Susan rubbed her hand across her eyes and then reached in her pocket for a handkerchief. She would find such a kind man here in the Englisha world. He had to be somewhere. A man who really believed in love, who didn’t say words without meaning them, who didn’t dream up promises while delivering nothing. Someone unlike Thomas, with all his flowery words that had meant nothing.
Just ahead of her appeared Laura’s bakery nestled on Main Street, its familiar windows beckoning. Susan dug into her pocket for the apartment key, her fingers finding nothing. Surely she hadn’t accidentally thrown it out when she used the handkerchief? Laura had a spare key, but that would require a long walk back to the concession stand.
Susan searched in her other pocket, her fingers digging deep. It was high time she purchased an Englisha purse like other women had. Perhaps then she wouldn’t lose her key. But carrying a purse would require walking around looking like…well, certainly not Amish. Yet it needed doing.
What is it about today, she wondered, that seems like a giant leap forward? Did the two Amish couples at the stand affect me so deeply? Apparently. Leaving home had been such a gigantic leap off a cliff that she’d thought once she’d landed and caught her breath, nothing else would be such a big deal. But perhaps that wasn’t true.
Now, though, she had to enter the apartment, and there was no key. There also was nothing to do but retrace her steps and look for it. Perhaps the crowd would be thinning by now. Perhaps the key had fallen along the sidewalk and would be lying in plain sight. Perhaps. She didn’t like the idea of relying on such chances as “perhaps.”
Susan walked back, taking her time, keeping her eyes sweeping back and forth on the sidewalk and street. It wouldn’t be dark for a while. Streetlights would come on then, but they weren’t as effective in searching for a key as was Da Hah’s sun. She came to the end of Main Street, paused, and glanced up Cookman Avenue. The crowd had not thinned as she’d hoped. Most likely a little, itty-bitty key would long ago have been cast out into the street by the shuffle of hundreds of shoes. Hoping it had somehow landed somewhere easily spotted seemed about as foolish as thinking Thomas wasn’t who he obviously was. Yet there was no choice but to go up Cookman toward Laura’s stand. If she didn’t find the key along the way, she’d have to ask Laura for her spare.
“You lost your key?” Laura would say, smiling in sympathy. But the smile wouldn’t help take away Susan’s feeling of stupidity over such a thing to do. At home on the farm there were less places to look for lost things, unless they were buried in the dirt. Even then they usually turned up. Perhaps because people on the farm cared more about lost things than city folk? Susan raised her eyes, glancing at the faces sweeping past her. There were so many people, most of them laughing, talking to each other, deep into their own worlds. Why would anyone care about a lost key?
Ahead of her the concrete steps rising to the landing where she had taken refuge came into focus. Could she have dropped the key up there? She hadn’t taken anything out of her pockets until later. Yet as she reached the top step, Susan saw the glitter of the late-afternoon sunlight reflecting off metal. The key lay there, balanced on the very edge of the step. She reached down for it and slipped it into her pocket, keeping her fingers wrapped around the cold metal for the walk home. There would be no more chances taken tonight with the key. Da Hah had come to her rescue this once, and one should not tempt Da Hah with a lost key twice in one day.
Finally, with the crowd behind her, she once again reached the bakery. A little door next to the baker’s side door opened onto the street. Sliding the key into the lock, she opened the door and picked up her mail that had been dropped through the slot to the floor inside. There were the usual flyers, a business-looking letter, and there on the bottom, an envelope with handwriting she recognized so well. Mamm had written again, and on a day like this. Well, it would make no difference. As much as it hurt Mamm and Daett, she was not going back. Time would surely heal all wounds, including her parents’ disappointment in her choice to leave the community.
The stairs to the apartment above the bakery were off to the side of the bakery itself. As she slowly made her way up the steps, the usual creaking that had always been comforting was, tonight, a painful reminder of the old farmhouse stairs at home.
