cheese and bologna, whatever they could find in their refrigerators or cellars, raiding their own pantries with hands driven by generosity.
They clucked about all the mud tracked into Annie’s clean house, asked earnest questions, their eyes birdlike, inquisitive, wondering how the fire had started on a night like that. And Enoses living on a hill the way they did. Ach my.
The carpenter crews arrived in pickup trucks, big four-wheel drives with heavy caps on the back, carrying electric tools and portable generators. Youth came wearing stocking caps and dressed almost English, but they had kind, sympathetic faces and respectful attitudes, Enos told Annie later. He had to give them that.
The children had caught the flu. They were feverish, whining their discomfort, as the house remained perpetually cold and muddy with the doors opening constantly. There was no rest for Annie.
She carried on, dutifully performing every task that needed to be done, received boxes of food, cooked along with the women, washed clothes, nursed the baby, rocked her cranky little ones, and tried to look for the good in everything.
Dat heard of the fire in the morning from the milk truck driver.
He was grave, his face lined with the bad news, his eyes concerned, knowing this fire would stir the dreaded pot of loud opinions, determination, the rumblings of retaliation that were always voiced by those who thought along the ways of the worldly.
Over and over, Dat stressed the importance of staying pure from the world, which meant not only dressing modestly and living a simple life but having attitudes and goals that were not worldly. He truly believed there were plenty of worldly men dressed in Amish clothes, secure in their displays of righteousness, but who harbored attitudes of gain and selfishness, even schadenfreude (pleasure at the misfortune of others), and were as worldly as if they drove around in Mercedes Benzes and dressed in brilliant hues.
But humans were just that, human, and he offered up patience and forbearance as well, striving to live by example, aware of the immense job at hand, especially at a time such as this.
He ate his fried eggs and sausage, finished his dish of rolled oats and shoofly pie, drank his steaming mug of coffee, and said he’d be glad if Sarah could accompany him, if Mam was busy at home.
Sarah nodded, willing to go, although a bit pensive, sad that her last market day had been cancelled because of the ice and snow. Well, she’d visit occasionally, or substitute if she was asked. She’d now have to accept the market days as a time remembered.
She dressed warmly and put on her new wool, pea coat and w
rapped a warm green and beige plaid scarf around her neck. Then she carried out the boxes of food Mam had prepared yet again.
She loosened the latches on each side of the buggy and lifted the back on its hydraulic hinges. She loosed the seat back and swung it to the side, lifted the seat bottom and placed the cardboard boxes underneath. Running back to the kitchen, she picked up her coffee cup, the lime green to-go cup that had been a market favorite. She said goodbye, then dashed out to help Dat hitch up Fred, who was already pawing the ground, eager to get started on the long trek to Georgetown, nearly ten miles away.
How could such a beautiful, glistening world be marred by another tragedy?
Dat remained quiet, his eyes sad, his black felt hat lowered to hide that very question.
Sarah sipped her coffee, remained quiet alongside her father, and was startled when he spoke, his voice gruff and loud.
“It wouldn’t be as hard if these hotheads would calm down. And I really am afraid your cousin Melvin is behind a lot of it. He seems to be building momentum, becoming even more verbal and aggressive as time goes on. We may never find out who this arsonist is. Never.”
Sarah nodded. “But isn’t it dangerous, going on this way?”
“No lives have been lost. When that happens, we’ll take action.”
“But you don’t want to wait that long.”
Dat nodded, then turned to smile at Sarah. “Do you have a plan?”
Sarah laughed and stuck her elbow in Dat’s side. “Of course not.”
In companionable silence then, they rode the rest of the way, enjoying the display of ice and powdery snow melting in the early winter sun. Bare branches were transformed into works of art, red berries on low-growing bushes popping with color among the dark brown branches covered with glowing ice.
Giant yellow trucks clanked past, the chains on the huge wheels rattling, shoving slush and spreading salt or cinders, allowing folks all over Lancaster County safe passage to their jobs or errands.
Fred didn’t seem to mind the trucks, and he stayed steadily on course when they passed, although he always picked up his head, his ears flicked backward, then forward.
“Remember George?” Dat asked once.
“Yes. That horse was crazy!”
Dat nodded.
George had been a perfect horse, trotting swiftly, steadily, until he met a truck or tractor, anything large or noisy. Then he shied so badly they often ended up in a field or up a bank, narrowly missing telephone poles or fence posts. Eventually he had to be sold, Dat proclaiming him an accident waiting to happen.
Sarah was sickened by the sight of the smoking remains of the barn, her face losing its healthy color as she struggled to gain some sense of understanding.
It was always the same. How could Dat remain so passive about this? Rage coupled with determination brought two bright spots to her pale cheeks, but she said nothing.
So what if Melvin was worldly? Nobody else was trying to do anything to stop this senseless display of blatant hate.
Sarah didn’t know Enos and Annie Miller, but they were young, Amish, and in need. And since their own barn had burned to the ground, just like this one, that was reason enough to want to help.
She was met at the door by a buxom older woman who smiled at her and asked if she needed help. The woman grabbed the cardboard box and lumbered into the house with it, calling over her shoulder that if there was more, she’d help.
Sarah winced as the woman stepped off the porch, wearing no coat, stepping solidly on the slippery steps without fear, her dark eyes alight with interest as she moved along with surprising speed for her bulk.
“Here. Give it. Just put the other one on top.”
“It’s too heavy,” Sarah protested.
“I think not. I got it.”
She hurried back, bearing the heavy boxes, and Sarah shrugged, raising her eyebrows at Dat.
“I think she’s Shteff’s Davey’s Sam sei Edna.”
