by Linda Byler
The forefathers, die alte, had ingrained in them the principle of nonresistance, taking the verses in the Bible quite literally.
They were Jesus’s own words, weren’t they? Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for those who use you and persecute you.
Liebe deine fiende (Love your enemies). There was no way around that.
He imagined that if spirits could be seen by the human eye, comprehended by the lowly understanding of mere mortals, a civil war of sorts would be raging in the frigid air today, on one of God’s wonderful mornings.
For some reason, the burning of Enos Miller’s barn had set off a fresh wave of indignant wrath. After coming together in unity for the barn raising, brother again rose against brother in fresh battles of opinion as verbal swords sliced through the air, and harmful charges and feints were executed.
Sisters days and quilting days and market stands became part of the darkness of verbal combat, as mothers, friends, sisters, and cousins voiced their opinions about the barn fires, the spirit of disagreement as thick as pea soup.
Bent and aged, their thin white hair almost completely hidden by their large white coverings, old mommies (grandmothers) shook their heads and said among themselves, “It wasn’t always so.”
Women were taught to be silent, obedient, and if they had anything to say, to say it to their husbands. And here were these young women, laughing uproariously, devising ways of catching the arsonist, including steel-jawed traps, among other outlandish devices.
They couldn’t help it if their shoulders shook silently with mirth, though, could they?
David heard of these accounts from Malinda, who attended sisters days and quiltings all through January, coming home with her shoulders stooped with care, but often a twinkle in her eye as well.
For one thing, their two daughters, Ruthie and Anna Mae, were the works! Malinda just didn’t know where they got their outspokenness. They claimed that if the Amish pooled their resources and paid for a private detective to follow Ashley Walter’s boyfriend around, the fires would come to an end, and they meant it.
When Mam had protested, they said a private detective and a lawyer were two very different things. It was ridiculous, in this day and age, they said, taking this suffering like sitting ducks. No wonder he kept right on burning barns. Nobody even tried to do anything about it. And they were their own daughters saying this.
The next morning, David Beiler absentmindedly cut the baler twine on a bale of straw with his Barlow pen knife, then hung it carefully on the large nail pounded into the post for that purpose. He took up a block of straw and threw it into the horse trough. He was rewarded by a nicker from Fred.
The winter sunlight found its way through the dusty windows, and he reached up to turn out the propane lantern, then made his way across the cow stable, into the milk house, still wet with steam from the scalding, hot water Sarah had used to scour the milking machines.
The fact that she was still here on the farm, living in peace and harmony with her family, washed over him and infused his thoughts with gratefulness, engulfed his spirit the way the steam warmed the milk house.
God had delivered them with a great and mighty hand, as He had with the children of Israel in days of old, and it still had not ceased to amaze him.
But why was God waiting so long about the barn fires? Did He allow them to continue because of the tzvie-drocht (dissension)—the backbiting, the disharmony, the hateful attitudes? Have mercy on us, David begged as he stepped out of the milk house into the blinding light of the morning sun.
Seated at the breakfast table, smelling of the strong lava soap he’d used to wash his hands and face, David bowed his head. His wife and children followed suit as they clasped hands in their laps and thanked God for the good food spread on the table, then raised their heads and promptly began passing dishes and platters.
Levi was cold. He announced in grumpy tones that no one had fer-sarked the fire, and his toast was burnt.
“Just a little dark, Levi,” Mam said gently around a mouthful of sausage and egg.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Malinda,” he snapped.
Priscilla burst out laughing, spraying orange juice across her plate. She choked, coughed, covered her mouth with her hand, and went to the sink for a paper towel.
David Beiler smiled broadly, caught Sarah’s eye, and winked. Sarah smiled widely, winked back.
Suzie said, “Don’t boss Mam, Levi.”
“Mam should swallow first, then talk. That’s what she says to me.”
Suzie looked at Levi without smiling, and he returned her look steadily, unblinking, before saying, “Did you hear what I said?”
