Jabil walks over to the latch and jerks it sideways to pull open the door, letting me step inside first. The smokehouse doesn’t have a lock, although Bishop Lowell considered adding one when he and the deacons were trying to map out the community. But he concluded that if we are willing to steal food from each other’s families, none of our families deserve to survive.
I am taller than the majority of my female peers, but I do not have to stoop as I slide beneath Jabil’s arm. The movement makes his coat—which I forgot to return and, of course, he did not collect—sway heavily around my knees. He moves in behind me, keeping the door propped with a log to protect my honor, which is almost comical considering so many of our moral tenets have now become invalid. Poles line the room from one end to the other, strung with various slivers of meat. It is mostly fish, but there is also some prized venison, and even some elk that Malachi was fortunate to harvest on the ridge opposite us. It is a nice supply, nearly impressive, but it’s obvious there isn’t enough to hold us over winter.
Even before we fled the valley, we foresaw the annihilation of our storehouse, and the men started hunting with every available means, so they could restock our meat. At first, before ammo became scarce and there were no shooting restrictions, it looked like we might be all right. However, almost five months later, not only is our ammunition supply dwindling, but so is the amount of game available to be hunted. The men have been forced to go to extreme lengths to procure a portion of what was once a cornucopia of abundance.
From his rucksack, Jabil extracts the trout fillets and drapes all but three of them over one of the empty poles. He holds the remaining three out to me. We look at each other in the darkness. Smoke wafts up from the trench, filled with water-soaked hickory chips.
I say, “What about our agreement to share food?”
“I am sharing food. I’m just sharing it with you.”
Holding his eyes, I take the trout, shrug out of the damp mackinaw, and hand it back to him. He accepts his coat and crouches, placing another handful of wood chips onto the fire. He steps outside and then turns and looks back at the entrance of the smokehouse, where I’m standing, holding his pilfered gift. I stare at Jabil, trying to understand why someone who would never raise arms to defend me would steal from the community for my sake.
“I’m not going to allow you to compromise your conscience, Jabil, just to keep us fed.”
“I’m not compromising anything,” he says, then turns and walks up the path to his family’s cabin, his shoulders slanted with the weight of the lie.
I tighten the sling, securing Colton against me, as our family files from our dwelling into the early-morning darkness. The remaining community trickles out of their cabins and pools at the epicenter of the compound. The moon illumines their expressions that are as careworn as their clothes. The rigorous circulation of people has trodden away whatever grass was left after construction, transforming the pathway into slimy mud when it is warmer, and something akin to very rough concrete when it’s frozen, like today.
The twenty individual one-room cabins have peaked roofs covered with hand-hewn wooden shakes—a monotonous project tackled by Jabil and his brother Malachi, who worked together before the EMP and are an indispensable team. These cabins are placed closely together on the ten-acre patch, and five outhouses were constructed, one for each group of four cabins. Needless to say, the rudimentary lavatories emit an unpleasant odor that will only be exacerbated come spring, when the bitter cold of winter will no longer hold back the concentrated reek.
The community all shares one water source: a freshwater spring that the men dug out and made larger, which was our incentive for choosing this plot of land and is the focal point for our entire circular compound. In between the Risser and Beiler cabins, pants, shirts, and dresses are morphed into sheets of ice, as the fabric hardens the instant it’s hung wet on the line. Most of the women, myself included, have given up freeze-drying clothes and instead just hang them inside on twine strung from wall to wall above the fire. Although the strung clothes do make the already-tiny cabins feel even smaller, I am grateful that my fingertips are no longer freezing as I hang the clothes on the outside line.
My siblings, Grossmammi Eunice, and I pause on the edge of the gathering, a position that seems to reflect our place in the community’s hierarchy. I hear the members murmuring among themselves in Pennsylvania Dutch. I glance around, trying to figure out why this familiar, lilting language is rife with confusion, and discover that Bishop Lowell is not waiting to address the group from the wooden platform where he usually stands to conduct our meetings; and so everyone is wondering who struck the triangle that called us from our beds.
