by Gregg Olsen
To Armstrong, who had grown up in Wayne County farm country with Amish neighbors, the Stutzmans were a nondescript, simple Amish couple—a study in black, white, and blue.
Ida acquiesced to her husband’s authority, offering few comments while the loan amount of $55,000 was discussed. Stutzman said he needed the loan to pay the mortgage contract on his farm with the previous owner. A typed note signed by Daniel and Sarah Swartzentruber deeding the property to the Stutzmans was produced to verify the intention.
Such a document would likely raise the eyebrows of any lender unfamiliar with the ways of the Amish. Who but the Amish, ever trustworthy as they were, would deed property and transfer it to another party without a mortgage to back it up? In essence, Eli Stutzman already owned the farm. If Stutzman had wanted to ignore his obligation to pay the Swartzentrubers, he could have.
This was not unusual, given that the Amish insist on keeping their affairs to themselves as they maintain their separation from the modern world. Why record business concerns with the court? Of course, there was a good reason, and trouble resulted when parties shunned modern legal procedures. If a borrower defaulted on a bank loan, the Amishman who sold the farm and was still receiving payments was left out in the cold. If their loan had not been recorded, they were the last in line when the proceeds from the sale of a property were dispersed.
If Armstrong noticed that Eli Stutzman was different from the other Amishmen he had met over the years, it was something about his manner. Eli Stutzman was a gentler, almost soft-spoken man. He was not as authoritarian as other Amishmen. He seemed less dominant, less than iron-handed. Perhaps Armstrong unconsciously picked up on the vocal nuances and accent of an Amishman who had spent time with Englischers after jumping the fence. Around town, some called those who left the Order “jerked-over” Amish.
Stutzman hauled out a shoebox and went over recent farm records. Ordinarily, FLB’s procedure called for the review of three years of records, but since Stutzman had lived only a few months on the farm, the practice was waived. Regardless of the productivity of Stutzman’s farm, the land would appreciate and the lender would have no difficulty getting its money out of it in the event of foreclosure.
If there was any trouble at home, Armstrong didn’t catch any hint of it. If the couple did not seem especially close or warm toward each other, there was an easy enough explanation: they were low Amish.
Since Ida’s name was on the deed prepared by Dan Swartzentruber’s attorney, her presence and signature were essential for the execution of the loan. If Eli Stutzman wanted money, he needed Ida.
“Somebody is lying low for Eli Stutzman.”
When Amos Gingerich first heard the vague rumor, he didn’t know what to make of it. His son-in-law was in some kind of trouble. The second time he heard it, he acted. He went to see his son-in-law at the Cherry Ridge School to warn him of the rampant rumors that somebody was out to get him.
“I’m not worried,” Stutzman told his father-in-law.
Shortly after meeting with the Stutzmans, loan officer Armstrong made the trip to Dalton for the appraisal. It was an average property, especially suited to Amish horse farming—rolling hills, a creek, and some wooded acreage. The property contrasted with the type of land sought by Englische farmers, who prefer a treeless terrain and level land for cultivation. Amish prefer a mix, particularly wooded areas for hunting and lumber. They “buzz” some of their trees and mill lumber for outbuildings and houses.
The Stutzman property was fine. With escalating land values in Wayne County during the 1970s, it was apparent to Armstrong that FLB wouldn’t be at risk. Besides—and this never escaped the loan officer’s mind—this was a loan to an Amishman. Those were usually risk-free, although Armstrong had heard of cases in which Amish with perfect credit and payment history became delinquent with their final payment. This seemed out of character until he learned the reason. Amish families who acquire Englische farms keep the electrical power until the farm is paid off—a requirement of the loan. Some use the electricity, although it is forbidden by the Ordnung. For those who do, electricity can be as addictive as a drug. In those few such cases, the church intervenes and pays off the loan. Power lines are severed, and meters are smashed with hammers or rocks.
