James waited under the spreading barren branches of an elm tree, breathing in and out with care and surveying the ground-floor exits.
A door opened. A woman came out, her arms filled with a basket of undetermined contents, and followed a path toward the corner of the building. It mattered not what she carried, only that she had left the door ajar. In a stealth moment, James found himself in a small pantry.
He stood still and listened for movement in the adjoining room, which he reasoned must be a kitchen, large enough to prepare food for hundreds of children and staff. Hearing nothing, he padded out of the pantry and across the kitchen. Voices came to him now. Children’s voices. One lilted above the others.
James had known that voice when it was nothing but the babble of a boppli. A half inch at a time, he pushed open the door that separated him from Gideon’s children—at least Gertie.
He almost did not recognize her. Gone was her prayer kapp. Rather than braids coiled against her head, her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. A pink ribbon at the top of her head matched the pink dress she wore with a splash of lace down the front.
The children’s voices settled as a woman at the front of the room clapped for their attention. Rows and rows of children. As his eyes adjusted to the reality of looking for Amish faces above English clothing, James spotted them one by one. Savilla and Tobias—with his hair trimmed in English fashion—and Seth Kaufman beside him. The Hershberger girls and their brother, Isaiah Borntrager’s children, the Bylers, the Masts. They were all there, but separated, each of them seated with other children their own age rather than with their siblings.
The woman explained the next day’s schedule. A Presbyterian minister would come in to hold a morning church service. Children assigned to set up and clear after meals should be prompt. In the afternoon, if the weather was fine, there might be organized outdoor games before the evening prayer meeting.
James settled his gaze again on Gertie, who sat at the end of a row. Her eyes began to wander, and she turned her head toward him. When her blue orbs widened, her lips also parted and she drew in breath as if to speak.
James put a finger to his lips. Gertie clamped her mouth closed. He stepped back into the kitchen, determined to find a way to get the children back. For now it was enough to see that they were unharmed—except for the silly clothes and hair arrangements.
“Who’s there?” a voice called. The weight of a box thumped against a butcher block table.
“It’s dark in here,” another voice said. “Turn on the light.”
“I can’t find the string to pull.”
James slithered back through the pantry.
CHAPTER 34
Hustling out the rear door, still ajar from his entrance, James plunged into the surrounding darkness. Most of his white shirt was covered by his black wool coat, one that Miriam had made for him only last year. For a few minutes he pressed himself up against the same tree that had sheltered him on arrival, waiting for his breathing to compose its rhythm enough that he would be able to find his way around the building without fearing collapse.
James could hear the words Miriam would speak to him if she were there. “Old man, what have you done now?”
By now he had missed his supper, but food was far from his mind. The pleading expression on Gertie’s face lingered in his mind. Would she have a chance to tell Savilla or Tobias she had seen James? He hoped so. He wanted Gideon’s children to know they were not abandoned.
“Gottes wille,” he muttered. “Lord, keep them safe.”
As soon as he got home, James would sketch what he had seen—the corners of the mammoth building, the doors opening in the back, the path to the large room where the children gathered. As soon as tomorrow’s Sabbath was over, James would find a way to get to Chardon to visit Gideon and the other men. And he would visit Percival Eggar in Seabury every day if he had to.
James prayed it would be God’s will for an obliging driver to happen by just as he arrived at the road. An even more gracious answer to his prayer would be a driver whose destination was Seabury and who could carry an unexpected passenger safely to his home. He took off his black jacket now, exposing his white shirt and hoping it made him more visible in the headlights of passing automobiles. Miriam would disapprove of his shivering in the night wind, but Miriam would disapprove of most of what James had done today.
Two cars passed without stopping. James began to walk in the general direction of home. If God did not send a ride, it would take him all night to get to the farm.
The lights of another automobile swung around a curve, accompanied by a particularly noisy engine. James waved one arm in a wide swath, expelling his breath again only once it was clear the driver was slowing. James paid no attention to the variations in English automobiles. He supposed this one was one of Mr. Ford’s inventions. A young man with a broad smile and wavy hair leaned across the seat to look out the window at James.
“Are you stranded?” the man asked.
“You might say,” James said. “Are you by any chance headed to Seabury?”
“I could be. Is that where you’re headed?”
“A farm near there.”
“Get in,” the man said, pushing the handle so the passenger door would open. “I’m Edwin.”
“James Lehman.” Grateful, James settled into his seat. He had been in Lindy’s car a time or two, but it still seemed an adventure to ride through the night behind a motor.
Edwin cocked his head as he put the car back into gear. “You’re one of those Amish.”
James slipped his arms back into his jacket and nodded. “How long do you guess it will take to get to Seabury?”
“Less than an hour,” Edwin said. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Of course not.” James could hardly deny conversation to God’s answer to his prayer.
Edwin accelerated. “What brings you so far from home at this hour?”
Ella had no students. She had returned to the schoolhouse on Monday long enough to put away what little there was of value and to make sure the windows and doors were closed securely. Each day winter howled a few degrees colder.
