“Of course it did.”
Anne and Mary sit behind us in the buggy. The road thumps beneath the wheels, rattling all of us. I feel Anne’s hand on my back, perhaps to steady herself as the buggy clatters. Perhaps to steady me as I speak to my son.
“It meant that we must, each of us, do what is right for all of us,” I say. “Not what we’d wish to do to satisfy our own desires. That includes the need to feel strong by conducting violence against those we perceive as having wronged us.” Anne’s hand squeezes my shoulder before releasing again. Maisy neighs, happy in the cool breeze.
Thomas looks away, muttering.
“If you would speak out loud, speak so we all might hear,” I say.
He turns back to me, disgust on his face. “How our people have lasted so long, I’ll never understand,” he enunciates clearly.
I fear that is true, I think. The rest of the ride home is passed in silence. This time, I’m grateful for the quiet.
At first, Thomas is angry when he learns that Matthew has invited himself to dinner. Of course he is. But Anne, as is her gift, calms him down, and I wonder if he begins to see it as an opportunity to prove himself right. To show us all what Matthew Yoder is really all about. I’m willing to settle for that.
Mary, for her part, is happy to hear that Matthew will share our table. She offers to help her mother cook, something we usually have to coax her into doing. The entire family seems to embrace the opportunity to find a positive resolution to yesterday’s discord, even if Thomas’s motivations are less than peaceful.
There isn’t much to talk about as the day passes. Although it’s the Sabbath, Thomas and I spend the waning afternoon repairing a fence that had blown down earlier in the week. We Amish call this an “ox in the ditch” chore; while manual labor is generally frowned upon on worship days, sometimes it is necessary. Meanwhile, Anne prepares dinner, and Mary picks flowers behind the house for the table. Whatever I might think of him as money-Amish, Matthew is an elder in our community. We would be remiss if we did not host him with courtesy and share God’s bounty with him.
As evening draws near, Thomas is still silent, simmering like the sun, and we both need to clean up before dinner. He takes his hat off to wipe his brow and look over the day’s work. Together, we have finished repairing the fence.
“You did excellent work today, son,” I say. I like knowing we mended the fence together. I feel closer to him for having accomplished it as father and son.
He hesitates, then, “Thank you, Poppa.” He hesitates again. I know the feeling well from being married. Is the fight over? Am I coldly courteous or has my heart softened? Do I speak the minimum expected or show the other person I still love them? “We did good work today,” he says finally. “Together.”
I smile at him and clap him on the shoulder. “Come. Time to clean up.”
“We wouldn’t want Elder Yoder to be offended,” he says. There is sarcasm, but mostly his tone is playful. For my benefit, no doubt. He’s trying.
As we approach the house, heaven wafts on the air. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn on the cob, biscuits made by rolling out the dough—not prefabricated from a can, like you might be used to—gravy for the roast. Mary has made Matthew a gift of muffins to take home with him, and she slaps her brother’s hand away as he tries to take one. If Matthew is true to his word, we’ll also have cider and apple pie for dessert. No doubt this will be a first test for Thomas to assess the elder’s veracity. Will he at least bring to dinner what he promised?
No sooner has dusk fallen than I see Matthew’s buggy, black against the sunset over the hill road. I let Anne know, and she and Mary rush to finish setting the table. I stand on the porch, puffing my pipe and watching his approach. Then I see that Matthew is not alone. It’s not his wife or one of his sons with him. It’s someone I don’t recognize, a man.
In that moment, I know Thomas is right. Absolutely right. My heart sinks into my stomach. I’m no longer hungry for heaven.
“This is Sebastian Green,” says Matthew by way of introduction.
I take the man’s hand. It’s obvious that he is with the Transport Authority. His imperious stance, his slightly condescending smile. Matthew has staged the man’s clothes for him. Though not Amish, they are simple by Transport standards. And he isn’t armed. Matthew was smart enough to see to that.
