by G. P. Ching
Isaac Bender finishes his preaching and Abram Lapp stands up and takes his place. “I will now announce those men nominated for the position of bishop.” He unfolds a square of worn yellowed paper. “Frank Troyer.” Startled, Dad rises slowly, eyes darting around as if there must be some mistake. When no one tells him to sit back down, he takes his place at the front of the room.
“Jeremiah Yoder.”
There is a murmur in the crowd and everyone turns toward the Yoders, who have three generations of Jeremiahs in the same pew. Certainly it wouldn’t be my friend. He’s much too young for such responsibility.
“Ruthie Mae’s Jeremiah,” Abram clarifies.
I chew my lip as Jeremiah’s grandfather rises and ambles forth. He’s in his eighties and has a reputation for strict enforcement of the old ways. Rumor has it, the reason Ruthie Mae still cooks over a wood stove is because the technology that converts pig chips to methane has a few parts that can only be made in the English world. Unlike the rest of us, Ruthie Mae spins her own yarn and makes her own cloth. Although all of us dress plain and sew our own clothes, most homes don’t even own a spinning wheel. We obtain modest cloth from the English world when needed, trading with English neighbors for meat or woodwork. A bishop like Ruthie Mae’s Jeremiah would be a harsh dictator, nothing like John Kauffman.
“Benjamin Samuels,” Isaac reads.
Mary’s older brother stands and prayerfully joins the small group of men.
“These are our three candidates,” Isaac says. “Please, each of you select a hymnal from the stack behind you.”
The three men turn toward the stack on the Benders’ kitchen table, which has been pushed up against the wall to make room for the benches. My father goes first, sliding the middle hymnal out of the stack. Ruthie’s Jeremiah selects the top hymnal, and Benjamin takes the last one. The men open the covers and start flipping through the pages. My father breathes a sigh of relief when his does not contain the scripture. His body language is subtle, but I can tell he did not want the responsibility of being bishop. I have to think it is for the best with him not being married and managing the farm with no one but Korwin and me to help.
Ruthie’s Jeremiah clears his throat and all eyes fixate on the elderly man. He grips a rectangle of paper in his gnarled hands. “Psalms 74:6-7—For not from the east or from the west and not from the wilderness comes lifting up, but it is God who executes judgment, putting down one and lifting up another.”
We have a new bishop.
And just like that, the air in the Benders’ house shifts. Mary sits up straighter and even her mother smoothes her dress. A general unrest falls over the rows of benches as the men return to their seats. The truth roars in the silence and darting glances. Everything will change now. Everything has changed.
7
“It’s for the best, Lydia,” my father says as he sweeps the chimney of the wood-burning stove. We’re lucky our house had one, previously used only for heat. Other families have to install the stoves.
“For the best? Less than a month has passed since Bishop Yoder’s assignment and already the ripples of change have reached every corner of Hemlock Hollow,” I say. “It’s like he enjoys making our lives difficult.”
By Bishop Yoder’s decree, we can no longer use our gas stove or refrigerators. I don’t mind about the stove. I can make do with the wood version, although the house will be unbearable in the summer. The fridge is another story entirely. We won’t have ice to put up until winter. Not only will we have to build an ice shed to keep it in, but until then, the task of preserving food falls on me. We’ll be eating more canned meat than I’d prefer, and it’s a lot more work.
“It’s been this way from the beginning,” Dad says. “We follow God’s will. God sent us the new bishop.”
“God giveth and God taketh away.” I cross my arms. “I wish God would taketh sooner.”
“Ack. It’s not all on you, you know. We can’t use anything from the English world in the field anymore. Don’t get me started on the buggies. No new rubber for the tires. Let’s hope ours remains intact until the next bishop.” He whispers the last with a smile on his face, although there is nothing funny about it.
A knock on the door catches our attention. “Do you think he heard us?” I whisper, as if Bishop Yoder had ears everywhere. Dad gives a low chuckle and moves to answer the door.
