“More than forty Anabaptists were martyred in Bern,” Daniel said. “Some drowned. Others beheaded.” He went on to describe all manner of torture until Morgan put her hands over her ear.
“Stop,” she cried, looking and sounding not unlike Christy.
“What?”
We both glanced her way, surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. Enough!” After that, she turned and hurried down the stairs.
Startled, Daniel and I just looked at each other.
“Is she okay?” I whispered. “Maybe I should go to her.”
He hesitated and then shook his head, saying he would do it instead, explaining that if he was going to be giving tours, he needed to get used to handling things like this himself. I agreed, and soon he was clomping down the stairs after her.
I followed along much more slowly, giving them a moment to talk. I had a feeling I knew what was going on, that it was a matter of us having been raised Plain and Morgan having not.
As a Mennonite and an Amish, Daniel and I had grown up with stories of martyrs. It was what made us appreciate the separation of church and state. It kept us loyal to our faith. It taught us to willingly make our own small sacrifices. It emphasized tradition. But maybe it also numbed us a tad. Maybe to Morgan the martyrs were more like real people and not just old, familiar figures from the stories.
When I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Morgan and Daniel were across the hall, under a grouping of stained-glass windows, deep in conversation. Her hands bounced around as she talked. I thought of her love of art and beauty, of her concern for the environment. I liked it that she felt for our martyred ancestors, even though they had died five hundred years before. She was a person of passion, that was certain.
Daniel snagged one of her waving hands in his, and she leaned toward him for a moment, as if surrendering to something he’d said. Even from a distance, I could see his face soften in a way I hadn’t seen before. I gasped. Maybe Morgan’s passion was what Daniel needed to get past his arsenal of historical facts.
Rolling that around in my head, I realized something even more startling: The thought of them as a couple didn’t make me jealous in the least.
Next, we stopped at a pit where two bears lived. Daniel explained that Bern meant “bear” and they were intended to be mascots for the city. Looking down at them, I thought it seemed kind of cruel. They were wild animals used to vast forests, now living here in a space smaller than some people’s living rooms.
“It’s no worse than a zoo,” Daniel said.
“I’ve never been to a zoo.”
“They are awful places,” Morgan said.
Daniel shook his head. “They’re fine. You learn so much about animals that way.”
“Yeah, captive animals,” Morgan retorted.
I thought about meeting Morgan’s father in the Basel train station and how he’d referred to us as strays she’d picked up. I hadn’t seen that quality in Morgan on the ship, but the more I came to know her, the more obvious it was. She had a heart of empathy. Maybe that was why Giselle responded to her.
After that we returned to the council chambers and Daniel spoke quickly with the archivist, only to be met with a wave of a hand and a quick dismissal. As we walked down the corridor and through the heavy wooden doors, Daniel explained the archivist had said any documents concerning a Wasserdorf councilman would be kept in the district, not Bern.
Daniel’s face was drawn and he was quiet on the way back to the car. I knew the responsibility of the search weighed heavily on him. Fabric in the window of a shop caught Morgan’s attention, and we followed her inside. She had been looking for a gift for her mother, and the scarves in the display caught her attention. “They are handwoven locally on an actual loom, just as it was done centuries ago,” the clerk said.
“Really?” Morgan fingered the work. “How many artisans do you represent?”
“Ten or so. Maybe close to fifteen.”
“Are you looking for new work?” Morgan stepped away from the scarves.
“Always,” the woman said.
“Because I know an amazing artist. Giselle Lantz. Have you heard of—”
The woman cut her off. “Giselle? I already carry her work. It’s over here.”
We followed her to the back of the shop. Sure enough, the wall there was covered with Giselle’s weaving. Instead of the Lancaster County themes, these pieces focused on Switzerland—abstract mountain peaks, forests, meadows, edelweiss. I stopped in front of the last one. It was the waterfall with the cave visible in the back. The water looked like shards of broken glass, though, and two shadows appeared in the cave. I shivered. Daniel placed his hand on my shoulder. “Your aunt seems a little twisted,” he said.
Morgan shot me a confused look. She must have assumed I’d told Daniel by now about my other, more significant connection to Giselle.
“Has she said anything about the waterfall to you?” I asked Morgan.
She shook her head.
“I saw her walking across the property from there the other day,” Daniel said. “It was early morning. The sun was just rising.”
Flabbergasted, I started to say, “If Giselle can visit the waterfall regardless of the surveyors, then why can’t I?” but I stopped myself. I didn’t need anyone’s permission. I decided I would go tomorrow, surveyors or not. I wasn’t about to come all this way to Switzerland for the sake of a waterfall, only to miss ever actually seeing it in person.
Morgan decided to buy one of Giselle’s pieces for her mother. Not the waterfall, but the abstract of the mountains. “It will look good in her office,” she said with a shrug.
As we walked the rest of the way to the car, we all agreed to go to Thun to see the castle and then, for what it was worth, on up to Abraham’s hometown of Frutigen. Whether we managed to turn up any important documents or not, at least we’d get a closer view of the Alps. It was just too bad we hadn’t gone when the weather was so good. I hoped the clouds would burn off and we’d be able to see the mountains.
