The Witnesses

by Linda Byler

  After a moment of bewilderment, someone nudged Melvin, who hurried out, returning with the young men in tow.

  David shared what was on his heart. He could speak no other way. He told of his own fire, the loss, the hard work, but also the overwhelming gratitude in the end, when he viewed the members of the Amish church in a whole new light.

  “For we have something. We have an upbringing, a tradition that teaches us to reach out, perform duties born of brother love.

  “After the new barn stood in its place, I was as changed as the barn. I have never known gratitude the way I do now. I can never stand in the forebay, throwing a harness on a mule’s back, and not be thankful for the mule, the harness, the roof over our heads. I think God wants that gratitude from us.

  “So how can He teach us better, besides allowing fiery trials, in this case, literally, into our lives?”

  Heads nodded, faces contorted in all sorts of ways to keep emotion from rising to the surface.

  “Yes, it was hard sometimes. The hardest by far was when our Sarah was burned. I couldn’t forgive then. I couldn’t forgive the arsonist. I railed against God. I wanted revenge, any form of torture. I wanted the arsonist to experience debridement, just once. Let him feel what Sarah had endured.”

  Clearly, Davey had the attention of the liberals. Now he was talking. Sarah was burned so this preeminent minister would stand in the courtroom, his voice carrying well in the great room. What a grand testimony he would have! Their moment of glory was at hand.

  “I hardly slept one night,” David continued. “Like Jacob, I wrestled with the angel of God. I knew what was right, but just this once, I wanted to be exempt from doing the right thing.

  “Toward morning, though, I knew I had to let go. I had to let go of all those thoughts of revenge, of justification and hatred. ‘Vengeance will be mine, saith the Lord.’ Forgiveness is the only way to peace. The only way.

  “Now, before you decide to speak against me, let me finish. The young man who drove Harold Walters to some of the farms where he lit the fires came to visit us. He’s sorry for what he did. He wants our forgiveness. He did not start the fires, just drove the car.”

  “He’ll get jail time anyway,” Melvin barked.

  “Let me finish. He said this Harold Walters held a personal grudge against the Widow Lydia’s husband, Aaron. They had some business dealings in the past, not very honest ones, I presume.

  “Aaron is dead, may he rest in peace, and it would not be uplifting to speak of his faults now. But, in a sense, because of the misdeeds of one our brethren, we suffered. In a sense, it was brought on our own heads.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  The words were harsh, cutting, spoken forcefully by a young man in a striped shirt.

  Slowly, one by one, in ripples, heads turned from side to side.

  “Yes, I know. It might sound ridiculous, but I’m afraid it’s true,” David continued. “One bit of spoiled dough will ruin the whole loaf. If we want to live righteously, separating ourselves from the world, then we have a responsibility to live up to what we profess. God sees this long before we do and sends chastening. He schlakes (punishes) us, like naughty children.

  “After children are chastened, don’t they come climb up on our laps and lay their sweet heads on our chests? And we cuddle them, our love for them multiplying and theirs for us. Same with God. We are His children. We have been chastened, and this schtrofe (punishment) we will accept, take it upon ourselves. Mind you, the fruits of it will follow. Already it is visible.”

  Heads nodded, eyes misted, glasses were removed, cleaned. Even the young men understood perfectly the picture of a young child who was punished. They fully accepted the theory, and their heads bowed before the wisdom of David Beiler.

  “What about Sarah?”

  Like the last sputter from a dying engine, Lloyd Fisher had to throw one more barb.

  “Sarah was my Gethsemane, my finish, so to speak. But in ways that are of a personal nature, her outward suffering brought an inward acceptance of God’s will for her. I can’t call her injuries wrong.”

  Everyone knew what he was talking about. Eyes twinkled, knowing looks were exchanged.

  She’d be published—her engagement officially announced—after communion. That Lee Glick was really something. Good for Sarah.

  So Dan Dienner’s eyebrows leveled off and smoothed out. The young men acknowledged their leader’s wisdom and gave themselves up to it. And Melvin stuck his lawyer’s book in his jacket pocket, where it bulged uncomfortably and made him feel lopsided the remainder of the evening.