On July 7, the loan was approved. A check for $55,000 was cut for the Stutzmans, essentially the borrowers, when Daniel Swartzentruber was the seller. The procedure was a bit peculiar. Usually, money is dispersed to the seller. At that time, however, loan money did not have to be used for the reason stated on the loan application.
Dan Swartzentruber continued to receive regular payments. He was unaware that the Stutzmans had arranged the loan. If there was another purpose for the loan money, it was unknown to Ida Stutzman. She would never have signed her name to a document that was misrepresented.
The reason stated for the loan, however, was as clear as the sunny summer morning when they picked up the check: “Pay mortgage contract on the farm with the previous owner.”
Years later, Armstrong wondered if giving the money directly to the Stutzmans was such a good idea. “It was pretty much a standard practice then,” he said.
Swartzentruber Amish girl Anna Hershberger was only a teenager when she died of cancer the first week of July 1977. Ida and Danny Stutzman went alone to the funeral.
Her family talked about it that night: “Ida didn’t seem herself. Something was on her mind. It wasn’t right that Eli didn’t come with her and the baby.”
Anna’s funeral was to be the last time many saw Ida. Later, the Gingeriches were left to wonder if there was a reason why Stutzman hadn’t shown up. “Maybe it was that he couldn’t face us,” Dan Gingerich said.
July 11, 1977
The sky over Wayne County was dark and stormy as Abe Stutzman’s little brother—also named Eli—who had been hired that summer to work on Eli and Ida’s farm, hoisted himself up a ladder to pick apples for his cousin Ida. Eli Stutzman had business to take care of and had taken the buggy into town earlier in the day. Ida spent most of her time inside doing the woman’s chores she had been raised to do.
Jagged streaks of lightning and the echo of approaching thunder broke the stillness of the late afternoon, and livestock shifted nervously as they hunkered under trees and sought safety inside the barn. The boy picked a few more apples, then retreated into the two-story farmhouse.
Farmers are used to such storms. Englische houses and barns are topped with the sharp spires of lightning rods. The Amish refuse to use rods, just as they refuse insurance. Such precautions interfere with God’s will.
Baby Daniel, now 10 months old, slept in the crib. As required by the Ordnung, he wore a loose, white dressing gown and a cap on his head. At age two he would wear pants, and the cap would become a hat—a miniature of his father’s.
Lightning continued to split the air like an ax crashing on an anvil, hard and with frightening fury. Sue Snavely, the Stutzmans’ neighbor across the road, had forgotten how much she hated electrical storms. Only a few months before, the Snavelys had returned to Ohio after years away with the military. She waited for her accountant husband, Howard, to come home from his job at Republic Steel in Massillon.
Eli Stutzman guided the buggy up the muddy dirt driveway. With no windshield or storm front—forbidden by the Swartzentrubers because they resemble cars—his chest and bearded face had been soaked by the downpour. A tarp wrapped around his waist, however, kept his legs dry from the spray of the trotting horse. Englischers and those who left the Amish ridiculed the inconsistencies of the religion that allowed a plastic tarp as protection but not a plastic storm front.
Stutzman dropped the reins and excitedly called the hired boy to come to the barn. “Lightning hit the barn. I saw it hit from up the hill,” he told the boy in Deutsch.
The boy hurried into the barn where Stutzman had motioned him. The barn, which abutted the road, was dark and cool. The boy watched as the man searched the roof line for the strike. Neither spo
ke. Finally Stutzman pointed to a timber high above them. “It hit there. See it?” he asked.
The boy focused his sharp eyes but saw nothing. He looked harder.
“It is there!” Stutzman commanded. A small chip on the peak of the inside of the barn caught the boy’s attention, but if it had been there days before or even years before, he would never be able to say.
He nodded to his boss as he watched Stutzman climb a ladder up the granary. Stutzman called down that he had found where the lightning had traveled. He needed water, and the hired boy retrieved some from the well. From the floor, fifteen feet below, the boy watched Stutzman pour the water high on the corn-laden wooden granary. He still couldn’t see what had alarmed Stutzman.
