“I saw Zillah go to your room.” Claire seemed unable to look at him directly. “I did not see her leave. Sometimes”—she hesitated to put her thoughts into words—“young men do not have the discipline they should.”
“You were very ill, Maam. Did you stay at the window and watch?”
“I did not.” Her voice broke. “With all my heart I wish I had. Then I could tell the bishop that with my own eyes I saw her leaving and he would have to believe me.”
This time he looked straight at her. “Have you ever known me to tell you an untruth?”
“No. Never.”
“I am telling you the truth. I would never put myself in a position where I might have to marry Zillah.”
“I believe you. And there are probably others in our church who believe you.” She sighed. “But innocent or not, the fact remains that you have been put under the ban by one of God’s own servants. The rest of us have no choice but to observe the bishop’s decision.”
“Including you?” He could not believe that his own mother could turn away from him. She was the gentlest, most loving person he had ever known. Unlike other mothers, she had never swatted his bottom or shaken him. He had thought, up until this moment, that his mother would be firmly on his side until she drew her last breath.
“Er set nat sa agnie fulussa cause Gott fulusst nat sa agnie!” Levi said.
“‘One should not abandon one’s own because God does not abandon His own’?” Claire looked as though he had struck her. “Do you think I am abandoning you? I have no choice but to uphold the ban. I have other children to protect. If I do not practice this Meidung, I will be in danger of being shunned myself. I will not be allowed to take the children with me to church. My friends will not speak to me when we meet. Our income will suffer because no one will come to me for herbs or healing. They will not buy the crops of our fields, nor the baskets I take to market. The only hope we have of surviving is if I support this Meidung.”
An anger welled up within him so great that, for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to hate.
He did not hate the bishop. He knew the burden that had been put on that man. The burden of taking souls to heaven with him was a wearying one.
He did not hate Zillah, although he certainly did not like the girl.
He did not hate his church. They were simply doing what they had done for centuries.
He was not angry at God. His heavenly Father had not caused Zillah to make this accusation.
And he could never hate his mother. She would follow the bishop’s directive because she was being forced to, but at least in her heart she believed in him and that gave him strength.
The only person on earth he hated right now was the man who had shot his stepfather and wounded his mother. Whoever had done this terrible deed had stolen more than his stepfather’s life. That person had stolen the peace that had once been theirs. He longed for a time when the greatest concern his family had was whether or not it would rain before they could get all the hay in, or whether or not the hens laid enough eggs. A discussion of whether one of the plow horses might be going lame could take up an entire dinner conversation. Talking about crops, or how many quarts of tomatoes his mother had canned that day—these were the kinds of things that his family and he had talked and thought about before evil had walked into the door of their home and destroyed their lives.
He looked down at his hands holding the reins. He was a bigger man than most Amish. His hands were large and strong. Muscles corded his forearms. He had never known a sick day in his life, nor had he ever faced a challenge that he could not meet.
He had used these hands to plant seedlings and train horses, and in a pinch he had diapered babies. He had been grateful for his good mind, his strong body, and the skill that God had put into these hands.
And now, for the first time in his life, he knew the desire to take these hands and crush the life out of the man who had caused the ruination of him and his family.
But he had to extinguish this hatred. He came from a pacifist people. This belief was so deep that Levi had known many Amish to literally turn the other cheek when attacked. Many had gone to jail rather than go to war.
His people had allowed themselves to be burned at the stake because of their belief. Through him ran the blood of martyrs.
That thought helped him realize that his own Meidung was nothing compared to what others had endured, his ancestors who had also been innocent.
And yet he still felt disoriented and worried about the future. He simply did not know how not to be Amish. He did not know how to live apart from his church and family.
In many ways, he reminded himself of one of his stepfather’s honeybees.
His family had always kept a few beehives on their farm. Not only did the bees help pollinate their fruit trees and plants, but also the harvesting of their honey brought a great savings in the cost of sweeteners for the household—if one did not mind a few stings. He had always been fascinated by the creatures who lived out their short lives taking care of their community’s needs.
There were the warrior bees, the soldiers guarding the entrance, who were ready at all times to give up their lives in defense of the hive. Then there were the honeybees, who worked nonstop building the honeycomb, the structure in which the precious honey was stored and the eggs laid by the ponderous queen bee.
Each bee had a specific role that it fulfilled perfectly. Some tended the nursery of bee larvae, some gathered pollen, some gathered nectar, and some simply wriggled their bodies for warmth or used their wings to air-condition the hive, keeping it at a steady temperature regardless of the weather.
The Amish community was similar. Everyone had work to do, important work, even the children or the very old. Everyone worked for the common good. Every Amish person’s thought was for the survival of his or her family, and of the religious community.
But a honeybee was not equipped to survive on its own.
That’s what made the Meidung so terrible. The Amish had survived through the ages because of their network of support. He had known only three or four Swartzentrubers who had attempted to leave the church. It had been a sad sight. Like the honeybee, they were not equipped to live apart from their church community. Unless they found an Englisch or ex-Amish person willing to help them learn the intricacies of the Englisch world, they were doomed to failure, as well as being easy prey for unscrupulous people.