I turn and scan the assembly, looking for the bishop’s white hair and chest-length beard, the combination making him easy to spot despite his short stature. I have just noticed him cutting through the crowd when Charlie, the Englischer, assumes the bishop’s position on the platform.
This platform was built to give the community members a dry place to stand while drawing their water, because the area in front of the spring was turning into a swamp due to a combination of water and foot traffic. Since then, the small platform has become Bishop Lowell’s stage, regardless of the fact that the wood is caked in strata of dried and frozen mud.
But now, this is where Charlie stands, his eyes roaming over the people. Though Anna, in front of me, is almost as tall as I am, she leans back, unintentionally pinning Colton between our bodies, who just giggles in delight and tugs her hair. Charlie evokes in Anna the same level of intimidation he evokes in me, and being overprotective, I dislike him for it.
Charlie tilts his head to the side and folds his arms across his chest, as if unsure what to do with them. “This everybody?” he asks.
Jabil responds from in front. “Yes, Charlie.”
“Good.” He nods. “I want everybody to hear what I got to say. I’m sick and tired of spending hours hunting down meat and bringing in food, and then having those among us who never do much of anything round here getting the same cut as me.” He pauses. “Whatever happened to ‘don’t work, don’t eat’ like we said in the beginning?”
I knew this conversation was inevitable. Regardless, I am not prepared for it and find my heart clenching with fear. Charlie is directing his anger toward a handful of people, and my brother, Seth, is certainly at the top of that list. Our vadder left when Seth was eleven, right at the age when he started to need him most. Therefore, Seth had no one to take him hunting, trapping, or fishing. No one to teach him a good work ethic, and no one to help guide him through that difficult transition from boy to man. My brother is man enough by age that he should be doing much more to help out around the community and not only pulling his own weight, but helping to pull the weight of our family. Instead it seems I am the only one left to do our part. I hate knowing we are more of a hindrance than a help to the people of Mt. Hebron, but it is a truth I’ve had to live with for quite some time.
Bishop Lowell finishes pushing his way through the crowd. His walking stick digs for traction as his predawn shadow moves across old snow. He doesn’t step onto the platform but peers up at Charlie, his body language as relaxed as Charlie’s is combative.
Bishop Lowell says, “You woke us for this?”
Charlie rears back. “What are you talking about? I was planning to walk my trap lines this morning but hardly had enough energy to get out of bed!”
My sister’s left hand goes to her mouth, a new coping tactic whenever she’s nervous. I glance at her flaking nails, revealing her nutritional deficit. Reaching around her, I take that hand and gently squeeze her fingers three times, signifying, I. Love. You. She squeezes four times, signifying, I. Love. You. Too. My eyes sting, for this simple communication, which a toddler could probably learn, has only been acquired in the past few days.
Without raising my gaze, I say aloud, “‘Don’t work, don’t eat.’ Are you suggesting the ones who cannot work, such as children and
elderly, should not receive as much as you?”
“Not specifically children and elderly,” Charlie replies. “More along the lines of anybody who’s able to do more for the community but isn’t. That includes—” he pauses, eyes drifting to Seth—“teenage boys who don’t act like men.”
Anger and shame contour Seth’s cheekbones. Colton’s weight sags the sling as I release him to touch Seth’s shoulder. But my brother jerks away. Seth stares at Charlie and then pivots on the hard ground, his lanky form swallowed by the gloom. I am torn between wanting to run after him and wanting to stay to see how the rest of the meeting plays out.
Myron settles my indecision by stepping forward. He takes off his hat, dragging a hand through his floss-thin hair. “I didn’t say anything,” he begins, “’cause everybody else seemed fine, but I was so weak on our fishing trip, I almost passed out. I know none of us wants to talk about taking food out of the mouths of anyone here, but I also know that what Charlie says is true: I can’t keep going out after food unless I’m getting a little something more to eat.”
