Hester Takes Charge

by Byler, Linda;

  Noah nodded.

  They rode side by side, her shoulder jostling against his sturdy arm, both thinking their own thoughts about the sadness that was Levi Buehler’s life, as well as Martha’s slide into unreality, caused by something so mysterious even doctors could not begin to figure it out.

  “Perhaps someday we’ll understand diseases better. Or how our brains work,” Noah said quietly.

  They had to duck their heads to get past the low hanging branches that hung over Levi’s drive. When they arrived at the buildings, Hester was surprised to see that things were in order—well-kept doghouses, repaired fences, the garden plowed, harrowed, and planted.

  The baying of a dozen hounds brought Hester’s hands to her ears, a pained expression on her face. Noah reined in the horse, then climbed off the buggy amid the milling of the dogs, each one wagging its tail, a friendly gesture in spite of the baying.

  Levi and Bappie stood by the fence uncertainly, facing this unfortunate nightmare head on, as was Bappie’s way.

  More buggies clattered in, men throwing the reins, their faces grim.

  Bappie stood with Levi as Hester turned to Noah. “I’ll go inside, do what I can. I won’t be much good searching with the men. It would be unseemly.”

  Noah’s eyes were kind as he found hers.

  “Of course. I’ll go.”

  He walked off as she turned to enter the front porch. More women stepped down from the buggies that kept arriving.

  Enos Troyer’s wife, Mamie, was crying copiously. Great tears slid down her cheeks, lining the folds around her mouth. She held a fresh handkerchief at her nose, which had already swelled to a mammoth size.

  “Oh, mein Gott. Bitte dich, bitte dich,” she moaned over and over, as she reached out to shake Hester’s hand firmly. “Vie bisht, meine liebchen?” she choked, which brought forth a fresh burst of tears and a wobbly sob.

  “I’m all right, Mamie. As well as we can be on such a sad occasion.”

  “Oh, ya, ya. Gewisslich, gewisslich.”

  William’s mother, Frances, was the next one to arrive, her tall, thin form propelled by her long feet moving her up to the porch without much of an effort, her walk a study in efficiency. “Mamie, Hester.”

  A curt nod, a slanted look, and she drew her shawl tightly about her scrawny form and pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. “You may as well come in. Chilly out there.”

  Bappie walked with Levi, calling and calling. When the men felt they had depleted that plan, they set the hounds on Martha’s scent.

  The men and dogs disappeared to the swollen waters of the Pequea Creek, where the animals ran constantly back and forth, milling about, whining, their wagging tails whipping with pent-up energy. But that was as far as they would go.

  Men and boys from the town took up the search—English, Irish, Lutherans, Catholics, barkeepers, livery men—it made no difference this afternoon, each one having the same goal—to find Levi Buehler’s wife.

  Henry Esh’s wife and daughter, Emma and Katie, brought a roast of beef. Frances brought a pound of butter and one of lard. Mamie, two dried apple pies. Ezra Zug’s Elam brought three loaves of freshly baked bread and dried mulberry jam.

  The hotel owner, the one who built that new structure on the corner of Queen Street, sent a pot of pork and beans and a pot of sauerkraut.

  Evening fell. The sun lost its springtime splendor as it slid close to the farmland and woods of Lancaster County, casting a shadowy gloom around Levi Buehler’s buildings.

  “Ach, du yay,” said Mamie. “Ess vort dunkle.”

  Around the circle, the farmers and their wives traded glances discreetly. Each person was afraid to say what the curtain of evening would bring. Or if they said aloud what they were thinking, it might come to pass.

  Bappie entered the kitchen, pale and shaken. She went to the hearth, held out her hands, then sank into the small armless rocking chair Hester had vacated. “It’s just so hopeless. I can’t imagine she could have gone far. I just can’t.”

  “How was she in the past few weeks?” Mamie asked.

  Bappie shook her head without speaking.

  So they stood, this small knot of Amish women finding comfort in the fact that they were together. Dressed alike in almost every detail, their faces grim with the sense of awaiting disaster, they still believed there was reason to hope, as Mamie said.

