He glanced at his cell phone and said we should get going to the library because the film would be starting in ten minutes.
“Ach, I hope we can get a good seat.”
Zed laughed as he opened the door for us to step back outside. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“No? Won’t everyone come?”
“You mean all the students?”
“Ya.”
“On the whole campus?”
I nodded.
“Probably not,” he said, sweetly. “There are lots of other things to do. And they wouldn’t all fit in the room anyway.”
When we reached the library, I followed him past shelves and shelves of books, far more than the library back home. “You get to work here?” I asked.
He nodded.
I had been impressed with the bookstore, but it paled in comparison to the library. Here students sat at tables at the ends of the rows, some in groups of two and three, others alone. One girl sat knitting, a book propped up before her on the desk. I smiled at her, but she remained focused on both projects.
When we reached the end of the aisle, we turned into a hallway with a row of doors. Zed opened the last one and we stepped inside.
To my surprise, almost no one was in there, just five students, plus a man at the front of the room, wearing a tie.
I was hoping to slip in unnoticed, but as soon as he saw us his face lit up.
“Welcome,” he said warmly, coming toward us, his hand extended.
Zed introduced the man as his History in Film professor, Dr. Stutzman, and then me as his friend Izzy Mueller from back home.
“Lancaster County, then?” the professor asked.
“Ya. I’m here in Indiana for a few weeks, staying with Zed’s sister.”
“Well, Izzy, I’m pleased to have you join us today.”
“Danke.”
He turned to go, paused, and turned back. “There’s a Q and A after the film,” he said to me, “so I hope you’ll stick around and field any inquiries that are beyond my expertise.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I nodded and smiled just the same. Once Zed and I were sitting down, I asked in a whisper what I had just agreed to, and he explained that because the film was about the Amish, the professor was hoping I might answer any questions afterward he might not be able to.
“Oh,” I whispered, but Zed didn’t respond. He was looking over at a small group of students who were just filing into the room.
I glanced their way and was disappointed to see that that Shelly person was one of them. She gave Zed a wave—a really friendly wave—but then as soon as he waved back and turned his attention elsewhere, she focused her gaze on me. Her eyes narrowed, and she shot such an angry scowl my way that I practically jumped. Had I done something wrong? Or was she just jealous that the most handsome man on campus was with me and not her?
She and her friends sat in the rear, a few rows behind us, so I turned toward the front and tried to ignore her. I wished they had been here first so we could have sat behind them instead. I could feel her gaze burning a hole in my back.
A few more students trickled in, some of whom were friends of Zed. He introduced a dark-haired young woman with a beautiful complexion to me, adding that she was from Belize.
Soon it was time to start, and Dr. Stutzman quieted everyone down with his welcome. He gave a brief introduction to the film, explaining that it had been made about eight years ago by a group of seniors in his Digital Media Production class.
When he was finished speaking, he walked over to a table and pressed a few buttons on a computer, someone else got the lights, and the film began.
I drew in a deep breath at the brightness on the screen, startled by the intensity of the images, not to mention the size.
Music began to play and then a beautiful landscape of rolling hills filled the screen. That faded into a close-up of a valley with a stream running through it.
A voice began to narrate, telling the story of the beginnings of the Anabaptists in Switzerland in the early part of the 1500s. The facts were familiar to me, of course, but I enjoyed hearing them just the same.
Soon the subject moved to the persecution of the early Anabaptists and how thousands were tortured and killed. One gruesome image after another began to appear on the screen, and I could hear several people in the audience gasp. But I recognized every one of the drawings as having come from the Martyrs Mirror, a book that was a standard in every Amish home I knew.
Looking at the screen, I remembered the sermon on Sunday about God seeing us through our suffering. The thought was comforting.
Actual video was used, probably taken in modern-day Switzerland, and also illustrations and photos. The film continued through the history of our people as they practiced nonresistance and then dispersed throughout Europe, seeking asylum. The narrator explained the differences between the Mennonites, named after the early Anabaptist leader Menno Simons, which came first, and the other group that evolved from that, the Amish, named after Jacob Amman. The film continued, covering the next forty or so years until the Amish began immigrating to northern America.
“Thus a new chapter began in their quest for freedom,” the narrator said, winding down for the conclusion. “Leaving the old world behind, the Plain people found a country where religious tolerance existed.”
That cut to a video of what was supposed to be early Anabaptist immigrants walking off a ship and into the new world. They seemed weary but relieved, as if they had finally reached the place where they belonged.
The camera panned up to the blue sky, and over that was a quote:
“No people can be truly happy…if abridged of the Freedom of their Conscience as to their Religious Profession and Worship.”
William Penn
Pennsylvania Charter of Liberties, 1701
That faded out into black and then the credits began to roll. Once they were done and the music and video had stopped, someone turned on the lights and Dr. Stutzman asked if anyone had any questions.
Zed raised his hand. “What kind of cameras were used?”
