by G. P. Ching
“You were?”
“Folks liked the idea of you and Jeremiah.”
“But… we weren’t courting or published.”
He nods. “I reckon there are two types of folks in Hemlock Hollow—those that embrace the new ways and those who cling to the old.”
“New ways?”
“You’re too young to think of them as new. Let’s just say, as much as things have stayed the same around here, we’ve also changed. There are folks… more than a few… who think we are much too dependent on the Englishers and all too accepting of their ways.”
I furrow my brow. “I don’t understand. We live behind a wall. We rarely see the outside world.”
“A few think we should lock the gate and never go out again.”
“What if someone got sick?”
He ran a hand through his beard. “God’s will.”
It’s hard to believe anyone would be ignorant enough to think we’d never have a justifiable reason for visiting the Green Republic. Clearly, those folks who do have a different understanding of right and wrong than me. It dawns on me that the bishop is sharing this information for a more personal reason than bettering my understanding of Ordnung politics.
“Korwin is from the outside. He’s an Englisher. What must they think of him?”
Bishop Kauffman nods. “Folks had it in their heads about you and Jeremiah. His family feels cheated. He shows no interest in anyone now, and they think the scar on his face will keep others from being interested in him.”
“There are people who want Korwin to leave,” I say as understanding seeps in. “They think I ruined Jeremiah. It’s not true. Many girls find Jeremiah an attractive man, with or without the scar.”
He snorts. “No. You didn’t ruin him. He’ll get to know an available girl. Korwin, though, seems he’s sufferin’ the consequence of a sin he didn’t commit.”
My mind flashes to the paintings, to the sin Korwin did commit, but I do not mention them. Instead, I keep the conversation focused squarely on what I feel is the problem at hand. “For certain. Ruthie Mae says she thinks Korwin and I should have to wait until next year to be married, but such a long courting is too much temptation. I’m eighteen now, as of April, and my father has given his blessing. You know Ruthie Mae has the deacon’s ear.”
“And Abram is probably dragging his feet on the baptism to appease her.”
I nod once.
He sighs. “What do you say ’bout I talk with Korwin and if he expresses a desire and readiness to commit to the Ordnung, I will discuss this with Abram and see what can be done?”
“Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you,” I say, feeling like my heart will explode with gratitude. I stand, moving toward the door. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Excuse my interruption.”
“Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Do you truly believe Korwin is ready?”
“Of course! I wouldn’t ask you about it if I didn’t.”
“Good. Because in our world, behind the wall, all we have is each other. Now that you’ve been to the English world, I’m sure you realize how detrimental it would be for us to allow an outsider in who wasn’t fully committed. Our lives depend on our law.”
“Our lives depend on our law,” I repeat, nodding my agreement. “He’s ready. He’s committed. Korwin will never go back to his old life.”
Bishop Kauffman smiles and slaps me on the shoulder. “Now, we both have work to do.” He picks up his sandpaper.
I slip from the barn, anxious to get home and start dinner for my father.
5
“Lydia! Frank! Come quickly!”
The harried cry comes from the road outside our farmhouse, and I wipe my hands on my apron before scrambling for the door. My father is quick on my heels, not even bothering to put on his hat. At the end of our drive, Jacob Bender turns a dark horse in tight circles, kicking up pebbles. His face is as pale as the sky behind him.
“What is it, Jacob?” I yell.
“Bishop Kauffman. He’s d-dead!” Jacob sobs.
“No,” Dad says. “How?”
“Come to the farm. The family is there praying with Katie.”
Dad and I nod, and Jacob takes off toward the next farm.
“I’ll hitch up the horses,” my father says.
I jog into the house, remove the beans I have warming on the stove for dinner, and grab my father’s hat. By the time I’m out the door, Dad has the buggy ready to go.
We ride to the Kauffmans’ place in silence, night creeping in like a toxic fog. I replay my last conversation with John Kauffman in my head. He did not look thin or pale. In fact, his skin had a healthy, ruddy glow from his work. Sure, he was older than my father—gray bearded—but always healthy and active. How could he have died? Was he killed in a farming accident?
