Rachel saw Jacob catch Simon’s eye and grin.
“So Rachel did teach Perry something,” Ruben said, “despite his copying of the newspaper in her class.”
“She made certain they could read and understand every German word, or they would not be allowed to copy the paper and earn their pennies. My Perry got to reading his German goot then. Rachel Sauder was the best teacher Perry ever had....” Abe reddened and looked toward the women. “Sorry to the other teachers,” he said with a nod of respect. “But it is so.”
“Thank you, Abe,” Ruben said. “Those of you whose children had Rachel in school, stand up if they did not learn good German.”
Everyone looked around, but no one stood.
“If you think Rachel was a good teacher, stand.”
Most everyone did.
“Raise your hand if your children learned better High German than ever.”
Most of them smiled at her and raised their hands. She could barely see them through a mist of tears. She might just kiss Ruben later.
“You may sit,” Ruben said. “No, wait. Anybody think the money you pay for the Amish Chalkboard is too much?”
“I would pay more,” one man yelled.
Many more shushed him and Rachel outright laughed. No one was more frugal than an Amishman.
Ruben eyed the Elders’ table. “I believe we have answered these foolish accusations.”
Simon stood. “There are more.”
Ruben threw his hands in the air. “Of course more.” He sat.
Simon began to pace. He stopped and held his frock coat open, his hands at his waist. A particularly proud stance, Rachel thought. He’d best take care, or others would see it too.
“One of the greatest challenges the Amish have had to face here in America,” Simon said. “Has been happening before our eyes these past thirty years and more. This ‘age of industry’ as the government calls it, they say will make our lives easier. Machines to do this and machines to do that. All the work is done for us.
“Is this our way? To have our lives made easy? Is it not our way to toil, to sweat to provide for our families? Has it not been decided by us in this district, as in most Amish districts, that if we use machines to work for us, the devil will settle in as we fritter away our time in more worldly pursuits?” He looked over the men to see how they received his words. Clearly, some of them liked what he said.
“Why do we need words printed by a worldly machine, by men who would pull us into a life fraught with temptation, one devoid of family values. It is a sin, I say, to use such a machine. Iniquity to use a machine which is the devil’s plaything, merely to bring useless words to us.”
The disgruntled murmurs filling the room saddened Rachel.
“But!” Simon shouted. “If you say the newspaper has helped teach our children the language of their ancestors, and if you like to read such a paper, then make it the job of whoever the schoolteacher is to publish it.” The smile he gave her was victorious, enough to stop her self-pity.
Jacob surged forward, but Levi’s arm shot out to stop him. They exchanged words, Levi’s chest puffed out like a bantam rooster, Jacob’s stance hostile, then he nodded and stood still.
Ruben stood again and raised his arms for quiet. “With respect to our good Bishop and his preachers, I believe the Deacon’s mouth has run over with the devil’s own garbage.”
Several serious coughs resulted from the statement.
“Sit down, Ruben!” came a command none of them dared disobey.
Atlee Eicher stood. His bent frame had lost height over the years, his beard, white as new-fallen snow, was the longest she had ever seen. Though no longer tall or straight, the wisdom in his eyes, as he scanned the crowd — his gaze pausing on her, narrowing on Simon — could not be denied.
Peace filled her.
“A sin you say, Deacon Sauder?” Atlee shouted as if he’d been insulted. “A sin to print words with my great-great-grandfather’s Gutenberg, already? In which secret place our martyred people would pray, did that press print, and where to be baptized and marry. That same press for the printing you speak of?”
Simon did not answer.
“Well is it?”
“I speak of any machine which allows—”
Atlee slammed his hand on the table in front of Simon so hard that Simon flinched. “Ya! That press allowed the stories of our ancestor’s deaths at the hands of their killers to be told. And the devil’s work it is, you say, to print? Ach. Like to print our Bibles, the devil worked? Here, my Bible I have brought.” He opened it and shoved it under Simon’s nose so fast, Simon jumped as if a snake struck.
