Christmas Gift for Rose (9780310336822)

by Zondervan Publishing House

  He’d come back whole, but the damage had already been done. He’d paid a price too.

  Jonathan hunkered down, pressing himself against the snow. Shell shock. He’d seen it in the field hospital. It made sense there. The injured soldiers could still hear the droning of the bombers overhead. They could hear the pounding of the big guns. But here in the still and quiet countryside, far away from any enemy?

  A minute passed, then two, as Jonathan’s mind scurried, trying to figure out what to do. What to say. Finally, as if the answer came from the stars, appearing from behind the thinning clouds, he knew.

  “Listen.” Jonathan let out a long, slow breath. “I know a place we can hide. It’s safe, warm. I can find us something to eat.”

  Harold looked to him, his features softening. “I am hungry. Earlier—” His words caught in his throat. “Earlier I woke up certain I could smell my mom’s cinnamon rolls baking.” His voice trembled. He shook his head. “It was a dream I didn’t want to wake from.”

  “C’mon.” Jonathan rose, not thinking about the cold, the lumber load, or his horse that stood in the middle of the road, waiting. “Follow me.”

  Thankfully, the man did. His steps were quick, and Jonathan picked up his pace. He headed across the yard of the Ault place, and his feet sank into the snow. Just like the sands of Iwo Jima.

  They made it to the large, open porch, and Harold took the lead. “Come.” He hurried up the steps. “My mom will be happy to meet you.”

  When Harold glanced back, terror had been replaced with a smile. “I know she’s been praying for us … That’s the reason we were able to make it back.”

  Just like that, he was different.

  Jonathan nodded, unsure of what to do. The light from the electric porch light circled him. The man opened the door. Heat escaped, welcoming them in.

  “Just for a few minutes, I suppose.”

  He entered the kitchen. A pan of cinnamon rolls—untouched—sat on the blue linoleum countertop. A woman’s soft cries carried from the other room. Hearing the door open and close again, an elderly man hurried in. His eyes were red, his cheeks splotchy. He looked to Jonathan, eyebrows lifted. Thankfulness was clear in his gaze.

  “He was jest outside.” Jonathan pointed behind him toward the weathered farmhouse door. “I—I need to get going, though. I have a load of lumber to deliver.”

  Relief flooded the man’s face. He took one of his son’s pink, cold hands and pressed it between his own two. Then the older man led his son to the table, pulling out a chair for him to sit. Harold said nothing, but a look of contentment radiated from his face.

  “Are you not going to ask?” Mr. Ault’s voice cracked.

  “No need, sir. I understand.”

  Mr. Ault turned. His eyebrow twitched. “Are you the one?”

  Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest, realizing he was trembling. “The one?”

  “The Amishman who joined the army?”

  Jonathan jutted out his chin, repeating the words he’d said every time he was asked the same question. “I—I was a medic … at the field hospital.” He pulled his felt hat from his head and turned it over in his hands. “I never fired a weapon. Not once.” He returned his hat to his head.

  “Thank you, son.” The man’s chin trembled as he came forward. He took Jonathan’s hand, clinging to it for a moment. Respect radiated from his gaze. Then Mr. Ault released Jonathan’s hand, stepped forward, and opened the door.

  The air was cold, but warmth grew in Jonathan’s chest. Did the man thank him for bringing back his son? For serving?

  Jonathan squared his shoulders as he walked back to his wagon with quickened steps. He had a feeling it was both.

  As he climbed back into the wagon, he couldn’t help but look in the direction of the Yoder farm. The kitchen window was fogged up, and he couldn’t see inside. He was glad for that. Glad Rose couldn’t look out and find him there. What Jonathan had seen tonight with Harold was evidence of what he felt inside. Would returning to normal life—whole mind and heart—be possible?

  Maybe Rose was right. Maybe it was hopeless to even try.