“Mary Samuels, what brings you by at this late hour?” my father says.
She glances toward me and back at my father. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Well?” My father motions with his hand for her to continue, a gesture left over from his days as an Englisher.
“There’s been a fire… in the Lapps’ barn. They think it started in the haymow.”
“Good Lord above us, is everyone well?” my father asks. “Have they put it out?”
“Do they need our help?” I ask.
“No. It’s out. Luckily, Abram had just filled the water trough for the animals. He caught it early and they were able to extinguish it.”
I press a hand into the space at the base of my neck and hold my breath, terrified about what she might say next. I can see it coming like a runaway horse, but I can’t move out of the way. Not from this.
“They’re blaming Korwin, Lydia,” she says. “Nathaniel told about the canvases and the paint.”
“He didn’t.”
“He did. And he’s suggesting it was the cause of the fire. That the chemicals got too hot up there and started the hay. Abram found some pieces in the ashes.”
“Where’s Korwin now?”
“They’ve gathered at the Lapps’ farmhouse. I think you should come.” Her lips purse and she wrings her hands. This is nervous Mary. She knows more than she’s letting on. I look to my father for approval.
“We’ll both go,” he says.
Mary nods and says her goodbyes.
A few minutes later and we are in the buggy on our way to the Lapps’. “What will they do to him?” I ask my father.
“I don’t know, exactly. They can’t shun him since he isn’t baptized.”
“Good.”
“But they can delay his baptism.”
I sigh deeply and bury my face in my hands.
“What was he painting up there? I don’t suppose it was the landscape,” he says.
I shake my head. “He was painting me.”
“No! You didn’t—”
“Not with my permission! Just from memory. When Mary and I found them we painted over each one. I thought Korwin was going to get rid of them.” My thumbnail catches on my apron and rips at the edge. I pick at the torn nail, trying to decide to rip it off and risk exposing my nail bed, or let it to catch on something else. It’s low and deep. I decide to let it be.
“Did anyone know the paintings were of you?” My father’s tone is low, a warning.
“Nathaniel and Mary.”
He rolls his lips and taps the side of his nose nervously. “You can be shunned, Lydia.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I believe you. But be very careful today. If Bishop Yoder thinks you were part of this, there could be hell to pay, quite literally.”
Suddenly, I feel sick. I’ve only been part of one shunning, a boy named Jonah who wouldn’t stop stealing. After six months of folks finding their missing tools and animals at Jonah’s residence, his parents admitted to their son’s sticky fingers. He was shunned. No one would talk or eat with Jonah. The boy was isolated, even when he was among us. His own parents barely acknowledged him. Eventually, he left and never came home. That was four years ago. We all assume he’s living in the English world, but we will never know for sure. Not unless he comes back and repents, and odds are, that’s not going to happen.
We pull into the Lapps’ drive and I wipe my sweaty hands on my blue skirt. What I thought was about Korwin has become about me, too. In my head, I ask God for help navigating thes
e strange waters.
“Hoi, Frank. You must have heard about the fire,” Abram says solemnly.
“Do you need our help? Was there much damage?”
“No. No. Nathaniel and I got it under control, but I’m glad you are here. Bishop Yoder has come. Decisions need to be made.” His eyes bore into me. My limbs are heavy and sluggish as if they’re filled with wet sand.
We follow him into the house where Bishop Yoder is waiting, back as straight as the chair he’s sitting in. Korwin sits rigidly on the sofa, his hat in his hands.
“Hello,” Korwin murmurs. As I return his greeting, I notice I am the only woman in the room. Nathaniel, Abram, my father, and Preacher Isaac all find seats. No one looks happy.
“Let’s get down to it,” the bishop says, scowling. “There’s been a fire. A fire caused by the sinfulness of a member of our community. Vanity and pride.” He fixes his eyes on Korwin. “Nathaniel has confessed his sin of silence in the matter of your… artwork.”
