A Quilt for Jenna

by Patrick E. Craig

  “I tell you, we’re going to get into it with the Japs pretty soon,” he said thickly, “and when we do, we’ll show ’em what it means to mess with Americans. If we go to war, I’m signing up on the first day. What about you?”

  “I got a wife and kids” mumbled another worker named Smitty. “I’m not so sure I want to get all shot up so I’m no good to my family.”

  “What are you, yellow?” Clancy snarled. “Nothin’ worse than a yellow coward. Well, we’ll remember you hiding behind mama’s skirts as we go off to fight.”

  “Aw, lay off. I ain’t no slacker,” the other man muttered. “And besides, you’re too old to join up.”

  Clancy went on, ignoring Smitty’s remark. “And the truth is, we got a town full of cowards walkin’ around here in their fancy hats like they own the place, but they’re yellow. They were yellow in the last war and they’re gonna’ quit on America in the next one too. Them Amish. It sticks in my craw, the way they’re always talkin’ about loving one another while they let real Americans who love their country die for them, and they don’t lift a finger. They’re cowards, plain and simple. Ain’t nobody more yellow than the Amish, and if I’m wrong, well, say it ain’t so.”

  “It ain’t so,” said a quiet voice.

  Bobby hadn’t noticed when the young man stepped up to the bar just a few feet from the table of drunks, so when the quiet voice corrected Clancy, Bobby looked up. Standing at the bar was a tall, dark-haired man in his early twenties. He had the look of someone who had seen hard work. He had broad shoulders, long arms, a handsome, symmetrical face, and piercing blue eyes.

  “Whad’ya say?” asked Clancy, turning to face the newcomer.

  “I said the Amish aren’t cowards,” said the young man.

  “Sure they are,” said Clancy. “Yellow-bellied stinking traitors who let the real men die while they hide out on their farms and live off the fat of the land.”

  “They love their country as much as you say you do. Besides, I think you’re probably just a lot of talk,” said the stranger.

  “Whatta ya mean by that?” snarled Clancy.

  “I mean that in my short life, I’ve observed that those that know, don’t say, and those that say, don’t know. From listening to you spout off, I’d say that in spite of all your brave talk, the first time a machine gun slug whispers past your ear, you’ll cut and run.”

  “Why you!” shouted Clancy as he rose up and pushed his chair back so that it tumbled over behind him. “I’ll show you who’s gonna cut and run.”

  Clancy grabbed a beer bottle by its neck off the table and smashed it against the bar. He was stepping forward to thrust his weapon into the young man’s face when a strong hand stopped the forward motion of his arm.

  “Lemme go, I’m gonna kill this guy,” yelled Clancy, twisting around to get a look at his restrainer. Bobby Halverson’s calm face stared back.

  “Fight fair, Clancy, or you’ll wish you never got out of your chair,” Bobby said softly.

  Bobby’s steel grip on his wrist made Clancy wince in pain, and the bottle dropped out of his hand. Bobby let him go.

  The man named Clancey was not deterred. “I don’t need nothing to show pretty boy here how to keep his mouth shut.”

  Clancy lurched at the stranger and took a wild swing. The man slipped out of the way of the haymaker and raised his hands with the palms facing out.

  “I don’t think you want to do this, mister,” the tall young man said quietly.

  Clancy roared a profanity and then took another swing, but the stranger ducked beneath it. Quick as a flash he let Clancy have it with a powerful right hand to the stomach and a stunning left fist to the point of his chin. Clancy stayed upright for a moment, but the light had gone out of his eyes. He swayed forward and fell like a log onto another table, scattering glasses and patrons.

  Clancy’s buddies started to get up, and Reuben backed up toward the bar. Just then the bartender came bustling over and got in between the men and Reuben and pointed to the door.

  “That’s enough! Party’s over, fellas. No brawls in my place. Take your buddy and go on home,” he said. “I’m not gonna serve you any more booze, so you may as well beat it.”