“See, Deacon Sauder!” Atlee cackled. “See your Bible with the words of the sinful printing done.” He raised the open Bible in the air and turned about, revealing the holy words to all, then he kissed a page before closing the book and placing it reverently on the table. He lifted a copy of their Martyr’s Mirror, a book twice as thick, long and wide, as the Bible, and opened it. “See the printing by the devil’s machine. The same, aint?” he asked Simon. “And, here. Here is our Ausbund, our hymn book, this devil’s printed book with the sacred stories of our martyrs to sing.” He scanned the faces of the men, then the women. “No sin there is here either, I say. Say any of you? No.”
Atlee turned back to Simon. “This paper of the news, Rachel’s Amish Chalkboard, makes besser use of Great-Great-Grandfather Zeke’s press since the old world. In the new world, it makes new way to use.”
Atlee looked at the women. “It makes good,” he said, his voice hoarse. He wiped his eyes and smiled. “I praise God I lived so long to see it. A paper of the news for our people in High German is worthy. Only good I read in Rachel’s Chalkboard.”
He looked at the Bishop. “Ezra Zook!”
The Bishop smiled.
Atlee turned back to the congregation. “So old I am, I don’t call Bishop a man who spit up on my best broadfalls.” He put his hand on his chest. “Though in this old heart there is great respect.”
“Ezra. In a few years, six maybe seven, I might be too old to come to worship, ain’t? And I might want to read your too-long sermons.”
No one smiled more than Bishop Zook.
No one frowned more than Deacon Sauder.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Atlee said to Simon. “A press is for printing. If in our hearts we listen for the word of God, His we will hear. If it is the word of the devil we seek, this we will find.”
He turned to the women. “Pris. You teaching now?”
“Yes, Atlee.”
“Better than you cooking, I guess. Can you do Rachel’s job, printing a paper at school like she did?”
“Me?” she squeaked. “No!”
Atlee turned back to Simon. “Your best argument, you give us now. I smell schnitz pie. You don’t talk fast, I go eat.” He inclined his head toward the men. “They will follow.”
Their oldest citizen shuffled away, cackling for all he was worth, as if he’d made a great joke. Before he sat, he enlivened the entertainment by stepping up to her and kissing her forehead.
Rachel closed her eyes and whispered her thanks.
* * * *
Jacob hadn’t expected to have such a good time today. He figured he’d have to visit Atlee more often. He could learn a lot, and Emma and Aaron would probably make him feel like a young man of eighty again.
Lord, that tic in Simon’s cheek was a sight to behold. Jacob didn’t think it had ever gone so fast. “He’s gonna blow, Datt,” he said under his breath, and his father scowled at him.
“A woman’s place is in her home!” Simon shouted, launching himself from his seat at the Elders’ table.
Hands clenched, mouth rigid, face ruddy, Simon looked around as if he were surprised to find himself here. Then he took a deep breath and faced the men. “A woman’s role is to plant her garden, clean her house, and care for her animals. She makes food and does what she must to run a good Amish house. I charge that
Rachel Zook does not perform the duties of a wife!”
“Simon!” Levi shouted.
Jacob was ready to ‘raise his sword,’ Amish or not. As one, he and his father stepped forward.
Rachel jumped up. “Your charges, Deacon Sauder, have a foundation built on sand.”
Jacob and his father stopped.
“You publish your newspaper instead of tending the garden,” Simon accused.
Rachel chuckled. “I canned 22 quarts of peas, 18 of beans, 30 of pickles, 43 of tomatoes. From that untended garden I gathered also squash and pumpkins, celery and rhubarb.” She looked toward the back of the room. “Did you ever tend that garden, Levi?”
His father smiled and shook his head. “No, Leibchen.”
Rachel turned back to her bastard of a husband. “And we know you didn’t, Simon.” She pointed at herself. “So it must have been me.”