  Three

  THE DISHES DONE, ROSE DRIED THEM AND SET THEM IN their places in the open cupboards. The kitchen window was fogged, and she instinctively lifted her dishtowel and wiped away the condensation. In the light of the moon—which had found a way to peek through the clouds—she spotted a lumber wagon parked on the road not far from the Ault place. Rose placed a hand to her throat. Was something wrong?

  Before she had a chance to alert her brother and father, she noticed a figure jogging from the Ault house to the wagon. A familiar form. Her heart quickened as she wondered if it was Jonathan. She leaned closer, trying to get a better look, but couldn’t be sure.

  With a slow movement, the wagon started down the road. Away from her house. Away from her.

  Rose thought about the letter she’d received after Jonathan had left. He’d made his intentions clear. He’d written and said he wanted to marry her when he returned.

  The postmark had been from France. Her face heated—flamed with anger even now.

  “Rose?” Mem approached, placing a soft hand on her arm. “Are—are you all right? Your face looks a little flushed.”

  “It does?” Rose placed the dishcloth on the kitchen table and patted her cheek. “I’m … fine.”

  The children, including Louisa, were getting dressed in their bed clothes, and the room had quieted.

  “If you are thinking about the apron …”

  “The apron?” Rose hadn’t been thinking about it. Not really. Why would something like that matter when her heart ached, knowing that the person she loved was close, but she couldn’t bring him closer?

  The wagon disappeared over the hill, and she turned back to her mem. “I wasn’t thinking about the apron.”

  The relief on her mother’s face was clear. Mem lowered her gaze and blinked away a hint of tears.

  But should Rose be thinking about it? What had Mem bothered so? Rose watched as she moved to her rocker near the woodstove and sat with a heaviness that wasn’t typical.

  Except for the smoky brown of Mem’s eyes—which age had partly hidden behind heavy lids—there was nothing extraordinary about her mother’s face. Her cheeks were round, and her large dimples had stretched into thick lines down to her chin. Only an inch of hair—now more gray than black—peeked out in the space between her forehead and her kapp. Her lips were full. They were usually happy and curled upward, but not tonight. Mem’s lips were pursed tight, as if there was a secret she attempted to hold in.

  But there was no secret, was there? How could there be? Mem simply wasn’t the type to hold one. She had lived within these same walls since she’d married Dat twenty-five years ago. She served her family and community without a moment’s rest. To Rose she was the symbol of home, and all seemed well in life when Mem was somewhere within the same walls, humming while she set to work at her chores. But there was no humming tonight. For some reason there was no peace.

  Rose folded the kitchen towel and set it on the countertop.

  “I think I’ll head to my room. Do you mind if I take a lantern?” She looked to Dat, who sat in his rocker, whittling a piece of wood. Her dad usually resisted. He liked the family to spend time together in the common areas. What did one want to do alone that he or she couldn’t do in a group?

  Dat must have seen something—weariness, or worry, maybe—etched in her face. “Ja, but make sure you turn off the lantern before going to sleep.”

  “I know, I know.” She hurried over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to place a kiss on his cheek like she’d seen Englisch girls do with their dats, but that just wasn’t the Amish way. Love was expressed by many means throughout the day through service and care, not through physical contact. Although that didn’t mean Rose didn’t want a hug sometimes, or a pat on her head. Even though Rose was nearly twenty, there were times she still felt like a yo
ung child inside, wishing she could climb onto her dat’s lap, letting the worries of this world fade away with the gentle rocking of his chair.

  The lantern light brightened her steps, and she entered her room, closing her door behind her. How come she couldn’t get Jonathan off her mind tonight? Was she second-guessing her decision? No, she couldn’t do that. Not if she wanted to remain an upright church member.

  She set the lantern on her side table and moved to her trunk, pushing aside her clothes and bedding to reach the small box tucked in the bottom right corner. She opened it and pulled out the letter on top. The letter that had changed everything.

  Dear Rose,

  I didn’t want to tell you when I left exactly where I was going. I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it. I was certain that with one look from your blue eyes you could talk me into anything. Or talk me out of anything.