  CHAPTER 16

  AS THE SUMMER DREW TO A CLOSE, THE CICADAS and crickets set up their symphony outside Sarah’s bedroom window. A breeze billowed the sheer panels at her windows, and she flung her arms above her head and clasped her hands, a sigh of happiness and contentment escaping her lips.

  A farmer’s wife! Why had she never imagined it? It was the fulfillment of a dream she was never aware of, until it turned into reality.

  Beside her, Priscilla was reading a book by the light of an LED battery lamp.

  “Pinch me, Priscilla, to make sure I’m real,” Sarah said laughing.

  “Gladly.”

  Reaching over, she pinched Sarah’s arm between her thumb and forefinger, producing an excruciatingly painful sensation worse than a bee sting.

  “Ow!” Sarah yelped, leaping off the bed. “Ow! I didn’t say you had to pinch that hard.”

  Laughing out loud, Priscilla lowered her book, her face lifted to the ceiling, her eyes squeezed shut in laughter.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Uh . . . oh my! Shoo!” Priscilla gasped.

  Suddenly, she caught sight of Sarah’s shoulder. Her laughter ended abruptly.

  “Sarah,” she whispered, horrified.

  “What?”

  “Your shoulder.”

  Turning her head to the right, Sarah lowered her eyes, then looked at Priscilla, a sad question in her eyes.

  “Is it so bad?”

  Shaken, Priscilla nodded.

  “I just never realized, I guess. My goodness, Sarah. In this glaring light, it doesn’t look very good.”

  “I know. And I’m getting married. It scares me.”

  “Does Lee know?”

  “I told him. But still. I mean, there’s no guarantee he won’t be repelled. Priscilla, what should I do? Really?”

  “Well, what does he say?”

  “He says the scars are beautiful. They remind him of God’s answer to his prayers, His will to blend our life into one. After Matthew, he means.”

  Priscilla’s eyes turned soft and liquid.

  “Aw. He’s so sweet. He’s a special guy, Sarah. You’re blessed.”

  “I am. This is first time in my life I can understand that overused word—awesome. Lee is truly awesome.”

  “Tell me, was Matthew easy to forget?”

  “I couldn’t let go of him, until I was burned.”

  “I know.”

  Sarah lay down on the bed again, and a comfortable silence followed. Finally Priscilla crawled off Sarah’s bed, said good night, and padded to her room. Sarah heard her turn off the lamp and sigh. She could soon tell her sister was fast asleep.

  Sarah turned on her side, facing the window, thankful for the cool breezes. She listened to the clamorous sounds of summer’s insects and wondered at the thought of her upcoming wedding.

  They’d chosen December 6, a Thursday. It was smack dab in the middle of the Lancaster County wedding season.

  That was fine with Sarah. Everything else in her life would be traditional, being a farmer’s wife, living with a relative at the “other end.” S’ana ent. It was a vague description of a double house, with an addition—the “other end”—built for parents or sisters or brothers on the home place, the family co-existing in peaceful harmony as much as they were able.

  Would she always get along with Anna? Already, Sarah looked forward to having
coffee with her every morning. Anna was the funniest person she knew. Her sense of humor was outrageous but so deliciously spirit lifting, so light and sweet to the senses, like cotton candy.

  With Ben’s death, that had changed a bit. Now her grief was a gray shroud that hung about her much of the time, an aura of unbelievable sadness, though her humor still broke through once in while. She had loved her husband with a love that was true and strong, in spite of the many ways he exasperated her.

  Sarah smiled to herself, picturing Anna canning peaches with the oversized stainless steel bowl balanced precariously on her short lap while she related the story of the calf chasing incident.

  In spite of herself, Sarah’s shoulders shook, remembering Anna’s outrage.

  “There I was, big as a barrel, my arms waving, my legs pumping, running as fast as I could to keep that calf out of the peas and onions. What does that Ben do but start waving his pitchfork in the wrong direction, sending the calf straight through the garden, crossways, while he continued waving that stupid fork! Dense!”