The yard in front of the Kauffmans’ house is filled with visitors, so I tie our horse on the side of the lane. Solemnly, my father walks with me to the house where we join our cousins in the crowded space. That’s when I see John Kauffman’s body. He’s been laid out on a narrow bed at the back of the room, a quilt covering him to the shoulders. I hug my way into the room, comforting each person I greet as best I can.
The whisper among the crowd is “heart attack” and I gather this was Doc Nelson’s assessment. Most of the talk, though, isn’t about how he died but how he lived and the sure and certain hope of his salvation. People cry and hug and make arrangements to keep Katie and her three children in meals. John’s boy is too young to work the farm and Isaac Bender and his son, Jacob, volunteer to help.
And then I see Korwin.
“I’m so glad you came,” I say. “It’s horrible. Have you heard what happened?”
Korwin frowns and steps in close to me, lowering his voice. “I was the one who found him.”
I widen my eyes, desperately wanting more details, but it isn’t appropriate here. Already we are the target of pointed stares, standing too close and whispering too quietly for a public gathering. I lower my eyes and angle my body away from him. Mary is there and gathers me into her arms.
Korwin whispers, “Tonight.”
Wide awake, I lie in bed, waiting for Korwin. I stare out my window, wondering what the future holds for Hemlock Hollow. John Kauffman was a true man of God, gentle and kind. He handled all things with judicial integrity and courage. It wasn’t just that he upheld the Ordnung but that he seemed to understand when to break the rules and when to stick to them. He was my father’s cousin, but I loved him like an uncle. His loss is an iron cage of grief I fear I will never escape.
In our Ordnung, the bishop, deacons, and preachers aren’t elected like leaders in the English world. Any baptized male can be nominated by anyone in the congregation. Those with three or more votes become candidates. Someone will hide a Bible verse in one of the hymnals and then each of the candidates randomly selects one of the bound books. The one who draws the hymnal with the verse in it is named to the role. It’s completely up to God, and God’s will can have big consequences.
Clink. A pebble hits my window and I pop up. A Korwin-shaped shadow waves at me through the foggy glass. Still in my dress, I don’t bother with shoes, but creep from the dark house and join him under the mulberry tree in my front yard. I wipe under my eyes, but there are no tears left to cry.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he says.
“What happened today? You said you were there when John Kauffman died?”
“He came to see me at the Lapps’.”
A chill courses through me, although the night is warm and there is nary a breeze over the cornfield behind us. “What did he say?”
“He came to talk to me about my baptism. He asked me if I felt ready. Carried on the entire conversation in Pennsylvania German. I think he was testing me.”
I squeeze my eyebrows together over my nose. “How did it go?”
“He asked if we could walk in the field behind the Lapps’. Said the fresh air would do
us good. You know how he could never hold still.”
“Sure.”
“Well, I answered his questions best I could, and he said he thought I was ready to be baptized.”
“He did?” I give a small smile despite the knowledge that the story does not have a happy ending. “But then when did he become ill?”
Korwin takes a deep breath. “We came across another flasher in the field.”
I inhale sharply. Korwin and I have kept an eye out during our regular chores and have not seen another one. We thought we were safe. “Did it go off?”
“It did. While the bishop was leaning over it. I told him not to. I told him it looked dangerous, but he didn’t listen to me.” Korwin removes his hat and holds it in front of his waist. His lip trembles slightly. “I had to fry it,” he murmurs. “You know I did. I couldn’t let it transmit his picture.”
An image of John electrocuted passes through my mind, and I take a step back. All the blood rushes from my head. I wobble and brace myself on the tree trunk.
Korwin holds up his hands. “I didn’t hit him.” He sounds offended. “But between the flasher and the lightning, it must have been too much for him. He grabbed his left arm, said it hurt. He wasn’t feeling well. I helped him back to the house, all the way trying to explain the possibility of heat lightning. I needn’t have. He died in the Lapps’ main room.”
