Fire in the Night

by Linda Byler

  “Really?” Sarah gasped.

  “So Levi was right.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “There are about a million white cars in the state of Pennsylvania, so it doesn’t seem to be very helpful—what Levi saw,” Johnny said somberly.

  “You mean he may as well have seen Santa Claus swooping out of the sky with his reindeer?” Allen asked.

  They all laughed, which helped ease the fear. Sarah knew Priscilla had heard enough. It was time to go to bed.

  Upstairs, she flicked the small pink lighter and lifted the glass chimney, holding it at an angle. Rewarded with a steady orange flame, she settled the chimney back on the head of the kerosene lamp.

  Priscilla was rooting around in Sarah’s drawers. That was strange.

  “What are you doing?”

  “May I wear your nightgown?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, just because.”

  “Don’t you want to take a shower?”

  “No!”

  “Priscilla, what’s wrong? You’re acting strangely. Why don’t you go to your own room?”

  “It’s dark over there.”

  “You have a light.”

  Sarah stopped and looked at her sister, annoyed. She stood gripping a rumpled nightgown to her chest, as if the power of her clenched hands could hold the dark and the evil away from her body. Her eyes were large, too wide open, filled with a sort of wildness now.

  When Sarah met her eyes, she dropped them, but her hands remained clenched. Going to her sister, Sarah held her hands in both of her own and whispered, “Priscilla, are you afraid?”

  Instantly, Priscilla’s pent-up sobs rose to the surface, the culmination of terror and loss and all-encompassing fright. Her innocence forever taken away, she was unprepared to deal with this new and awful thing that wedged its way into their life.

  The crumpled nightgown fell to their feet and covered them as Sarah pulled her sister’s shaking form into her arms and held her, willing her touch to comfort the girl and bolster her courage.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured over and over.

  Finally, Priscilla took a deep breath and nodded her head.

  “It’s just that… Sarah, if a person so intent on hurting animals did that, lit the barn, burned Dutch, what’s going to keep him from lighting the house and killing us all? I’m afraid to go to bed.”

  Suddenly defiant, she reached for a Kleenex from the box on Sarah’s nightstand and shook her head.

  “Go ahead, say it. I know you think I’m bupplish (childish).”

  Sarah sighed and assured Priscilla she was not bupplish. But Sarah also felt as if a giant hand was squashing her down so tightly that there was danger of her life’s breath being taken away.

  Was this just the beginning?

  Chapter 4

  IT WAS ONLY FIVE o’clock when Mam whispered Sarah’s name at the door of her room. Sarah moaned groggily and snuggled deeper into her pillow. But the sudden remembrance of the fire and what the day would bring quickly propelled her out of bed. Hurriedly, she dressed, instructing Priscilla to grab the sheets from her bed. There was lots of laundry to be washed before breakfast.

  It seemed funny to hear only the soft swish-swish of the agitator. It made only a quiet hum instead of the usual sound of the air motor. The diesel tank, the air tank, and the fuel tank had all been rendered unusable by the heat of the flames, so they were using a generator and a Maytag wringer washer with an electric motor as a temporary set up.

  The heaps of clothes at her feet were piles of everyday comfort, the smell of the Tide detergent and Downy fabric softener a solidifying thing. Their essence was something dear and familiar, and no arsonist could touch it.

  While the first load of whites swirled in the sudsy water, Sarah went to the kitchen, sniffed, and smiled appreciatively.

  “Mmm. Coffee ready?”

  Mam nodded, her cup steaming on the table. Pouring herself a cup, Sarah went to the refrigerator, bent to retrieve the Coffee-mate French vanilla creamer, and splashed a generous portion into the steaming brown brew. She took a sip and closed her eyes.

  “Did you sleep well?” Mam asked.

  “I did. But Priscilla slept with me. She’s….”

  “Is she alright?”

  “I think so.”

  Mam smiled a sad, knowing smile, one that slid sideways and evaporated as her eyes clouded over with concern.

  “Priscilla has always been so soft-hearted. She’s so attached to her pets, has been all her life. We should have gotten Dutch out before any of the cows.”

