Actually, they knew her better. Marcus knew the truth. Did Vera too?
She’d never felt as alone as she did at this moment. Here, but not belonging. Here, but only because they didn’t have a choice.
Who else knew the truth? What about all those at church? She lay there a moment. Despite her fatigue she couldn’t keep her mind from racing. Finally she rose and pulled on another pair of knitted socks, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and peered out the window. Would she ever feel warm again?
Blue moonlight draped over the barn and yard. Behind the barn was Dat’s field. And somewhere in Charm stood her real parents’ small shack. Had she ever passed it as they visited friends and family in that area? How could she not have known? How could she not have remembered?
Rose wiped her nose on the sleeve of her night dress. She thought of sitting on her dat’s lap as a child, by the fire as he went through the Scriptures. He’d never speak out loud but his lips moved as he read, and sometimes she recognized a word. Had she ever sat in the lap of her real father like that? Mem said his heart must have ached to feel thin skin over her frail bones.
She thought of the family again, pressing her eyes tight and trying to picture their faces and their clothes—Englisch clothes.
Then, as if every star came crashing down, every speck of light dimmed around her.
“My Englisch parents,” Rose whispered. “I’m … Englisch.”
Six
THE HOUSE WAS QUIET. TOO QUIET. JONATHAN’S SISTERS and their families wouldn’t be arriving until later. Yet he knew that even in the middle of the busyness his sisters wouldn’t leave him alone. He was the only one not married, and even before he’d decided that he wanted to marry Rose they’d declared her to be the perfect woman for him. Maybe it was her sweet, gentle nature. Maybe it was because of the way she cared for her younger brother and sisters. Maybe it was because she cared about this community. To Jonathan, she maybe cared about the community too much—at least about their opinions.
He sat at the kitchen table with his Bible open before him. His father had been silent, sitting on the other end reading and praying. His mother had been in her room, most likely doing the same. The solemn day would soon slip into a joyous one, but it felt far from joyous without Rose. While he was overseas, he’d counted down the days until he could see her again. This—this wall between them—made all the eager waiting seem like a horrible joke.
Jonathan flipped through the pages of the Bible wishing he’d spent more time in prayer while he was away, instead of just focusing on thoughts of Rose. Perhaps he’d done it because it had been easier thinking of a future with her than considering the present. It was hard to see the soldiers dying and think of God. It had been hard to see the concentration camps and wondering why God hadn’t done more to stop it all.
“It just proves that sin will have its mark on us until we can be with God for eternity,” his bunkmate Roy Wilburson had told him.
Jonathan’s dad cleared his throat, and Jonathan jumped slightly. Maybe Rose should be worried. Maybe the war had affected him more than he wanted to let on.
With a creak of the hallway door, his mem bustled into the kitchen. She hummed softly. Jonathan envied her attitude that always saw the bright side of everything.
“Jonathan, I have an errand for you to run.” A smile filled her plump face, pushing up her cheeks.
Jonathan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Today?”
Dat turned and glanced over his shoulder, equally surprised.
“Ja, during the last sewing circle Mary Yoder left her best serving dish here. It’s just a mile or so to their house. I know the Yoders are having all their children, ja, and it would be a shame if she was missing her best dish.”
“Oh, yer worried about the dish—is that it, Mem?”
She shrugged as she moved to stoke the cookstove.
“And it wouldn’t hurt none to wish Rose a good day while I’m making a delivery to her mem, now would it?” Jonathan pushed his heavy chair back from the table and rose. “And will you admit Ruthann put you up to this?”
Mem paused, placing her hands on her hips. “I won’t admit any such thing.” She pointed her finger. “But I will say Ruthann mentioned she won’t let you back in this house unless you have a gut talk with that woman. A gut talk, Jonathan.”
THE COLD OF LAST NIGHT SEEMED A DISTANT MEMORY AS the house warmed with the heat of the woodstove and the sunlight reflecting off the snow and streaming in the windows. Rose sat in Mem’s rocker. The old, tattered German Bible was open on her lap, but she hadn’t read a word. Actually, she’d read many words, but none of them had penetrated.