I brace myself against the tree bark and fresh tears come to my eyes. “The Green Republic claims another one of my loved ones.” I take a deep, shaky breath and blow it out my nose.
“Do you think it was me?” Korwin said. “I tried to be discreet about it. I had my back to him when I sparked.”
“I don’t believe it was you. When it happened to us, I could not discern the light from the flasher and that from your hand. I’m sure John couldn’t either. Poor John. Oh, Lord Jesus, save us from the darkness we’ve brought upon our world.” I cover my eyes with my palms as a fresh wave of guilt plows into me.
“I’m sorry, Lydia. This is my fault. You had a good life here, a better life than I could have ever imagined before coming to Hemlock Hollow.” He snorts and looks away, toward the reactor. His eyes mist and he shakes his head.
I place my hands on his cheeks. “No. Stop. It wasn’t your fault. I chose to go on rumspringa. No one could’ve known what awaited me on the other side of the wall. You brought me back here. You saved me, Korwin.”
His gaze rises to meet mine in jerky increments and a tear hits my fingers. He is not the type to cry. Our connection comes alive and I can feel the guilt he caries, the thought that he had something to do with John Kauffman’s death.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say. “We just need to put our faith in God that he’ll take care of the flashers. One hard rain and any that are left will probably short out or get buried in the mud. Bishop Kauffman wasn’t your fault. His death was God’s will, as all of our lives and deaths are. Everything to His purpose, yeah?”
Korwin nods. “So they keep telling me in baptism school.”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“It’s a new concept for me. I guess I think human choices play a larger part in this world than you guys are giving credit for.”
I lower my hands. A question comes to mind, one I don’t want to know the answer to but feel compelled to ask. “Can I ask you something? But I want you to answer honestly.”
He gives one quick nod.
“Are you happy here?”
“I’m happy with you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He sighs, leans his back against the tree trunk, and turns his face toward the moon. “This community doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”
“The longer you stay, the less of a stranger you’ll be.”
“But I’ll always be the asshole who stole you from Jeremiah.”
I glance away. “They’ll get over it. You’ll see. Once we’re married, they’ll slowly forget and in a few years, they won’t remember anything but Korwin and Lydia Stuart.”
“Can I ask you something?” Korwin asks. “But I want an honest answer.”
With a small laugh, I say, “Seems only fair.”
“Do you miss Jeremiah?”
When I open my mouth to deny it, I stop myself. I’m about to tell a lie. I expected the truth from Korwin and if we are to be married, he deserves the truth from me.
“Yes. I do miss him. We were best friends once. I know you see me with Mary now, but before it was Jeremiah and me.”
“So I did come between you.”
“Life came between us. Boys and girls play together here, but not men and women. We’d outgrown our friendship. If we didn’t court and marry, we would have had to end our relationship anyway. It would have been inappropriate.”
“Hmm.” Korwin sighs. “So you never loved him?”
I thread my fingers over my stomach. “In truth, I did love him, but only as a friend or family.”
Korwin doesn’t move. It’s as if his muscles have frozen into place. But his eyes burn. I watch him swallow—slowly, deliberately.
I try to explain. “Before I met you, I thought there was only one kind of love—the comfortable, family kind. I thought marriage would be an arrangement.” I rub my hands together and take a deep breath. “I might have been happy with an arrangement before I met you. The making of a life around managed expectations and prayer is a common occurrence here. But I’m afraid you’ve spoiled me.”
“Oh?” he says, voice trembling.
“When I’m with you, Korwin, I’m not thinking about who will make the bread tomorrow or who will till the field next year. I’m thinking about kissing you, and my skin on your skin, years of whispered dreams and made memories. I see us old and gray, stuck to each other in the morning and inseparable at night. Speaking our own language through this thing that connects us.” I step toward him and reach for his hands. “With you I have passion. I love you, Korwin. You’ve spoiled me because now I know what real love is and I could never settle for anything less.”