  “Aw, Jimmy,” whined another one of the workers, “we’re just getting started.”

  “You heard me,” said Jimmy. “Come back tomorrow when you sober up.”

  The men grumbled and pulled Clancy to his feet. His eyes wandered in their sockets, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin.

  “Anybody get the number of that truck?” he said as his buddies dragged him toward the door. He looked at the stranger as he passed by.

  “Don’t let me see you in here again, or you’ll be sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah, right, Clancy,” Bobby said as he looked at Clancy’s rapidly swelling face.

  The young man watched Clancy leave and then turned to Bobby. “Thanks for stepping in, but I really didn’t need your help.”

  “No problem,” Bobby said. “I just like to see the sides even. How was I supposed to know you could punch like a mule kick?”

  “Well, thanks. I guess I could be a little friendlier.” The young man smiled back and stuck out his hand. “I’m Reuben Springer, and speaking of mule kicks, I noticed that Clancy didn’t try to stand up to you.”

  “Bobby Halverson. Yeah, Clancy and I sorted out our pecking order a long time ago. Now come on and sit down and tell me where you learned to punch like that—particularly if you’re friends with Amish.”

  The two men made their way back to Bobby’s table.

  “Jimmy, bring over a couple of beers,” Bobby said.

  “I think I’d just like a soda,” said Reuben. “I’m not much of a drinker. As a matter of fact, this is my first time in a bar.”

  “You certainly didn’t waste any time getting into the swing of things,” Bobby said. “By the way, what made you decide to defend the Amish folks?”

  “I am Amish,” said Reuben, taking a breath, “Well, sort of Amish, I guess you’d say.”

  “How can you be ‘sort of Amish’?” Bobby asked. “It appears to me you either are or you aren’t.”

  “It’s hard to explain, but right now I’m under the meidung—the Amish word for shunning. That means I have done things that violate the Amish way of life, and they’ve basically thrown me out until I change my ways.”

  “What did you do, if you don’t mind my asking?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s not so much what I did, but what I won’t do,” Reuben replied. “I won’t get baptized and join the church, and I’m way older than most Amish young men are when they do that. And the truth is, I don’t really want to join the church. I want to see the world and find out some things on my own instead of taking the church’s word for everything. The Amish live under all these rules that have been passed down for generations, but they’re just rules to me, and a lot of them don’t make any sense. I can’t follow after something I don’t believe in. So I’m hoping to leave Apple Creek to go out and find out for myself.”

  “My folks live in Apple Creek,” said Bobby. “How come I never saw you around?”

  “My dad has a farm up here in Wooster,” Reuben replied. “But he married a widow in Apple Creek. She had a bigger place, so we moved there to work it.”

  “Well, if you want to leave, why don’t you just do it?” Bobby asked.

  “I have a little problem,” Reuben said with a slight smile.

  “Aha! Woman troubles, eh?” Bobby said. “So you came in here to drown your sorrows, but you don’t drink. That’s funny! You want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

  Reuben looked at Bobby intently for a few minutes. “I’m not very good at talking about myself,” he said, “but if you have an hour or so, I’ll unburden myself. And if I’m going to really open up,” he said with a grin, “I guess I better have one of those beers after all.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friends

  REUBEN T
OOK TO THAT FIRST BEER like a duck to water. Within an hour—and after three Pabst Blue Ribbons—Bobby knew all about Jerusha, how beautiful she was, how much she and Reuben loved each other, and the enormous obstacles in their way.

  Bobby listened, asking a few questions and occasionally offering a comment. Bobby did have some experience with the matter at hand, but he didn’t want to come off like a know-it-all. Bobby had married early—at seventeen—but it hadn’t worked out. His wife had wanted Bobby to take her to the big city. When Bobby wouldn’t, she found someone who would, and that was that.