Korwin frowns. “I am so sorry if my paintings had anything to do with the fire.”
The bishop’s face twists as if he’s smelled something bad. “The fire? Don’t be sorry about the fire, boy. Be sorry about the sin!”
Korwin’s throat cracks. “Where I come from, painting isn’t considered sinful.”
“I told him,” Nathaniel pipes up, waving a finger in Korwin’s direction. “I explained weeks ago why he needed to stop.”
The way he says it almost seems like he wants to condemn Korwin. The corners of Abram’s mouth turn up slightly, almost imperceptibly. He is proud of his son. Korwin’s surrogate family isn’t being a family at all.
“It must be confusing,” I say, “having been raised one way and now to live another. Korwin isn’t even finished with baptism classes. I’m sure this was something he did a long time ago, before he fully understood our Ordnung. Perhaps he just hadn’t found a way to dispose of the paintings after Nathaniel brought it to his attention.”
My father nods and squeezes my hand.
The bishop sighs. “Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.”
I glare at Korwin. What has he done? His jaw tightens, and he keeps his eyes focused on the floor. “How do you know for sure?”
“One of the paintings didn’t burn. It was of you, Lydia.”
My jaw comes unhinged, and I take a loud breath. Mary and I painted over every canvas. True, Nathaniel had seen the paintings before, but the bishop is referring to a new painting. That means Korwin didn’t stop when I asked him to. My chest constricts and when I close my mouth again, all the muscles in my face and neck tighten. I feel betrayed. I can’t even look at Korwin.
“How do you know when it was painted?” my father asks.
“It was of John Kauffman’s funeral—Lydia and the other girls watching the coffin being lowered into the ground.”
I bury my face in my hands and shake my head.
“I take by your actions that you were unaware Korwin was painting you,” the bishop says.
“Of course she was unaware,” my father says.
I wipe under my eyes and warm wet tears coat my fingers. Korwin doesn’t even look at me.
“I’d like to hear it from her,” the bishop says.
Korwin straightens. “She didn’t know. Never did Lydia pose for me or give me permission to paint her. I did it without her knowledge.”
I notice the nuance to his words. I did not pose. I did not give permission. But I did know. Still, everything he has said is true.
“Lydia?” the bishop prompts. My father squeezes my hand.
“What Korwin says is true. I did not pose, and I never gave him permission. I am disappointed in him for painting me.”
Korwin’s head snaps up, and this time his eyes do meet mine. I’m surprised at what I see in his gaze. He isn’t sorry and if anything, he looks disappointed in me. As if I am the problem here.
“We all are,” Abram says.
“Korwin,” the bishop starts, “if you had been baptized, I’d ask you to repent, confess publicly, and ask for forgiveness. Instead, since you are still rumschpringe, I will ask you to repent and confirm to me your intent to be baptized.”
Korwin lowers his head. “I am deeply sorry for what I have done and promise to follow the rules from now on. I ask your forgiveness and wish to be baptized.” The repentance is genuine and heartfelt. I pray it will be enough.
Abram scowls but says nothing.
“Very well. You are welcome to stay, but I feel I have no choice but to delay your baptism another year. Full commitment to the Ordnung is essential to our community.”
A sob breaks my lips, but Korwin seems unaffected by this news. His elbows rest on his knees and his face is hard, as if carved from stone. He shakes his head. “I think my apology and repentance is evidence enough of my commitment, not to mention the months I’ve spent working side by side with you in your fields and attending your services.” Korwin’s voice rises. “I even learned your secret language!”
“Now, there’s no need to raise your voice,” Abram says, shaking his head. “Don’t disrespect, boy, or you’ll find yourself back where you came from.”
Korwin’s neck blushes red. “Disrespect? I have done everything you’ve asked me to without question. I’m not disrespecting you. I’m asking you to reconsider and treat me like you would Nathaniel.”