Suzie nodded, and Levi tucked into his eggs and sausage, stopping only to tell Mam the toast was so burnt there were little black things smeared in the butter, and he didn’t like that. She should be more careful, making toast.
Dat told Levi it would be a great idea for him to make toast. He could pull his chair over to the gas stove, put the homemade bread on the broiler, and keep checking it until it was just the right shade of brown, then turn the oven off and remove it.
Levi’s eyes turned bright and cunning, and he saw the opportunity to show off his ability as a helper in the kitchen, latching onto the idea like a pit bull, never letting go. All day long, he begged Mam for the opportunity to make toast until she relented, and he ate perfect toast for lunch, as a snack, and for supper.
While Levi was either making toast, thinking about it, or eating it, Sarah was fighting her own private battle at school. Her courage fled completely when Hannah Stoltzfus brought her sister to visit the school, sitting in the back of the classroom, two sentries of disapproval, every bit as formidable as hungry vultures. Why had they come?
Sarah’s hand shook as she called first grade to arithmetic class, attempting to hide the fact that she’d noticed anything amiss.
At recess, Hannah fluttered up to Sarah’s desk, her face flushed, her sister firmly in tow. The color in her face was high, her eyes popping, as if her high blood pressure was actually pushing on her eyes, shoving them up against her glasses, which were spattered with grease.
Her old sweater was torn at the seam on one shoulder, and white lint clung to the front like dandruff. Her stockings sagged over her large, black Sketchers, so inappropriate for a woman her age, but Hannah’s choice for comfort.
“Sarah! My, oh. I’m surprised how well you teach.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said coolly.
Her sister nodded her head in agreement, all her chins wobbling as she did so.
As Hannah leaned close, Sarah was subjected to a decided odor of something fried emanating from her sweater that had likely hung from a hook in her kesslehaus for years without being washed.
Mam did the same thing with her everyday sweater, that ratty old black thing that served a multitude of purposes, but Sarah often grabbed it and threw it in the washer with the last load of denim trousers.
“Did you hear about Matthew’s wife?”
Just for a moment, Sarah steadied herself by placing her hands on her desk, before raising her eyebrows in question.
“Her name, you know, is Hephzibah, just like that Bible woman. Sarah, she’s such a good person. I feel as if Matthew has been rewarded for his life-changing conversion.
“Anyway, she is sick. She’s unfashtendich grunk (very sick). Matthew calls every day. They are in the hospital, and they can’t really find the cause of her fever. It just doesn’t go away.”
“Malaria?” Sarah asked.
“What do you know about that disease?” Hannah asked abruptly.
“Not much. I just know it’s a common disease in tropical climates, a mosquito-borne illness.”
“Are you telephoning Matthew?” The question was sharp, bitter, an arrow tipped with the poison of suspicion.
“Of course not.”
Hannah’s sister’s eyes widened, and she drew back as if to gain a better perspective
to watch this interesting exchange.
“Well, don’t. He’s married now, and I know it’s very hard for you to give up. It always was. But you’ll be alright, in time. But just don’t call Matthew. It wouldn’t be right.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Joe push little Ben into the corner of the horse shed, heard the little boy’s terrified howls from inside the sturdy walls of the schoolhouse, and quickly asked to be excused.
She met a shaking little second grader, blood pouring from a nasty gash on his forehead, his eyes showing the pain and fear of having collided with a sharp metal corner, his nose and eyes running.
Herding him into the cloakroom, she moistened a clean paper towel and held it firmly to the wound and sat him on a folding chair as she examined the cut.
It was deep but not very long. She felt sure a firmly applied butterfly bandage and some B and W salve would begin the healing process just fine.
Hannah, however, insisted he be taken to a doctor. She knew Ben’s parents. She’d take him home, and his mother would want to take him. Why, that gash would leave an awful scar.