  Blaming herself as always, Mam fretted about her daughter, who was at the tender age of fourteen.

  “We’ll just have to get another horse as soon as the barn is done. The sooner one appears, the faster she’ll heal.”

  Mam nodded.

  She admitted to Sarah, then, that she knew how Priscilla felt, having lain awake grappling with the onslaught of “why” and “whodunits,” the fear of the unknown raising its ugly head. One couldn’t escape it. Besides, she didn’t really know what was expected of her on this day. Mam felt as if all her pillars of support had been knocked away during the fearful night.

  How could she manage a meal if she wasn’t sure who was bringing what, how many women would arrive to help cook and serve, and how on earth she’d ever get her laundry room floor clean again?

  Sarah blinked, aghast. Her own mother! She always had a firm hold on every situation, a step ahead of her husband, fussing like a capable little biddy hen.

  She told Sarah she’d prayed during the night, but her anxiety meter ran so high it seemed as if her prayers bounced off the ceiling. She was sure God was not happy with her for being so afraid.

  Sarah pictured her mother lying flat in bed with a pressure gauge attached to her head, the red needle pointing all the way to the right as steam rose from her ears. She giggled, a hand over her mouth.

  “What?” Mam asked, perturbed now.

  Sarah told her, and Mam had a good laugh, then wiped her eyes and said that was better than a shot of vitamin B.

  “You and your imagination, Sarah. Now you better get the washing done. You know Hannah’s going to be up here first thing.”

  When Sarah stepped out with the first load of whites, she recoiled from the heavy, stagnant air, rife with a wet, smoking stench, the early morning darkness a reminder of what had occurred such a short time ago.

  As she hung up tablecloths, pillowcases, sheets, and towels, she imagined the driver of the white car hunched over a small pile of newspapers and kindling with a lighter or a propane torch or a book of matches. What exactly did one use to bring down an entire beautiful Lancaster County barn?

  As it had been, their barn had been special. The original section was built in 1805 with good limestone laid meticulously by their staunch German forefathers, who were hard working and smart, fiercely brave and determined to thrive in this new land. They certainly had done so, raising amazing crops in the Garden Spot of America with its fertile, productive soil bearing fruits and vegetables to feed their well-kept animals. They prospered beyond their imaginations.

  Gott gibt reichlich (God giveth richly). They had laid the foundation of thankfulness, stressing gratitude with each load of hay, their faith as firm as the enduring stone walls of each family’s barn. But now the seemingly indestructible stone was crumbled and blackened, severely damaged. Would their own faith withstand this ogre of evil intent?

  Sarah shook her head, showers of foreboding ruining her day like a quick squall that hindered the drying of the laundry.

  What did the man in the white car look like? Was he young? Old? Smart? Cunning? Rich or poor? Why had he done it? Perhaps he was mentally ill. If he drove a car, he was not physically handicapped, like Levi.

  She shivered in the cool morning air, a vivid picture of the devil himself driving that car entering her mind. Enough now, she told herself, and stood, watching the shades of peach and pink and gray spread acro
ss the east. Another day was at hand. What would it bring? She did not have long to wait.

  Men and boys began arriving in vans and buggies and on foot. Huge tractor-trailers carrying stacks of clean, raw-cut oak timbers, pine siding, and sheets of metal belched smoke from their exhaust pipes as the drivers throttled down to make the turn into their driveway.

  The previous day, clacking yellow bulldozers had crawled and pushed while a knot of able men considered the damage to the concrete and stone. What was worth salvaging and what needed to be replaced?

  Old Sam Stoltzfus, Dat at his side, had moved among the bulldozers, tablet and pen in hand. His gray and white beard moved gently as he spoke, his wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low over his eyes, his shoulders still held erect, even if his back remained bent.

  The order had been placed as soon as possible. Now the great saws bit into sturdy oak logs as they cut the stoutest beams for the new building.