“Nathaniel is a member of this Ordnung. You are not. Not yet.” Abram crosses his arms over his chest.
Bishop Yoder makes a low throaty sound and exchanges a glance with Abram. My father squeezes my hand and begs me with his eyes not to speak.
“If you stay, you wait another year,” Bishop Yoder says.
“If…If I stay,” Korwin’s eyes dart around the room, “and do this for another year, then you’ll let me be baptized and marry Lydia?”
“If you prove you are ready,” Bishop Yoder says, exasperated.
“Let me get this straight.” Korwin crumples his hat in his tightening grip. “Two years of servitude, of eating, sleeping, and praying side by side with your community is not guaranteed to be enough to prove I’m committed?”
“There are no guarantees. This life isn’t for everyone.”
“You mean, it isn’t for me. Because I’m an Englisher. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
The room plunges into silence. No one moves. No one breathes.
“He doesn’t mean that,” I finally say. I turn to Bishop Yoder expectantly, but he doesn’t deny Korwin’s accusation.
Korwin meets my gaze again. “I’m not sure I can live in a place where I’m not wanted, where creating art in the privacy of your own home is a capital offense. I’m not sure I can live in a community that claims to be so forgiving, but judges you at the first opportunity.” He turns his head and faces Abram and Nathaniel. “I’m not sure I can live in a house for another year with people who have it in for me because they can’t find it within themselves to trust an Englisher.”
Abram’s face turns the color of a freshly roasted beet.
“What are you saying, Korwin?” My father’s voice carries a hint of warning.
Korwin stands. “I’m saying, I think I should go.”
My next breath hitches in my throat. What should I say? What can I do? The situation has gone from bad to worse.
Abram stands from his chair. “Get your things. You are not welcome here anymore.” The words slice through the room.
“No. No,” I say. “Korwin, apologize. Make this right!”
Korwin sneers at me as if the thought of apologizing makes him ill.
The bishop stands, turns his back on Korwin, and walks from the room. It is done.
Weeping softly, I watch Korwin practically jog into his room and come out with a small bag, already packed. He walks right past me and out the door. None of the men follow him, but I do. I break from my father’s arms and push through the door, feet pounding over the porch and down the stairs.
“Korwin!” I yell.
He stops and turns around, pointing a finger in my direction. “Stay, Lydia. Find someone who can make you happy. This life is more important to you than me. You belong here. Obviously, I don’t, and they,” he motions with his head toward the house, “will make damn sure I never will.”
What? Does he mean the Lapps? I shake my head. “Don’t do this. Stay. We can work something out.”
“Tell Abram I’ll leave his horse at the gate.”
Abram’s mare is saddled and tied to a post. Strange considering Amish don’t ride horseback often, preferring to go by buggy. It’s almost like the Lapps had it ready for him. Korwin mounts and takes one last look at me. “Be happy, Lydia. Goodbye.” He prods the horse around.
“Korwin,” I yell. “Korwin!” I run after him but he’s gone, his horse heading for the wall at a full gallop. Strong hands grip my shoulders and stop me in the middle of the road. Nathaniel.
“Let him go,” he says. “He doesn’t belong here.”
I tug my shoulder out of his hands. “Don’t touch me. He does belong here. He’s always belonged here. If you had any compassion, you’d go after him right now.” I can’t contain my hands, and my animated gestures catch my hangnail on my skirt. It tears and bleeds. I suck the drop of blood from my thumb and stomp back toward the house where my father waits next to Bishop Yoder and Abram. Abram’s wife, Ebbie, has joined him in the drive and stares at me, shaking her head.
“I’m going after him,” I shout. “He’ll repent. We can wait another year.” The people in the drive say nothing, but there is no name for the expressions on their faces. Even from a distance, I can see a mixture of embarrassment, sympathy, and condescension. I ignore them. I have to convince Korwin to stay. There has to be a way to make this right.