Monday. The children and the fathers had been gone five days. Households with older sons sent them around to be sure women with younger families had enough help with the animals, and each day the women seemed to find each other and congregate in another home.
Percival Eggar filed documents with Latin names at the courthouse in Chardon and assured the families that he had seen their men and they were fine. But the judicial process seemed to be in no hurry to come to the aid of a handful of rural farm families, and Mr. Eggar offered no estimation of when the case might come before a judge.
Leaving Rachel in the gentle care of Mrs. Glick, Ella took the buggy into Seabury to turn in her pile of library books, and because the slow ride to town would give her time to think about all that had transpired in the last few days.
Mrs. White, the cheery librarian, checked in Ella’s books. “Your bird book is back on the shelf, in case you’re looking for it again.”
“Thank you.” Ella was not much in the mood to contemplate what to read in her shrinking leisure hours. She was tempted to ask Mrs. White if the library had any books about the legal system.
“I have to say,” Mrs. White said, “I was surprised by that article in the newspaper, weren’t you?”
“Our people don’t read the newspaper,” Ella reminded the librarian.
“That’s what I thought,” Mrs. White said. “I was doubly surprised to find that one of you had given an interview to a reporter.”
Ella rubbed one tired eye. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“There’s a long article in the paper out of Cleveland.” Mrs. White pushed a neat stack of books to one side of the desk. “You should read it.”
“No, I couldn’t.” An interview? A Cleveland newspaper? Ella could not make sense of Mrs. White’s words.
“Follow me.” Mrs. White came
out from behind the desk and with short, clipped steps led the way to a section of the library Ella had never before explored. Two rows of racks had newspapers hanging over them. Mrs. White plucked up the one she wanted and swiftly opened to the page of interest.
AMISH CHILDREN VICTIMS OF NEGLECT, the headline said.
Ella gasped and took the newspaper into her own hands. “I don’t understand.”
Mrs. White pointed to a phrase in the first paragraph. “An exclusive interview with a Geauga County Amish man.”
“No,” Ella said. “We wouldn’t do that!” She scanned the article. Children kept out of school. Fathers stubbornly defy state laws. Illegal private school.
“Well, someone did.” Mrs. White flipped the paper to show Ella what lay below the fold.
Ella stared into the faces of her father and her fiancé, bearded and behind bars.
“I don’t know how a reporter got that picture on a Sunday,” Mrs. White said. “I guess he was determined to get the scoop for the Monday morning edition. Some people have no respect for the Sabbath.”
“Perhaps we need to pay Mr. Eggar a larger fee,” Isaiah Borntrager said.
“He’s doing all he can,” Gideon said. “He’s been to see us every day. We can’t blame him for how slowly the court system works.”
The six Amish men occupied two jail cells side by side. Gideon and Jed tended to pace the limited square footage, while Isaiah sprawled on a lower bunk in a prolonged sulk. On the other side of the wall, the restless shiftings and murmurs of John, Cristof, and Chester told a similar story from the other cell. A guard walked past them every hour or so, but in between they were free to lean against the bars of the jail cells and speak so all could hear.
“Five days,” Isaiah muttered.
“And we still don’t know what happens next,” Jed said. “Whatever happens to me, I want Rachel to have her son home.”
Percival Eggar had brought enough news for the men to know that no further harm had come to their families—no more children taken, no threats against wives left behind. But what of the children already removed from their homes? No matter what flowery language Mr. Eggar constructed about the safety of the Wayfarers Home for Children and the competency of the staff who served there, every father in the jail cells thought constantly of their children foundering in a sea of English expectations without even the comfort of coming home to their own farms and families at the end of the day.
“We should pray,” Gideon said.
“All I do is pray,” John Hershberger said from the other cell. “My every thought is prayer.”
“Together,” Gideon said. “We have already seen how prayer together, aloud, brings us encouragement. Let us not fall away now. Remember the faithfulness of the martyrs in our hymns and learn from their steadfastness in times of trial.”
Isaiah swung his feet off the bunk. “We’ve cowered long enough, depending on the English lawyer to free us. Only God can free us.”
The six men lined themselves up along the iron bars, hands hanging through the openings as if grasping for the freedom on the other side.
Gideon spoke aloud. “Lord God, You ordain our lives. You ordain our moments. We cleave to You in this our time of trial. Keep us free from the night of darkness of temptation and sin. Instead, lead us in the light of Your divine mercy. The psalmist tells us, ‘The Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.’ We depend on You to keep our steps upright and lead us into Your goodness and glory.”
John cleared his throat. “May Your merciful eyes be upon us even in this place where we cannot look on Your beauty in the land. Forgive us our weaknesses for the sake of Your dear Son. Turn darkness to light before our very eyes.”
Booted footfalls thudding against the hall floor pried Gideon’s eyes open and he put a hand on Isaiah’s arm.