A person didn’t simply pull up stakes, leaving a life of twenty-one years behind without the heart complaining. She knew that. It wouldn’t be human to not feel the loss, and she certainly was human. Thomas had proven that, even if he had accomplished nothing else.
At least she hadn’t been excommunicated. That would have been a right dandy mess to deal with. At twenty-one she should have been baptized, and so should have Thomas. His actions with Eunice now revealed what the rascal had been up to. All along Thomas must have carried his doubts about her. She had wanted to be baptized two years ago, but he said it wasn’t necessary, that they should wait until it was closer to their wedding date. Thomas had said one could be right with God without baptism.
Or maybe he had planned to join the Mennonites and not bothered to tell her before Eunice swept him off his feet. It had been “a moment of weakness,” he had called it, but she had known better. The boy had fallen in love with her best friend a few months after Eunice’s family moved into the community.
And she had been left like a cold potato for a hot one. Lovely, charming Eunice, who talked with her like they were sisters. Wonderful Eunice had dared steal Thomas’s heart. Eunice was better looking, certainly smarter, and wore those short dresses that barely made it past the Ordnung rules. Was that what drew Thomas to her? Well, she would show him what an Amish girl could do. Not that it made any difference to Thomas now, but it certainly felt good to show him anyway.
Smart and short dresses indeed! Susan jerked her handkerchief out of her pocket and the key was sent clattering across the apartment floor. She blew her nose. It was high time she went on adapting to Englisha ways. Crying over spilled milk accomplished nothing. Only action could heal the pain. Wasn’t that what the old people always said? Well, not exactly. They had said work did the job, but let them see what her fresh application of that saying proved to be. She would take up the Englisha life and be happy in this new world. Wasn’t this what the Englisha called “moving on” with life?
With a flourish Susan tossed the letters on the kitchen table, sliding them far enough across so they fell off the other side and onto the floor. She ignored them and, in the late-evening light that shone in through the double-front window, looked for a match. With a flick of her wrist, she struck the match under the drawer bottom, bringing it over to the kerosene lamp. The match sputtered, caught, and sent a wide flame across the wick.
Susan replaced the glass chimney and stared at the light. How foolish this is, she thought. I’m still lighting a kerosene lamp when I could be flicking an Englisha switch and flooding the apartment with light.
Susan carried the kerosene lamp to the kitchen table. Setting it down, the light flickered off the apartment walls. She wondered if Laura knew she never used the electric lights in the apartment? For some reason Susan just couldn’t make that small leap to electricity. But surely she would…soon.
She picked up the letter from home. She held it between her fingers, studying the well-formed, familiar handwriting. She glanced at the light switch on the wall. After a moment, she walked over to it. She steadied her hand and reached for the little white plastic toggle. It would be so easy…just a small push and it would be over. And yet she couldn’t.
“The next time I’ll use the Englisha light,” she whispered, her fingers motionless on the wall.
Long seconds she waited, listening to the dull roar of traffic on the street, before walking back to the kitchen table. Her letter was still grasped in her fingers. She buried her face in her arms and wept. The soft light of the kerosene lamp thrown out over the table played on her long hair.
CHAPTER THREE
Daylight still lingered outside of Menno and Anna Hostetler’s home; the last ra
ys of the setting sun painting great swatches of red across the western sky.
“It will be a gut day tomorrow for the fall plowing,” Menno said, looking out the kitchen window.
“For an old man like you, don’t you think it’s time to turn the farm over to the younger generation?” Anna asked, sliding the loaves of fresh bread out of the oven. “With the hopes of Susan’s wedding gone, couldn’t you speak with Deacon Ray about finding a young man to help on the farm? What if I go out and find you fallen off the plow some morning? Or what if you’re working in the back field, and the horses come home alone in the evening?”
“You worry too much,” Menno said with a laugh. “I’m still young. And it does the body good to keep going. What would I do without the work on the farm to keep me busy? Nothing.”
“Perhaps you could make a wood shop out in the barn and tinker around all day. That would be all the work you need. I’d feel much better about it.”