So she bundled up poor frightened Ben and trundled him out the door, clucking and going on all the while, her sister exclaiming and waving her hands, leaving Sarah with a discipline problem, a sour stomach, and a desperate need to run after Hannah and tell her to go home and stay out of her life, out of her business. And would she please never ever mention her son Matthew’s name to her again?
Courage eluded her the remainder of the day, driven away by Joe’s loud sneers, his swaggering shoulders, his demeanor challenging Sarah to try and do something about everything she’d seen.
He knew. He knew she’d seen him eating pretzels in class and pushing Ben on the playground. But her mind reeled from Hannah’s visit, her senseless accusation. It robbed her of the ability to confront Joe.
By the time the afternoon arrived, Joe had tried her patience to the limit, laughing, whispering, flirting with Rosanna in an unthinkably bold manner. When Sarah finished her third-grade English class, she said “Joe Beiler!” very firmly and very, very loudly.
He jumped up, snickering.
“You need to stay in for recess, so we can talk.”
A deathly silence folded itself over the classroom, the clock’s ticking suddenly magnified.
They had never heard their teacher speak in such a terrible voice.
When the pupils were excused for last recess, Sarah was actually surprised when Joe remained seated, as she had been prepared to watch him openly disobey and follow the others out the door.
Seated, but slouched as low as possible, he fiddled with his ruler, scraping it across his desk with a grating sound that jangled Sarah’s already harried resolve.
“Joe, you know you’ve been doing crazy things all day just to try my patience. What is up with eating those pretzels in class?”
He shrugged, became sullen, his eyes hooded.
“May I have an answer, please?”
“I didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Surely you had time for a bowl of cereal.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you push Ben?”
“He made me mad.”
“How? Joe, he’s only seven years old.”
“He’s a pest.”
“Not Ben. He’s afraid of everything.”
Suddenly, Joe sat up straight, his brown eyes flashing dark fire, and he burst out, his adolescent voice breaking into unmanly squeaks. “You sound exactly like my mam. ‘Shut up, shut up,’ she says. ‘They’re little. They’re only three or four.’ She hates me. You know why I ate pretzels? I had to finish hanging out the wash because she was fighting with my dat. So there.”
Ashamed, he turned his face away.
Sarah was speechless. She had never known a mother who would tell her son to shut up. Or argue so forcefully she couldn’t finish the laundry. And get her growing son no breakfast?
For a long moment, she watched Joe, saw the bad skin, the acne engraved in his quivering cheek. She looked into the eyes that appeared rebellious, brash, sneering, curtains of dark brown hiding pain and a ceaseless yearning for love, patience, and understanding from two parents who were blind to their son’s needs.
Sarah knew there were nine children in the Beiler family. Joe was the oldest at 13.
Still, he could have eaten the pretzels on his way to school.
“Joe, I’ll tell you what.”
Sarah sat in the adjoining desk and made him meet her gaze.
“Don’t do it again, okay? And try and be careful on the playground. Ben was hurt pretty badly. And I guess we have to learn to get along if we’re going to be stuck in the same schoolhouse until May, right?”
Joe shrugged, shifted his brown eyes.
She spoke to him about flirting with Rosanna, saying they were much too young for such things and was rewarded by a dark, painful blush creeping over his face.
“No speeding ticket this time, young man, just a warning,” she said, touching his shoulder.
That day was a memorable one, a turning point.
Mam paged through her vast array of seed catalogs, clucked, licked her thumb, slurped the lukewarm tea by her side, cleared her throat, scratched her arm, and did just about everything else Sarah could imagine that could completely annoy her.
She was seated at the kitchen table, towers of workbooks beside her, steadfastly plodding her way through them. The lamp hissed, and the cold air swirled around her legs as the mean January blast rattled the spouting at the corner of the house.
Priscilla was curled up on the sofa, reading, and Suzie looked as if she’d fallen asleep at the opposite end, a soft, navy blue throw tucked securely over her shoulders.