Jacob chuckled. Others watched and listened with great interest. This would be the talk of the district for some time to come, Jacob knew. Generations, maybe.
Simon shook his head. “You write your stories instead of cleaning the house.”
“I clean the house good. Ask any of the women who visit. I have washed and cleaned and cooked for you and Levi since I began my newspaper. But for the damage to your pride, you have not suffered.”
A collective gasp, low, but no less potent went up, for her insult. Pride was an Amishman’s greatest sin. Jacob chuckled and his father swatted him.
“’Tis not my humility anyone here questions,” Simon said. “’Tis your pride, your sins before us.”
Jacob lost his smile and his father took hold of his arm.
“Only the Deacon questions his wife,” Rachel said.
Simon nodded and smiled, as if he was pleased she grasped the situation, the idiot.
Jacob had had enough. It was not Rachel who first broke her vows to honor and cherish, it was her husband, and if need be, he was prepared to say so.
“You have barely performed your duties while printing this newspaper. But now the press will make more work for you, and you will not be able to continue your duties. If you had children, you would never be able to do it.”
Rachel smiled. “You said the press was a sin because it made less work, now you say it will make more. I think you do not know how much work there is, either for a newspaper, or a wife.”
The women laughed.
“I have Aaron and Emma to tend now,” Rachel continued. “And Jacob too, even Ruben, more often than not, to clean up after, and I still do it all. You have no argument, Simon. And I think this is not the business of the whole church district. The problems of Simon and Rachel Sauder should be discussed in private.”
Simon stepped too close to Rachel, as far as Jacob was concerned, and he pushed his father’s restraining hand away.
By virtue of Simon’s height, he loomed over Rachel, but to Jacob’s relief, he made no move to touch her.
“It is the business of the entire church district,” Simon pronounced distinctly, “when a member will not do her duty and bear a child.” Gasps and murmurs swelled as Simon grasped Rachel’s arms. “You would not be able to care for the house and the twins, and print your foolish newspaper, if you would do your duty,” he spat.
“I do my duty,” Rachel said.
“I mean, if you were a real woman!” He shook her. “If you bore a child!”
Rachel shrugged from his grasp. “I carry a child!”
Chapter 11
Deacon Simon Sauder stood as if turned to stone.
Despite the grim circumstances of her announcement, Rachel rejoiced for the child growing under her heart. And she rejoiced for such a response to her husband’s accusation. “I am not a failure. You—”
Her father cupped her shoulder. “Liebchen, shh. The Elders will pray now.” His touch, his soft words calmed her. “Their decision will be announced shortly.” He smiled, and it was all Rachel could do not to throw herself into his arms and weep.
Instead, she smiled. People stood in small groups, their talk rising to fever pitch, many glancing furtively in her direction.
Her neighbors were excluding her from their talk, for the first time ever. An odd feeling this, to be singled out while standing among so many.
As one, her people judged her. But how would they react if they knew her deepest secret? The answer was not to be contemplated.
Because of her disclosure, she must make a decision, here in the midst of them, that would affect the future of her unborn child … perhaps her child’s very life, if Simon ever learned the truth.
One particular, painful truth she must face right now.
The one person she could go to under any circumstances, bare her soul to, no matter its dark secrets, and still expect welcome, was Jacob. But that gentle man with whom she craved refuge was the one person on earth she most needed to exclude from the truth, while at the same time being the one who deserved it most.
The injustice made Rachel want to scream at a God she believed, for the first time in her life, might have deserted her. And if He was not watching over the life growing within her, then she must. At any cost.
She would not lie, but she would not offer unnecessary facts either. This child was hers first. Hers to protect, to nurture and to raise. She must do that in the best way she knew, within the protection of her place in this community … as Rachel Sauder, Deacon Simon Sauder’s wife.