  The truth is that I wasn’t drafted after all. Everyone assumed I had been, and that I’d do what the other Amish young men had done before me. That I’d sit out my time in prison or join the CC. I’m not doing any of those things, Rose. You see, I chose to go. I signed up.

  The paper in her hands trembled, as it had the first time she read the letter. As it did every time she read the letter.

  I know you wonder why, Rose. How could I join the military when they are against everything we believe in as pacifists? Just so you know, I will not carry a weapon. I could never fire a weapon at a person knowing that my deed could send someone to eternal damnation. May it be God’s hand—not mine—that causes our enemies to breathe their last. May He have mercy on their souls.

  Instead I’ll be working in the field hospitals, caring for injured men. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I’ve prayed too. The thing that God has brought to my mind over and over is the story of the Good Samaritan. Religious leaders walked by the injured man without offering help. They crossed the street and didn’t give even one sip of water—not a kind word of concern. They had dedicated their lives to God’s work, yet it was the Samaritan whom Jesus praised.

  Jesus told us to love our neighbors, those injured and in need. How could I sit safely on my farm knowing that many were hurt and dying? Knowing that I could cross the street—or in this case cross an ocean—to help. Should we place our religion above the care of others?

  I’m writing a letter, sharing my heart beliefs with Mem and Dat too. If you could stop by soon and comfort them, I know they will need it. There are many who won’t understand my choice or my reasons. I am willing to accept that.

  But more than anything I hope you’ll understand. I can’t bear the thought of disappointing you. When I return—and I plan to return—I only want one thing, Rose: to marry you and to live a happy, peaceful life. Please write and tell me you understand. Tell me you agree with my plan.

  Forever yours,

  Jonathan

  Rose had written a letter, but she had not been as understanding as he hoped. She had not agreed to marry him. How could he do this, she’d asked. How could he shame himself, his family, and her? Weren’t there injured men closer? Couldn’t one help returning soldiers without having to join the military? To join the military was to turn one’s back on being Amish. Even reading his letter—well, it sounded more like one from an Englisch person!

  Her letter must have crossed his second one in the delivery, because his second letter told her he did not yet realize her disapproval.

  Dear Rose,

  In all my life I would have never imagined all the things I’ve seen, experienced. Just riding on a train for the first time, as I left Ohio, was quite remarkable. Then meeting men from all over the United States during my medical training. Being with these men reminded me of our Amish community. Everyone cares for the others like brothers. When one man is down, thinking of home and family, the others lift him up. (If only the cooking was as fine as that of an Amish cook, but I am adjusting.)

  But even greater than seeing New York City, sailing across the Atlantic, or setting foot onto France, was seeing Paris. We arrived not long after liberation, and I know as a Plain person I shouldn’t be so enamored with fine things, but even after all the destruction of the war I never thought such a place could exist. It’s as if man looked at God’s beautiful flowers and used stone to create arches and gateways. The buildings rise tall and white, reminding me of my farm with its first covering of fresh snow. The people are thin and war torn, but full of joy that they are no longer under German occupation. I’ve heard horrible stories of what they endured, and I’m already putting my medical skills to good use.

  Speaking of which, I’m on duty in just a few minutes. Give your family my love.

  Forever yours,

  Jonathan

  Tears filled Rose’s eyes. She’d wished she could be happy about his news, his experiences. Part of her still wanted to be. Part of her wished she could ask him over for Thanksgiving dinner—to enjoy spending time with him. Yet if she’d learned one thing growing up, it was that one compromise led to more, and soon one would no longer be Amish. If each individual did what he or she saw fit, there would be no community and church. Soon they would be no different than the Englisch.

  “There can only be one right way,” Rose mumbled as she folded Jonathan’s letters and placed them back in the box. But even as the words escaped her, her mind wished it wasn’t so.

  She loved Jonathan, but confessing that to him would mean disagreeing with her bishop—the man who stood before God.