“I invited him to dinner,” Matthew is saying. “I hope you don’t mind. Here,” he says, handing me a still-warm apple pie.
“Mr. Brenneman,” says Green, hoisting a Mason jar full of cider in his free hand. He smiles. “I truly hope we can come to a mutual accommodation this evening.”
I return the smile. It is the only weapon I can wield to protect my family. Glancing at Matthew, I say, “I wasn’t aware tonight’s dinner was for discussing business.” I let it hang there until I’m satisfied they are both uncomfortable in the silence that follows. Then, “But, all things in their own time, no?”
I usher them into my home. Anne smiles and nods at Matthew as we enter. When she sees the stranger, her smile falters. Thomas looks bewildered; Mary, strangely distant and distracted. We sit at the long table as Anne recovers herself and gestures for Mary to help her add a sixth setting. I catch Thomas’s gaze as we arrange ourselves, and I know he sees in my eyes the hardness that has settled around my heart. Either we will modernize our farm, or Transport will take it from us.
The clinking of silverware, the silent chewing, the occasional observation on the weather and the sermons earlier in the day. This is how dinner passes. The stranger, Green, says little. Afterward, Anne and Mary clear the table. Matthew invites me to the front yard for a pipe, and Green follows him like a puppy.
“Poppa, can I come?” asks Thomas. Since there are two of them, having two of us will make me feel better, so I allow it. I realize in that moment that I’ve begun thinking like that: us and them.
Matthew gets right to the point as soon as our pipes are lit. “This is how it is, Abram. There have been two rebellions in the last one hundred years, and the current conflict has left Transport short on resources. Many hearts and minds have turned away from the Authority, despite its knowing what’s best for them. To regain the support of those citizens, we need to show them how much we really do care for their welfare. And we need your help to do that. For Earth. For New Pennsylvania. For all of us, really.”
We? I think.
“But to do that, Mr. Brenneman, we need to feed people,” offers Green, as if I don’t know that people need to eat. “Both here and back on Earth.”
I puff my pipe. “I’m happy to help feed anyone I can.” This is true. This is Amish.
“That’s good to hear,” says Green. “The problem is, we need your farm—everyone’s farms—to yield more, and yield it faster. We want to show citizens the Authority can care for them, so we have to do just that. We have an opportunity to encourage peace for everyone’s sake. With your help, we can accomplish this.”
I let that sink in. The night has settled down now, and the sky is clear. I note the vastness of the stars I can see, and I wonder, as always, at God’s power, His generosity in placing them there, every night, for me to see.
“But you demand that we change the way we farm,” says Thomas. “Don’t you understand, how we choose to raise our crops is part of who we are?” He looks at Matthew with disgust. “You’re no Amishman to ask this of us.”
“Be careful how you speak to me, junge. I am an elder and not responsible to you.”
Thomas snorts. “Clearly not. You’re responsible to him.” He gestures at Green.
“Thomas.”
“Poppa …” But then he reins himself in. He knows my position on the choice we have to make. He knows not to argue with me in front of others.
“Speak plainly, Matthew. You know my mind on this.” I decide to give voice to Anne’s suggestion. It never hurts to ask. “Is Transport at least willing to let us found another AZ with our traditions intact before
they take back the land they gave us?” I say the last part, though they’re really just extra words. I want Thomas to hear that Transport is not only taking our farm, but reneging on the promise it made. I want God’s stars to hear it.
“Unfortunately, no,” says Green. “All the Plain People in the AZ will be given the choice to modernize or move on. There are no current plans to form new zones.”
“Move on?” My son’s anger flares. This time I do nothing to squelch it. “Move on to where? The Wild Lands? We’ll be eaten by those people!”
I’m sure you’ve heard the same stories we have about the Wild Lands. Cannibals. Thieves. A complete lack of law and order.