The professor thought for a moment. “Primarily a Panasonic HD, from what I recall. Probably the DVC pro P2.”
Zed nodded as if he understood what the man was saying. “And the shots of Switzerland? Were those made specifically for this documentary?”
The teacher smiled. “Well, I’d like to say our budget allowed for filming jaunts to Zurich, but I’m afraid that’s not the case. All the international scenes came from stock video footage.”
“How about the ending, at the ship?” another student asked. “That wasn’t stock, was it?”
“No. We filmed that up near Chicago at a tall ships festival, using students from the drama department.”
“No offense,” someone else said, “but that particular ship wasn’t historically accurate for the time period.”
The professor held up both hands, as if in surrender, and smiled. “You got me there. We did the best we could with what we had.”
“Who made the costumes?” I asked. The question flew from my mouth before I could stop it.
“That was a joint effort between the art department and a theater special projects seminar.”
I nodded but was embarrassed when no one else followed that up with another question.
“How about something less technical?” the professor urged, his expression good natured as his eyes scanned the audience. “Something about the Amish, perhaps?”
“Yeah, why don’t they go home?” a female voice said from the back, just loudly enough for me to hear.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Stutzman asked, placing a hand at his ear. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” the voice said, much louder this time, and then the whole group of girls burst into giggles.
I glanced at Zed and saw that the tips of his ears were burning bright red. Looking straight ahead, he raised his hand and rattled off something quickly, just to diffuse the mom
ent. “I find it ironic that the persecuted Anabaptists found safety in America, only to witness the persecution of the Native Americans who lived around them.”
“Nonresistant groups offered assistance to the Native Americans,” Dr. Stutzman replied. “Look at William Penn.”
“What about his sons?” Zed countered.
I remembered what I’d read thus far about that time period, how the land set aside for the Indians had dwindled significantly under the management of Penn’s heirs.
“And how about the Plain people who didn’t protect the peace-loving Native Americans during the Indian Wars?”
“You’re right. I don’t want to generalize, but that failing has been recognized,” the professor said. “In fact, a couple of years ago a group of Mennonites, Quakers, and Presbyterians in Lancaster County apologized to Native Americans, including a descendant of one of the Conestoga Indian chiefs, for stealing Indian land and breaking official treaties.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard about that.” Zed took out his phone and opened up an app. No longer was he trying to draw attention away from smarmy comments but was instead fully engrossed in the conversation. “I’ll have to look into it more. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Things were quiet for a moment, and then the professor added, “So on that happy note…” He held out his arms and smiled at the audience. “Class dismissed.”
On the way back to the Home Place, Zed seemed agitated but quiet. I was so embarrassed by what had happened that I didn’t even know what to say. Finally, to fill the awkward silence, I began gushing about how much I enjoyed the film.
“Give me a break, Iz,” he finally said, startling me with the vehemence of his words. “Why do people bother to make a film if they’re not going to at least try to get it right?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “What do you mean?”
“Please! The ship? The costumes? The twenty-first-century skyscrapers you could see off in the distance if you really looked?”
I blinked, realizing he wasn’t all worked up about Shelly’s comment. He was just irritated at the movie.
“I realize it was a student project, and the teacher said there wasn’t much of a budget, but you know what? I had zero budget for Carving of a Legacy, and look what we managed to accomplish with that.”
I nodded. He was right. In Zed’s case, where there was a will, there was a way. Then again, he was a genius and a perfectionist when it came to his films.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to get all riled up. I just have this thing about….mediocrity. Settling. What were Dr. Stutzman’s words? ‘We did the best we could with what we had’? Good grief, if we all felt that way, then all we’d be producing is a bunch of junk.”
“Isn’t that his right, though?” I pressed. “Just as it’s your right to be so picky when it comes to your own movies?”
He brushed his bangs from his forehead and exhaled slowly. “Maybe. But the problem is that one bad film, one poorly produced piece of schlock like that, can make us all look bad.”
I didn’t reply, unsure of what to say. Mostly, I was just embarrassed at my inexperience, that I didn’t even know it was schlock.
Turning my head toward the window, I watched fields of corn stubble poking through the slush and leftover snow flash by as the afternoon light waned.
“Izzy, I…” His voice softened and broke off. I looked back at him, but he kept his gaze on the road, his arm muscles visibly tensing beneath the fabric of his sleeves. “I know I shouldn’t be this worked up. It’s not just the stupid movie. It’s…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “It’s what Shelly said. I feel really bad about that. I have no idea what got into her, but I promise you, I’m going to have a word with her later.”
“Please don’t. Please. That’ll only make it worse.” Not to mention, that would mean the two of them spending more time together, time hashing out whatever had led her to say such a mean thing in the first place.
Since leaving the film, I had been trying to forget her words—to forgive her for them, even—but the memory still hovered at the back of my mind like an angry hornet.
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not okay,” Zed said, cutting me off. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel, as if to place it over my own, but then he seemed to think better of it and clutched the wheel again. I pretended not to notice.
