by Linda Byler
“I don’t know. Amish people don’t have their own stores. Especially not, uh … women.”
“So? I can be the first.”
Doddy Stoltzfus wagged his head, his wide-brimmed straw hat lifting enough so he had to reach for the brim and tug it into place. “I wouldn’t try it, Hannah. I’m sorry, but I doubt if old Ezra would approve of something like that.”
“What does he have to do with it?”
Shocked, Sarah turned and said, “He’s our bishop!” As if that finished it. She knew she was expected to submit. Total gehorsamkeit, unquestioning obedience.
It riled Hannah, this unswaying vigilance, this immediate stop to her plans. She wasn’t giving up that easily. She had given up too much already. The homestead, Jerry, oh, just on and on. It wasn’t fair. She had her heart set on her little venture. So what if she was the first one?
“You don’t know what he’ll say,” Hannah said, thrusting her petulance like a wedge.
“I think I do,” her grandfather said, shaking his head up and down, dislodging his straw hat again.
“I won’t know for sure if I don’t ask.”
Sarah turned back to Hannah again. She spoke quietly. “Hannah, I wouldn’t ask. You know what our ordnung is.”
A slow burn began somewhere deep in Hannah’s chest. This was precisely why she dreaded living back in Lancaster County. Everyone knew your business and handed out advice so freely and easily, taking for granted that you would bow down and live according to another man’s wisdom.
She had no intention of giving up her dry goods store. Amish women sewed constantly. Through the worst of the Depression, clothes had worn thin, held together by patch upon patch as families made do with what they had. Or they used feed sacks, the cotton fabric dyed, washed, and sewn into clothing.
Now, with the money market lifting bit by bit and Teddy Roosevelt giving his famous speeches about not being fearful, folks would start buying more.
It was an opportunity. She would be supplying essentials to the community. The Amish women would not need to go to the city of Lancaster to purchase basic necessities. It was discouraged to be among the worldly, so what was worldlier than walking the streets of the city, past the bars, houses of ill repute, cars honking their horns, and men of the world calling out their insults?
No! She was not backing down. She wanted her own business. So she said nothing. And, riding in the back seat beside Manny, letting everyone believe she’d swallowed their refusal to allow her to continue with her plans, she went right on making her plans, choosing to ignore their words.
She didn’t ask anyone for help in contacting an experienced carpenter to build the addition to her house, either. She merely talked to the neighbors down the road and asked to use their telephone. She called Jim Raudabaugh, the driver, and asked him a direct question. Who was the most trustworthy man to build the addition, she wanted to know? After many strange sounds coming from his mouth, hisses and clicks like a cornered snapping turtle, he finally came up with a name. Dave King. “He lives over along 340 below Leola,” he told her.
Hannah had no idea who he was talking about, much less where he lived. When Jim offered to drive her to his house, she was short with him, saying it would be much cheaper to drive her grandfather’s horse. Besides, she had to go speak with old Ezra King first.
So she said goodbye to Jim without thanking him or hiring him to take her in his car, leaving him to hang up the phone receiver and comforting himself with a sausage and ketchup sandwich. He admitted grudgingly that Hannah Riehl was not a very nice person, widowed or not.
Manny told her where the bishop lived, so one evening after supper, she told her mother she was going visiting, which she was. She knew Sarah would be gratified by the thought of Hannah becoming more social, which would keep her from asking questions.
Hannah goaded Fred to a fast trot, scaring him with a nip of the whip on his flapping old haunches. He was losing his winter coat, reddish brown hair flying through the air like snow. She spit them from her lips, snorted through her nose, wiped her eyes, and arrived at the bishop’s farm covered in horse hair.
Nothing to do about it. She guessed if the bishop was old, he’d have seen many springs and more horses shedding their winter coats.
She tied Fred to the hitching rack by the wall of the white barn, brushed herself off as best she could, her black cape and apron patterned with stiff horse hair.
