“Look at them.” A seventh grader jeered at two Amish boys in his line. “I’ll bet they don’t even know how to read.”
“That’s enough,” Margaret snapped. “In this school, we show respect for all our students. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy looked at his feet.
Margaret turned to the Amish students. “Welcome to our school. I would love to know your names.”
“Seth Kaufman,” one said.
“Jacob King,” the other said.
“You’re both in Mr. Taylor’s class. You’ll enjoy him and learn a great deal.”
“Danki,” Seth said.
Jacob elbowed him and whispered, “Speak English.”
“Thank you,” Seth said.
The last straggler found a place in the fourth-grade line, and Margaret marched alongside the first graders to greet her own students. The daily entrance into the school always began with the youngest classes. Margaret led the wobbly line of six-year-olds through the main hall on the first floor, up the stairs at the rear of the building, and into her classroom. There, she stood at the door greeting children and pointing to where they should sit. She’d already memorized the seating chart. Now she simply needed to connect faces with the names.
Richard. Franklin. Patricia. Molly. Mary. Elbert. Gertrude.
“You’re the lady who was looking for my daed,” Gertie said.
“That’s right,” Margaret said. “I remember you. How lucky I am to be your teacher this year.”
“Daed says there is no such thing as luck. Only Gottes wille.”
Beside Gertie, a thin Amish boy nodded his head, and his hat bobbed.
“Well, if it’s Gottes wille for me to be your teacher, I am even more pleased.” Margaret turned to the boy. “You must be Hans Byler.”
The boy nodded again.
“I thought you two might like to sit next to each other,” Margaret said, pointing. “I have two seats for you right there in the second row.”
Margaret was glad Gertie and Hans had each other. Altogether six Amish students were supposed to enter the high school, and twenty-six were due to transfer to the consolidated grade school. But Margaret was certain she did not see that many outside as the lines formed. Not nearly that many. Her stomach soured at the impending conversation with Mr. Brownley about her failure in the assigned task.
Once everyone was seated, Margaret put a smile on her face and turned to welcome the first-grade class of 1918.
CHAPTER 12
Mamm, school is fine.” Seth tucked the cloth napkin around the ham sandwich in his lunch pail and pressed the lid into place.
“You would tell me if something is not right,” Rachel said.
“I would tell you. It’s been a week, and everything is fine. I listen to the teacher, I do my work, I come home. It’s not so different.”
Ella tapped the loaf on the bread board. If she wrapped it now, it might still be warm when she arrived at the Hershberger farm. She had plenty of stew left from yesterday to feed the Hershberger family, which had grown last week with the birth of their newest daughter.
Seth picked up a mathematics textbook. “I have to go or I’ll miss the bus.”
His lips brushed his mother’s cheek as he aimed for the back door. Before the screen door slammed closed, Jed came through it into the kitchen with a sigh he made no effort to disguise.
Rachel looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“David has gone off already.”
“The barn?” Rachel said.
Jed shook his head.
“Stables?”
“No.”
“He’ll be waiting for you in the field.”
Ella glanced up at her father’s doubtful expression and tucked a jar of strawberry jam into the food basket she was preparing.
“Every time I turn around, I’ve lost David,” Jed said. “He doesn’t come back for hours.”
“He’ll settle down,” Rachel said. “He knows how important harvesttime is.”
Ella spread a clean flour sack towel over the top of the basket. “Is it still all right if I take the buggy to the Hershbergers’?”
Jed nodded. “Please give Mrs. Hershberger our congratulations.”
As Ella drove, she prayed. Thanksgiving for Seth’s smooth adjustment to the new school. Mercy for David to accept Jed’s decision. Grace for Rachel’s palpable anxiety. Wisdom for Jed—and Gideon—if the English made trouble. Her prayers took her to the Hershberger farm.
As she lifted her basket from below the driving bench, the children’s voices clattered through the open windows. The latest birth brought the number of children to eight. The oldest was about Seth’s age. Walking toward the house, Ella cocked her head, trying to remember whether Seth had mentioned that the Hershberger boy was in his class.
She climbed the steps to the porch, listening to the cacophony of one child’s wail and another’s plea for maternal attention, while an older child’s voice warned a sibling to get down off a stool.
Ella paused as she raised her knuckles to knock. At least four of the Hershberger children were school age, perhaps five. The bus would have come to their stop at least half an hour ago. Why were so many of them at home? She knocked, and a mumbling shuffle progressed toward the door. When it opened, Ella looked into the eyes of the eldest Hershberger daughter.
“Gut mariye.” Ella hid her speculations behind a smile. “Congratulations on your new baby sister.”
“Danki. Please come in.” The girl had a firm grasp on a four-year-old’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Mamm you’ve come.”
She left Ella standing alone in the front room while she hurried down the hall toward the kitchen at the rear of the old farmhouse. A few minutes later, Joanna Hershberger appeared with an infant in her arms.