  The fire burned low, and the light in the windows faded from a sunset of orange and yellow to a dull twilight. Shadows climbed the log walls of Levi Buehler’s house as the women moved about dully, speaking in quiet tones, as if any ordinary conversation would be unholy at a time when they all whispered prayers for Martha’s deliverance.

  When Levi’s brother Amos’s wife, Rachel, Martha’s sister-in-law, came through the softly opened door, she shook hands solemnly, graciously, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

  “Bappie.” Rachel greeted her with emotion, knowing she had been the one who helped Martha most. Bappie bestowed kindness in her gruff, forthright manner, but she delivered kindness nevertheless. For Bappie took the time to be with her when others turned away or lost patience with her declining health.

  As the night wore on, the woman prepared a schtick, some simple, handheld food to tide the men over until the morning. Many of them went home to their wives, while a few lit blazing torches and continued the search. Now and then they entered the house exhausted, wet, and puzzled, drained by the tension of not knowing, of wondering that was almost too much to bear.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day, almost two miles away from the Buehler homestead, a group of men from town came upon the body of Martha Buehler, carried downstream by the swollen current and caught in a wide eddy beneath the roots of a large sycamore tree. They were ordinary laborers who offered their assistance from the goodness of their hearts and because of their respect for the “black hats.”

  It was a miracle she had been found, the white of her nightgown the color of the sycamore’s bark. God had shown those men where poor Martha had been taken.

  When Levi Buehler met the men carrying the form of his ailing wife—when he knew there was no hope—he placed his hands on either side of her poor swollen face and lowered his head. Gentle tears rained down his unshaven cheeks and into his straggly beard.

  Each one of the men turned away, their shoulders shaking. Then they laid her gently on the tender green grass where the April sun had warmed it after the rain. They stood, their hats in their work-roughened hands, their heads bowed, as they gave their respects to Levi Buehler and his deceased wife, may she rest in peace.

  One of the Irish Catholics from the livery stable crossed himself, while the buggy driver rumpled his hat and whispered his prayer, “Lawd have muhcy.” The Lutherans and the Mennonites, the Dunkards and the Baptists, all the groups were united as one in that moment.

  Faced with the way of all humankind—the finality of death—every doctrine and disagreement fell away, leaving everyone in awe of mortality. Love sighed in the April afternoon, from the west breezes to the east, and the people stood united in sympathy and in death.

  The women up at the house received the news in disbelief, then each stood alone in varying degrees of mourning. Mamie cried, giving herself up to great heaving sobs, with a good supply of white handkerchiefs to soak up her grief. For hadn’t that poor Levi suffered enough? Why, the poor man already had an awful rough row to hoe, and now this.

  Hester stood by the fireplace, her eyes wide with the tears that would not come easily, not here where the other women would see. She had not known Martha well, only hearing some things from Bappie. She had often longed for the chance to treat her with some of the herbs that may have helped, and yet, she had no way of knowing what caused Martha’s mind to worsen. Some things were beyond knowing, and that was that.

  In her black dress Hester was more beautiful than Noah had ever seen her. He tried hard to remain in the background and never glance in her direction. Yet he was always aware o
f exactly where she was.

  Many visiting ministers came. Many relatives from Berks County traveled as swiftly as their wagons and horses could bring them. Some chose not to make the trek, sending their sympathy in letters that arrived a few weeks later.

  Noah helped care for the horses with the other young men, although there were those who asked why that young man was even in attendance. Wasn’t he a Zug from Berks County? Wasn’t he the one who ran off and fought in the war? Well, he’s dressed Amish enough, some said. Others watched him with suspicious eyes, saying he walked like a grosfeelicha soldier and shouldn’t be here.

  Dan Stoltzfus, his employer, said he was as good as any of the rest of them. “Let him alone. He’s not hurting anyone.” It was quite a speech for Dan, the man of few words, but it shut them up properly.

  The sermon was preached by Ben Kauffman, a brother to Martha. Hester sat on the hard wooden bench, her feet on the fresh, yellow straw that had been spread on the barn floor, her head bowed as the loud chants of the minister settled in her heart.