She turned to the house, evaluating its size and layout. Often the aging parents lived in an apartment built onto the original farmhouse with interior doors connecting the two, a perfect arrangement that allowed privacy but also handy access if one or the other family group was needed. She wondered if her life would have been much like this one had Jerry lived to be her husband to an old age.
Ah, Jerry. My husband. A shudder of grief. For the hundredth time she vowed never to marry again. Never. This time, she meant it. Firmly, staunchly. Written in stone. She simply did not need a man. She had loved Jerry. In her own selfish way, perhaps, but she had loved him as much as she knew how. And here she was, awash in missing him, as helpless as one of those hickory nut shells they used to set in the water at the creek’s edge, watching the current take it, whirling it away, tumbling past rocks and eddies.
She hated having no control over her grief. It raised its head and looked her in the eye at the worst moments, without mercy. It pounded her with its fists, roughed her up and left her lying there, brutally accosted, beaten down and grasping the air for deliverance.
She blinked, straightened, shrugged off the melancholy cloud of sorrow, and decided to try the door at the end of the gleaming floor of the front porch. Since the younger folks were the farmers and the gable end of the house was turned toward the yard gate, she assumed the main part of the house was the first door. So, she’d go to the second door.
The evening sun slanted across the glossy gray paint of the porch floor, illuminating the freshly planted red geraniums, the tender green lawn in the background, the brown trunk of an oak tree. A bluebird was sitting on the clothes line, a portrait of peace and contentment.
CHAPTER 18
THE DOOR OPENED SOON AFTER HER SOFT TAPPING. A ROUND, BALDING head appeared, encircled with wisps of snow-white hair, a sparse white beard, and two small brown eyes as bright as a sparrow’s, almost hidden in folds of loose facial skin.
“Kum yusht rei. Come on in.” The voice was surprisingly light. His height was disconcerting. He was so tiny. Hannah felt like an ox or a giraffe towering over this feathery wisp of a man, who stepped gingerly aside to allow her entry.
“Vy, hello.” This from the undersized, crooked little woman who must be his wife. There were only a few wisps of white hair visible from beneath the huge white covering. Her eyes were bright with curiosity from behind small, gold-rimmed spectacles.
Hannah tugged selfconsciously at her own smaller, more fashionable covering, and introduced herself.
“I thought so.” Ezra King nodded his head in recognition. “You are Jeremiah Riehl’s widow.”
“Yes, I am.”
“An shauty soch. Such a shame.”
“Yes.”
“What brings you here?”
Hannah sat in the chair indicated by the petite, elderly wife, took a deep breath, and began, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. “I have purchased a house.”
The white-haired old patriarch listened, his eyebrows elevated with kindness, a half smile playing around his mouth.
“I would like to build an addition to own and operate a fabric store.”
There! It was out in the open, swimming in plain view in the lamp light. To ease the transition from hidden plan to open scrutiny, Hannah found herself babbling, explaining.
“My grandfather doesn’t think I should do it. That’s why I’m here. What is the difference? An Amish woman having her own business or having to walk the streets of Lancaster with all its freuheita? Would it not be better that the women stay among their own
to purchase goods?”
The elderly bishop held two fingers to his lips, contemplating Hannah’s argument. Nervously, Hannah twisted the hem of her apron. Finally, he spoke.
“Yes, I can see your point of view. But—and this is the thing—you would be introducing something new. The Amish have always been slow to change. We strive to keep things in a demütich way, humble. Would it represent a woman’s meek and quiet spirit to be the owner of a store?”
“But …” Hannah began, devastated.
He held up a hand to quiet her. “I am not finished. I don’t believe there is an Amish store run by a frau here in Lancaster County, and I would discourage such an undertaking. I would be glad to see you accept a no, based on the wife being a keeper at home, quiet, meek, subject to her husband.
“However, you have no husband, and you are expected to allow the church to pay for expenses in all demut.”
“But, I don’t want to do that,” Hannah said, with all the force of her powerful nature. “Everyone would watch me, to see what I spend, where I go, what I wear. No, I won’t do that.”