Amos and Lizzie Gingerich spent most of the day away from their Fredericksburg home visiting in Holmes County. The day had been uneventful, although there had been a good soaking and a thunder shower in the late afternoon.
Amos read from the newspaper and remarked on another member of the community who had passed away. Lizzie shook her head sadly and made a quick count of the number who had died in the recent months, more than a dozen. The last one from their district had been Anna Hershberger. Lizzie was saddened by all the deaths, yet thankful that her household had been spared.
“Where in the world is the next one going to be?” she asked.
There is no blackness like night in Wayne County. The lack of cities and the mist in the air create an impossible darkness that seizes everything. Ancient oak trees are shrouded in black. At night, there is nothing for anyone to see.
July 11 was a night some would later try to forget, and others would struggle with all they possessed to recall anything they could.
Tim Blosser, an attorney from Dalton who had met Stutzman at the little sawmill across Moser Road in April, stopped by a little after 6:00 P.M. to help the Amish family prepare a will. When Blosser arrived, Stutzman told him of the lightning and, along with Ida, showed him a spot on the floor of the upper level of the barn that had been doused. Blosser saw where a window had been blown out and Stutzman told him that the lightning had done it that afternoon. Oddly, Blosser didn’t see any shards of glass, but he did see some water-soaked embers among the hay on the floor—proof that a fire had smoldered there.
The hired boy hadn’t seen any embers when Stutzman commanded him to get a bucket of water earlier in the evening.
“His wife seemed very happy that Eli had been able to extinguish the fire before it burned down their barn,” Blosser later said.
If the attorney ever doubted Stutzman’s honesty, it was only briefly when the Amishman said he had seen the lightning strike. The attorney thought such timing was remarkable.
Inside, while Ida rocked the baby in her arms, the men discussed the terms of the will Stutzman said he wanted. If Ida died, everything would go to her husband; in the event of his death, the estate was hers. If they should die simultaneously, Danny would get the estate. Amos Gingerich was named executor. The will would need to be typed and witnessed before becoming a valid legal document.
Blosser later recalled that he left the farm around 8:30 P.M.
As far as the hired boy knew, the rest of the evening passed quietly. The ticking of a wind-up mantel clock marked the hours. With the weak glow of kerosene lamps the only source of light, and with cows in need of milking before sunrise, the Amish retire early. That night was no different. Ida, Eli, and Danny slept in the small bedroom on the main floor. Before bed, Ida sang old German songs and cuddled her son. The curtains were drawn, but the windows were open to allow a cool breeze to circulate in the still, hot house.
Young Eli went to bed upstairs around 9:00 P.M.
If anything out of the ordinary happened between bedtime and the hours before midnight, no one was old enough to remember it—or lived to tell about it.
At midnight, the hired boy stirred. His eyes were drawn to the window, where a brightness shone. He went to the window. Below, he saw the gold and red of flames and a black plume rising from the barn. Dressing as he went, he raced down the stairs and called for Eli and Ida to wake. Light from the fire illuminated their room; curtains fluttered from the rush of hot air. Danny was asleep in his crib, but the Stutzmans were gone.
Why didn’t Eli or Ida wake me with news of the blaze? the boy wondered. Where are they? Why didn’t they call for me to help?
On the front porch, the boy ran into Stutzman. The Amishman’s dilated pupils made his eyes seem black, only rimmed in blue.
“Go to Harley Gerber’s! Have him call the fire department! Hurry!”
Young Eli ran past the south side of the barn, away from the flaming north side, his bare feet pressing the surface of the now-dry dirt driveway. Over his shoulder he saw Stutzman pull farm machinery from the barn. A box wagon and tools had already been moved.
As he turned the corner where Moser Road meets the driveway, the boy saw Ida, motionless on her back. Her eyes were closed. She was very still and only a step or two from the barn.
“Ida! Ida!” he called as he knelt beside her. “What is wrong? Ida, wake up!”
He touched her, but she didn’t budge. Although most of the color was washed from her face, her left cheek and her left hand were pink from the heat. He could see that she was too hot, too close to the fire.