  She thought back to the words of Jonathan’s letter. “I would have never imagined all the things I’ve seen.” How could he stay Amish after that? Would he ever be content in Berlin? Rose expected that any day she’d hear the news that he’d left for good—not only their community, but also the Amish. And if they’d married, where would that leave her?

  She couldn’t imagine not being in this community, not being Amish. It would be hard enough moving into her own home, leaving Mem and this place. But to risk being shunned by her family and all she knew … Rose couldn’t bear it.

  Rose returned the small box and closed the trunk. She’d removed her kapp, preparing to put on her sleeping handkerchief, when a knock sounded on the door. “Come in.”

  The door swung open and her fourteen-year-old sister Elizabeth stood there with a hand planted on her hip. “Dat asked me to check on you. I told him I thought you were sick … lovesick.”

  “You never were subtle, were you?” Rose couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Elizabeth neared, narrowing her gaze. She walked with heavy steps. There was nothing petite or dainty about Elizabeth. “Well, are you okay?”

  “Ja, I’m fine. Just tired, I suppose.”

  Elizabeth plopped onto Rose’s bed. “You say that, but it must be something more. I can see it in your eyes, Rose. You look afraid.”

  “No, not really. I have nothing to be afraid about.” Rose bit her lip, knowing her words were a lie. She just hoped Elizabeth couldn’t see it.

  “Maybe not, but you’ve been acting different ever since Jonathan Fisher came back from the war. I wasn’t joking when I told Dat you were lovesick.”

  Rose pulled the pins from her bun one at a time until her blonde hair spilled down her back. She refused to respond to that. What did her sister know?

  “I don’t know why you won’t let him see you. He’s driven by the last three days. He’s just waiting for someone to step out onto the porch and wave him in.”

  Rose spun around. “He has not …”

  Elizabeth’s headed nodded enthusiastically. “Ja, has too. Ask Mem. Ask Louisa. Ask anyone.”

  “You’re too young to understand.”

  “Marcus said you won’t see him because he became a soldier.”

  “He didn’t become a soldier. He became a medic.”

  Elizabeth fiddled with the string on her kapp. “Marcus said the Amish folks will soon forget about that, especially now that he’s back.”

  “What do you know?” she stated flatl
y. “You didn’t hear the bishop’s words. You didn’t see the looks that I received. Numerous women came up to me after church services and told me that I needed to forget about Jonathan—that there were many good Amish men who would make fine husbands. Their disapproval was clear on their faces.”

  “I know that if any boy looked at me the way Jonathan looks at you, Rose, I wouldn’t think twice about getting married. Doesn’t every woman want to be loved like that?”

  Without another word Elizabeth slipped from the room. What was she going to tell their dat? That the only thing wrong with Rose couldn’t be fixed by anyone in this house?

  Rose touched her fingertips to her cheeks. Could they really see her fear? Maybe she was afraid.

  Afraid of where giving her whole heart would take her? Ja.

  Afraid of where she’d end up if she turned her back to him? Yes, that was true too.

  Afraid of being alone? Always.

  And a new fear stirred: what was the secret Mem hid? Did she know something Rose didn’t? Did Mem have an answer to the uneasy feeling that crept over Rose like the dark, foreboding shadow of an unseen truth?

  Four

  IT TOOK LONGER THAN NORMAL FOR JONATHAN TO tend to his horse. He moved with sluggish steps as he unhitched the animal, brushed him down, and fed and watered him. Partly because his hands were frozen. He should stop taking the long route on these lumber deliveries. He should just face the fact that his choice had ruined his chance with Rose. No matter how many times he drove by she would not be interested in seeing him.

  He also carried the additional burden of seeing Harold Ault. He had not heard that the young man was back from the war, and now he knew why. How were Mr. and Mrs. Ault handling it? From what he saw, not well. Did they have hopes that their son would someday snap back?

  Jonathan hung the harness on the hook on the wall. He knew better. Even if the shell shock wore off, what Harold had seen would affect him forever.