Matthew shrugs, and that simple gesture fills me with hatred for him. For all money-Amish. My feelings shame me. They are not Christ-like, but they churn inside me nevertheless. I begin to better understand what drove Our Lord to scour the temple with violence. No Amishman would ask this of us; Thomas is right about that as well. At least the Authority seems willing to let us go our way, if not to form a new AZ.
So, they damn us with either choice. If we stay, we modernize. If we go, we do so on our own, with no promise of a community to share our traditions. And yet, only one of those options ensures that we must give up who we are as a people.
“Gentlemen,” I say the word with great effort, “thank you for coming to dinner. Your position is clear. And now, so is our choice.”
Green seems to relax. Our decision is obvious to him. He knows enough about us to know that turning us out from the AZ is like ripping our hearts from us. No doubt this is the leverage he hoped to use to influence us to modernize. What saddens me is that he fails to realize how loathsome that choice is to us.
“How much time do we have until we must vacate the land?” I ask.
Now Green is confused. Elder Yoder’s face crumbles inward in defeat. No doubt this wrinkle will not play well with his Authority puppet masters. Knowing we Amish have complicated Transport’s plans for a change gives me shameful pleasure.
“Two weeks,” says Green. Now he seems irate too, terse. All business. “Another ship arrives from Earth in two weeks. We’ll move a family in here at that time.”
I puff my pipe. “Very well.”
The two turn to go. Thomas is so angry now he can’t speak at all, which is probably for the best. When we mount the porch, Anne and Mary are waiting. Anne’s eyes search mine. I shake my head. She turns away, one hand covering her mouth. We have made our home here, raised our children. We have loved this land with seed and water and toil. And now we must leave it.
“What’s happened, Poppa?” asks Mary. “What’s going to happen?”
I cup her face in my rough right hand. “We will move on, Mary. We will continue.” It’s all I have to say. My heart is breaking for Anne, for all of us. I want to go to her, comfort her, be strengthened by her closeness.
Mary gets that distant look in her eyes again, then refocuses. “I almost forgot!” She runs into the house, then comes back out again with a bundle.
“Elder Yoder!” she calls. “Elder Yoder!”
Matthew has just released the brake on his buggy and resets it with a grimace. “Yes, child?”
Mary hands him up the bundle. “My muffins! You almost forgot them!”
Matthew is surprised as he reaches down to gather up the basket. Green’s face is unreadable in the darkness.
“Why, thank you, child. Most kind,” Matthew says. Mary returns his smile.
“She worked most of the morning on those,” Anne sobs quietly behind me.
I wonder at my daughter’s generosity under the present circumstances. I thank God for it. One of us, at least, has remembered Our Savior’s kind nature in the face of adversity, I think.
The two men leave. By the time their silhouette has crested the hill road, Thomas storms past where we three stand quietly on the porch.
“Thomas! We have preparations to make! The decision is—”
“Damn your preparations, and damn your decision!” He strides off angrily, away from the house, just like last night. I feel so defeated—with him, with our situation—I cannot even find the strength to follow him.
“He will walk it off,” says Anne. “Like last night.”
I nod.
My memory of the next morning is blurry chaos. It begins with the low whine, ever closer, of a Transport airbus. By the time it’s throwing up dust in front of my barn, the three of us are standing on the porch, watching. Thomas has still not returned.
Our animals neigh and cluck and moo their fear as the airbus lands. My daughter stands up straight, immovable. Anne clutches my arm and I take her hand. The ship expels soldiers into my front yard, led by Green. This time he’s dressed less simply. There is braid on his shoulder.
I step off the porch as the airbus winds down its engine. “You told us we would have two weeks.”
He strides through the dust, motioning his escort to unsling their weapons. I make sure I’m between them and my family. Is this to be a summary execution? All because we refused to upgrade our farming equipment?
“I’m not here for that,” Green says. “Matthew Yoder is dead.”
Anne gasps behind me. I, too, am dumbstruck. Then I hear her pleading, “No, no, no,” and I know then I should’ve pursued Thomas last night.
“Stand aside,” Green orders. His soldiers surround the porch.