Levi was in the shower and had been for the past fifteen minutes, singing a loud, off-key rendition of “Silent Night,” a fragment of the old song lodging somewhere in his brain, a leftover from the holidays.
Dat was stretched out on the recliner, but the only thing Sarah could see was an open newspaper, the tips of his fingers, his legs, and stocking feet.
It was almost nine o’clock.
Sarah yawned, threw down her pen, shivered, and said loudly, “Priscilla, would you consider helping me check my books?”
Reluctantly, Priscilla lowered her book, eyed Sarah and the stack of books, and prepared to get off the couch. “I can, I guess.”
Mam mused out loud. “I think I’m going to try a different kind of pea this year. Sam King sei Arie said Green Arrows are the best, but I disagree. And instead of zinnias, I’m going to plant hardy salvia. I’ll start the seeds on the porch.”
The porch was Levi’s room. It was already decked out with Mam’s geraniums, dropping brown leaves all over the shelves, tedious to clean around. All the porch needed was dozens of tiny, square pots full of soil and minuscule seeds, waiting to be knocked over by large bumbling Levi, muttering to himself in the dark of night.
When they heard a loud knock on the door, it surprised all of them, including Dat, who lowered his paper, raising his eyebrows.
“This time of night?” he asked, to no one in particular, then pushed back the footrest, got up, and walked to the front door, laying the folded newspaper on the table beside Sarah’s stack of books.
When he opened the door, a whoosh of icy air was unleashed into the room, and Sarah drew her feet under the chair.
Sarah didn’t recognize any of the three Amish men, all dressed in long, woolen overcoats and black felt hats, heavy boots on their feet, their faces somber, mouths pinched in grim lines.
The family knew without being told to exit the room, except for Mam, who would be invited to listen if she desired.
The girls shivered their way through their showers, emerged steaming, and leaped into their cold beds, wearing soft socks and long flannel pajamas, homemade pieced comforters piled high on top of their blankets.
It was seriously co
ld at zero degrees with a brisk wind. All she remembered before falling asleep was the low murmur of voices, never changing, never stopping, a ceaselessly moving creek, a stream of opinions. She could gauge the nature of the visit by the looks on her parents’ faces in the morning.
Dat was quiet while they milked, came in late for breakfast, his face inscrutable, nodding briskly at Levi instead of giving his usual hearty “Good morning.” He picked at his food until he suddenly laid down his fork, looked around, and asked if anyone had overheard the conversation the night before.
Mam kept her face lowered. The girls shook their heads.
Levi stopped chewing, watched Dat’s face.
“Except you, Levi?”
“Well, Davey Beila!”
Clearly ashamed, he turned his attention to his plate.
Levi had been stuck in the bathroom without his pajama pants, the path to his bedroom a wide expanse in full view of the visitors. Levi became more undecided and upset by the minute, brushing his teeth over and over, combing his hair, stalling for time, till he finally gathered enough courage to call Dat and, in typical Levi fashion, announced very clearly that he was stuck in the bathroom without his pants.
“Hop ken hussa kott (I had no pants)!” he said now, justifying having had to ask Dat to leave the table, where his serious visitors were left trying to look as sour as they had before.
Dat chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “You could have gone to your room, Levi.”
Levi shook his head vehemently, “Oh nay. Hop rotey knee (Oh no. I have red knees).”
Everyone laughted. Suzie giggled and snorted, rapping her spoon on the table. Levi looked around appreciatively, glad he could make his whole family laugh, especially on a cold morning like this.
Dat continued telling his family about the visit from the three men. Melvin had spoken to the local police, asking for night patrol between Bird-in-Hand and Enos Miller’s in Georgetown. This had been picked up by the media, somehow, and became instantly blown out of proportion, followed by far-out assumptions and half-truths. A Philadelphia newspaper had run an article called “Non-resistant?” with Melvin’s picture and his words in bold, black print.