  That was the typical Anna, who found the humor in almost any situation. Now though, her sunny disposition had begun to fail her as the reality of her situation sank in. She spent whole afternoons lying listlessly on the recliner, getting up only to care for her “littles”—changing a diaper, getting a drink. The immaculate house became cluttered. Little fingerprints were etched on the windows, and dishes lay unwashed on the countertop. Even the laundry piled up, and when she did wash, it stayed on the line till suppertime, as she lacked the energy to bring it in.

  Lee’s blue eyes became pools of worry about his sister. His mother assured him this was common. She’d seen it before, and they’d just have to do things for her for a while.

  True to her word, Rachel came and scrubbed and swept and polished. She stripped the beds and hung clean sheets on the line. She got down on her hands and knees and flipped the switch on the gas refrigerator, turning it to “defrost,” then heaved herself back up and proceeded to empty it of its contents.

  She cleaned the shelves, the drawers, and the freezer. She made chocolate chip cookies for Lee and graham cracker fluff for Anna. She put little Tom Sturgis pretzels in a huge bowl, dribbled olive oil and a blend of cheddar cheese powder, sour cream and onion powder, and ranch dressing mix all over them. She stirred and mixed and mixed and then ate them, one by one, all afternoon.

  She melted white American cheese in milk and butter and made smear cheese as a dip for the seasoned pretzels. She made gallons of vissa tae (meadow tea) and set it in the spotless refrigerator. Then she kissed Anna’s cheek, hugged her and patted her, and said, “My little girl, you’ll be fine.”

  Then off she went, perched all alone on one side of the spring wagon, for all the world like a plump little badger, leaning forward and slapping her slow horse with the reins. She had to get home. She had work to do.

  Sarah lay in her bed and thought she could always love Lee’s mother. Then she couldn’t help comparing her to Hannah with her slovenly sweater, her plodding pace, and the grayish whites on her wash line. Oh, Hannah’s heart was in the right place, and her talents were distributed differently, but . . . well, there was much to think about.

  Matthew and Hannah.

  It was interesting, the way she thought her good-looking son incapable of making one misstep. Pure unconditional love. Sarah couldn’t say if that was right or wrong, but ninety-nine percent of the time, Matthew would likely expect that same kind of unvarnished idolatry from his wife. What if he didn’t receive it?

  Sarah shook her head, remembered his pouting and the stone cold silences that froze her soul, her will, her very being. She had not loved him or approved of him, somehow, somewhere along the line. And yet, if he had remained Amish and married her, could she have had a good life? Some questions are never answered.

  Would she ever feel the same kind of love for Lee that she had experienced as a young girl with Matthew? The love for Lee was different. It was slow and steady, comfortable and easy. There were no doubts or heart thumping moments of passion or drama. Within Lee’s arms, she was safe, secure, loved, accepted.

  Could she include her scars? As a young, innocent bride, would she revolt him? Already, she knew deep in her heart that the answer was no. Lee loved her with a pure and Godly love, and with this assurance, she dropped off to a restful slumber, as the cicadas outside her window kept up their frenzied calls.

  The next morning, Mam was in a dither, a fine one. Lizzie Zook’s store had only one bolt of the blue crepe fabric they needed for the wedding. They had sent for two more bolts, and it was positively not the same color. Even the shine was different.

  Mam hired a driver, fabric sample in hand, and went to Belmont Fabrics. She came home so frustrated she was almost crying and said they might have to start all over again. She could not match Sarah’s dress.

  “We can’t do that, Mam. My wedding dress is finished, and I love it. I found exactly the shade of cornflower blue I want. I’m not going to change it.”

  Mam tried to put all her good virtues to use. She closed her mouth and attempted serenity, but her eyebrows shot straight up, and she said tightly, “Sarah, now listen to me. You have to have the same color for the other girls!”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because!” Mam sputtered.

  And so they were off to Georgetown, to Fisher’s Fabrics and Housewares. They paid the driver an exorbitant fee, as he charged for waiting time, but Mam emerged triumphant, carrying two bolts of the exact shade, texture, and quality she wanted. Along with the perfect blue fabric, she found the black she needed as well.

  The white organdy capes and aprons had been sewn a few weeks prior, pressed to perfection, and hung in Mam’s downstairs closet. One for Sarah, one for Priscilla, and one for Rose, who would also be part of the bridal party.