It only took about half an hour to reach Thun, and as Morgan drove the shroud of clouds around the mountains did ascend. “The Jungfrau is just beyond those peaks.” Daniel pointed out the window. “And the Eiger.” The beauty of the mountains, one after another after another, topped with jagged glaciers and faced with granite, left me breathless. I’d thought the Rockies had been spectacular, but these were magnificent.
We parked and then walked down a narrow cobbled street. The castle was made of stone and stucco and the roof of red tiles. We entered a great hall with weapons and armor on display. Daniel went looking for the records office, while Morgan and I took our time touring the whole place, looking at the suits of armor.
She took photos as she spoke. “So how are things going between you and Daniel?”
My heart raced a little. “I’m not sure.”
“I was right on the ship, wasn’t I? He’s definitely interested in you.”
I didn’t respond.
“What’s holding you back?”
“I’m not Mennonite. He’s not Amish.”
“But close enough, right?”
I shook my head. I could see that to Morgan, it would seem to be. But pursuing a relationship with Daniel would mean giving up everything I knew. “He wants me to stay in Switzerland to help with the tours.”
“So I heard.” She grinned. “That would give you a chance to get to know him better.”
“Ya.”
“So would you stay now and not go back with Alice?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to Alice and Will. Nor to my mamm and daed.
“It would make more sense,” she said. “You could apply for a work permit here. It would save you the cost of the flight home and back.”
She took a photo of a display of swords. “So do you love him?” she asked.
Love him? I wasn’t sure, especially after seeing the two of them together
in the cathedral in Bern. “Maybe I could learn to love him,” I said.
She turned toward me at the end of the great hall. I noticed another tourist staring at us. We must have been quite a sight to others—a young American woman with long hair halfway down her back, wearing jeans and boots, with another young woman in a kapp and apron, looking as if she might be from a century or two before, but not quite.
Morgan reached for my hand. “Do you think it was by chance we all ended up on the same ship?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I answered.
“I don’t either.” Her gaze fell past me. “I’ve been praying again, for the first time since my grandmother died, kneeling at night before I go to sleep, the way you and Christy do, asking God to show me what He has for me.”
“His plan for you, ya?”
She nodded. “And I pray for Alice and for you and for Giselle.”
I squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve been praying every night for you too.”
Before she could respond, I heard my name being called and turned. Daniel appeared to our right. “Come with me,” he said, motioning back down the stone stairwell he’d just climbed. “I found the dungeon, and have I got a surprise for you!” He gave me a wink, eyes shining with excitement, and then he started back down.
Morgan gave me a little push. “See,” she teased.
I yanked on her hand, and we followed Daniel down the stone stairs that led to a long hall. At the end was an open door. Daniel motioned for us to follow him, and we made our way down a wooden, open staircase that led into a dark, cavernous room. Columns made of cut stones contrasted starkly to the cellar-like walls of rocks. We ventured across the cold floor toward a rope strung in front of an area between two poles, which Daniel climbed over. I smiled, shrugged, and did the same, lifting my dress a little and then smoothing it back down again on the other side. Morgan followed me.
“Is this a dungeon?” I whispered as we moved forward, wondering why no bars or cells were here. It was just an open space, our voices echoing against the bare stone walls.
“They would use irons to secure people if needed. But there’s only one door out.” Daniel pointed to the staircase. “And it was guarded. At other castles, such as Trachselwald, they were held in cells. But here it was one big open room.” Daniel went on to explain that most of the Anabaptists held here were imprisoned more than three hundred years ago.
“In general, captives often carved their names into the stone walls. Such was the case at Trachselwald Castle,” he said. “And here at Thun.” He shone the flashlight to the far corner. Sure enough, it was covered with scratches of names and dates.
“Anabaptists, from time to time, were imprisoned here, even after most of the Amish had fled,” he continued, holding the beam of his flashlight on a name at the edge of an especially large river rock. “And then much later, a certain man was imprisoned. A man related to you.”
“Who?”
“His name was…” He wiggled the flashlight around and then settled it again on the same spot, exclaiming, “Ta-da!”
I stepped closer and read the inscription. G. Gingrich, 1876. I gasped. Elsbeth’s husband. Abraham’s son-in-law. My great-great grandfather.
THIRTY-THREE
It has to be him,” Daniel said. “The date works.”
“I wonder why he was here?” I touched the inscription with the tips of my fingers.
“My guess?” Daniel said. “Resisting mandatory military service. As a Mennonite, he would have refused to serve, which at that time could have landed him in the dungeon. We’re definitely putting this on the tour.”
“What about his family? Were he and Elsbeth married by then?”
Daniel thought for a moment and then shook his head, reminding me they had been married in 1877, just before leaving the country. “No, in ’76 he was still a widower with two small children, and Elsbeth was just their governess.”
“Think she took care of the kids while he was in prison?” Morgan asked as she snapped another photo. “That must have been one big whomping child care bill!”