Thanksgiving morning was a time of fasting for the adults. The children had eaten a simple meal of biscuits and jam and kept mostly to their rooms, but as it neared noon, Mem rose from where she’d been sitting at the kitchen table and began pulling the food they’d prepared last night from the pantry. Children showed up from various corners of the house. The noise of Mem moving around the kitchen, adding water to the kettle to heat for tea, meant that their solemn morning would soon turn into a time of celebration. To Rose, the silence was easier than celebrating. She wanted to talk to Mem, but at the same time was afraid to know more about what had happened to her family.
She wished she could talk to Jonathan …
Rose’s stomach cinched. Last week she’d looked Jonathan in the face and told him that she saw no future for them. Over the last few months she’d listened to the biting words of those in her community who’d been outspoken about Jonathan going against the Amish way. Last night, she’d tried to push all thoughts of him out of her mind. Yet now—in her time of need—he was the one she longed to talk to.
What a fool I’ve been.
Heat rose to her cheeks, considering how she’d practically shunned him for caring for Englisch soldiers and there she was Englisch herself!
Rose swallowed down her emotion and started rocking faster. Who knew if she’d ever have the chance to talk to him? If she did, she guessed Jonathan would be the one to turn his back on her now. And she wouldn’t blame him if he did.
All the Amish people Rose knew had been Amish all their lives. Well, except for one—a local woman who’d fallen in love with an Amish bachelor and decided to convert. Though she tried her hardest, she never really fit in. Outsiders weren’t accepted. And that’s what she was. The truth declared it so. How would Rose be any different?
She glanced at the clock, realizing Vera, LeRoy, and little Ira would be there soon, in addition to Marcus and Katie. She guessed Vera knew the truth, but what about their younger siblings?
Eight-year-old Martha entered the room and twirled lightly on her toes, enjoying the greenery that Rose had set up in the windows at dawn. Martha’s apron puffed slightly as she turned. “Look, Rose, I’m a snowflake, not?”
“Ja.” Rose smiled. Martha’s carefree spirit was not one to be tamed. In the summer she danced on dirt and dry grass and declared she was a dandelion seed. She whistled with the birds. If she were to know about Rose she surely would have said something. The little ones had no reason to question if Rose was a real sister. Even with her lighter hair and eyes, Rose hadn’t questioned. She just believed she took after family members who were also fair.
Trying her best to hold back her tears, Rose put on her shoes and coat and then hurried to the kitchen.
Mem set a kettle of water on the woodstove to boil. She glanced up surprised. Her eyes were red, and Rose guessed she hadn’t slept much either. “Going somewhere?”
“To the Aults, remember? To take the pies.”
“Oh, ja. I’d forgotten … Or I can ask Elizabeth.”
“Ne.” Rose chose an apple pie and a cherry one. “I need some fresh air.”
“Danki, Rose.” Mem offered a sad smile. “And let them know we are praying for them, ja?”
Rose nodded and balanced one pie on her hand and the other on her arm as she opened the door and slipped outside. Near th
e barn Martha’s twin brother Matthew tossed snowballs at the fence. He cheered for every one that hit the wood.
How many childhood joys had Rose taken for granted?
The air was cold, but it wasn’t far to the Aults’ house. Instead of walking across the small field between their houses, the deep snow forced her to walk along the road. As she trudged along, Rose’s mind was heavy with the knowledge of what Mem had told her. She was not Mem’s child, not birthed from her like the other children. The ache of knowing that was enough, but even greater was the ache of realizing that she had another family … an Englisch family.
“I’m … not … Amish.” She pushed each word out, and each froze in the air and plunked onto the ground before her, hitting the frozen snow. The horror of the words was felt more than comprehended.
Rose paused her steps more than once, trying to keep the tears from coming. She was thankful this morning was one for fasting; she was certain she wouldn’t have been able to eat more than a few bites, and even if she’d done that, she would have lost it already on the snow.