  The experience made Bobby a good listener. The beer loosened Reuben’s tongue, and soon Bobby felt as if he’d known Reuben for a long time. He had a lot more facets to his personality than most of the Amish he’d met. He was smart and funny, but he could be serious and philosophical too, and after a short while Bobby decided that he liked Reuben a lot. As the evening wore on, Reuben told Bobby about his last meeting with Jerusha and how she had refused to go with him to Colorado.

  “You’ve got a job out there,” Bobby said. “Why don’t you go alone?”

  “I can’t leave her,” said Reuben, hanging his head. “She’s got such a hold on me, but she won’t marry me unless I get baptized and become a member of the church, and I just can’t. It would be hypocritical. There are too many rules that have no basis in reality. I want to get out and see the world and just get on with my life, but I’m afraid she’ll get married to someone else, so I can’t leave. I’m really stuck. What should I do?”

  “Well, I’d say you’re between a rock and a hard place, my friend,” Bobby answered as he took another long sip of his beer. “And the truth is, I didn’t do such a bang-up job with my marriage, so I’m not exactly the person you should ask for advice.”

  They continued talking until Jimmy leaned over the bar and hollered, “Last call!”

  “You got a place to stay?” Bobby asked.

  “I have some friends here in Wooster,” Reuben said, “but they’re visiting in Akron. So I was just going to sleep in my truck until they get back.”

  “It’s a little cold for that,” Bobby said. “Why don’t you come over to my place? I have a Murphy bed in the front room of my apartment. It’s pretty comfortable.”

  And that was the beginning of our friendship. You came over and stayed, and I needed a roommate, so you moved in. I got you a job at the construction company, and that was how it started...

  It was an interesting friendship because the two men were almost exact opposites. Bobby was friendly and outgoing, and he enjoyed social gatherings. He had never been much for studies, but he had a lot of useful knowledge about life. People could come to Bobby with their personal or practical problems and find a sympathetic ear or a helping hand. Reuben, on the other hand, was quiet and liked to keep to himself. He had a quick mind and was a voracious reader who remembered almost everything he read. He read both classic and contemporary writers and could hold his own in a conversation about Shakespeare or Hemingway. He knew about Rembrandt and Picasso and had a deep love for both Beethoven and Billie Holiday.

  Once Bobby asked Reuben about his almost encyclopedic knowledge of the arts.

  “I thought you guys weren’t allowed to read all this stuff or look at art.”

  “When I was a kid I had an Englisch friend my folks didn’t know about. His name was Sammy. He was Jewish and what you might call an intellectual. We had a drop-off place in the woods behind my house where he would leave library books. I read everything from Hamlet to The Maltese Falcon by the time I was eighteen. He taught me a lot about the things of the world—history, music, and other religions, especially his. Kind of odd, don’t you think? A Jewish whiz kid and an Amish misfit becoming best friends. I think hanging around with Sammy had a lot to do with my dissatisfaction with the Amish way.”

  “What about the music?” asked Bobby.

  “Sammy was into music,” said Reuben. “He had the most amazing collection of records—everything from Enrico Caruso to Gene Autry. When I could sneak away, we’d go into his room and listen to record after record. He’d fill me in on the composer, the artist, and the period when the music was written. He also taught me to box. That’s where I learned to fight. When he was little, other kids always gave him a hard time for being Jewish, so he took boxing lessons and shut a few bullies up, and after that nobody bothered him. Sammy was a tough customer, and he gave me a real education in the art of self-defense.”

  Bobby learned a lot in their discussions, but so did Reuben. Reuben helped Bobby to expand his horizons in art and literature, and Bobby taught Reuben how to fix the carburetor in his Ford pickup and how to get along with people. The two men were compatible, so Bobby didn’t mind Reuben living in his apartment. Reuben was neat and kept his clothes and personal stuff in order. They only had one argument in the whole time they roomed together, and that was over the Amish position on serving in the army. They were sitting in the kitchen discussing the Japanese occupation of French Indochina and the oil embargo the United States had placed on Japan’s military.