Decision made, Rachel raised her chin and looked about. Atlee and Ruben were standing in the middle of a group of men, or she would have gone to thank them. Later she would make Atlee some sassafras tea for his rheumatism and take it to him. He’d saved her today, him and Ruben. Sometimes Ruben really surprised her.
Her mom and Esther were leaving, and before they disappeared, her mom turned and caught her eye from off to the side of the door. Ich liebe dich, she mouthed. I love you. And Rachel knew that mom understood more than she let on.
Still, once they left, Rachel became uncomfortable all of a sudden, and she felt remote, as if she stood in the center of a small island in the midst of an angry sea. To leave, she must walk past all of them.
She took a breath, rehearsed a few sorry excuses, and prepared to jostle her way through the crowd. Focusing on the outside door, she began the long trek through the Mast house. But she needn’t have worried. When her neighbors saw her coming, they parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses.
The Deacon and his wife had just aired their pitiful life before the world. Were there a place for her to hide, she would go. Lately, she’d wanted to hide more and more often.
She knew she must face everyone at some point, head up, eye to eye. And she would. But not today.
Jacob met her half way and took her arm, sheltering her and guiding her at the same time.
She was coming with him, his look said. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. Denial did not come to mind. Gratitude, relief, came. Outside, he helped her into his buggy. “Let’s get out of here.” He slapped the reigns. “Getup, Caliope.”
“My wagon. Gadfly,” she said, her sense of responsibility almost as strong as her dread of Simon’s reproach if something should happen to them.
“Datt said he would have Simon take them.”
She nodded. “Where are we going?”
Far far away, Jacob thought. Forever. It frightened him that his need to run away with Rachel, at this moment, was stronger than his need to breathe. “Will the children be all right at Fannie’s for a while if we don’t go right back? I mean will Fan mind?” he asked.
“They’ll be stuffed with raisin pie,” Rachel said, but other than that, they’ll be happy, and she won’t mind. She likes babies.”
He searched her face. “You do too,” he said, almost afraid of what he would see, but her eyes were vacant, unreadable, as if she’d closed that window to her soul usually open to him. “It’s a good thing.”
She looked at her hands. “Yes.”
Jacob’s disappo
intment cut sharper than a sickle through parched wheat. But he would not let her know how badly he needed her to look at him, to open her heart to him. Why was she shutting him out, now of all times?
He covered her trembling hands with one of his.
She grasped his fingers, hard.
He ached to ask the question burning in his brain. Who is your child’s father?
After two years of barrenness, why would she conceive now? And yet, he knew couples who’d conceived a child after years of marriage, and then several more. This could be such a case.
Because of Simon’s abuse, disturbing pictures came to his mind — of her being frightened and forced to submit. “Was he more caring of you when ...” For the life of him, Jacob could not refer to them as making love. He looked back at the road and cleared his throat. “In bed, was he at least gentle then?”
“No.”
Jacob turned so sharply, he sent the buggy into a stand of walnut trees. Pulling Caliope up short, he stopped and stared at her. “The day you married, when Simon came to you for the first time as a husband, he was loving that night at least? Tell me yes, please.”
Rachel closed her eyes. “Only one man has ever taken me in love,” she said, revealing a deep inner regret that nearly broke him.
Fear clawed at him, remorse hammered in his head. From where did her regret stem? Did she grieve over their night together, because his gentleness had revealed Simon’s lack? Because she knew now what love could be?
He reached for her and pulled her blessedly close. “If sorrow is your legacy from our loving, I will never forgive myself,” he said into her hair.
With Jacob holding her, offering succor, Rachel could not keep from weeping. She wept over the events of the morning, over Simon’s obsession to break her. She wept in anger at herself for succumbing to his goading and baring her marked soul.
She wept for her mistake of a marriage. But she wept most of all for herself and for Jacob … alone, but together. So close, yet so far apart. For their bittersweet love. For the child she carried with joy, yet with sorrow, because she could never give that child the life she wished for him.
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