Paradise Valley

by Dale Cramer

  Paradise

  VALLEY

  DALE

  CRAMER

  © 2011 by Dale Cramer

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287.

  E-book edition created 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-1408-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  For my sister,

  Fannie Wengerd

  THE FAMILY OF CALEB AND MARTHA BENDER

  JANUARY 1922

  ADA, 27 Unmarried; mentally challenged

  MARY, 24 Husband, Ezra Raber (children: Samuel, 5; Paul, 4)

  LIZZIE, 23 Remains behind in Ohio with husband, Andy Shetler (3 children)

  AARON, 21

  AMOS Aaron’s twin brother; deceased

  EMMA, 20

  MIRIAM, 18+

  HARVEY, 17

  RACHEL, 15+

  LEAH, 13

  BARBARA, 11

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  In January of 1922 the Salt Creek Township in eastern Ohio was a pastoral haven of rolling hills and curving country lanes lined with horse fences and dotted here and there with the spartan farmhouses of the Amish. Perched near the road in a little bend above a creek valley sat the home of Caleb Bender, a plain white two-story saltbox with a tin roof. Across the gravel drive to the right of the house lay a long, low five-bay buggy shed, and rising from the knoll behind the house a massive T-shaped barn with a tall grain silo attached to one corner. Though nothing about the farm was ostentatious in any way, the whole of it – from the sleek, fat livestock to the neatly trimmed front lawn and flower beds, to the freshly whitewashed board fence around the yard – spoke of order and loving attention to detail.

  By sunrise young Rachel Bender and her older sister Emma had already milked the cows and fed the chickens. There were no eggs, for they had been gathered the evening before to keep them from freezing in the night.

  The heavy frost turned barbed wire into guitar strings. Rachel’s breath came out in clouds, and brittle grass crunched underfoot as she followed her sister up to the silo after breakfast to throw down fresh silage. The patch of cow-churned mud in the barn lot had frozen solid during the night, and now her toes burned and threatened to go numb, even in boots.

  Normally, this would be a boy’s job, but in the Bender family there weren’t enough boys to go around, so the girls grabbed pitchforks and bent their backs to the task. Rachel could handle a pitchfork well enough, though ten minutes of throwing down silage still made her puff a little. Warmed by the effort, she paused for a second to unbutton the neck of her heavy coat.

  Emma kept working, humming an old tune, not even breathing hard. Strong, that one was. Neatly parted light brown hair peeked out the front of the black wool scarf covering her head, tied tightly under her chin.

  “Are you and Levi going to be married?” Rachel asked, out of the blue. Approaching sixteen, she would soon be old enough to date, so lately she had spent a great deal of time thinking about boys. Levi Mullet had been courting her older sister for almost two years, but so far there were no wedding rumors. At twenty, it was getting late for Emma. Amish girls were always secretive about wedding plans – it was a tradition – so if Levi and Emma were indeed thinking of getting married, it would not be announced until a month before the wedding. Rachel wanted in on the secret now – if there was one.

  Emma stopped and leaned on her pitchfork, grinning at her younger sister’s bold intrusion.

  She sniffed. “Well, we could be. But don’t you think that would be up to Levi?”

  “Jah, I suppose, but I’d think you’d know his mind by now. Wouldn’t you?”

  Emma smiled and averted her eyes, a clear hint. “I do, and it’s a good mind. He’s a fine man. I’d be proud to be his wife – he already knows that. But he’s also a practical man, and he wants to be sure he can support a family. Anyway, there’s plenty of time. It’s only the first week of the new year, child, and marrying season isn’t until after harvest in the fall.”

  Rachel knew her sister well, and the merry glint in Emma’s bright blue eyes told her all she wanted to know. Obviously, Emma and Levi had already discussed these things privately, but it was not yet a matter for everyone else’s ears. The things Emma hadn’t said brought a bold grin to Rachel’s face, her suspicions confirmed.

  Emma wagged a finger at her. “Now, don’t you go spreading rumors to all your friends, girl. I’ll thank you to control your gossipy tongue.” But she was smiling as she said it.

  That was when they heard the engine.

  They froze, listening. Rachel couldn’t see, for there were no windows in the silo, but she could hear what was happening. The automobile coughed twice as the high-pitched clattering slowed to a warbling rumble, and she heard the faint but unmistakable crunch of gravel as rubber tires turned up into the Bender driveway.

  She seldom saw an automobile out here in the heart of Amish country, though they had become common in town. Only rarely did a car pass by on the road in front of the house, and none of them had ever turned into their driveway before. Dat would not like this. To him, these motorcars were the work of the devil – noisy and smelly and ignorant. Even a stupid horse could be made to see reason, but not so a machine. “Good horses make more good horses, and they eat hay. The land feeds the horse, and the horse feeds the land,” Caleb Bender was fond of saying. “Gott made it so.” The automobile, Dat said, was just another assault on the family – like most modern contrivances, a wedge to drive them apart from each other and from the land.