The old bishop’s eyes watched Hannah’s face, but he gave no comment. Here was one who knew what she wanted, and didn’t like anyone to stand in her way. He weighed with the scales of justice and fairness. If he firmly forbade it, he might not be making the best decision, owing to this woman’s strong will. Determined as she appeared to be, to operate a store with that headstrong nature…. He wasn’t sure.
“Why don’t you let us sleep on this one?” he asked, still kindly.
“But I want to know.”
“You will not be able to know this evening. I think it is a case that should be presented to the other ministers. We will take into account the fact that you are a widow intent on making her own way, and I will present your argument about Amish women on the streets of Lancaster.
“I hope you are aware, though, just how unusual your request is. Most women would be happy to bake pies or raise butchering hens, sell eggs, or work in a truck patch.”
“I am not most women,” Hannah replied.
Did she hear a soft, suppressed giggle from the bishop’s tiny wife? Stooped over with her black cape falling over her shoulders, her angelic demeanor framed by the halo of her large white covering, she had squeaked out a bit of laughter.
The bishop smiled broadly, then laughed outright. He shook his head in disbelief. “No, you know, Anna …”
“Hannah.”
“Oh, yes, you did say Hannah. I should say no to this thing. But I will present it to wise counsel, and we will come to a conclusion. Surely, you understand my concern. It simply is not always the best to allow a new thing, although I do appreciate your ambition. It could be a good thing if it stayed within reason and did not become a store filled with frivolous items the household could do without.”
Hannah’s words tumbled from her mouth in her haste to assure him of her utmost respect for his wishes.
They spoke, then, of the fine spring weather. He asked questions about North Dakota, and Hannah found herself portraying it in the truthful framework of her own suffering. She shared her intense desire to keep the homestead in the face of fierce adversity.
“Yes, yes,” he said, his eyes bright with interest. “Your story is interesting. Often in this life we are so certain something is the will of God, and everything goes against us, until we see the truth of His will. For some, it is easily discerned. For others, sometimes never. When we suffer, it is because of God’s love. He sees our wayward path and pulls us back, bit by bit. There is much happiness to be found in humbling ourselves under the mighty hand of God.”
Hannah nodded.
“The grasshoppers were a mighty blessing, then,” Hannah said, a trace of sarcasm adding a bite to her tone. The bishop laughed and Hannah snorted, a spark of understanding between them, igniting into a small flame of friendship.
Hannah rose to go, struggling to accept the outcome of her visit. She wanted to beg him to say yes, but knew it was beneath her dignity. So, she accepted his blessing and the warm handshake and let herself out the door.
She ground her teeth in disappointment, leaned forward to see the crossroad better in the waning light of evening, and went home and to bed. Unable to sleep, she lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the smell of mothballs as unendurable as always.
The thing was, you couldn’t always be careful. Worrying constantly whether you were doing the will of God was exhausting. Did God really care that much about every little thing like having a store or getting a job, or butchering chickens to sell, or gathering eggs, or raising pigs?
He allows us to make our own choices, she thought firmly. Well, she was going to go ahead and see this Dave King about the addition. Perhaps he’d be busy and couldn’t do it for a few months.
If Jerry was here, he would have soon had it completed. But Jerry wasn’t here.
That deep sense of being separated from him, completely cut off, never again to touch him or hear him speak, pressed down on her heart until it became a physical ache, altering her normal pattern of breathing. She willed herself to remain calm, thankful for every good thing she did have. She had safety, a solid structure that housed her, more than enough food to eat, her mother, her siblings, weather that was like a glimpse of heaven. She’d survive all right. She had come through worse than most folks endured in a lifetime.
Mr. Jim Raudabaugh took her to the Dave King residence which, to Hannah’s surprise, was not the usual white painted farm. A long driveway that turned into cornfields on either side, a plain white house with an L-shaped porch along the north and east sides, a yard that needed cutting, and no flowers. Not one flower bed. A small barn that was barely big enough to house two horses and a carriage.