  They decided to replace the stones with modern poured cement walls. Dat’s eyes had not remained dry as he watched the blackened stone and crumbled mortar being hauled away on whining dump trucks. They’d be used as fill somewhere, an unseen foundation for another hotspot where developers paid phenomenal prices for squares of valuable farmland that were sure to turn a hefty profit.

  It was the way of the world, and the sadness of it brought a lump to Dat’s throat. He thought of those stones, the heritage of hard work, simplicity, and a frugal lifestyle. It was all being encroached upon by the lust for profit and the promise of a softer, easier, better way of life, the goal being idleness and free time.

  Was it a healthy objective by Amish standards? David Beiler knew the answer and concealed his own private mourning.

  Would future generations know the fulfillment of a hard day’s work, when sweat flowed from a brow that was content? Would they find peace in doing without earthly wants and desires? Would they recognize that true happiness springs from self-denial? Would the will to do for others motivate their days? Or would the Amish church eventually weaken with the fires of the world, seeking after earthly possessions?

  As a minister, David Beiler made the comparison in his mind. He sent up a prayer asking God to give him strength for the work in the years ahead.

  Then didn’t that Samuel sei Emma and all her sisters, some from clear below Kirkwood in Chester County, get a driver and start making doughnuts at one o’clock that morning? She was something else, Mam said.

  They carried in huge plastic trays of plain and cream-filled doughnuts, some covered with powdered sugar and some dunked in big, plastic Tupperware bowls of glaze (even some of the ones that had cream filling on the inside). The women all smiled and nodded, their coverings white and neat, their dark hair combed sleekly. Their dark brown eyes were alight with interest, looking as if they’d had a good night’s sleep and hadn’t worked at all.

  Oh, it was a fine coffee break, and it bolstered Mam’s spirits.

  There was tray after tray of these doughnuts and containers of chocolate chip cookies and Reese’s peanut butter bars and oatmeal bars with a white glaze crisscrossed over the top. There were blueberry muffins, pecan tarts, and fruit bars that oozed cherry-pie filling.

  Hannah, of course, had breezed into the house soon after six o’clock. She came bearing a bag filled with milk filters containing coffee grounds that bulged comfortably after the ends had been sewed shut. She set huge stainless steel kettles of cold water on low burners, placed two filters of coffee grounds on top, and left them to brew. It shouldn’t boil, just heat to a high, rich coffee temperature until shortly after nine o’clock, when the forenoon schtick (break) was served.

  Henry Schmucker called to the men to take a break—the concrete crew, the men still cleaning up the blackened debris, and those building the oak walls on the ground. The rich odor of freshly cut wood was pleasant after the smell of the hovering, wet smoke.

  Henry was Mam’s brother and a good foreman at a time such as this. Dat said he was a mover and a shaker. Things got done when Henry was around, he said.

  The men filed past the long, folding tables picking up large Styrofoam cups of good, black coffee, grabbing napkins with a doughnut or two plus perhaps a bar or a cookie. They stood in jovial groups, talking and laughing, the air permeated with the purpose of the day.

  A barn raising was something, now, wasn’t it? English men wearing jeans, tshirts, and baseball caps worked alongside Amish men wearing varying yellow straw hats.

  The dreaded photographers, the bane of every Amish barn raising, arrived with their large black and gray instruments of intrusion slung jauntily over their shoulders or around their necks. Sarah knew their air of assured professionalism and superiority raised the ire of peace-loving folks.

  She was the first to see them as she walked to the mailbox with the letter for the gas company Mam had given her. How could she know the cameras would instantly begin whirring and clicking? The photographers eagerly captured the long, easy, stride of the tall, young Amish girl clad in a rich shade of blue. The black of her apron, the green maple trees as a lush background, the white letter in her hand, the early morning light a natural wonder—it was irresistible. Sarah was an added bonus to the barn raising.

  Returning to the break area where the food was being served, she helped herself to a filled doughnut, bit into it, leaning forward as the powdered sugar rained down. Even with a napkin, eating a powdered doughnut required a certain skill, especially when wearing black. A small breeze could waft the airy sugar straight onto an apron, where it would cling and then multiply by five as it was wiped off.