“Will the bishop allow me to live in the room above the workshop?” he asked.
“I have known of one other case like this,” Claire said. “The person was allowed to live on the property and continue to farm, but the rest of the family could have no contact with him.”
“Then I will stay and farm. I will support our family. But you . . .” He felt his throat closing up at the thought. “You must obey the Meidung.”
“How will you feed yourself? I won’t even be allowed to cook for you.”
“I had a mother who had the wisdom to teach me how to cook a few things when I was a boy.” He smiled grimly at her. “I will survive.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
It was the first Sunday Grace had gone to church since she had arrived in Holmes County. Becky had insisted on staying home with Elizabeth this morning and letting Grace take a turn.
“What are people wearing at your church these days?” she called into Becky’s bedroom.
“Clothes,” Becky replied.
“What kind of clothes? Skirts, dresses, jeans . . . Do I have to wear my hair in a bun?”
“Excuse me?” Becky said.
“I was joking.” She rummaged through her closet. “I have uniforms, nurse’s scrubs, a few jeans and T-shirts, a few casual blouses and sweaters, and one lone black skirt. But what I don’t have is a church dress. It wasn’t exactly required on base.”
Becky came in and checked out her sister’s sparse closet. She pulled out a pair of tan slacks, a coral shell, and a matchin
g thin cardigan.
“What about this?” She held the outfit up for Grace’s inspection.
“I thought about that, but I don’t have any shoes that match the slacks.”
“I do,” Becky said, “and we wear the same size. Is a tan low heel okay?”
“Perfect.”
Grace had not taken time to get a haircut in the weeks since she had been here. Her hair, though still short, was the longest it had been in recent memory. After scrunching her hair with gel, putting on earrings, and getting dressed in the outfit Becky had chosen, she looked in the mirror and for the first time in a long time saw a true civilian.
This was a softer, more feminine look than what she was used to, and she liked it.
She wondered if Levi would like it, too. Not that she would be seeing him today. Or that it mattered what he thought of how she dressed.
“You look lovely, dear,” Elizabeth said as Grace sat down beside her at the breakfast table.
Grace poured herself a bowl of granola. “Are you sure you and Becky don’t want to go?”
“I am sure that I would like to go,” Elizabeth answered. “I would just love to worship with my church family today—but you have no idea how many people I’ll have to talk to after services when I show up. I’ve been gone so long, everyone will want to hug me. People with colds will insist on kissing me and I’ll be too nice to keep them from it. I have just about enough stamina to worship God, but I don’t yet have the stamina to withstand the fellowship!”
“I’ll give them your best,” Grace said.
“Please do, and tell them I’ll see them soon.”
The church in Millersburg that Grace headed to was the same one that Elizabeth had attended for years. She took notes as the preacher spoke, sang a few hymns she had never heard before, and afterward enjoyed getting to meet many of her grandmother’s friends, all of whom were thrilled that Elizabeth was feeling better.
Grace was thoroughly enjoying herself until the minister, a tall, white-haired man, asked how Becky’s prison ministry was going.
Prison ministry?
“My sister has never mentioned a prison ministry to me,” Grace said. “Is this something Becky’s been doing alone, or is the whole church involved?”
“Some members of the church are participating—not all,” he said. “We try to obey the Scriptures about visiting those who are in prison by having an active letter-writing ministry. We partner with the prison chaplain and have been able to minister to many hungry souls behind bars.”
“How nice,” she murmured.
She said her good-byes and drove home, all the while turning over the possible implications of a teenaged girl having a letter-writing “prison ministry.” There was no way she was going to let this pass. The very idea of Becky writing to a hardened criminal worried her.
Becky had made scrambled eggs, turkey ham, and sliced tomatoes for lunch. All three were ready to eat as soon as Grace came through the door.
“How was it?” Elizabeth asked after she had blessed the food.
“Nice.” Grace ladled some scrambled eggs onto her plate. “There are some sweet people there, but you were right about fellowship. Those people do love to stand around and talk. It took me a while to get out of there, everyone wanted to know details about how you were doing.”
“Did Bill Jones try to kiss you?”
“Which one is Bill Jones?”
“He’s a gentleman in his nineties whom everyone adores. He’s been the treasurer there for about sixty years.”
“Oh, yes—he’s the one who asked if I had any leftover Afghanistan money for him.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Bill has quite a collection of foreign money.”
“I’ll take him some next time I go.”
“Oh, he would love that.” Elizabeth took a bite of turkey ham. “Is this low-fat, Becky?”
“It is. The doctor said this was what you needed to be eating.”
“I don’t think God ever intended for turkey to pretend to be ham.” Elizabeth took a close look at the turkey. “But never mind.”