For a few heartbeats, I simply stare into his eyes, the tingle of our connection starting at my scalp and working its way down. And then, Korwin’s face changes. He rushes me, sweeping me into his arms and landing his mouth on mine. The kiss is hot, wanting. His lips search mine as if they can’t settle on the best source of connection. My fingers are in his hair and he’s spinning me around while we both hold back the electric beast inside.
By the time he stops kissing me, I’ve broken a sweat and the smell of singed cotton hangs in the air around us.
“I’ll work harder to prove to Deacon Lapp and Preacher Yoder that I’m committed. I’ll prove to them I’m ready for the August baptism and to be married this fall. I can’t wait another year.”
Smiling, I slowly drop my hand.
A knock on the front window of the house startles me, and I jump back from Korwin. My father beckons from behind the glass.
“I guess I’d better go in,” I say.
He agrees and climbs into his buggy as I jog inside the house, anxious to explain everything to my father.
6
On Tuesday, less than two days after John Kauffman’s passing, I climb into our buggy dressed in my best black dress. Preacher Bender, who led the two-hour funeral service, helps load the coffin into a long wagon along with my father and the Lapps. Korwin is driving a separate buggy with two of the Lapps’ younger children and is parked just ahead of us. Once the casket is buckled into place, Dad walks back to me, looking old and tired, and takes up the reins.
I place a hand on his. “Gut Arwet.” It means good work in Pennsylvania German.
He smiles weakly.
We follow a long parade of buggies to the cemetery. The wall around Hemlock Hollow is an imperfect circle and is about thirty miles from one side to the other. Our cemetery is in the area closest to the reactor, northwest of the gate. No one ever goes there. Unless someone dies.
An Amish burial is a so
lemn affair. The men dig the hole and lower the body in perfect silence, as if every word was said and note sung at the service before. It takes a long time to mound the grave or maybe it just seems long, burying our dead in the shadow of a twelve-foot concrete wall. As if God is as upset about the loss as we are, it starts to rain. And then it is done. A plain wooden cross marks the grave, without a name or a date. It has always been so for us. He’s not there, in that grave. Just his body. John Kauffman is somewhere else. Somewhere better.
All of us, soaking wet and weeping softly, climb into our buggies for the long ride home.
“The Bible tells us that for everything there is a season, a time to sow and a time to reap. A time for every purpose under heaven.” Isaac Bender preaches at the front of the rows of wooden benches, his voice soft as the spirit moves him. “Here, in Hemlock Hollow, we live by the word. Our very lives depend on trusting the will of God. We’ve been farming this land for close to four hundred years, in the same ways as our ancestors and under the same laws. My grandfather and his grandfather passed down the old ways, ways that come from this book.” He thumps his Bible with his hand. “We’ve always been separate. Always done things our own way. God’s way. The Englishers on the other side of that wall—” he points at the side of the Stoltzfuses’s house, toward the wall that lies beyond, “—they think they’ve put us in a cage, in a preservation to keep them safe from what we are. They think they’ve set themselves apart from us. But in truth, we are set apart. It is they who are in the cage of the devil’s making. Their God is sin and selfishness. Be ye warned, my brothers and sisters. 1 Peter 5:8—Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Some of you have been on the other side. Some of you are fixin’ to go. It’s scary how close we must come to the enemy. Stay vigilant…”
I tune out Isaac’s words as I look to my right and three rows up where Korwin sits straight backed on the hard wooden bench. He is as attentive as any of us. The last few weeks, I can tell he’s been trying hard, always working and as helpful as a saint. Coming home from the last Sunday Singing, he said he’d been helping with Katie Kauffman’s land too. Still, there is an extra inch of space between Korwin’s shoulder and Abram Lapp’s. Perhaps I’m imagining the distance, but I stare at that gap of air and wonder what the space would say if it could talk.