  Death was so real at a funeral. The end of time had come for the individual who lay before them. God had cut the golden thread of Martha’s life, and now her bewildered suffering was over. No one would ever know what had happened that fateful evening. Naturally, everyone thought of suicide, the desolation of her poor brain finally taking its toll, but no one knew so no one judged. Let Levi have the benefit of the doubt. He had been so good to her through all the years of her declining health. And so it was not spoken of.

  The minister preached an gute hoffning, the hope that her soul would be taken to heaven, while tall, gentle Levi bowed his head and nodded it slightly, the hope in his heart in tune with Ben Kauffman’s.

  The funeral reminded Hester of Kate’s, a blur in her memory, the heartbreak almost too much to bear. Even then she had depended on Noah’s companionship to get her through the days that followed.

  It was Noah who carried the wood, dumping it carefully into the wood box without creating dust or unnecessary splinters on the floor. He spent hours at the chopping block, ensuring that he cut pieces of wood that were not too long or chunky to fit through the round lid of the cookstove.

  They talked of Kate’s death. At 14 years of age, Hester knew the finality, the separation of body and soul. She believed in heaven, in God and his son, Jesus Christ, who saved believers by his suffering on the cross. Heilandes blut, the Savior’s blood. And so she could find snatches of joy in the midst of the dark fog of grief, thinking of Kate in heaven with the angels, and of Rebecca, the wee child who died of the dreaded lung fever.

  Hester’s faith had been like a fledgling sparrow, fed by Kate’s love, her kind ways, and her care. After her death, Hester was forced to fly on her own. But now, sitting here in this sad service for Martha, she knew Noah had flown beside her in spirit, shielding her from the worst blows, the responsibilities that seemed too heavy.

  He had protected her from Hans’s worst days when he lay around the house awash in his grief, unable to accept the fact that the pillar of his life lay beneath the soil in that lonely graveyard. When Hans would shout in frustration at the little ones, Noah would speak kindly to them, getting down on the floor to build a tower of blocks until the children’s tears turned into smiles of happiness.

  Hester lifted her head and looked around at the benches filled with Amish, her kinfolk, all dressed in the black of mourning. Her people. She was accepted by them as she lived among them, although not all was perfect. There would always be those who were stingy in spirit, giving little and judging harshly, who would never fully approve of sell Indian maedle.

  But with the Lenape, the people of her blood, would it be different? God-given natures were just that, given by God, and weren’t folks much the same? They all aspired to goodness in their own way, some much less than others, but who was to judge but God alone.

  A wave of gladness and contentment, an emotion she could hardly define, made her lower her head in gratitude and self-acceptance. Let it be so, Lord. Let me accept the kindness of these, my people. Let me accept myself for who I am. Guide me now that Noah is back in my life. If I need a shell to protect my heart, then help me to keep it in place.

  Hester stayed behind at the house with those women of the community who were not relatives or close friends of Martha’s. Friends and family joined the procession of carriages to the graveyard for the burial.

  She helped with the meal, setting the table with apple butter, bread and butter, kraut, pickles, and cheese, while other women prepared the potatoes and gravy. There was the usual running commentary about the merits of making the smoothest gravy.

  Old Suvilla Buehler shook her head, smiling in spite of herself, and beckoned to Hester with one crooked forefinger. “Komm mol.”

  Quickly Hester obeyed, holding a fistful of knives and forks. Bending low, she looking into Suvilla’s lined face, the wrinkles and deep crevices there speaking of years of labor, of sunshine and rain, drought, heat, winds, snowstorms, grief and joy, love and laughter, all etching the map of her countenance.

  “Hester, tell me. Did you ever hear the story of the Tower of Babel?”

  Hester nodded, smiling.

  Suvilla inclined her head toward the black knot of women, all talking at once by the cookstove.

  “Right there you have it. They’re all talking at the same time, and no one knows what the others are saying.”

  Hester laughed and lightly smacked the old arm with an affectionate pat of understanding, leaving old Suvilla with the light of shared humor in her eyes, her shoulders shaking with her own cleverness. Hester continued placing the knives and forks on the table, then looked back at Suvilla who gave her a wide grin, the gaps in her teeth a sign of the wisdom of her years.