  Emma leaned her pitchfork against the wall. “What on earth could that be about?”

  The noise stopped abruptly, the automobile’s motor clanking and grinding to a halt. Emma backed through the hatch, scrambled down the ladder and ran to the barn door with Rachel close behind. Rachel bumped into her when she pulled up suddenly at the edge of the door.

  “Be still,” Emma whispered, peeking out. “It’s probably just some lost En
glisher asking directions to Shallowback’s store.”

  Rachel giggled at the inside joke. An Englisher passing through recently had stopped an Amishman on the road, asking, “How do you get to Shallowback’s store?” There was a new Amish grocer in town, and the sign over the door read Schlabach’s. Englishers’ linguistic offenses were an endless source of amusement.

  “You stay here,” Emma said. “I will go and see what it is they want.” She stepped out into the sliver of sunlight between the barn doors, her blue eyes focused and fearless, then turned and gave Rachel a warning glance, shaking a finger at her. “Don’t you move from this spot!”

  Rachel’s eyes followed her sister across the barn lot and through the gate before she finally turned her attention to the driveway and took a good look at the automobile parked there. It was the fancy new patrol wagon used by the police – not that different from a surrey except for the small air-filled rubber tires and the funny-looking horseless front end. In place of a tongue there was only an odd-shaped box, like a little coffin, with bug-eyed headlamps. The back half of the vehicle was all enclosed with wood like an ice wagon, except there were rows and rows of holes along the upper part, so if a prisoner was locked inside he could get air. She had seen this monster once or twice before from a distance. The boys called it “Black Mariah.”

  The doors opened, and two policemen climbed out of the paddy wagon adjusting their strange, flat, top-heavy hats. The driver’s hair was neatly trimmed and combed, and he was clean-shaven except for a big broom of a mustache. They wore brass buttons on their uniforms. She’d grown up with stories of soldiers with mustaches and brass buttons who persecuted the Amish in the old country, which was why Amishmen would not wear them to this day.

  As soon as the two policemen disappeared around the front of the house, Rachel slipped out the barn door and ran across the lot, her ankle-length skirts fluttering in the wind, her heart pounding as she crept past her mother’s dormant kitchen garden and along the side of the house until she could peek around the corner.

  Policemen on her front porch! What would the world do next?

  Rachel couldn’t make out what they were saying, but as the two policemen stood on the porch talking to her mother, she could see the growing fear in Mamm’s eyes, the trembling of her fingers as she covered her mouth to cough. Rachel heard quite clearly, though, when her mother turned and voiced one simple command to someone standing just out of sight in the doorway.

  “Go get Dat.”

  A minute later Rachel heard the back door slam, then hurried footsteps heading for the barn. Within seconds, hoofbeats charged out of the barn lot, and Rachel knew without looking that it was Miriam, the horse girl of the family – the only one who would even think of jumping on a bareback horse and taking off to the woods. Dat had gone out that morning with a neighbor to the fallow field beyond the creek, hunting rabbits.

  Mamm disappeared into the house, and the two policemen after her. In the ensuing silence Rachel could hear the murmuring of voices, but they were not coming from the house. Confused at first, she turned her head about, listening, until she finally figured out that the voices were coming from the back of the police wagon.

  Someone was locked in there.

  Timidly, she tiptoed from the shadow of the house and inched closer to the Black Mariah, but despite her best efforts, her feet made crunching noises on the gravel and the murmuring from the paddy wagon instantly stopped. She froze, ten feet away, fear gripping her heart. She did not know what desperate criminals might be restrained there.

  “Wer iss sel?” a hushed voice said – from the wagon. A Dutch voice. Who is there?

  She took a deep breath, swallowing her terror. “Rachel,” she finally answered, frozen in a crouch, prepared to bolt.

  “Caleb’s Rachel? Bender?”

  She straightened, relaxed a little. “Jah. Who are you?”

  Fingertips appeared through a couple of the holes in the side of the police wagon.

  “Jonas Weaver,” the voice said softly.

  The Weaver farm lay two miles down the road, and she knew Jonas well, an upright Amishman and a deeply good man. The world had truly lost its bearings if Jonas Weaver had been arrested. Rachel rushed forward and spread her hands against the wagon, trying to see inside. There was more than one man in there.

  “Why are you locked up? How many are in there?”

  “With me are three other men. They arrested us because we wouldn’t let our children go all the time to the consolidated school. They come for Caleb.”