When she’d woken up, after a fitful sleep, she’d forced herself to dress, pausing when she placed her prayer kapp on her pinned-up blonde hair, feeling like a traitor as she did. Even the image of her blonde hair mocked her in the small hand mirror she used. Blonde hair when everyone else in the family had brown.
She should have paid more attention to it before, but Dat’s sisters had blonde hair too. Many families she knew had at least one or two children who looked a bit different than the others. Now she knew the reason she did.
Her footsteps reached the driveway of the Ault place, and she paused to catch her breath. It was only then that she saw the footprints in the snow—two sets crossing the yard.
She thought again of Jonathan. Had that been him last night? If so, was he simply making a delivery? Or did he come by regularly, as Elizabeth said?
Rose ignored the footprints and hurried up the driveway, eager to see Mr. and Mrs. Ault—to see Harold in whatever state he was in—and then escape to her room for a few minutes of quiet before everyone else arrived. She’d tried to pray this morning, but the words didn’t come. Maybe God knew her heart. Maybe attempting to turn to Him in her need was enough.
She moved up the porch steps. The door opened before she had a chance to knock.
“Come in, dear.” Mr. Ault’s voice was flat. “But make sure you keep your voice low. Harold is startled easily these days.” Mr. Ault didn’t explain more than that.
She nodded and entered the warm kitchen. She expected to see her friend lying on the couch, his body broken. Instead he sat at the table, looking as perfect and healthy as he’d always been.
Rose’s jaw dropped, and she hastily set the pies on the Formica-topped table. In the other room a radio played an upbeat tune. If it weren’t for the solemn face of Mr. Ault she’d think nothing had changed.
“Harold?”
His eyes moved to her, as if trying to recognize her … then he smiled. “Rose. It’s you.”
He didn’t rise. He didn’t offer a handshake or a hug, but instead took a sip from the steaming coffee cup in front of him.
Rose looked to Mr. Ault. His hair was twice as gray as she’d last seen him. Heavy bags hung under his eyes, and he said nothing. He refused to look at his son and instead busied himself, wiping down an already clean kitchen counter with a towel. Mrs. Ault entered, took the dishcloth from his hand, and then motioned to the living room.
“Why don’t you go sit, dear,” she said sweetly.
Her husband nodded once and then hurried from the kitchen, seemingly relieved.
“Mrs. Ault, I brought two pies. There is a cherry pie and an apple one … because I know apple is Harold’s favorite.”
“Apple pie. It sure is.” He gave a low whistle. “Why don’t you sit a minute and we can catch up? I won’t tell you what I just experienced … I just got off the ship last night.”
Rose’s heart sunk as she suddenly understood. It wasn’t his body that had been broken by the war, but his mind. And in a way this was even harder to see.
“Thank you, Harold.” She pulled out the wooden chair, painted white, and sat on the red-and-white-checkered cushion.
He pointed out the window. “We docked right there … and there was horrible gunfire.” He turned to Rose, his eyes piercing. “No, not now, I won’t tell you any of that—don’t want to worry you. But I will say, Rose, that thoughts of you kept me going even during times I wanted to give up.”
Rose’s brow furrowed, and she placed a hand over her heart. Harold was two years older, and a nice neighbor boy, but they’d never been anything more than friends. She’d never think of dating an Englischman …
She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t quite comprehend that she was one of them—the fact she shared more with this family, in this room, than she did with the family across the field, no matter the clothes she wore.
“Harold, do you want some cream for your coffee?” his mother asked.
Rose noticed Mrs. Ault didn’t offer her a cup. Didn’t suggest that she stay—which was not usual. But instead of rising, Rose stayed planted in the chair. Partly because her kneecaps quivered and she worried that if she tried to stand she’d be forced to sit again. And partly because she wanted to hear what Harold had to say.
“Rose, it was awful.” His words poured out. “We landed on the beach—it was black sand, but it got to be where there were more bodies covering the shore than anything else. Our landing vessel couldn’t make it too close to the beach, because there were bodies in the water too. I jumped out and struggled forward. It’s amazing I made it to the beach at all, my pack was so heavy. And as I lay behind a tall sand dune as my only protection, I remembered my mother’s words: “God has a way of protecting those special to Him … those that He rescues, just as He did in Rose’s case.”