“Well, I don’t want you to do anything about it, Zed, but I do appreciate your saying that.”
We drove in silence for a while. I willed him to lift his hand again, to reach over and pull mine close, but that didn’t happen. I decided to change the subject.
“It’s a shame you have to work tonight. Maybe you can come over after work tomorrow?”
“Doubt it. I have a lot of studying I need to do.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.” Zed took his eyes off the road for a moment and smiled at me, apparently trying to soften his response.
“I understand,” I answered, keeping my voice light. “It’s just that I’ll be heading home next week, and I hoped to see you as much as possible before I go.”
“Home? Already?” He gripped the steering wheel harder than before.
“Ya. Rosalee is right on schedule with her rehab. The physical therapist wants her using the walker as much as possible. At first I thought it was too soon, but she’s been doing great. Ella told me just this morning that I’d be free to go in a few days, and because Thanksgiving is next Thursday, they were thinking I could take the bus Tuesday, which will get me home on Wednesday in time to help Mamm with the cooking and cleaning.”
“That’s right.” Zed ran his free hand through his hair. “Thanksgiving’s next week. Man. Time flies.”
“Ya.” I laughed.
He smiled, a little sheepishly.
“You’re coming home too, aren’t you?” I asked. He looked confused, so I added, “Real home. Lancaster County, I mean.”
“Oh.”
“Because I was thinking, if you are, maybe I won’t have to ride the bus.” I shifted toward him. So much for waiting on him to come up with the idea. “I could ride with you instead. It would make the trip easier for both of us.”
He rested an arm on the door handle. “The thing is, I don’t think I can afford the gas.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well…I can split it with you. Or even put what my bus ticket would have cost toward the trip.”
He shook his head. “It’s not just that. My car keeps making that weird sound. I don’t know what I’ll do if it gives out before I can save up enough to get it fixed or buy another one.”
I sank back against the seat. I’d so looked forward to all that time with him in the car, not to mention having him around town for several days back home.
“Sorry,” he said again, his voice sympathetic.
“At least I’ll see you at Christmas. Right?”
“Definitely. I’ll be finished with finals by the middle of December. I’ll get home then no matter what, though I may have to leave my car at Ella’s and catch a ride with another student.”
I imagined him being with someone else for twelve hours—Shelly, for example. She probably owned a car, a really nice one that didn’t make funny noises. My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to know if she had a car or what kind. Nor did I want to know if she actually had designs on Zed, as I suspected. Why torment myself?
As he slowed to make the turn onto the lane, I felt even more uncertain about our future. At least we would always be friends. Then again, if he ended up marrying someone like Shelly, someone who would want to keep us away from each other, then at most I’d be part of his past. The thought made me angry.
The truth was, I didn’t want to be a fond memory or even a good friend. I wanted to be his wife, but with the way things were going, all I’d ever be was his old Amish buddy from back home. I shuddered at the thought.
“Cold?” Zed asked as he took the curve by the bakery.
&nbs
p; I shook my head, swallowing back my tears.
As he came to a stop at the house, he said, “I don’t have time to come in. I hope I’ll see you before you leave, but if not, have a great trip.”
I nodded, cringing at the thought of him bumping me on the shoulder with his fist as he’d done before.
He didn’t, thank goodness. I couldn’t have taken it right now, the ultimate buddy move.
“Don’t look so sad, Iz. We’ll see each other in December.”
“Ya. Danke, for everything.”
He grinned and I tried to smile back, fumbling for the door handle and then finally finding it.
“Bye,” we both said at the same time, although his sounded like his mind was already on the next thing, and mine sounded like a bird dying.
As soon as I got out of the car and closed the door, he backed it around and drove away. I watched until he took the curve by the bakery again, and then I trudged on up to the house, wishing it didn’t hurt so bad to love someone who obviously didn’t love me back.
SIXTEEN
Saturday morning Rosalee maneuvered around the house using the walker. After our noon meal, as she and I settled in the living room, she said, “I do believe that by the time Ella’s baby arrives, I’ll be able to do the cooking and dishes. Maybe even work in the bakery some.” That was a couple of months away. Three months was a good amount of time for her recovery, so she was right on schedule.
We’d both started on our handwork and were busily working away when Ella called out my name, a measure of alarm in her voice.
Rosalee and I exchanged a concerned glance, and then I jumped up to hurry to the kitchen. “Are you all right?” Saturdays were Ella’s busiest day of the week, and I knew she wouldn’t have left the bakery at this hour without good reason.
She stood in the mudroom, hanging up her cape. “It’s my grandmother, Frannie,” she said. “Mom called and said that Mammi is in the hospital. She’s had another stroke.”
“Oh, no!”
We heard Rosalee’s concerned voice from the living room, asking, “Ella? Izzy? Is everything all right?”
Ella and I went to join her.
“It’s Ella’s grandmother,” I said to Rosalee. “Frannie Lantz. She’s had a stroke.”
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