Daniel chuckled at her joke, but I was far too disturbed to laugh. A widower and father ripped from his family and thrown in jail? That would be like Will getting forcibly separated from Christy and the twins and then being locked away. Horrible!
On the other hand, Gerard and Elsbeth had fallen in love at some point, probably after he was released from here and they were preparing to emigrate. Given how things had turned out for them, at least their tragedy had turned to triumph in the end.
It was late afternoon by the time we drove to the village of Frutigen. It looked like a Swiss postcard tucked against the Alps, surrounded by green fields, the church steeple in the middle of the village towering over the multi-century old buildings, the entire scene framed by mountains. Truly, it was picture-perfect. Morgan parked the car on the outskirts of the town, and we got out and walked through the stone city gate. The buildings were made of wood and stucco. It appeared that many of the shops had residences above them. Behind the village rose green hillsides that soon gave way to the mountain peaks.
“There’s no way to know which house Abraham grew up in,” Daniel said, shaking his head, “but at least we know for sure that this was the town.”
We stopped in front of a clock tower made from stone. Nearly every village we’d been through had a clock, and I wondered if this one, too, had been financed by the confiscation and sale of Anabaptist property. Next we walked over to the church. Its steeple rose toward the pale sky.
“Let’s see if it’s open,” Morgan said.
We followed her up the stairs. It was unlocked. We stepped inside. The sanctuary was small, with no stained glass and no ornate carvings. A simple wooden cross graced the front.
As we looked around the hallways on either side, I again hoped for some sign of Abraham Sommers’ work, wondering if he’d started carving as a teenager when he still lived in the village.
We never spotted anything, but this was still a charming little town. Morgan took photos right and left as we walked down the street. When we passed a delicious-smelling bakery at the edge of the village, we all paused to inhale.
“Coffee, anyone?” Morgan asked, eyes twinkling.
“None for me,” Daniel replied, “but I bet there’s a krapfen in there with my name on it.”
Smiling, we all turned toward it. The building was three stories high with green shutters at each window and a ribbon of smoke coming out of its chimney. The proprietor met us at the door and, speaking in English, said they were about to close, but he would serve us. We chose streusel, almond cookies, and several krapfen, which turned out to be a deep-fried pastry. Daniel insisted on paying, and while he did, I moved around the side of the counter. There, above a closed wooden door, was a small carving. I stepped closer. It was a meadow with a mountain behind it, crowned with a ring of clouds. It was the same mountain as in the carving in the ballroom at Amielbach, I was sure. And the steeple in that panel could easily be a depiction of the church here in Frutigen. I squinted and leaned closer, my head tilted upward. The group of figures standing in a semicircle in the meadow weren’t in the carving at Amielbach, I was sure of that, but the style of the carving definitely appeared to be Abraham Sommers’, although it appeared more primitive than his work at Amielbach.
Morgan was behind me now, snapping a photo. Daniel joined us, the bags of goodies in his hands. “Wow.” He crowded next to me. “I didn’t expect to find anything of Abraham’s. I thought he would have been too young when he lived here.”
Before I could say more, the baker came up behind us.
“There’s a story behind that carving,” he said, “but I can’t remember it.” He sighed apologetically. “My father-in-law is upstairs. I will ask him.”
We stepped aside and he passed through the door. Morgan zoomed in on the carving with her camera. Another customer entered the shop and Daniel spoke to him in German, telling him t
he proprietor would be right back. The customer waited for a while and then left.
Finally the door to the upstairs opened and the baker returned, holding the arm of an elderly man. The old man was tall, well over six feet, with a bald head fringed with snow-white hair. His blue eyes were clear, and the bones of his face jutted out like cliffs on a mountainside.
“This is Christian Sommers,” the baker said.
My mouth dropped open. Sommers.
Daniel glanced at me and then stepped forward and reached for the man’s hand. “How do you do?” he said.
“Hallo,” the old man replied, and added, “my English is not very good anymore.” It sounded perfect to me.
Daniel introduced Morgan first and then me. “We’re interested in the carving. We’re doing research on Anabaptists in the area, on a man named Abraham Sommers in particular.” Daniel grinned. “It looks like we came to the right place.”
“And you are Anabaptists?” Herr Sommers asked, looking at me as if he hadn’t heard what Daniel had said.
“I’m Mennonite,” Daniel answered, and then motioning to me said, “and Ada is Amish—and a descendant of Abraham Sommers.”
“Ah.” He turned toward me. “You are the most conservative, ya? With your kapp and apron. Your people drive horses and carriages still?”
I nodded.
He smiled and then stepped forward and turned, so he could see the carving. “That was done by my father’s great-great uncle. And yes, his name was Abraham Sommers.”
“No way!” Morgan cried. “If his father’s great-great uncle was your great-great-great- grandfather, then that makes the two of you…” Her voice trailed off as she looked from me to Herr Sommers and back again. I could see that she was trying work it through, counting off with her fingers as she mumbled things like, “…second…third…twice removed…”
“Cousins,” the younger man said finally, causing us all to laugh.
“What can you tell us about Abraham Sommers?” I asked the old man, eager to hear whatever he might say.
The Amish Nanny Page 30