  “Reuben, I’m not much for world politics, but I know people,” he said, “and I can tell you that the Japanese aren’t going to stand still for this boycott.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Reuben asked.

  Bobby pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and rapped them on the tabletop to pack them down. He tore open the pack, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

  “If it were me,” said Bobby, “I’d find another source of oil and take it over. The Japanese army is already in Indochina. They’re well trained and battle hardened because they’ve been fighting in China since 1939. It’s just a short boat ride over to the Dutch East Indies. The only thing that can keep them out of those oil fields is American intervention.”

  “But Roosevelt is trying to solve this diplomatically,” Reuben said.

  “That’s what they say,” Bobby replied, “but it didn’t help the Japanese bargaining position to join up with Hitler and Mussolini. The Japanese are going to have to do something to neutralize America. They will have to get us out of the way, which means you can expect them to do something nasty, real soon.”

  “You think it’ll come to war?” Reuben asked.

  “Don’t see how we can stay out of it.” There was a pause in the conversation while Bobby blew out a long stream of smoke. Then he asked the question that had been unspoken but very present. “If we have to go to war, what will you do?”

  “War is wrong, and it’s against the Bible,” Reuben replied.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Bobby said as he tapped the ash off his smoke and looked intently at Reuben. “So I’ll ask it again. If war comes...”

  “I heard the question,” Reuben said, as a red flush rose in his face.

  “Well, what’s the answer?”

  Reuben glared at Bobby. It was as though he was feeling his way through the answer in his mind, sorting out his thoughts on the matter for the first time. Finally he spoke.

  “War is something the Amish detest. Violence against other human beings strikes at the very core of Amish beliefs. Our stand on violence was forged in the crucible of torture, persecution, hideous pain, and horrible death. Those who lived through it came out determined to reject every facet of war, down to the tiniest detail. That determination affects everything we do and say, how we relate to each other and to the Englisch, and even the way we dress and our appearance.”

  Bobby was silent, and Reuben continued. “Have you ever wondered why the Amish wear beards but not mustaches?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” Bobby said.

  “We consider mustaches to be a sign of violent masculinity, something warriors and conquerors would wear. Jesus said we are to love our neighbor as ourselves, so it’s wrong to attack weak or defenseless people,” said Reuben. “We should be kind and forgiving.”

  “Yes, but do you really believe all that stuff, Reuben?” Bobby asked.
“Be honest.”

  Reuben paused. “Well...I believe some of it,” he said slowly.

  “The way you talk, it seems to me you’re really not so sure about it.”

  Reuben flushed and looked down at the floor.

  “Here’s what I’m getting at, if you don’t mind me being blunt,” Bobby went on. “The Amish live in a free country because American men have died in its defense. For a group of people to take advantage of this freedom and yet refuse to take any responsibility for it seems wrong to me—and to a lot of other people.”

  “That’s not exactly what it’s about,” Reuben said.

  “What is it about then, Reuben?” Bobby asked. “The Amish have looked down on the Englisch for years. They let us know in no uncertain terms that because we don’t follow their way of life, somehow that makes us lesser people. And yet you can watch American boys go off to war to fight and die in defense of the freedom that allows you to live the way you do and practice your faith the way you do. If America hadn’t invited you folks to come here back in the 1700s, there would be precious few of you left in Europe. In spite of what this nation has done for your people, you have the nerve to tell us we’re wrong to live the way we do. A lot of good men and women died to preserve the freedom that allows you to feel and act the way you do toward anyone who isn’t like you, and yet you won’t lift a finger to defend that freedom.”

  “Don’t keep saying ‘you’ to me,” Reuben snapped. “I’m not Amish anymore, remember? I’m currently persona non grata.”

  “Well then, my friend,” said Bobby, looking Reuben straight in the eye, “since you can’t hide behind the religion anymore, I’ll ask you one more time. What are you going to do if America goes to war?”