“Praying again,” the guard said. “Doesn’t it occur to you that it might be God’s will for you simply to obey the law?”
Gideon said nothing, instead moving his eyes to Percival Eggar standing beside the deputy.
“If you would please,” Percival said.
The guard rattled a ring of keys. “I know. You want a confidential conversation with all of your clients in one room.” He unlocked both cells and herded the prisoners together in one cell. Once the attorney stepped in as well, the guard locked the cell and retreated from sight.
“I had hoped,” Percival said, “that the authorities simply wanted to make a point by detaining you through the weekend when the courts would be closed. I’m afraid the news I have today is not encouraging. They are prepared to jail you indefinitely, right up until trial.”
“When will that be?” Gideon asked.
“The dockets are full.” Percival shook his head. “Weeks. Months, perhaps. We’ll use the time to prepare our case.”
Jed separated from the group. “And if we lose the trial?”
“Let’s not jump to that,” Percival said. “We can make a strong case on the grounds of the free exercise of religion.”
“What are our wives supposed to do in the meantime?” Chester asked.
“I’ll try to arrange a visit,” Percival said. “And there are rules that will allow them to see the children.”
“What will it take to end all this?” Gideon slowly paced toward the rear wall of the cell.
Percival shrugged one shoulder. “Agree to put your children in the consolidated schools until the age of sixteen. And I’m sure there will be another fine.”
“No compromise?” Chester said. “No reasoning together?”
“I’m not giving up,” Percival said. “The question is how long you want to persist on the path to lasting justice for your people.”
Gray startled Margaret. She had stayed late in the school building on Monday, hearing other teachers close their classroom doors and fall into step with one another down the back stairs more than an hour ago. It was essential that lesson plans were clear and specific for the following day and all supplies arranged in an orderly fashion. When Margaret finally left the building, exiting through the front door so the woman who worked in the office would know the last teacher was gone, she did not expect to find Gray Truesdale waiting for her.
He leaned one shoulder against the brick of the building, straightening when he saw her come through the door.
“Mr. Truesdale,” Margaret said, reverting to the neutral cordiality of the early days of their acquaintance.
“May I speak to you?” Gray said.
“Of course.” Instantly, a lump formed in Margaret’s throat.
“I may have spoken harshly the last time we met,” he said. “And I missed sitting with you in church yesterday. I looked for you after the service.”
“I didn’t feel up to attending,” Margaret said.
“It’s your church, too,” Gray said. “I would never want you to stay away because you are angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” Margaret said. She ached with disappointment over his views, with grief for what might have been.
Gray ran his thumb and forefinger over the brim of the hat in his hand. “The preacher spoke about humility. Maybe I need to learn some.”
Optimism flickered, struggling against the harsh wind of the words they had spoken to each other.
“I’d like to come for pie on Thursday,” Gray said.
Margaret shifted her satchel to the other hand. “I have preserves made from the blackberries you brought me. It seems only right that you should help eat them.”
He offered that crooked smile Margaret found so difficult to resist.
The lump in her throat softened. She would make pie. It was a small town and they attended the same church. One last evening of pie might make it easier to find the necessary geniality for an amicable break.
If Margaret had told Gray what she intended to do the following day, she was certain he would have changed his mind about the pie.
/>
CHAPTER 35
Margaret pulled the car up close to the Hilty farmhouse and checked once again to be sure she had not left clutter on the seats. Living alone and driving alone most of the time cultivated a habit of leaving books and papers on the backseat as if it were an ordinary storage shelf in her bungalow. But today the seats had to be cleared. Today she needed space for six passengers. It would be tight, but Margaret was certain the Amish mothers would do whatever it took to see their children.
Rachel and Ella were waiting on the porch and descended the steps. Margaret scurried around the car to hold a door open for them.
“What about your class?” Ella asked once they were on their way.
“I arranged for a substitute teacher,” Margaret said. “It’s allowed under extenuating circumstances.”
“I’m surprised your principal would consider this extenuating circumstances,” Ella said.
“I said I had a personal matter that required immediate attention.” It was none of Mr. Tarkington’s business what Margaret did with her day. In four years of teaching at the Seabury school, Margaret had only availed herself of the services of a substitute on two other occasions, both involving abrupt illness. By now the substitute would be reviewing the clear and specific lesson plans Margaret had left. Her pupils would notice no difference in classroom routine.
“I don’t have the words to thank you for taking us.” Rachel was squeezed in between Ella and Margaret, leaving the backseat available for four more mothers.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Margaret said. “Where do we go next?”
“To the Glicks’,” Ella said. “Mrs. Hershberger is leaving her boppli there. The littlest Borntrager boy will stay with Mrs. King.”
Margaret nodded in satisfaction with the plan. Margaret had warned the mothers there would not be room in the car for their small children still at home and that she was uncertain whether young ones would be admitted at the Wayfarers Home. The Masts and Bylers did not have any children younger than those who had been removed.
Brightest and Best Page 24