Thinking that he’d better tell Eli, the boy ran back and screamed that Ida was hurt.
Stutzman just shook his head.
He already knew.
“Go to Harley Gerber’s now! Get the doctor, too!” Stutzman instructed.
“He seemed mad that I had not done what he told me,” the boy later said.
Young Eli did an about-face. Passing Ida again, he wondered why Stutzman hadn’t mentioned that his wife had been hurt in the first place. Why was Eli Stutzman more concerned about the farm equipment than his wife?
The crashing of splintering, burning timbers and the snap of crunch-dry straw riddled the night like gunfire. The frightened boy ran as fast as he could.
Ida needed help . . . now!
Across Moser Road, the sound of the fire ricocheted through an open window and woke Sue Snavely. She woke Howard, who pulled on a pair of pants and told his wife to call the fire department. As they ran downstairs, the noise woke two of their children.
The screen door slammed behind Howard Snavely as he ran across Moser Road toward the Amish family’s front door. He assumed that the Stutzmans were unaware of the fire, since he saw no one outside. Just as Snavely reached the porch, Stutzman came around from the other side of the barn. Had the Amishman heard Snavely calling for them to wake up? Had he seen him run across the road? The timing seemed lucky and remarkable.
Stutzman was a fright. The bearded Amishman was frantic, disheveled, hysterical. He waved for Snavely to come. Snavely sensed that something bad had happened—something more terrible than the burning barn.
“We’ve got to get my wife out! She’s trapped in the barn!” Stutzman cried out.
Adrenaline surged through Snavely’s body as he followed Stutzman to the milk house on the south side of the barn. Amish dairy farmers used the little rooms, neatly lined in clay tiles, to keep milk cool and clean until haulers came to get it.
“We’ve got to get her out!” Stutzman screamed again.
Snavely noticed some stainless steel three-gallon buckets and a milk strainer in a heap outside the door. Panting for breath, Stutzman swung the door open, and Snavely saw Ida, dressed in her Amish clothes—including her small, starched black scarf—lying on her back. Her feet were next to the door, her head farther inside. The woman’s pregnancy was obvious beneath her dark coat.
Stutzman muttered something about a heart attack as he lifted his wife up by her underarms. Snavely carried the woman’s feet and legs. Her uncradled head hung down. The men carried her across the road to the night pasture.
By then Stutzman had calmed considerably. He was quiet, and his body no longer shook in frightened spasms. On impulse, Howard Snavel
y reached for Ida’s wrist; he detected no pulse. Stutzman, who knew mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from his work at the hospital, did nothing.
Kidron fire chief Mel Wyss saw flames rising off the peaked roof of the barn as his fire truck topped Sand Hill. With the speed and efficiency of any big-city fire department, firemen started pumping water from a 1,500-gallon tanker—the small department’s only such unit.
Bystanders arrived. A few Amish from nearby farms came by buggy, but most were Englischers coming by car. Elam Bontrager was on the scene, although later no one from the fire department could remember talking with him.
Snavely frantically called for Wyss to come across the road to the pasture. “We have an injury! Mrs. Stutzman is hurt!” he called.
When the fire chief looked at the woman, he knew she was dead.
Wyss, who as a Sugarcreek Township trustee knew Stutzman well enough to recognize him on the street, approached the Amishman to gather information for his report. Stutzman was nervous and excited, and no one could blame him for that. Yet, his reaction seemed incomplete. He was oblivious to the condition of his wife.
Wyss noted a few milk pails in the vicinity of the milk-house doorway. The heat was too intense for him to enter, but it was clear and smoke-free.
Stutzman looked on, blinking at the yellow light of the blaze. He told Wyss that his wife had awakened him in the middle of the night and told him the barn was on fire.
“I told her to go call the fire department and she left for help. When I came around the barn and went into the milk house, I found her inside. She was lying inside on her back. She must have had a heart attack because of the smoke,” he said.
