The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  This led to a question-and-answer session on early-morning prayers, as well as lively talk around the table every night. “We all work together,” Abram continued. “In the fields—plowin’ and plantin’, sowing and harvesting. In the barn—the milkin’ and cleanin’ up. But we play hard together, too. Games like volleyball and baseball are big around here. We’ll often gather in the yard just to watch the sun go down of an evening. When everything’s said and done, family’s all we got.”

  “How many children do you and your wife have?” Philip asked.

  “Fifteen—eight boys and seven girls—and that gives us eighty-five grandchildren, with plenty more on the way.”

  Stephen spoke up. “Enough to start your own church district?”

  The threesome laughed at that, but Philip presumed Stephen’s comment wasn’t too far afield. He asked several more wrap-up questions, then glanced at his watch and was amazed to see that two hours had passed so quickly. The answers to his numerous questions had come so effortlessly, he was, in fact, astonished when he arrived at the end with such success. “I’m grateful for your time, Abram,” he said, closing his notebook and feeling confident he had covered all the bases.

  “If ya think of anything else, just come on out and see me. Gut enough?”

  Philip nodded. “That’s very kind of you.” He could certainly see a resemblance between affable Abram Beiler and his own deceased grandpap. Miles apart in culture, however. “Oh, before I forget, I wonder if you might be able to translate something for me?”

  “Why, sure—so long as it ain’t French,” said Abram with a snigger. “I know only two languages. One’s the English I butcher daily, the other’s Amish. How can I help ya?”

  Philip pulled out the postcard and showed it to the old gentleman. “Any idea what this says?”

  “Let’s have a look-see.” Abram took out a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on the tip of his nose. He began to read silently, his silver eyebrows rising over deep-set eyes. “My, my . . . I believe what you’ve got here is a love note, among other things.” He smiled briefly, the wrinkles creasing hard around his eyes.

  Philip had suspected as much, based on Susanna Zook’s reading of the greeting.

  Abram looked at the front of the postcard and leaned forward, eyeing the postmark through his reading glasses. A frown furrowed his brow, and he removed his glasses. “Well, was der Dausich, Deixel!—what the dickens! You know, it sure seems like I’ve heard tell of this fella. I think this here’s that preacher-boy who caused such a stir years ago.”

  Philip was astounded that Abram seemed to know the writer.

  “Jah,” Abram was saying, “and the sign-off, ‘Gabe,’ matches up with Gabriel Esh, the young man I’m a-thinkin’ of. Honestly, I believe he went by Gabe quite a lot, if I’m right about this.”

  “Do you know anything more about the man?”

  “Well, I s’pose there’s a way to double-check, but it sure seems like young Gabe died over a Memorial Day weekend. Most all of Lancaster County was whispering ’bout it.” He nodded his head, touching the postmark with his pointer finger. “Jah, Gabe Esh died just two weeks after this here postcard was mailed, if I remember rightly.”

  “Gabe died?” Flabbergasted, Philip knew he’d have to follow up on this. First thing tomorrow, he’d make a trip to the library and look up the obituaries for deaths that had occurred the weekend of Memorial Day 1962.

  Abram was rocking in his chair now, fidgeting with the card. “Somethin’ seems mighty strange about this,” he said, waving the postcard in the air.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why on heaven’s earth did Gabe Esh write a love note in Amish . . . to an English girl? Don’t make any sense.” Then a smile creased his ruddy face. “Unless, of course, ’twas a code of some kind.”

  “Maybe Gabe didn’t want anyone to know what he’d written—at the postcard’s final destination, that is,” Stephen piped up.

  Philip made a mental note of everything, thinking that this might be the seed for a much bigger story, not just a two-page soft spread. Perhaps even a lead story!

  “Gabe’s girlfriend surely could read Amish, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Abram spoke up, grinning at Philip.

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I was wondering that!”