  Normally, Rose’s mother would have sewn Rose’s dress, but Mam offered, knowing she was fit (capable). Rose’s mother was only too happy to allow Malinda that chore.

  They painted the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and Levi’s room, leaving Levi rocking all alone on the wooden porch swing, dragging his feet across the painted floor, singing dolefully under his breath.

  They wouldn’t let him paint. He couldn’t drive the mules. He felt as if there was not one thing he could do to help with the wedding. He was hungry for shoofly, but no one baked that or whoopie pies or chocolate chip cookies anymore.

  Every day they had kalte sup for supper, which he refused. He had to eat Corn Flakes or Wheaties, and even if he sliced a banana into his cereal, it hardly filled him up. He sneaked potato chips or Ritz crackers into his bed, but they left a lot of crumbs that made him itchy during the night when he was so tired. Then he had to get out of bed, brush the crumbs off the sheet, and then climb back into bed and settle himself, which was a bit of a chore.

  He was hungry for a hot dog with onions and pickles and cheese and ketchup. He lifted his head and listened at the window, wondering if Mam was happy enough to ask her for a “doggie.” Singing at the sewing machine usually rated pretty high, like two cookies or cheese and pretzels, sometimes even a grilled cheese sandwich.

  Cleaning windows on a cold day without singing rated only an apple, but maybe he would get some peanut butter, if he was lucky.

  Painting meant a pretty slim chance of acquiring anything at all, by the sound of the clipped sentences coming through the kitchen window.

  He sighed and flapped a hand in front of his face to cool himself. Maybe he’d be allowed some chocolate milk, if he made it and didn’t ask Sarah to do it.

  Rising slowly, he lumbered across the porch, letting himself in through the kitchen door.

  “Watch it! Watch it!”

  Immediately, Mam swooped over, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t step on that pan of paint.”

  Levi wrinkled his nose, looked dolefully at Mam, and then turned to see what Sarah was doing.

  “We’re almost finished, Levi.
Why don’t you go out and sit on the porch a while longer?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “It’s almost suppertime.”

  “Are we having kalte sup?”

  “Probably.”

  “I want a hot dog.”

  “Wait till supper.”

  Levi shuffled back out to the porch obediently, flopped on the porch swing, and resumed his mournful singing. His stomach was growling, tumbling about with nothing in it, and he had no hope of anything to eat till suppertime.

  A cloud of dust on the horizon slowly came into focus revealing a line of mules pulling a wagon. The steel wheels rattled across the handmade wooden bridge that spanned the small creek by the orchard. It was dried up in late summer, becoming an unhandy little ditch that was no good at all. Levi knew just how the dry creek felt.

  Suzie sat on the hay wagon, her skin tanned a dark brown, her hair curling about her face like Sarah’s. Her feet were bare and browned by the sun, her pale green dress soiled, one sleeve ripped up the side, exposing her white upper arm. Catching sight of Levi, she waved.

  Levi waved back excitedly, cheered by the sight of his youngest sister.

  The mules’ harnesses flapped, and the chains on the traces jingled. The hoof beats were muffled on the gravel, as the mules’ ears flopped up and down, their heads bobbing in time to their footsteps.

  Dat stood on the front of the wagon, his darkened old straw hat pulled low over his forehead to keep from blowing off in the hot, dusty air.

  “Levi!” Dat called happily.

  “Hey, Davey!” Levi shouted, sliding off the swing to stand on his bare feet, waving both hands, his broad face wreathed in a great smile.

  Dat hauled back on the reins, stopping the team of mules.

  “Levi, tell Mam we want ice cream and hot dogs for an early snack. Elam and Hannah want us to come down for a late evening cookout.”

  Beside himself with joy, Levi moved towards the door at a rapid pace. Dat clucked to the mules, and they continued on their way.

  Levi told Mam he could chop onions, but then his burning eyes watered so profusely that the streams turned into genuine tears. Then, because he was so terribly hungry, he began sobbing in earnest, howling and crying and saying it wasn’t right that no one allowed him something to eat when he was hungry.