Ella smiled again. A boy and a girl, school-age, eyed her from across the room.
“I’ve brought some food,” Ella said. “There’s plenty for all of you to have a good meal. You only need to warm the stew.”
Joanna tilted her head toward the oldest girl, who stepped forward to take the basket of food from Ella’s arms. When she left the room, several other children trailed after her, curious about the pot’s contents.
Ella turned to Joanna and put her arms out. “May I?”
“Of course.” Joanna laid the sleeping infant in Ella’s arms.
“Are you able to rest?”
Joanna shrugged. “Not at this age. But I will have her on a schedule soon.”
Ella glanced toward the kitchen. “Your oldest daughter seems helpful.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without Lizzy.”
“I’m sure you miss her when she’s in school,” Ella said. “Are they just out for a few days while you welcome your babe?”
Joanna looked away at nothing in particular. “John has decided our children will learn at home. I will teach them.”
So far Ella had seen nothing to suggest organized lessons in progress—or organized anything. She returned her gaze to the baby in her arms, who yawned but did not open her eyes.
“The Borntragers also will teach their children at home,” Joanna said. “We can work together on the lessons. We’ll begin soon.”
Ella nodded noncommittally. Her father. Gideon. John Hershberger. Isaiah Borntrager. Who else was defying the new laws?
Gideon, Aaron King, and Cristof Byler huddled around the harvesting equipment in Gideon’s alfalfa field. The mid-September morning brought an overcast sky. Gideon hoped it would burn off soon.
Cristof braced his foot against a stationary wagon wheel. “Don’t you think it would be better if we’re all of one mind?”
Gideon puffed out his cheeks in a slow exhale. “The men I’ve talked to seem to have made up their minds.”
“What about the bishop?” Aaron said. “In all these weeks, I haven’t heard him say anything.”
“Why don’t we meet with him?” Cristof raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve
spoken with him,” Gideon said. “He came to see me. He understands the complexity of the question.”
“A church vote, then,” Aaron said.
“And what would we vote on?” Gideon said. “Forbid our children to go to school in town? Let the younger ones go, but not the older ones? What about pupils who have already finished the eighth grade, and now the English want them to return to school? Whatever we decide, the English will find fault. No, I don’t think a church vote is the right course.”
“Then tell us what you suggest.” Cristof crossed his arms over his chest.
“The apostle Paul reminds us that as far as it is up to us, we should live at peace with all men—including the English.”
“They will only recognize peace if we do what they say we must,” Cristof said.
Aaron squinted his eyes. “I think Gideon has something else in mind.”
Gideon nodded. “The school board meets tomorrow. We can go to them—the entire board—and ask for an exception to their rules. We can assure them we want our children to have the education they need for the way we live—and we can provide it ourselves.”
“But we don’t have a teacher,” Cristof said. “We don’t even have a school.”
“One thing at a time,” Gideon said.
“It won’t work.” Cristof grunted and turned away.
“One thing at a time,” Gideon repeated.
“One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord and to enquire in his temple.”
The words of Psalm 27 wafted through James’s mind as his wagon reached the highest peak of the rolling hills, and he held the horses for a moment so his spirit could inhale the view. The tinge of red creeping through the leaves announced the turn of the season. The sun’s glare still made him shade his eyes, but without summer’s ferocity. The lake reminded him he had promised Tobias a fishing day before the weather turned too cold for an early morning outing when the fish were biting. What was missing was the white wooden tower of the old schoolhouse. Instead, James saw the hole in the roof and the slight slant of the entire building. Would the English have moved all the children to the schools in town if the rural structure had remained sound? Or if Miss Coates had not left to marry? The change likely was only a matter of time.
Movement caught James’s eye. A figure moved to the back of the schoolhouse with a ladder. The roofline was lower in the rear. Miriam had made James stop scaling roofs a long time ago, but it was fairly simple to get on the school’s roof from the back. James urged his horses forward full speed, down the sloping ground toward the schoolhouse.
“Isaiah Borntrager, what in the world are you doing?” James scrambled off his bench and stomped over to the base of the ladder. Isaiah was two-thirds of the way up.
“There’s no such thing as an Amish man who doesn’t know how to build,” Isaiah said. “We manage to keep our homes standing. Why shouldn’t we keep the school standing?”
“Half the roof fell in, Isaiah. Come down from there.”
Isaiah took another step up.
“This outside wall is not trustworthy,” James said. “It won’t hold your ladder.”
“God is trustworthy.”
James sighed. He did not think this was what the scriptures meant when they spoke of trusting God.
“Isaiah,” James said, “come down. Let’s talk about this.”
“I’ll gladly accept any help you feel led to offer,” Isaiah said, turning to look down at James over one shoulder, “but I’m through talking. I am a man of action.”
“Does your wife know you’re doing this?”