  They had another hearty laugh, but because Philip sensed the Amishman’s restlessness, he asked again for the translation. “I want to jot down the words as you read,” he said, anxious to hear the message, more so now than before. Gabe Esh’s postcard had become far more intriguing than anything he’d planned to write for the magazine. In fact, more fascinating than anything he’d come across in recent travels.

  “Would you mind reading it to me slowly?” Philip said, his pen poised over his notepad.

  Twelve

  Rachel walked hand in hand with Annie down the narrow road, enjoying the rumble of the pony cart just ahead. They had single-handedly filled a small wagon with small and medium-sized pumpkins. ’Course, Dat had come along later to help with loading up the biggest ones.

  “I think Dawdi Ben’s gonna beat us home,” Annie said, giggling. “Let’s run just a bit?”

  “Oh, Annie, it’s best that I walk.”

  “But Mammi says you used to run fast as the wind when you were little. Was that so long ago?”

  Rachel had to chuckle at that. “Not so long ago, no, but . . .”

  “C’mon, Mamma. Take my hand and skip just a little. Please?”

  Skipping was safe enough. Sure, she could skip down Olde Mill Road this once with her daughter. “Keep holding my hand,” she said, lifting the walking cane in the other.

  “Are ya ready?” Annie asked.

  “Fix un faerdich—all ready!” She moved awkwardly at first, trying to keep up with her energetic girl. Every so often the cane bumped the road, throwing her off balance, but she stayed upright. The jaunt took her back to the many foot races she’d enjoyed with her brothers and sisters out on the dusty mule roads that crisscrossed between Dat’s cornfields, tobacco fields, and pastureland. Usually, she was the winner of such events, though occasionally her brother Noah might beat her by a hairsbreadth at their homemade finish line. Then it was up to Joseph or Matthew to intervene and decide once and for all who’d really and truly come in first.

  Those free and easy days of youth were long past, and she felt some regret that there was no longer much fellowship between herself and a good many of her siblings and their spouses. Nowadays, she had more connection with her mother’s sisters and cousins, and there was always Lavina Troyer, the garlic-lovin’ distant cousin on Dat’s side of the family. It was a regrettable situation all around, but many of Rachel’s brothers and sisters had simply chosen to stay away. She sensed it was because she hadn’t given in and gone to the powwow doctors, seeking help for her eye condition—or mental condition, as some had surely concluded.

  In spite of all that, she’d preferred to let bygones be bygones, settling into her snug and happy life with Dat, Mam, and Annie, never thinking much ahead to the future. Or the past.

  “Ach, I’m winded,” she confessed at last, slowing down while Annie ran ahead. Rachel heard her daughter’s bare feet smack against the pavement, distinguishing that sound from the gentle rumble of the pony cart. If someone had told her that one day her sense of hearing would be this acute, she might’ve laughed. Within just a few months of her eyes clouding up, after the accident, she’d been able to hear an owl calling to its mate and tell how far away the creature was. She could also make out the buggies going up and down Beechdale Road to the west of them—things nobody else could hear. Though she didn’t take pride in her heightened hearing ability, she was ever thankful to God for allowing her this compensation.

  “What’ll we do with all those pumpkins?” Annie called, running back to her and tugging on her apron. “Can we set up a vegetable stand in front of the house? Can we, Mamma?”

  Rachel was still catching her breat
h. “Sounds like fun, but we’ll hafta see what Dawdi says. Don’t wanna scare off any tourists, now do we?”

  “Might bring more guests,” Annie suggested. “And I’d tend the stand, ’cause I don’t mind talkin’ to Englischers one bit. Some of them are right nice.”

  “Like Mr. Philip, maybe?”

  Annie giggled. “Mammi Susanna told you, didn’t she? That’s how you know!”

  “Jah, I guess I should ’fess up and say that I heard ’bout your little chat with our guest. But you know what?”

  “Let me guess,” Annie squealed. “He’s gonna move clear from New York and come here and farm.”

  “Well, now, that’s what you told your grandmother is more like it.” She knew it was true.

  “Well, Mr. Philip said so . . . I think.”