  Hester went to stand at the cookstove, peering through the black-clad shoulders at the large kettle of bubbling broth.

  “What do you think, Hester?” asked Butter John sei Lena, a tall, thin woman who held the wooden spoon and was, therefore, the boss.

  “About what?”

  “Do you mix the schmutz with the flour? I know the chicken gravy is best that way, and I thought beef was, too. But they say not. They say beef is too greasy. But how else will you get the rich flavor? Huh?”

  Hester shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not good at making gravy. But when I do, I use the fat—chicken, beef, or pork.”

  Hannah Weaver broke in. “Well, I don’t. My man is fat enough without feeding him all that grease. Gravy is good without it. Save the grease to make soap.”

  Mamie Troyer inserted this put-down with all the ease of an axe: “We don’t all have fat men.”

  Hannah’s comeback was just right. “Well, with a little Schpeck, my man can work in winter, unlike your Ezra, who looks like a fencepost, his teeth chattering as he sits by the fire on cold days.”

  From the rocking chair, old Suvilla cackled her glee. “That’s right, appreciate your man. When he’s gone, you’ll miss him so hesslich.”

  Hannah shrugged her shoulders, and Mamie nodded, yes, yes. Lena went right ahead and mixed the beef schmutz with the flour and made the gravy her way, with all that rich flavor.

  Hannah and Mamie tasted it carefully, pursing their lips and blowing on the large spoon they had filled—they were hungry; it was past the noon hour—then nodded their heads in approval. “Sell is goot dunkas,” they both declared, handing the gravy-making prize to Lena, who lifted her chin and closed her eyes as she proudly accepted this verbal trophy.

  “Siss gute, gel?”

  Ah, yes, the gravy was good, they all agreed. This recipe should be written in a small book for future reference, they said, eliminating the need for constant bickering over the bubbling broth.

  Hester knew the funeral meal would be delicious, the way all big kettles of food cooked by many different hands were.

  The big pots of potatoes would be whipped by a few strong young men. Suddenly it dawned on Hester that Noah might offer. Wild-eyed, she g
lanced around the kitchen, looking to see if the women had put anyone to work. She hoped to watch him hang his hat on a hook and see his bright hair, knowing he was here at this service with her. Ashamed of her thoughts and afraid of the longing, for that is what it was, she turned away, straightening a corner of the snowy white tablecloth. No one could see her thoughts.

  She heard him, then, speaking to the women, his voice low and well modulated, as befitted a funeral service.

  She heard old Suvilla from the rocking chair. “Na, do, veya iss deya fremma?”

  No one seemed to know who Noah was. An awkward silence settled over the kitchen, the women at the stove without the answer Suvilla wanted.

  “Hester, who is the unbekannta?”

  There was nothing to do, but turn, face the women, and tell them it was Noah Zug from Berks County.

  Noah was busy sitting astride the bench, a large pot of steaming potatoes shielding his vision. Across from him, Levi’s Jessie had taken up the second potato masher with his own large kettle of cooking potatoes.

  Mamie Troyer stood, fists resting on her hips, a dish towel clutched in one hand, watching Noah with a light of curiosity that would only result in a loudly spoken question: “Noah Zug. Who is your father?”

  “Hans. Hans Zug.”

  “That Hans. Married the second time to Annie Troyer?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The cogs on the wheel of Mamie’s quick thinking caught, and she blurted out in that resonant voice that carried so well: “Well then, you must know our Hester. Wasn’t she au-gnomma by that Hans and his first wife? What was her name?”

  “Catherine. Kate,” Noah supplied.

  “Yes, yes. That’s right. So you are Hester’s brother. Or something.”

  The “or something” brought quick smiles, but everyone saw how flushed Hester was, so they righted their smiles into deference, displaying the reverence that befitted this solemn occasion, and said no more.

  Hannah added the butter and salt, while Mamie Troyer poured the hot milk from the dipper, viewing Noah’s blond hair unashamedly and making a few lilting remarks. For here was a schoena yunga, and it didn’t hurt to get a smile from him, or at least some recognition.