“Making children’s toys,” Menno said. “I don’t call that work. Sure they might sell well in Salem on Saturdays, but Da Hah didn’t make a man to stay inside all day away from the sun and the rain. A man was made for the outdoors, for tilling the soil, for feeling the heat of the sun on his neck. He was made to have the sweat pouring down his back. That’s how I wish to die—in the fields, close to the plowed ground.”
“Who says anything about dying? I’m talking about living right until the end.”
Menno studied her face for a long moment. “Nee, this isn’t about me. It’s about Susan, isn’t it? You miss her.”
“Well, shouldn’t Susan have us worried?” she asked.
“Yah,” Menno agreed. “But sometimes we have to let go of the reins. We have to let the horse have its run. Only then will she settle down.”
“So my youngest daughter is a horse to you? Is that how you handle the thought of her up there in the big city, playing around with all sorts of evil, getting into more trouble than you and I can even imagine, Menno? You know what I’m saying is true, and we have to do something about it.”
Anna’s hands trembled as she slid the last loaf of bread onto the counter. She dropped the hot pad on the floor, and as she bent over to retrieve it she groaned.
“My dear, dear, frau!” Menno turned to lay his hand on her shoulder. “You know I also suffer, though I can’t find the ways to speak them at times. Our daughter is like a fine filly, high-spirited and full of zip. No matter how it grieves us or how much we miss seeing her face, we must let her run, keeping our hands off the reins. Da Hah has not forgotten her or our prayers. Do we not pray for her as we have for all our children? She will come back if it is His will. Of this I am more than confident.”
“You speak words that have no meaning, Menno. Words like the Englisha speak. Words about caring when they place no action behind them. Take me to the big city. I want to go, Menno. I have the address where I send the letters, and that Bonnie woman Susan worked for will give us good directions. I know Susan will come home if we both speak to her. She will see how foolish this all is.”
Menno pulled her trembling body close to his, kissing her on the forehead. His bent fingers brushed her cheek. “You know I would, dear, if it would do any gut. But we could make things worse, much worse than they already are. If we go up there and cry our tears all over the street, it will not change anything. Susan had her heart broken by young Thomas, and only Da Hah can be putting the pieces back together.”
“But we could try, couldn’t we? Doesn’t Da Hah bless those who try?”
“The things of the heart should only be handled with tender hands,” he said. “Man’s hands are made from the clay of the ground, and they break things easily.”
“What if Susan learns the Englisha ways and never comes back to us? You know how hard it is to turn back the tide once it’s gone out. She will be exposed to so much, Menno. To so much evil in the world.”
“I know.” Menno pulled her tight. “But we still have each other to care for. Should we not be thankful for that?”
“I am.” Anna pushed him away. “And I can start by getting you supper.”
“Yah, you will, though I wasn’t worried about that. And why are you making bread this time of the night?”
“I guess because I’m all fahuttled on the inside. I can’t even think straight.”
“Have you written to Susan lately?”
“A few days ago. She should have the letter by now.”
“Has Susan written since her first letter, the one telling us she arrived safely?”
Anna nodded. “But the letters don’t say much. Nothing about how she’s feeling, just little things about the bakery and how nice Laura is. It’s not like Susan at all.”
“You must let go, Anna. Life still must go on. Come, sit with me, and we can pray. That will do more gut than all our worry and talk will ever do.”
“What if she finds the love she’s looking for out there? Oh, Menno, I can’t stand the thought of it. Can’t you go over and talk to Thomas about this, see what problems the two of them ran into. Things had been going so well, then boom it was all over.”
“You know that will do no good,” Menno said, tugging on her arm. “Anyway, I don’t want to go traveling to the big city. It’s not right somehow. Come, we must pray to Da Hah about this. He is the only one who can help us.”
“How can you be so certain, Menno? Really, Susan might find what she’s looking for out there. Some of our young people already have, and Susan could be one of them. Surely you don’t doubt that?”