  She figured Annie had completely misunderstood whatever conversation she’d had with the reporter man. More than likely, Mr. Bradley had said something more on the order of being tired of big-city living—something like that. The child was known to exaggerate now and then.

  “Maybe it’s time we had a little talk about your chats with the B&B guests,” she said, walking faster again.

  “Do I talk too much, Mamma?”

  She didn’t want to discourage Annie’s friendly nature— wouldn’t think of hindering her that way. Yet there was an unspoken line between the People and outsiders that should never be crossed. She understood this fully; so did everyone around here. But how on earth was she to make such things clear to an outgoing six-year-old?

  “I’ll try not to be such a Blappermaul—blabbermouth. I’m awful sorry, Mamma.”

  Rachel’s heart ached for her little one. “No . . . no, you’re not to blame, dear. You have a wonderful-gut neighborly way aboutcha. That part mustn’t change . . . not ever. But I want you to think about not gettin’ too thick—too overly friendly—with outsiders. Do ya understand?”

  “Jah, I think so.”

  “Gut, then.” They walked another quarter mile or so to the Orchard Guest House. There was a slight chill in the air, though still unseasonably warm for the fourteenth day of September. She heard a distant song sparrow warbling its tune near Mill Creek, and she reveled in the outing Annie had planned for her today. Because she’d enjoyed herself so much, she decided to go for a walk again. Tomorrow, prob’ly.

  “We’re home,” Annie said, leading her around the back to the kitchen door, where Copper greeted them with doggie licks and jumps and excited yips.

  Mam had warm chocolate chip cookies waiting, and Rachel busied herself pouring tall glasses of milk for everyone while Annie recounted all the happenings of the afternoon.

  “I do believe some things are settled with Annie now,” Rachel told Mam before supper.

  “Oh?”

  “On our walk home we had a nice chat about the English guests.” She told Mam how nice the day had been, spending time outside.

  “I see your cheeks ain’t nearly so pale. You best get out and go walkin’ again real soon.”

  She was glad she’d gone, mostly for Annie’s sake. Mam would always be pushing for more from her. That’s just how Susanna Zook was and always had been.

  “We wanna sell some early pumpkins,” Annie piped up. “Out on the front lawn.”

  “We?” Rachel laughed. “Don’t you mean you want to?”

  Annie was giggling, slurping her cocoa. “Well, what do ya say, Mammi Susanna? Isn’t it a gut idea?”

  “Ask Dawdi about it,” said Mam.

  Annie continued. “You mean you don’t wanna clutter up the front yard?”

  “That’s not what I said,” Mam retorted.

  Rachel sensed what was coming. Her mother would require her to reprimand Annie—make a point of belittling the girl in front of her elders.

  “I think it’s high time for some rebuke” came the stiff words.

  “Annie, please come with me,” Rachel said, getting up and tapping her cane across the floor. “We best wash up now.”

  She and Annie headed off to the stairs, and Rachel used her cane and the railing to guide her, letting the child run free this time. And just for this moment, she wished the two of them had stayed longer out in the sunshine and the fresh air.

  Silently, Philip reread the postcard’s translation as Stephen drove him back toward Bird-in-Hand.

  My dearest Adele,

  What a joy to receive your letter! Yes, my feelings remain the same, even stronger, but I should be the one to bridge the gap between us and leave my Amish ways behind—for you, my “fancy” dear girl.

  God is ever so faithful. Pray for me as I continue to expose the kingdom of darkness.

  Soon we’ll be together, my love.

  Gabe (Philippians 1:4–6)

  Philip wondered what the Scripture reference might be and asked Stephen if he knew offhand.

  “Sure do. It’s one of my favorites. Would you like me to quote it?”

  Oddly enough, he did. “Please do.”

  “ ‘In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.’ ”

  “Wow, what a mouthful,” Philip said, wishing now he hadn’t asked.

  “Verses to base a life on,” Stephen said, nodding. “Gabe Esh must certainly have been a man of faith.”

  Philip stared at the line that stirred his curiosity most. “What do you make of ‘the kingdom of darkness’?”