“Rescued?” Rose looked to him, puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”
A crashing sounded, and Mrs. Ault bent over to pick up the tin cup she’d dropped. Just as quick was the sight of Harold crashing to his knees as he covered his head. Then he glanced up, eyes wide with horror. Followed by shame.
His face lost all color, and Rose wondered if he was more horrified by his reaction or the fact she’d seen it.
Harold looked to the cup in his mother’s hand. He cursed and hurried into the living room. He plunked down on the camelback sofa next to his father and lowered his head, covering his face with his hands.
“I can’t believe I did that. I didn’t mean to let the cup slip.” The color had drained from Mrs. Ault’s face. “I feel so bad for him. Every sound sets him off. He doesn’t do it on purpose, Rose. But even though he’s home he hasn’t really left there. It’s horrible. Even worse than his reaction is knowing that he saw so much. He tells us stories in pieces, but he can only go so far. Sometimes he thinks he’s back there again and every noise … every little noise sends him spiraling.”
Compassion compelled Rose. She hurried forward and wrapped her arms around the older woman’s shoulders. She had never hugged her neighbor before. They’d always been kind to each other, but since they were Englisch and she was Amish there was a dividing line. Only now … Well, it just seemed right, necessary.
“I know you didn’t mean it, Mrs. Ault, but we are so thankful for him, for his service. I’ve read the news reports. We had no idea what had really been happening with those camps, with the prisons, on the beaches …”
Rose’s words cut short. It was the first time she’d spoken such things out loud. It was a truth she hadn’t thought about much. She’d been so concerned about the pain of Jonathan’s betrayal that she hadn’t really allowed thankfulness to sink in.
Thanksgiving.
She was thankful for the soldiers who served—and even thankful for Jonathan’s part caring for men like Harold, though she’d never admitted it before, even to herself.
“It’s so hard, Rose. Harold says things I don’t unde
rstand. He does things …”
“But what did he mean?” Rose pulled back. “That part about me being rescued? What was it that you told him about me?”
“Oh, dear. He sometimes just says things.” Mrs. Ault’s words came too easily, gushing out. “He doesn’t often know what he’s—” She looked away and fiddled with the dish towel folded on the countertop.
“You don’t know, then?” Rose said, peering into the woman’s face. “You don’t know why he would think that?”
Mrs. Ault bit her lip. “Like I just said, Harold says things and does things. Just last night … Oh, it was horrible. He was out there in the snow, huddled down behind a drift as if it was the sands of Iwo Jima. If it wasn’t for that sweet Jonathan Fisher bringing him in—”
“Jonathan was here?” Rose’s stomach flipped just hearing his name. It was him.
“Yes. His wagon was outside. It appeared he was delivering his last load of lumber.”
“Seems out of his way to make a delivery,” Rose commented more to herself than to Mrs. Ault.
“I don’t know why he was doing what he was doing, dear. All I know is that the kind man humored Harold. He played along with him for a moment until Harold came to his senses again and came inside. That was the worst episode yet, and I hope it’s the last. He’s been home a week; surely he should be better soon. I’m just so thankful that kind Amish man knew how to help. And that he was there. An answer to my prayers, I tell you.”
“He’s seen things too.” Rose’s voice was soft. “I’m sure Jonathan’s seen many men like Harold.”
Tears filled Rose’s eyes and a longing to see Jonathan overwhelmed her. Those feelings betrayed her. Jonathan had betrayed her. They’d talked of marriage and then he’d aligned himself with the world. He’d left her to face their community alone—a community that also felt betrayed.
Emotions crashed through her chest, pulling at her like waves on a battlefield shore. She was angry with him, yet she also worried about his anger when he discovered her truth. What would he say when he discovered her parents were Englisch? She was almost afraid to find out. But she had to talk to someone. Rose knew it would take swallowing her pride—her own feelings of betrayal—to allow that to happen.
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