“I think it tastes okay,” Grace said. “No worse than what we got back at camp. Oh, by the way”—she glanced at Becky—“the preacher asked me how your prison ministry was going. I didn’t know what to tell him.” She cut a tomato slice in half. “Who have you been writing to?”
Becky’s fork paused in midair. “Nobody lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“With Grandma sick and trying to keep up in school, I didn’t have a lot of time.” She shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t like doing it much. Snail mail is a pain. A few of the older people at church really put a lot of time and thought into it, though.”
Grace couldn’t help but smile. The answer was exactly the kind most seventeen-year-olds would give. Stationery, pens, and stamps were things of the past. If it were something that couldn’t be texted or tweeted, then forget it.
They finished their lunch, and Becky offered to do dishes while Grace went upstairs to change. As she passed a window on her way to her bedroom, she heard the back door slam and saw her sister carrying the remains of their lunch outside. Becky had been feeding a small stray dog she found hiding in the woods lately. The poor thing had been so abused, Becky said, that it was too afraid to come close to the house. She had taken to carrying any leftovers they had out to the edge of the woods for it to eat.
Grace watched her sister disappear behind the cluster of outbuildings that had once been part of the working farm this place had functioned as before her grandmother purchased it. There was a corncrib and various storage buildings crammed with old farm implements, an old outhouse and smokehouse, a tumbledown barn that was starting to lean. In her estimation, those old buildings really should be removed someday soon. She was already dreading mowing around them.
A few moments later, Becky came upstairs and leaned against her door frame. “Do you mind if I go to evening services tonight?”
“Sure,” Grace answered. “I’ll be happy to stay home with Grandma.”
“I’ll probably stay after to help put spiral binding on the cookbooks the ladies have been putting together. Those cookbooks are going to be really nice.”
Becky and Elizabeth had mentioned the cookbooks several times in the past, but Grace didn’t remember hearing about their purpose. “How is the church planning on using the money they get from the sales?”
Becky’s eyes lit up. “Some of the men are going to Honduras to build one-room houses for people who are so poor they are living in little tentlike things they make with sheets and sticks. I saw pictures. It was so pitiful. We hope to make enough to pay for at least some of the materials. We have enough preorders to build two so far!”
“Put me down for a cookbook, then. In fact, make it two. I’ll give one to Claire.”
“Sure thing.”
After Becky left, Grace finished changing clothes. Her little sister had turned into such a sweetheart. She had never known a seventeen-year-old who was more thoughtful of other people.
She was intensely relieved that Becky had lost interest in her “prison ministry.” A girl who was so tenderhearted that she fussed over stray animals and tried to raise funds for homeless people in Honduras had absolutely no business getting involved—even if it was only snail mail letters—with hardened criminals.
chapter TWENTY-THREE
Levi entered the outdoor cellar that an ancestor of his stepfather’s had carved into the small rise behind the house. It smelled of damp earth, apples, and bins of potatoes. It was a pleasant scent. One of his favorite chores as a child had been to carry his mother’s quarts of produce down here and place them neatly on the shelves.
He lit the overhead lamp and sniffed the air for the scent of cucumbers—the telltale smell that warned of the presence of copperheads who sometimes mistook the cellar for a nice, quiet den. But the only scent within that hillock was of earth.
Tomorrow he would take the buggy into town and pu
rchase food for himself, food that would be separate from the rest of the household’s. But for now he was just hungry, and his sweat and toil had gone into the growing of this food. He had no problem with helping himself to it, and he knew his mother would have no problem with it.
It was going to be very lonely for a while, but as long as he had access to the land and his workshop and his horses and his farm equipment, he would survive.
Not for a moment did he consider finding a job in one of the factories that employed so many of the Old and New Order Amish. He was a Swartzentruber and Swartzentrubers farmed—if they were blessed enough to have land to farm. If he could hang on long enough, perhaps Zillah would have a change of heart, tell the truth, and the bishop would allow him back into the church.
His eyes caught on a jar of home-canned tomato juice and he felt a sudden craving for it. With no supper beneath his belt, he was ravenous. He screwed off the lid and drank deep of the sun-ripened richness.
Albert, Jesse, and he had all worked together, putting the tomato plants into the ground, watering them, and then mounding the dirt up around the tiny roots. Even little Sarah had been given a job. She had toddled around with a little tin cup happily pouring water into the holes that her brothers dug. They had made a small fuss over what a good job she was doing, and she had been proud of herself for being a productive part of the family.
She had stood there in her tiny dress and work apron, barefoot, her little toes digging into the ground, frowning as she concentrated on pouring just the right amount of water for her brothers. The picture was as clear and crisp in his mind as a snapshot from a tourist’s camera.
But the tourist’s camera could never show the years of tradition and family togetherness that this portrayed. The Amish worked. It was part of their identity. And they worked together. With help from one another, they raised giant, sturdy barns, houses large enough to hold as many as seventeen children under one roof, houses that were large enough that once or twice a year the partitions could be removed and a congregation of two hundred people could be fitted into rooms that had been designed with that very purpose in mind.
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