Discarding his cane, Bishop Lowell climbs onto the platform. Charlie shows him no deference but remains where he is, so that the elderly bishop has to stand on the outer rim. The bishop glances at Charlie and then out at the crowd. “Charlie’s been our main scout since the EMP and knows what we are up against more than the rest of us, who’ve mostly remained inside the compound. From here on, we will more closely monitor our rations. Those who are unable to assist the community will receive fewer rations compared to those who are working. The women who are pregnant or nursing, however, should not have rations cut. If the men who are daily bringing in food for the rest of us become sick or too weak to leave camp, then our detriment will be swift, and I fear we’ll not make it through the winter.”
In disbelief, I look over at my sister, Anna. Her dull gaze is transfixed on the bishop, but I know she does not understand how his words will affect her. Imagining Anna going without—and even more, someone like Charlie consuming the difference—ignites my fury. I call out over the hum of the community, the majority of whom appear as disturbed by Bishop Lowell’s declaration as I am. “My sister and my grandmother—what exactly are they supposed to do when they become the ones too weakened by hunger to get out of bed?”
My grossmammi touches my shoulder in warning, the same as I had earlier warned Seth. But like him, I am too enraged to pay her any heed.
Bishop Lowell frowns. “We each must make sacrifices for the community as a whole.”
“Yes,” I say. “I understand that. What I don’t get, though, is that my sister can do nothing about her mental state, and my grandmother can do nothing about her age, and yet they are the ones required to make sacrifices.”
“Leora.” Bishop Lowell peers down at me through his glasses. “I commend you for defending your family, but you must understand that they are not being attacked. I simply cannot see another way of surviving other than cutting back our rations. And if we are to survive, we have to accept the reality of the situation we are in.”
Bishop Lowell shifts his attention away from me and leads the community in prayer, signaling our meeting’s end. But I don’t hear a word. I don’t even close my eyes. Instead, I hold Colton’s warm body close to my chest and stare at the snow-tipped logs in the distance, composing the perimeter, and recall standing in front of a similar perimeter the first—and only—time Moses and I kissed. I miss him for many reasons, and one of the very least is because I know this meeting would have played out differently if he were here.
I turn to follow Grossmammi and Anna back to the cabin, where I imagine Seth is inside, in front of the fire, fuming over Charlie’s pointed jibe during the meeting. But just then, Bishop Lowell calls from the platform. “Leora?” He pauses. “May I speak with you a minute?”
Forcing a smile, I glance over my shoulder at him. “Of course.”
I call to Anna to wait and pass Colton to her so she can take him in out of the cold. Meanwhile, Bishop Lowell fetches his walking stick and crosses the frozen ground toward me.
“I’d like to talk outside the community,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”
Jabil, near the well, meets my gaze. Even in the weak morning light, I can see his own eyes are veiled with confusion. But then he looks back at Myron and continues their dialogue. My mouth goes dry as I try to understand why Bishop Lowell is singling me out. Is it because I was too forthright during the meeting? The women of the community do not often voice their opinions, whereas I find myself voicing my opinion more and more all the time.
The scrape of his walking stick measures our silence as the bishop and I walk together. I find myself slowing my pace to match his. Sadness fills me as I watch his fingers struggle to open the perimeter’s hidden door, leading to the small clearing in the forest, which we hope to turn into a garden plot this spring. Somehow, like Grossmammi, I never thought Bishop Lowell would grow old. But the EMP has accelerated the aging process—causing those who needed to mature, like me, to grow up; and yet also making the older generation feeble before their time.
He lets me pass through the gate and then walks through and latches it again. We hike a few yards across the snow-drifted dell. “How are you?” he asks.
I look over, feeling trapped. “What do you mean?”