  “Mmm,” she said around a mouthful of doughnut.

  Samuel sei Emma caught the praise, acknowledged it with raised eyebrows, and then laughed good-naturedly.

  More women arrived bearing dishes of food. They hurried to place it in the kitchen before moving swiftly toward the coffee and doughnuts. There was plenty to go around, and the women rolled their eyes with guilt as they tried to be delicate while procuring a second doughnut.

  Aaron sei Lydia told Sarah there is only one way to eat a filled doughnut—in two bites while letting the filling go squooshing off wherever it wants.

  Outside, the noise and yells of the men began in earnest when they began to set the massive timbers in place.

  “Noch an tzoll (Another inch).”

  Men heaved, their brawny strength pushing and pulling the oak beams and posts into place. When the first wall was finished being assembled on the ground, they attached heavy nylon ropes to either side of it. With strength provided by sheer numbers, black-clad men swarmed across the timbers and pulled the wall up and onto the new foundation. They fastened the structure with massive bolts, and dozens of hammers rang out as they pounded heavy nails into place to secure the huge oak six by sixes.

  On the ground, the other walls were already finished and ready to be put into place. Sam Stoltzfus and Henry Schmucker were the captains of the great endeavor called a barn raising. It was literally that. A barn being raised in front of your eyes, Sarah thought.

  “If you blink, there’s another wall in place,” she told Priscilla, who was standing beside her. Priscilla laughed, and there was a joy in her laugh.

  The raising of those walls boosted their spirits in a way that was hard to explain. It just seemed secure and safe and hopeful all at the same time, this coming together of all these good folks to help lift David Beiler’s family out of its fear and sadness.

  Sarah watched warily as a photographer approached her. He was of average height, with sandy hair cut close to his head and glasses with thick lenses, which made his eyes appear smaller than they actually were.

  “Hello,” he offered.

  The greeting wasn’t spoken with a Lancaster County accent. It was spoken more like a “Hel-loo” as in “loop.”

  His smile was genuine, and Sarah had no reason to dislike him as long as he kept that camera lowered.

  Sarah smiled. “Hi.”

  “Can I ask you
a few questions?”

  Sarah nodded carefully.

  “Why can’t I have a doughnut?”

  The question was so surprising, so not what she was expecting, that she burst out laughing in her musical way. His sandy eyebrows went up, and he laughed with her.

  “Maybe if you’d say ‘may I,’” Sarah said shyly.

  “May I?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “May I take a picture?”

  “Of the doughnuts?”

  “No, you.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not allowed. I’d get in trouble.”

  “Why?”

  Just in time, Sarah saw Matthew Stoltzfus walking across the yard with Rose Zook beside him. In broad daylight! At a barn raising!

  Sarah was surprised but glad to see them and excused herself from the impertinent questioning. She turned away and missed seeing the puzzled photographer shrug his shoulders in resignation, then help himself to three glazed doughnuts.

  Rose Zook wiggled her fingers prettily and trilled, “Hey, Sarah!”

  Sarah greeted them warmly.

  “Boy, I’m glad to see you. I was ready to get away from the photographer.”

  “Was he nosy?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Rose, I’m going to help now. I’ll be ready to leave about three this afternoon. See ya. Good to see you, Sarah.”

  “See you, Matt.”

  Rose looked at him, and they exchanged an intimate look, one that excluded Sarah completely. She said nothing, waiting until Rose was ready to go. They stood together, watching the great walls being hammered into place.

  It was a true visual feast. Men in black and navy-blue broadfall trousers topped by shirts of every color of the rainbow, wearing golden yellow straw hats, black felt hats, or no hats at all. They were set against the yellowish brown of the fresh cut timbers with the blue sky in the background, the verdant growth of trees and pastures, the dark loamy soil tilled and waiting for crops to be planted.

  To Sarah, it was more than visual. It was a feast for the heart as well. Nothing could chase away the gloom of fear and uneasiness like this picture before her. It was the sunshine of brotherly love and caring, standing together through anything and everything that God handed to them.