Everything was in a perfect state of repair and it was clean enough. But … Hannah couldn’t find the proper word to describe the place. Was it lonely? Neglected? Poor?
She didn’t know, so she shrugged it off, stepped up on the peeling floorboards of the porch, and knocked.
“Just a minute,” a male voice belted out.
Hannah waited. She waited so long she was becoming irritated and had actually turned to walk back down the steps, when the door was almost jerked off its hinges and a voice like a thunderclap bellowed, “What do you want?”
Taken aback, Hannah turned. His frame filled the doorway, his curly head of hair reaching almost to the top of the door frame. For a moment, she lost her voice.
She’d seen this man somewhere before. “Uh … I … heard you’re a carpenter.” When he didn’t reply, she cleared her throat and rushed on. “I … uh … bought a house on Hollander Road and I need an addition built.”
The smell of burning meat was overpowering. Hannah blinked as blue smoke wafted through the screen door. “Step inside. I gotta turn my meat,” he said.
She hesitated, unsure if she should pull open the wooden screen door, or if he wanted her to remain on the porch. “Come on in!” he yelled.
Hannah jumped. He was so loud. So huge and noisy. She did not like this Dave King at all, she decided.
She went in. The kitchen was sunny, with golden sunlight slanting through the window above the sink, dust mites spiraling above mountains of dirty dishes. The whole room was bathed in the blue light of smoke pouring out of the enormous cast-iron frying pan. His back was turned, his shoulders hunched, as he pried at a piece of beef that was vastly overheated.
He was almost as wide as his cook stove. The top of the stove seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.
Finally, he turned.
“Push the pan away from the heat,” Hannah said, without thinking.
“No. I’m hungry.”
“Suit yourself.”
They looked at each other. He towered above her, a hulk of a man with unkempt hair, strange yellow eyes, and a grim slash of a mouth.
He reminded Hannah of a moose.
“What do you want?”
“I told you.”
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“Yeah, guess you did. I’m busy. Can’t do it.”
“Why not?” Hannah asked.
“I just said.”
“You don’t have to yell at me. I’m not standing on the porch.”
“Aren’t you that widow? Anna or something?”
“Hannah.”
“Yeah. I saw you before. You’re the widow of Jeremiah Riehl. You lived out West. Let me get this meat. It’s done. You want some?”
“No.”
“You sure? I’ll tell you what. If you wait a month or so, I’ll see what you want done.”
“I want an addition built onto my house.”
“Oh yeah. You did say.” He searched the cupboard for a clean plate but couldn’t seem to find one. Then he turned to the sink, rattled around in the stack of dishes until he excavated a plate, held it under the cold water faucet, wiped it on his shirt, and speared the biggest steak Hannah had ever seen, flopping it on his plate.
She swallowed, thinking of that plate.
He waved in the general direction of the remaining chair. “Sit.”
Hannah sat. She turned her head, her eyes taking in her surroundings. An old davenport with blankets and a pillow. His coat and hat thrown in a corner. The rug was mainly mud.
“Where’s your wife and children?” Hannah blurted, never one to let good manners hold precedence over blatant curiosity.
“Don’t you know?” His look was incredulous. His eyes turned dark, a greenish color like brackish water below tree roots in a drought. A bitter light illuminated his eyes, his mouth set in a hard line of control. “They all died.”
“All? How many were there?”
“Just her. And two unborn babies. Twins. Her name was Leah.” His voice grated now as it dragged over remembered pain. He blinked, his eyes focused as on a faraway scene, as if pictures played over in his mind. He shrugged and said it was the way of it. What’re you gonna do?
For once, Hannah was speechless. Her throat constricted with jammed-up words that threatened to choke her. Suddenly, her eyes burned with unshed tears of shared pain. When she finally did find her voice, she said, “Right. Well, I’ll be on my way. You’ll let me know?”