Sarah nodded, allowing Dat the impression she knew exactly who that was, when she actually had no clue. Dat knew a lot of people.
Sarah met Annie Miller for the first time that day. She was the sweetest, most loving person she’d very seen. She was in awe of this cherubic human who moved among the women, quietly instructing, accepting, helpful, ministering to her three whining babies, the way Sarah imagined very few young woman could do, especially given the circumstances.
The young girls who had arrived first were put in charge of cleaning out the implement shed, a workshop of sorts. It was cold and very dirty, a place Sarah could not imagine being hospitable to serving food.
A handful of girls she did not know accompanied her, but they soon introduced themselves, put a straw broom in her hand, and set to work.
A group of young men had moved the plows and baler and a wagon. Shop items were moved against one wall—a table saw, a press, a drill—and covered with clean plastic.
Sarah leaned her broom against the wall, wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and shivered, surveying the dusty mess.
Outside, the revving of diesel engines could be heard in the distance. Men shouted, horses stamped their feet.
A tall, black-haired youth peered through the door. He was handed a shovel by another youth Sarah didn’t know. “Come on, Alan. Make yourself useful.”
The black-haired one grinned. His voice was deep and low and rough, making him sound much older than Sarah judged him to be. His teeth were very white, his smile wide and attractive. My, Sarah thought, then unwrapped her arms and set to work.
The banter flowed, girls sneezed and coughed, guys set to work cleaning the old cement block chimney. Someone brought in a woodstove, attached a stove pipe, and in no time at all there was a roaring fire to ease the biting cold.
Sarah swept, helped unroll plastic, plied a slap stapler, and became very aware of the black-haired youth’s whereabouts. She knew when he left and when he returned, but her face remained guarded and uninterested as she worked in earnest.
They soon had a reasonable space to serve food, so they set up folding tables and covered them with lengths of plastic tablecloth. The women decided to serve sandwiches and soup, since the crowd would be much bigger in the coming days.
Large kettles filled hamburger mixed with onion, ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, salt, and pepper were set on the roaring wood stove, along with kettles of chicken corn soup and one of ham and beans. Cakes, pies, and puddings appeared, as did hungry men, blackened, already showing signs of strain, the usual good will marred by an impending wall of disagreement.
Before the afternoon had waned, Dat appeared and told Sarah he was preparing to leave. Without further words, he nodded to the women and left.
Sarah was puzzled but shrugged her shoulders, went to the house, and grabbed her purse.
She looked around for the youth who had gotten her attention, but he had evidently left as well.
Oh well.
Dat was curt, his eyebrows drawn to a tense line, goading Fred as if he needed to get as far away as possible from Enos Miller’s, and fast.
This was so unlike Dat. Sarah felt a wave of dread close its talons around her sense of optimism.
Everything would be alright, eventually. Everything.
“Dat?”
She spoke hesitantly.
He grunted, never taking his eyes off the road.
“Didn’t you always feel that everything works together for good to those that love God?”
It was like a knife through her heart when trails of tears slid down Dat’s cheeks. He placed the leather driving reins between his knees, leaned to the left, and dug around in his pocket for a handkerchief, before blowing his nose, wiping his cheeks, and replacing it with a solemn shake of his head.
“I have, Sarah, I have. But I’m not sure we can claim that promise anymore. How can we love God if we can’t love our own brethren?”
Sarah nodded.
“I’m just afraid the time is fast approaching whe
n the lessons we could learn from these fires are turning into bitter lessons, hard to tolerate. We’re headed into a black abyss of hate and fighting.”
“That’s a strong word, Dat.”
“What else is it? Unbelief? Unlove? That’s only a nice way of saying the word hate. God cannot bless us this way. I’m deeply concerned, and I blame Melvin. He needs to be stopped.”
Sarah cringed, thinking of Melvin. Dear, noisy, outspoken Melvin. Opinionated, yes, that too. Still she felt sorry for him.
Melvin meant well, that was the thing, and he was just sure the arsonist could be caught red-handed, by his cunning, his ability to outsmart anyone else.
Wherever Melvin went, groups of men surrounded him, slowly began nodding, seeing things his way, which, in Dat’s opinion, was the world’s way—to go after the arsonist, offer no second chance, no forgiveness, just slap him in jail, and let him suffer till he’s sorry.
At the supper table, Dat scolded Levi harshly for upsetting his glass of water, Levi cried, and Mam’s mouth turned down, taut, her disapproval unspoken but stamped on every feature.
As Sarah had experienced, things that seem so awful often turn into hidden blessings, twinkling little lights set everywhere to lighten the burden of plodding pilgrims, moving forward on the road of life.
Dat had a meeting with Melvin, one on one, which must have created a newly discovered humility in her normally brash, outspoken cousin.
Sarah sat at Lydia’s kitchen table early the following evening, feeling lonely, frustrated, and in need of advice, turning once again to the pleasure of having a true friend. She unwrapped her second whoopie pie, a pumpkin one. She had already devoured a chocolate one. She chomped down on it, groaned, and peeled back more of the Saran Wrap.
“Mm! Seriously, Lydia.”
Lydia laughed. It was a new sound, like rolling, babbling water, as if the happiness had to tumble over rocks to be released. Likely, it did. Her heart was probably like a rock, but it was finally breaking, softening.
“You need to start a bakery.”
“I know. But I couldn’t, with the cows. And now the horses. Omar is so busy, and Anna Mae is so attached to him, everywhere he goes, she’s there, too. In fact, Sarah, I’m afraid she is experiencing her first dose of attraction to that Lee Glick who spends so much time with Omar. Sarah, he is so awfully nice and good-looking and sweet and good.”