  It was as if a mule had kicked her in the stomach. Her knees buckled and she sat heavily in the gravel, trembling, unable to catch her breath. Her face fell into her hands and she wept, overwhelmed with fear and remorse. She couldn’t even think. The police had come to take her father to jail – on account of her and her sisters!

  “Rachel, you must get up. We don’t know what they will do Para di se Val l ey yet. You must get up and go. Run and hide so they don’t take you, too. Go!”

  The voice of Jonas Weaver rang like a beacon of reason in a world gone mad, so she did as he said. Her heart was pounding, her head spinning and her vision blurred with tears, yet somehow she found her legs and fled toward the barn, stumbling over frozen clumps and nearly falling twice.

  Once inside the barn, Rachel rolled the heavy door nearly shut, leaving only a crack large enough for her face so she could watch the house.

  “Rachel.”

  She jumped and spun about, barely stifling a scream, startled by the hushed voice coming from someone standing behind her in the darkness of the barn. But then a face and a broad dark hat appeared in the sliver of light coming through the door, and she saw that it was only Jake Weaver, the son of Jonas.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I came to warn you. They took my dat, and I thought they might come here next. But I couldn’t outrun them, so I hid in the barn. I saw you out there . . . at the Black Mariah.”

  “Jah,” she said, only now beginning to recover her voice. “I talked to your dat. He said this was because of the school.”

  “Jah, that’s what the policemen said.”

  “They’re going to put our fathers away?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  He nodded gravely.

  “How long? How long will they have to be in jail?”

  Jake’s head wagged slowly and he sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Jake was fifteen, the same age as Rachel, and she had known him all her life. His young face was full of fear and guilt and confusion, the same things she felt. Shocked and disoriented, in that moment Rachel did not know whether she would ever see her father again. She knew one thing for certain: If getting out of jail depended on Dat changing his mind and agreeing to send his three youngest daughters to “the school of the world” five days a week, then he would remain in jail for life. Caleb Bender was a man of principle.

  They both heard the hoofbeats at the same time and knew that it was Caleb Bender returning on the horse Miriam had taken. Together, they put their hands to the heavy door to slide it open, and a moment later her father rounded the corner of the barn and steered his horse into the barn. He dismounted, put the horse in a stall and walked calmly over to the two of them, his shotgun still cradled in his arms.

  “Jake,” he said, nodding to the boy. “Miriam said they have come for me. I’m thinking that if you ran all the way up here, then they must have took your dat, too.”

  Jake nodded.

  “Well, thank you for trying to warn me, but it won’t do any good. Me and your dat, we’ll just have to face this thing and see how it comes out.”

  He put a gloved hand on Rachel’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “It’s all right, daughter. Gott straightens the path of those who mind Him.”

  Eyeing the Black Mariah parked in his driveway, her dat handed over the shotgun with a low chuckle.

  “Could you put this away in the tack room for me, Jake? I’m thinking it might not be so good for me to
go in that house with a gun in my hands yet. And it’s probably best if you two wait out here until they’re gone, just in case they might want to take you, too.”

  Undaunted, Caleb Bender walked out of the barn with his shoulders squared and his head up.

  Rachel was filled with a dark despair. Her father’s calm strength only served to sharpen her fears, and double them. He was a chunk of granite, her father – the center of her world, the pillar of strength and guiding force that held the family together, their decision-maker, their protector.

  “They are in trouble because of us!” she cried. “What will we do?” She turned away from the door, put her face in her hands and wept.

  It shocked her a little at first, when she felt Jake’s hands touch lightly on her shoulders and then slide around to her back, drawing her close and enfolding her in a gentle hug. The boy had never once touched her in so familiar a manner. She looked up at his face and met with another shock.

  For years she had sat in the same little red schoolhouse with Jake once a week, seen him every two weeks at church services and did work frolics with his family at harvesttime. Each of them had grown up as an everyday part of the other’s world, like cousins, so her image of him was that of a bright and mischievous child who sometimes irritated her but on the whole was a dependable friend.

  Until now. Now the boyishness was gone from his face, along with all fear and confusion, and his eyes suddenly reminded her of her father’s. Now she saw in Jake’s eyes a tender compassion and an iron strength that she had never noticed before.

  “It will be all right,” he said. “Our families will be strong and wait for them to come back. The police will see they have made a mistake and let them go. Everything will be good again, you’ll see.”

  Rachel noticed too, almost absently, that she had stopped crying. A warmth flushed through her, despite the bitter cold, and her fears subsided as she stared at Jake’s face. His arms felt as strong as trees, and yet he did not press her. She knew that she had only to step back if she wished – if she felt this was too close, too personal – and he would let her go. But again, she surprised herself.