“You seemed pretty upset during the meeting.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur quickly, and then soften it with, “Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Bishop Lowell stabs his walking stick into the snow and turns to face me. “Though it’s understandable if you’re not. These are troubled times.”
I stop in my tracks and look down at him, anxiously waiting to hear what he really brought me here to say. “Forgive me a moment, Leora,” he begins, sensing my growing unease, “but I want to speak to you as Jabil’s doting uncle, not as your bishop.” He smiles at me, and a pair of dimples flash in the age-spotted skin above his beard. “Is that all right?”
My heart thuds for an entirely new reason. Speechless, I nod my assent.
“Gut,” he says. “Now, I’m just going to put it plainly, because in my seventy-nine years, I’ve found that that’s the least-complicated way to address complicated things.” He takes a breath and then coughs—a ragged, hacking sound. “My nephew loves you. I’m not sure if he’s told you that or not, and that’s between you and him. But there’s another element to this story that does involve me and the community, and I’d like to take care of it while I have the chance.”
He picks up the walking stick and rubs the top, shiny as a hickory nut from being handled. “Deacon Zimmerman and Deacon Beiler came yesterday to my cabin and informed me that, given our circumstances, neither of them would like to be bishop if something were to happen to me. It’s the first time in my fifty years as bishop that deacons have resigned, but I cannot say I blame them. Nor that I wouldn’t do the same if I were in their shoes and using all of my energy just to keep my family alive.” He glances over. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“I think so.” I swallow. “You’re saying that Deacon Good could be bishop since the two other deacons won’t risk getting their names drawn from the Ausbund?”
Bishop Lowell nods. “Jah, but there’s no ‘could be’ about it. When I die and Deacon Good becomes bishop, Jabil will take his former place, meaning that—one day—Jabil could be bishop as well.” Sighing, he squints as the sun rises over the field, the rays washing orange over the drifts. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m feeling so tired these days, or because Gott has put an urgency in my spirit to get prepared, but I have a sense that this time is soon going to come to pass.” He pauses and looks at me with both the compassion of a father and the austerity of a patriarch. “Do you understand the kind of support that will be required from a bishop’s wife?”
I shake my head, confused by his words. “Jabil and I, we aren’t—”
Holding up his hand, the bishop interrupts me. “I know
you’re not courting. But that means nothing these days. You could be married tomorrow and sharing a cabin.”
My face flushes at the thought. I say, “Bishop Lowell, with all due respect, I don’t want to be a bishop’s wife. I’m not cut out for that kind of selflessness.”
He smiles again and tips his head. “I’ve been watching you,” he says. “These past few years. With your familye. And now, with Sal’s son. You are more selfless than you think.”
I look down, trying to keep from crying. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“But I’m not just saying it,” he intones. “You’re a virtuous woman, Miss Ebersole, and that is why Jabil fell in love with you, when he had the other girls vying for his attention. He could see in you what you couldn’t even see in yourself.” He reaches a hand toward me. “You’re a gift to the entire community, Leora. We’d hate to lose you.”
I can’t hold back my emotion any longer and hide it by turning from the sun toward the gate. If only Bishop Lowell knew that, each time I stand outside the community, I have to fight the urge to run down the mountain and find out—once and for all—if Moses is alive. But maybe this daily struggle is exactly why Bishop Lowell is trying to convince me to stay.
When I return to the cabin, I find that Grossmammi and Anna are finishing up breakfast, but Seth is nowhere around. I ask, “Do you know where he is?”
Grossmammi shakes her head and replies in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Looks like he came back, but then left again. In a hurry, too, it seems. He even left the door unlatched.”
For the first time, I notice the quilt draping my grandmother’s shoulders, and the breath unspooling from her mouth as she hunkers forward to take a bite of gruel. Seth is not always responsible, but he would never normally be so careless as to leave the door ajar, knowing how we strive all day to keep what little warmth we have from escaping.
The Divide Page 3