  “Not so hard to say, really. Could be a reference to some local powwow practices.” Stephen made the turn into the parking lot where Philip’s car had been parked. “It’s not commonly known by outsiders, but we Mennonites know that there are hex doctors, even today, among the Amish and other conservative circles, too, though some criticize the practice.”

  “Is that something pertaining to Native Americans?”

  “Sympathy healing or the German term Brauche, as powwow doctoring is often called, has no direct association to Indian folk medicine. Its origins can be traced back to Swiss and Austrian Anabaptists who later immigrated to America. But Plain folk weren’t the only ones who got caught up in the healing arts. Pennsylvania Germans practiced it, too.”

  “So . . . are you thinking that Gabe Esh considered powwowing as part of the kingdom of darkness?” Philip’s interest was piqued.

  “It’s quite possible . . . but who’s to know for certain?”

  Philip was reluctant to go on, unwilling to wear out his welcome. “I’ve kept you much too long, but getting back to the powwow issue—we’re not talking witchcraft here, are we? I mean, don’t Amish folk subscribe to the Christian way? Don’t they read the Bible, pray—the things most Protestants do?”

  “Old Order Amish follow the Ordnung—a code of unwritten rules. That, I would say, is quite different from Protestant practices. I think powwow doctoring is considered a type of white witchcraft—conjuring—and I assure you the spirits invoked are not godly ones.” He paused, then continued. “One thing’s for sure—don’t expect to find an Amish-man willing to discuss any of this.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” Philip said, extending his hand. “Again, thanks for everything.”

  Stephen shook his hand cordially. “You know where to reach me if you have further questions.”

  “I’ll see that you get a copy of the story when it runs.”

  “Yes, do that.” And Stephen was gone.

  Philip located his rental car and drove west toward the turnoff to Beechdale Road. He thought back to his interview with Abram Beiler. The old farmer hadn’t mentioned the Ordnung, hadn’t said a word about rules either. But overall, Philip was pleased with the favorable reception from both Stephen and Abram.

  It was the postcard’s entire message that plagued his thoughts, not so much the mention of evil deeds—although that aspect was intriguing—but the endearing phrases. Gabe Esh must have loved Adele
Herr beyond all reason to be willing to abandon his People for her. They must have been true soul mates, though he despised the term so overused in recent years. Heart mates . . . yes, that was better. The ill-fated lovers had apparently belonged together, culture clash or no, though Gabe’s untimely death had kept them apart forever.

  One thought nagged at him. How could such a declaration of love have been buried in an old desk? Something as compelling as an Amishman pledging to leave his People for his beloved—why was such a message not found among Miss Herr’s most precious possessions—in a fragrant box with other love letters and notes? Surely Gabe’s sweetheart would have treasured the postcard for a lifetime, possibly the last correspondence between them.

  Soon we’ll be together. . . .

  The tender words haunted him as he drove back to Orchard Guest House and long into the night.

  Thirteen

  Susanna poured out her heart to Benjamin before retiring. “I shoulda had you look at that stubborn drawer in the antique desk upstairs a long time ago,” she said, brushing her hair. “You know, the one we bought over to Emma’s?”

  Her husband grunted his answer from under the sheets.

  She knew better than to push the issue, late as it was. Benjamin’s brain perty near shut down around eight-thirty every night. No gettin’ around it. The man’s body clock was set to wind down with the chickens, from all those years of farming. “Never mind, then,” she whispered, about to outen the lantern light.

  “What’s that?” Ben asked, lifting his head off the pillow to stare at her.

  “Ach, that writer fella you warned us about found an old postcard written by my scoundrel uncle.”

  “Gabriel Esh? You don’t say.”

  “I saw the postcard with my own eyes.”

  “Your uncle Gabe, your mother’s little brother?” Ben asked again, pulling himself up on his elbows. “Glad we had sense enough to disown him back when. It’s a real shame, a blight on the whole family . . . and the community, too, the way he carried on.”