“I know,” Menno said, guiding Anna by the arm. “And I know she might find something she likes better than what we have to offer. This weighs heavy on my heart as it does yours. But we can only pray.”
“Oh, my Susan, my baby girl!” Anna cried. “What if she’s lost to us forever, Menno? Even the Mennonites would have been better than this.”
“Come…” Menno helped Anna kneel beside the couch.
“Oh…” Anna groaned. “How can I stand this any longer?”
Menno stroked her arm and prayed. “Our dear Gott im Himmel. You are the one who made the stars, the heavens, and the earth, fashioning them with the fingers of Your hand. Draw near tonight and hear the cry of our hearts for our youngest daughter, Susan. We confess our many sins to You. We know the many times we have failed You in raising our children. Yet you say in Your Book that You are a God of mercy and compassion. Have mercy tonight. See the pain in our hearts and look after Susan. Protect her from danger, keep her from the perils of the city while she lives there, and guard her against the temptations in the Englisha world. If it be Your will, bring her back to us someday. Amen.”
Anna paused and then slowly got up. She walked to the bedroom and returned with a clean handkerchief. She wiped her eyes. “I’d better get you some supper now,” she said.
“I’ll help,” Menno said, rummaging around in the cupboards. He took down two plates and then got silverware from the drawer. He set the items on the table before stepping out into the utility room. Soft noises broke the silence as he filled the gas lantern with air. Thoughts raced through his mind. Had he given Anna the correct advice? Perhaps they should be traveling up to Asbury Park with a hired Englisha driver. Or on the bus and train. But no, he had made the best decision.
He lit a match, turning the lantern’s handle just a little, listening for the hiss of the gas before he pushed the flame close to the white mantle. The lantern lit with a soft poof, burning brighter and brighter in ever-growing spurts of light. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Not that long ago Susan had been a little girl, brought into the world by the old midwife Martha Stoll.
The midwife was gone now, and Susan was no longer a babe. So quickly she had become a toddler who grew spoiled from all the attention from her eight older sisters. Perhaps that had been part of their problem with raising Susan. The youngest child always got spoiled a little. Yah, perhaps this was true, and a brother in the house to grow up with mig
ht have helped. But he couldn’t do anything about what Da Hah chose not to give.
School had been an easy thing for Susan, her grades always high. She got along well with whoever the teacher was, always willing to learn. Did an easy schooling sow the seeds for what was growing now? The Englisha’s education could be that way. It carried so many dangers. The mind was a strange thing, quick to think highly of itself and disregard the ways of the fathers.
Anna hadn’t said much when Susan started running with the young people, more and more the vision of a lovely woman each day. One didn’t speak of such things, though it had worried him often. That was when he first started praying for Susan, praying hard that she would find the right man for marriage. Anna had also been praying, he was sure. So much could go wrong with such a high-strung personality.
Thomas had seemed to be the answer. From their school days, Thomas hadn’t wasted any time getting his word in for Susan. Had the boy misjudged his own abilities? Or was he simply unable to keep the girl? From the sounds of it, Thomas had rejected Susan, which was strange indeed.
Perhaps he should have interceded with Thomas and Susan when the problem first came up a month or so ago. But it had seemed best not to. Young people needed to work out their own problems, especially when it came to things of the heart. If older people intervened, it often made things worse. Even Anna hadn’t disagreed with him on that point. It was just later, when things had gone so badly, that she had her doubts.
Swinging the lantern, Menno went into the kitchen, squinting his eyes. How he did miss Susan’s cheery smile around the place! He held the lantern aloft, searching for the hook driven into the ceiling. Finding it, he flipped the loop over it and let the weight of the lantern move out of his hands.
“Supper’s ready,” Anna said.
“That was quick,” Menno said, sitting down and pulling his chair forward.
“There’s not much to eat—just leftovers.”
“I’m not complaining.” Menno patted his stomach. It wasn’t overly rolling, but perhaps some humor would help. He glanced up at her face. It was nice to see Anna smile, even if faintly.
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