“I don’t know where my son is. He’s not here.” It is all I can think to say.
“I’m not here for him either.”
I spread my hands. I don’t understand.
“I’m here for her,” he says.
Anne grabs the porch rail. I turn toward her, keeping myself between them.
“I didn’t kill Elder Yoder,” she says desperately.
Losing patience, Green says, “Her.” He points at Mary.
She sidles out from behind me, that defiant, distant look on her face.
“My daughter? Are you insane? She didn’t murder Matthew!”
“Oh, but she did,” says Green. “I found him dead on the floor of his home this morning. Vomit everywhere. And one half-eaten muffin in his hand. Poisoned.”
I look at Mary and her eyes focus again.
“Child?”
“Oleander, Poppa. I baked it into the muffins.”
She thinks I’m asking her how she did it. Anne collapses to the porch.
“My God, child.” My voice is hoarse. “What have you done?”
Mary looks at me, knowing I’m disappointed, but determined to explain why everything is all right. “It’s gelassenheit, Poppa.”
“What?”
“Gelassenheit. Now you and Momma and … Thomas …” Her voice hitches on her brother’s name. I see it in her eyes: she’s committed murder for Thomas. She idolizes him. She thinks she’s saved him from having to kill Matthew himself. She explains, “Now all the Plain People can grow crops how you want to. You can continue.”
Anne moans her anguish. Mary thinks that killing one man—one moneychanger—will save us all. The black-and-white thinking of a twelve-year-old child.
“Oh, Mary …”
My heart shatters.
“Stand aside!” Green is out of patience. Chambered rounds punctuate his order.
I stand aside. Anne crawls toward Mary, wailing. I gather my wife into my arms, aware of the raised rifles around us. Even in my shock, I realize there is nothing we can do until we face the magistrate. I expect Mary to scream, to claw for her mother in return. Instead she walks silently toward Green, resolute and precise, as if doubling a stitch in her quilt. He grabs her by the arm and her kapp, its ties loose, falls into the dirt of the barnyard.
They take her aboard, and too soon the airbus is lifting off, its engines screaming. The echoing silence it leaves behind is broken only by a man yelling, “Mary! Mary!” Thomas runs across the field, reaching up as if to snatch the ship from the sky with his bare hands. Then we’re all three on our knees together, sob
bing on the porch.
And now I sit here with you on this bench, waiting to learn the fate of my child. She is being arraigned today. Anne is with Thomas, who is inconsolable. He blames himself for this, though I know I’m the only one to blame. I should have seen it coming. I should have stopped it.
I sit here thinking how, just two days ago, drought was my worst worry. Even yesterday, how small a problem it really was, in retrospect, to find a new home with good soil. But today, I am consumed by a single thought that keeps repeating, over and over in my mind.
Too young. Too young to be so old.
Historical Note: Gelassenheit
Gelassenheit is set in 2095, about a generation before the events of Michael Bunker’s Pennsylvania and my own B-Company tales. I wanted to explore some of the history behind the events, already in motion, that Jed wakes up to when he arrives in New Pennsylvania in Michael’s story. I was particularly interested in what might have motivated Dawn, Amos, and other former Plain People to choose the inherently violent path of armed rebellion in direct opposition to their Amish upbringing, a cornerstone of which is a commitment to pacifism.
Unlike Amos in Pennsylvania, Abram decides “to move on, to continue,” based on what some might argue is a dogmatic adherence to tradition—a noble choice, but a choice that helps create the circumstances of the family’s tragedy. Would Mary have acted as she did if her father had followed Thomas’s advice to modernize? Even before Mary makes her own life-altering decision, Abram, by choosing to leave their community, sets the Brenneman family on a path that could destroy another fundamental aspect of who they are as a people. (In case it’s not obvious, I prefer stories without simple, black-and-white choices; the grays are much more interesting to explore.) Was there really a right call here for Abram to make?
Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection Page 3