“This is not her decision.”
“Just what do you plan to do when you get up there?” James gripped the rails of the ladder and braced his feet.
“Today I’m just looking around to see the true condition,” Isaiah said. “Then I’ll make a plan. I’m not going to sit around waiting for the state to decide what is best for my children. If you don’t want to help, go on home.”
Having seen what Isaiah was doing, James could hardly drive off now. He gripped the ladder more tightly, realizing that Isaiah’s decrepit ladder was in no better condition than the school’s roof. James fixed his eyes on Isaiah’s left foot as it tested the next rung. James saw the step give more than it should have.
“Watch out!”
The rung cracked. Isaiah lost his balance. The ladder surrendered its purchase on the side of the building. Isaiah let go. James’s sight filled with the mass of stubbornness dropping straight toward him. The last thing James saw was Isaiah’s hat flying off his head.
Then James was on the ground, and Isaiah was on top of him.
“What was I supposed to do?” James winced.
Miriam dipped a cotton cloth in a bowl of warm water and dabbed the scrapes on her husband’s cheek again. “Isaiah could have killed himself falling off that ancient ladder—and you.”
“I don’t think he’ll try that again.”
“Unless he gets a new ladder,” Miriam said. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
James took the cloth from Miriam’s hand and probed under his beard for a spot where he suspected the skin had split. Already his shoulders, hips, and knees ached from the sudden surprise of Isaiah’s weight dropped on him. James pushed out of his mind the image of what might have happened if Isaiah had been alone when he fell.
“No doctor,” he said. “I may be moving slowly for a few days, though.”
“Then we’ll move slowly together.”
James watched Miriam as she carried the bowl of water to the sink. The spry gait she’d had since girlhood was diminished. Miriam’s neck bent at a tired angle.
“Disagreeing with the English is no excuse for doing something foolish,” Miriam said. “But we can always count on Isaiah Borntrager to be rash.”
“Things were simpler when we were in school.”
“That was a long time ago, old man.” Miriam winked.
She started calling him old man on his twenty-fifth birthday, which came fifty-six days before hers. Now, James supposed, he more obviously fit the description.
The dawdihaus door opened, and Gertie tumbled in.
“I’m sorry, little one,” Miriam said. “I didn’t bake cookies today.”
“That’s okay. My friend Polly shared the cookie her mamm put in her lunch bucket.”
“That was generous,” James said.
Gertie climbed into James’s lap, as she did every day after school. “What happened to your face?”
“God gave me this face,” James said. “Maybe I got the leftovers because He was saving the best parts for you.”
Gertie giggled and leaned into James’s sore right shoulder.
“How was school?” James smothered his wince.
“I like school,” Gertie said. “I can read twelve words now. Pretty soon I’ll know enough to read a whole book to you.”
“That will be great fun.” James kissed the top of her head. “And the bus?”
“Polly’s teaching me songs to sing on the bus.”
“Oh?” Over Gertie’s head, James caught Miriam’s eye.
“They’re not like the songs we sing in church,” Gertie said.
“They go fast, and they rhyme, and we do hand motions.”
James changed the subject. “Did your teacher give you an assignment to do before you go back to school?”
“She said we should choose a book at home and see if we can find three words we know and read them to our families.”
James tried to picture Gideon’s small shelf of books. At least half of them were in German. Gertie might have to find her words in a seed catalog.
CHAPTER 13
With their black hats still on their heads, a row of Amish men sat straight-backed in the downtown Seabury building where the school board held its announced meetings. James was among them. Gideon planned to speak on beh
alf of the group, but he mustered the men to produce a presence that would let the board know they were earnest in their petition. He was not one man speaking on his own. Even the bishop had come in support. This was not one or two fathers disgruntled with the new regulations. It was an unsettled community that wanted to find peace again.
Gideon was warned he would have to wait until the call for new business was announced, and the board would not have a great deal of time to hear him out. James countered with advice that Gideon be prepared to hold the floor. His statement should be carefully thought through. While he might make notes, Gideon should be ready to look the board in the eye and speak convincingly.
The assembly opened with a dry reading of the minutes of the previous board meeting, followed by a motion to accept them. A spattering of English parents shifted in their seats, as if to get comfortable for the coming proceedings. Then the board resumed discussions of matters of old business: the budget, one unfilled teacher position, the refreshments committee for the fall harvest dance for the high school students, a new format for report cards, new tires for one of the buses, a delayed textbook order. Why the school board let the topics remain unresolved from week to week, or month to month, confounded James. The decisions did not strike him as complex—nothing approaching the significance of an unsafe rural building that technically belonged to the district or the consequences of its closure for the families it had served for more than three decades. Twice James turned his head slightly for a glance at Gideon. If Gideon was becoming as impatient as James, he did not show it. Well habituated by lengthy church services, the Amish men barely moved for two and a half hours.
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